#SO. F U N N Y.

[okara-illustrates]

Smii7y doodles!!!

Can’t believe I haven’t finished a drawing of my favorite YTber!

[visionsofmagic]

day 2: ryomen sukuna [breeding kink]

࿓ synopsis • sukuna just wants a womb to put his babies in but it changes when he fucks you.

―❦ nsfw, explicit language, f!reader, heian era!sukuna who has fours arms, concubine!reader, contains of a bit dark themes, licking, marks, pet names, humiliation, sukuna is being sukuna, a bit of fluff, sex addiction, fingering, cum, overstimulation [‘is all I guess?] • 1.8k • the first time I am writing for my favorite villain from jjk. Excited but there can be mistakes. enjoy! [kinktober m.]

“fuck brat!” a dark chuckling, mocking you as his crimson four eyes look at below - at the mess you are making because of his thick cocks inside your walls, deep enough to make it ache like hell yet magnificent enough to give you the pleasure no one can. “look at how my seed is coming out of your pathetic pussy.” 

he doesn’t wait for you to respond- to even comprehend what he’s saying, holding your smaller face by the chin as his palm stays on your cheek. 

he lowers your head down, making you look at his cocks disappearing inside your pussy, and a bit of his hot semen dripping from it to his abdomen. 

“it’s-“ you try to say, sounding husky since you have only moaned, and screamed in the last few hours. closing your eyes, a jolt of electricity mixed with pain and pleasure runs through your body, even in veins, when he moves his hips, thrusting into you one more time before making you sit on his cocks once again - oh, his two damn big cocks should’ve ripped you apart if he wasn’t this gentle, surprisingly calm and gentle because he wants you to stay alive - you will have his legacy inside your womb after all, the reason why he fucks you for the past few hours.

“is it too much?” mocking again, his tongue on the abdomen takes a lick from your abdomen, traveling to your breasts from there, sending another mix of tears and moans.

“suku – aghh!“ a slap on the ass, “my king! oh, it’s - it’s too much! I can’t - I can’t -!” 

he only laughs at your poor attempts, “you can’t?” he asks, not a question though, only a treat as he sounds like pure poison. one of his hands holds you from your neck harshly enough to make you shake in fear for a moment while the other free one caress your hair - the opposite actions of his two arms gives you a dizzying sensation that takes your logical side from you, giving you pure insanity in return.

“be grateful that I fuck you whore,” his other two hands hold your waist as he makes you move forward and backward, riding you slowly. you only hear your own breaths as if there is nothing left inside your lungs, eyes already blurred that look at his bastard but attractive face, hands standing beside you because you have no brain to use them, not anymore, not after he fucked you in 5 different positions already. “there are thousands of women and men who beg for my cocks, you know that, right brat?” 

his hands move from your waist to your ass, grasping the flesh tightly – too tightly to leave red marks as you believe after feeling a sudden heat rushing to the skin he is holding, however, he doesn’t care at all – why he should anyway? you’re just one of his concubines – maybe his favorite one for the moment, and him showing you mercy and a bit of affection – unlike he does for others – doesn’t mean anything; you’re just there to take his hot semen every now and then, whenever he wants to fuck that pussy and brain of yours so that you can have his legacy inside you, heir to him – lots of heirs.

“puff –“ he says, scoffing after that, picking you up – a pathetic and cuckdumbed woman in his arms, he thinks, gazing at your half-closed eyes, agape mouth – salvia running out of it, “disgusting,” he says in a low tone but contrary to his words, his actions are proof that he likes what he sees because he keeps going and going until his eyes travel from that open mouth of yours he wants to put one of his cocks in, to your breasts full of biting marks that turned to red, moving to your pussy from there.

his cocks’ tips standing beneath your pussy that is pouring his semen ‘cause it is too fucking much.

shaking his head in arrogance, he puts your body on his lap with a bridal style, left hands staying on your back while a free one stays on your pussy, caressing it and he watches how your body begins to shake again, a hand is put on his chest, holding his wide open sleeve’s side tightly as if you have right to do that, and even your head fall into his shoulder, breathing rapidly yet lowly as he holds your body close to him.

why he does that – why he allows you to do that; remains unanswered.

he doesn’t think much, not now, he has a desire to put that damn semen into your wide-open pussy.

holding your thighs apart, his fingers – two long and thick fingers enter into your messy slit, white wetness joins into hot walls one by one, and it continues until sukuna is satisfied with it. “do not fucking dare to move now, woman.” he treats you. he sounds he is one step away from breaking your neck if you do move. you should fear him, you know, oppositely, you do otherwise, giving astonishing state to sukuna, making him freeze for a moment when he feels you getting closer to him, a hand travels on his neck, and a head sits on his shoulder, you even open your legs wider.

you don’t say anything, the mouth is too dry to speak aloud; he gets it though – and that gives satisfaction to him, and his responses end with a new position.

being the definition of menace for desires live within him, and you witness it when he puts you on the carpet, hovering below you as he cages you between his four arms, then, one of them appears on your abdomen, pushing it into the floor – gently yet it feels terrifying.

you look into his crimson eyes, hoping to see sanity inside them – what a fool you’re to try searching.

no, no – you think to yourself, conscious coming back even though you're high – he will not fuck you as a concubine now, he will fuck you as if you’re his queen, you’re so sure of it and the words slipping out of his smirking mouth prove you right.

“I will fuck so many babies inside this womb that you won’t be able to even walk, pretty slut,” a compliment, huh, sounds different than you thought, still, gives a jolt of happiness throughout your entire body that lying beneath his massive body, ready to take him one more – or maybe even more – time.  “I will make a fucking queen out of you with my children. don’t you worry whore,”

the only thing you can remember is seeing his big smile – entertaining before the only thing you can comprehend is his presence below you, behind you, under you – hands conquers every part of your body because you’re his – the one who will give him heir, stay beside him, being a fucking queen of kings of curses. “you’re entirely mine now. mine to have – fuccck! – mine to fuck! and mine to breed.”

❦ tagging: @lilvampirina !

[sinsofsummers]

cool about it

3.4k | boston!joel miller x f!reader

summary: it’s that day again. you don’t know why joel’s so withdrawn, but you help him manage it in the best way you know how. based on 'cool about it' by boygenius. warnings: angst angst angst, angsty smut (sorry), 18+, mdni, implied age gap (joel 50s, reader late 20s) grumpy & sad joel, drug use, alcohol use, oral (m receiving), p in v, creampie, shoulder kisses, pet names & slight praise, body worship kind of, feelings but also joel is bad at feelings, established...situationship. thing. pining (but don't tell them that). romance?? how dare you accuse them of such treachery note: i am so sorry...this is pure unbridled self-indulgence. pls forgive me. also this is set in boston qz, reader and joel have a similar relationship to the one he has with tess, but she doesn't exist in this au (i'm so sorry). also i am kind of so proud of this one

It's been years since you met him, since you've begun to crack his otherwise hard exterior, helping him shed every icy layer to reveal the tired, aging man beneath it all. You've both gone to unbelievable lengths to protect one another against any trouble, or enemy, or plague, that has cast itself in your way. Each night concludes with your limbs tangled together, hands tucked safely within each other's reach. A promise, so quiet it's hardly binding—I've got you.

You've never defined exactly what it means when he calls you sweet pea, or when his lips drop a chaste kiss to your forehead in the morning, or when his hand lingers on your elbow a little longer than normal in the QZ. It never needed to mean anything, so the two of you never spoke about it. You belong to him; he belongs to you.

And yet, every year, on the exact same morning, Joel Miller wakes up a stranger to you. His eyes return to the icy dark depths that you met him with, and his hands find purchase in his pockets rather than absentmindedly rubbing circles on your skin. Every year, without fail, he retreats to his past, a place he won't ever let you see, despite your every wish.

i came prepared for absolution, if you'd only ask

A few years after you met him, you had tried asking him to explain, to let you into his head. It wasn't an attempt at intimacy, or a vulnerability that resembled anything that you hadn't seen from him before, but he'd done nothing more than shake his head.

"M'fine," he'd said. The entire day, every time you asked, no matter how softly, his answer remained unchanged. "Don't feel much like talkin'."

So instead of talking, you'd resorted to letting him come back to you on his own time, in his own way. With rough hands pushing you down to lay on your back, his eyes far away even as he brought you to the edges of bittersweet ecstasy. His kisses were always softer, more distracted. But it was the only communication you ever got out of him on those days.

When he rolled over at night, his hands curled into loose fists, you let him be. He never refused your touch, but you knew enough to recognize when it wouldn't come as any comfort to him. Not on those nights. Never on those nights.

The closest you'd get to falling asleep in his arms on those nights was with a hand placed purposefully between your chest and his back, just close enough that he might lean into it, should he shift in his sleep. And in those soft brushes of skin against cloth lay a million questions.

Forgive me, you'd begged inwardly one night. Forgive me for not understanding, and I'll forgive you for not sharing.

When the sun rose on a new morning, he was always back to the man you were used to, that you had grown dependent on. When his hands reached for you, and when his mouth painted swirls on your chest, you knew that it was out of want for you, not to distract himself from the ghosts of his own past.

He always praised your body's reaction to him, and you always relished in the way that his hips rocked against yours, stretching you out for him—tongue, fingers, his hard intrusion—on those mornings after.

You'd left it at that, for a year or two.

once i took your medication to know what it's like

He'd been resorting to more intense solutions when you decided to do it. When that day came as it always did, you watched as he drowned out the hours with whiskey and pills. You never knew where his supply came from or who was responsible for getting him his drug of choice; you could only sit idly by and watch his features droop from the effects of the dangerous combination, shuffling to your shared bed before he'd pass out until the sun rose on the next morning.

It only took three instances of this before you'd resolved to go through the day exactly as he would, as if it might help you understand. Perhaps it wasn't anything you were meant to understand, but you'd grown weary of seeing him motionless for hours on end. Usually, you never said anything. You didn't really believe he would take enough to cause any real damage; you were blindly faithful in his will to live.

"Joel," you'd said one year. That was all. One syllable, so familiar, and yet it bled with enough warning in your tone that he paused. Don't.

Glass raised, the rim already pressed to his lips—the lips of which you knew every crack and curve—pills already dissolving on his tongue, he'd paused. His eyes never looked at you, though. He sat there, frozen but for the whiskey sloshing gently in the glass before he resumed, swallowing the dark liquid in one go. With hardly a glance in your direction, he'd collapsed to the bed.

You didn't know exactly why you did it, or why it had been that year that you'd become fed up, but you couldn't ignore the fear that struck your chest when you saw him hit the mattress. Before you knew it, you'd swallowed the pills, scowling at the burn of whiskey down your throat.

It had never been your choice of liquor, but you braved the sting in your foolish hopes that it might tell you something about the gray-haired man in your bed. Like drinking his whiskey might envelope you in his arms and whisper his secrets to you.

Laying down beside him, you'd curled up to his side. He was already deep in his drugged slumber; he wouldn't be conscious enough to move from your touch. With a hand on his chest, poised over his heart to reassure yourself that he still had one, you closed your eyes and succumbed to the heavy press of sleep.

When he woke, saw your own empty glass and pill bottle left open on the table, he shook you until you startled awake. Eyes bleary, the effects of the drugs wearing off, you caught him staring down at you, his nose brushing your cheek and his lips a hair's breadth from touching yours.

"Don't ever fuckin' do that again, sweet pea," he snarled, but his words held no malice. You tried to ignore how big his eyes were, pupils blown wide.

You'd wanted to snap at him, to tell him the same thing, but you heard the desperate begging in his voice. The unspoken please. So rather than causing a scene, you'd nodded slowly and let your fingers brush the hem of his shirt. "Okay," you'd whispered. "I won't. Never again, Joel," you repeated, a mantra as you slipped your hands underneath his shirt.

Sliding his arms under your body and pulling you to him, he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, then your cheeks, both of your eyelids. He finally bent to your lips, chasing the taste of you and finding only his own mistakes on your tongue.

The day had passed. He had survived. With the gentle lull of his hips slotting against your own, he had breathed shakily into your mouth as your hands wandered along his skin. Like clockwork, Joel Miller had returned to you, if only for a short while.

i ask you how you're doing, and i let you lie

One day, the pills ran out. The whiskey didn't do anything on its own, so Joel was stuck to find something else to distract him. Whether you were the one that flushed his pills or found who was supplying him, you'd never admit. It was much too close to a confession of something than either of you were comfortable with, so you'd stayed quiet. Helped him find a new vice.

These days, you've lost count of how many years you've seen him withdraw into himself, a shell of the man you know. You've stopped trying to follow where his mind goes when the sun rises on that early autumn day, and he's never made the attempt to explain. For just one day a year, the two of you are silent except for a few mumbled words. Your hands rarely touch on those days, always a few centimeters from each other as he sits at the table.

A reminder. That you're there, that he's there, and that the day will pass. It always does.

His new vice becomes you before long, and you can manage that. He's never particularly rough on those days, anyway; he just needs your body to distract his mind. It takes him a bit to sink into the comfort of your curves, but you always help him get there. Until he's twitching under your hands and letting his eyes flutter closed as you expertly undo his jeans.

You never make him fuck you when he's like this, but you're happy to oblige when he slips a hand between your thighs, reaching for your core and always finding it ready for him. If it pleases him, you let him take whatever he needs.

With whispered moans that make your chest constrict and rough fingers pressing bruises to your hips that he'll kiss away the next morning, he gets through the day.

Today, you know it's not one of those mornings. He's already been awake for a while when you open your eyes, based on his tense posture as he sits on the edge of the bed. He's facing the window, which means his back is to you, withholding his face from yours.

Of course, you don't need to look at him to know what his face will look like. His chin is tucked toward his chest, and his eyes will be closed, hands clenched together as if in prayer. But you know better than to think of Joel Miller as a spiritual man. Whatever faith he might have had all those years ago has withered into scraps. His only faith is in your constant presence in his bed each night.

You sit up slowly, and the sound of rustling sheets makes him twitch his head to the side, the sight of his jaw ticking the only acknowledgement of you being there. With slow movements, you move to sit behind him, your legs on either side of his hips but never close enough to touch. He's gotten better at allowing for a few more moments of contact, and you think this means he's making progress.

How could you ever be sure, though? When he still won't reveal the pain of today?

"Did you wake up to see the sunrise?" you ask gently, leaning forward and bracing your hands in front of you, waiting. His response will determine how you'll distract him for the coming hours.

As usual, Joel doesn't say anything, but his back reclines an inch. It's all you need.

"I'll bet it was real pretty," you continue, trying to keep your voice soft. This is one of your many routines; you lift your hands and press them to his back, just enough for him to feel your fingertips. You don't know if he listens to anything you say, or if he even cares. This part is just for you. This is how you get through these days.

You lean just a bit further, letting your forehead rest on his shoulder. Your hands slide around his middle and your stomach flips selfishly at the feeling of his muscles tensing beneath your featherlight touch. Reaching down for his lap, you rest your palm against his jeans, feeling him twitch against your hand. There he is.

Maybe it's sad, maybe it's fucked up, but fuck what anyone else would say. This is what he needs, the only thing that helps him stay out of his nightmarish memories, whatever they may be. You'll never ask him to show that side of himself, not anymore.

Pressing a kiss to his shoulder, you deftly work the button on his jeans, pushing the zipper down and reaching into his waistband until his half-hard cock comes free. It rests heavy in your hand, and you're comforted by the weight of it. His shoulders are too broad for you to see it, but you're not bothered by this. With another kiss, this one landing on the soft skin of his neck, you give him a languid stroke.

Joel's chest rises and falls as he breathes, and you can feel his arousal stirring as he grows firmer in your grip. His hands begin to unclench, but his fingers remain flat on his tights, never touching you outside of where your legs are hooked to his, your chest flush with his back.

The room is silent except for his breathing, every second getting more shallow. You can feel the tension in his back release a little, and you let your thumb rub a slow circle over the slit on his tip, precum just starting to leak onto your hand.

You stay like this for a few minutes, one arm wrapped around his stomach and your other hand on his cock, tugging slow enough not to overwhelm him, and fast enough to keep him pulsing in your hand.

Only when his hips buck involuntarily do you let go, moving from your place behind him to the floor. Your knees hit the wood hard, but you ignore the pain as your hands slide up his thighs.

His own hands remain still on his jeans, and he lets you interlock your fingers with his own. A small mercy. Today might not be as bad as the years before, and you dip your head to lick a stripe from base to tip before closing your mouth around the head of his cock.

Joel's fingers twitch in your grasp, and you squeeze back, hardly noticeable. Just enough to act as thanks. Thank you for letting me do this. For you.

You never look up, afraid of what his eyes will betray when your mouth is around him. You know this is only a distraction, a slow respite from his thoughts. So you ignore the impatient pulse between your thighs and take him as deep as he'll go, your hopes lifting when you hear his shaky sighs.

One of his hands released yours and lands on your head, smoothing your hair as his hips fight to keep still. Your head bobs up and down, your spit mixing with his precum to leave a shining mess on his shaft.

He pats your head softly, the wet sounds of your mouth on him the only noise in the room. But then he's opening his mouth, and he's combing his fingers through your hair, and he's mumbling, "thank you, sweet pea," just quiet enough that you think you're imagining it.

Maybe you did. He doesn't say it again, and you don't look up to see how wrecked he looks. You're content to remain on your knees the entire day if it means he can relax, let go of whatever's haunting him.

But then he's pulling your head back, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet pop. Hands under your arms, he tugs you to stand in front of him. This time you do let yourself look at him, but his eyes don't lift to meet yours. He tugs your shorts and panties from your body, and once you step out of them he splays his hands on the backs of your thighs to pull you onto his lap.

His head is still tipped toward where your bodies rest against each other, rocking your pelvis against the length of his cock with a shuddering sigh. But you don't mind the view; you sit just a few inches taller than him in this position, so you can brace yourself against his shoulders, your chin resting against the top of his head.

He reaches down to rub a few quick circles on your clit, and you let him move your hips when he's ready, lodging his cock at your entrance. You're dripping, you have been this entire time, but you'd shoved down the heady desire that had punched its way through your body until he was ready. Now, with his hand guiding his tip into your sopping cunt, you let out a breath. There he is, a voice in your head repeats.

He pushes your hips down at an agonizingly slow pace, your pussy swallowing every inch of him, the sounds of your moans colliding at the feeling. "So good to me," he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your sternum and tilting his head back, closing his eyes. "Perfect."

You know that he doesn't think he deserves your praise, but you give it to him anyway. "That's it," you hum, squirming with his cock buried to the hilt. It's all you can do not to lift your hips and drag yourself up and down his length. "Take what you need, Joel."

He never lasts long when he can feel your walls squeezing his cock for all it's worth, your body betraying you when your mind just wants to remain warm and wet and ready for him all day long, until he's ready to be done with you. But with one look at you, his dark eyes finally connecting to yours, he blinks. "Thank you, sweat pea," he murmurs again.

You lift your thumb to his forehead and you trace the lines on his weathered skin, watching as your touch releases the tension from his face. All that's left is his desire, his need for you, however distracted it may be.

Joel lets himself enjoy this, as he rocks his hips into yours, the head of his cock brushing that spot deep inside you until you're shaking in his hands, forehead tipped against his as you let your moans fill the space between the two of you. He lifts your hips, pulling you nearly all the way off of him until he shoves you back down, the delicious squelch of your pussy on his cock wrenching a knee-buckling groan from his lips. "Where?" he asks, as he does every time.

You don't need to tell him, but you do. "Fill me up, Joel," you coo, a shot of pleasure spreading throughout your entire body. "Come with me, I'm right here with you."

"That's it, darlin'," is all he groans before he's wrapping his arms around your back, tugging your chest to him in a tight embrace. His face disappears into the space between your breasts and you feel his entire body quiver with yours as you reach your peak. Warmth floods your core as he spills his release into you, your walls fluttering with the intensity of your orgasm. You pull him to you, returning his near-painful embrace.

You're as close as lovers, as close to one another as you can physically get, but it'll never be enough.

The high after he comes inside you is fleeting. Only a few minutes pass before the line inevitably returns to his brow and his frown deepens after he softens. He doesn't lift you off of him, though, so you soak up the feeling while you can.

"Better?" you whisper, eyes locked on his.

He nods slowly after a moment, his mouth set in a grim line. "Always," he mumbles gently, his hand cupping your jaw as his thumb strokes your bottom lip. He presses his thumb into your mouth to the first knuckle, letting you taste salt and old sweat and your nectar on his skin.

You know better than to believe him, but you don't argue. Not today, never today. So you lift the corners of your lips in a sad smile and pretend that it doesn't feel like water rising in your lungs every time this day comes.

but we don't have to talk about it

i can walk you home and practice method acting

i'll pretend being with you doesn't feel like drowning

tellin' you it's nice to see how good you're doing

even though we know it isn't true

Joel will never tell you what's on his mind. Never today. September 26th won't ever mean anything to you, so why would he bother? For him, it's everything and nothing all at once. Brown curls and sparkling young eyes and blood crusted on his arms and the unforgettable weight of death in his arms.

Another year older, he sighs, his heart clenching in grief. Another year older, and another year further from everything he's lost.

tysm for reading, here's a box of tissues. :') i love u all

[rosalinesurvived]

Its bungover for me so i’m going back to beast!aku

[mexashepot]

Me messaging my international friends be like

[stars-self-ships]

💞 Can you guess who my favorite Jellystone character is? 💞

[stormbreaker-290]

Seems like a certain little moth got caught up in the "web" of a certain virus <3

Merry Christmas Eve/silly

A

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AAAAAAAAHAHGAHAGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

HA G H

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[raddest-laddest]

casually crying my eyes out at 3 in the fucking morning

[lightbulb-warning]

i used to freehand comics all the time as a child and since the part i liked was the drawing part i would just draw panel after panel because i didn't want to stop drawing to think about icky icky words, plus the story TOTALLY still made perfect sense! to me! and noone else, but 'whoooo caaaaares omgggg its not like comics and sequantial art are a communicative meeediummmm lmaoooooo'. i spent my entire childhood telling myself stuff like "oh pfft I know this story by heart- ill SIMPLY remember the dialogue and write it later" ...and. I can't help but admire baby maiora's (call that a minora ba tm tsk) fucking audacity? hubris? confident wrongness? kid couldn't even remember to finish the comics in the first place? INCREDIBLE levels of unearned self assurance, wish that were me, genuinely- what an icon!!! anyway i think i have forever cursed myself

[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.

[deus-ex-mona]

i miss her…

[biitchcakes]

BLACK WIDOW: VENOMOUS vol. 1 issue 1

@mastcrmarksman / @manandmachines

( personals DNI . )

[visionsofmagic]

could you write heimdall falling for a midgard human reader and him being really protective over them 🥰

heimdall x midgard&human!reader

[masterlist]

tags: fluff, injury, wound, healing, protective!heimdall, kissing, touching. enjoy!

wc: dunno, but not so long.

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

heimdall never mind your presence in the asgard even though you were a mortal; a midgard human who was in all-Father's service thanks to high-quality medical treatment you give to aesir gods and goddess by using a high level magic. being a mortal didn't make you weak, it made you powerful. you were indeed a mortal who would die in some day, one of the things that make heimdall so protective of you, but it didn't mean you were invisible to eyes. no, everyone in asgard knew you, they knew how you treated wounds and pain with your delicate hands.

in the first years that felt like ages were normal. he was joking with you wherever he saw you, you were teasing to him whenever he came to your treatment place, asking if he needed a medic like anyone could hit him.

that was making him angry in that days but slowly, he understood how he enjoyed your presence, hearing your teasing since there wasn't so many individuals who could tease him without thinking its consequences, seeing how your delicate and beautiful hands working fastly and strongly.

you were a strong woman indeed but because of being in love with you, his protective side increased from day to day, 'till it made both of you realize it like the sunlight.

you remembered how you asked him about this after a certain day. in that day, you were trying to heal an outsider god, probably from vanaheim, who had a bad chest injury. vanaheim and asgard were enemies but sometimes they came to here to find health. odin was giving them home in their own realms since he was trying to show his peace supporter side.

why you were in the asgard was complex. you didn't like odin that much, no, but indeed you loved heimdall who became your beloved with time.

as this stranger entered to your working room, you were talking with heimdall who came to you intentionally but acting like he didn't realize how he ended there.

one valkyrie helped man to reach the room and the moment he entered with a bloddy shirt on, you gently cut the conversation with heimdall and rushed towards the man.

whenever you saw someone in pain, your heart was shaking because of feeling so bad. no matter who they were, you felt the same.

so, when you saw the man in pain, moaning lowly, hardly finding his place on the bed you designed for patients. valkyrie left the room as she saw heimdall after giving the information about the man's wound, how he got that and where he got that. she even told where he was from.

after hearing vanaheim, heimdall suddenly came to your side as you kneeled down to bed's level in order to do a better treatment for the man's wound as you picked up his shirt's edges.

"sir," you said, trying to take man's attention, "you need to take this off I am afraid."

he nodded silently, getting a little up to remove his shirt, tossing it to floor, closing his eyes in pure pain.

the wound was occurred because of a magic - magic that had poison in it.

working on his wound, touching his build chest, you heard heimdall's voice behind you.

"do you need to touch that?" he was referring to your hands on the man's chest, traveling around it to break the magic firstly. he didn't like when you both interacted a dangerous magic with poison in it and touched another man even if it meant for medical care.

"don't. he needs a treatment now. we can speak later."

giving him an angry look, you turned to the man again as his eyes began to open slowly, feeling better after you broke the spell.

taking a deep breath, you began to heal the open wound that created by a sharp sword as valkyrie said before. your hands were traveling on man's chest when his hands suddenly held your wrists roughly, making you cry in sudden pain you felt.

before you or the man say something, heimdall's sword found its way on the man's neck, speaking with a deep and dangerous voice, he said, "leave her or I will cut your head."

the man who looked so confused and afraid left your wrists slowly, breathing deeply.

as your hands found their freedom, you gently touched heimdall's shoulder. "it's okay. he is in shock. it's understandable. so, take back the sword."

heimdall's angry purple eyes looked at him for a few times before putting his sword back in his place, taking a step back to give you a space to finish your treatment.

you told the man how he ended in here while giving him last treatments he needed.

he nodded, looking at your hands shyly, "I am sorry."

giving a little smile, you said, "It's okay. now rest in here for some time. when this blue marks on your chest dissappear, you can leave." getting up, you gave him a bottle that had some herbs in it to boost his health. "take this and drink it before getting up. the wound will heal with time."

he nodded, taking the bottle. "I am glad for your help. thank you -"

"y/n." you said.

"thank you y/n."

then he closed his eyes to rest without sleeping.

you turned to heimdall who was watching you in pure annoyance. he never liked how you treated outsider. he didn't trust them. whenever there was an outsider you had to heal, he was being so protective over you. but, this had to be talked between you two. so, you held his hand, knowing very well he would let you - maybe letting you only even to touch him openly, then, you walked 'till you reached your personal room that was close to the your working room but had two corridors between.

closing the door behind, you turned to heimdall who began to play with your medical supplies one by one like he didn't know why you came to here, like he didn't read your mind at all.

"heimdall." you said, standing right behind his back, leaving just an inch to touch him. he turned his head a little, making you see his side profile which was looking so attractive and good. his purple eyes traveled on your face as you touched his shoulder with your chin, making your faces standing so close to each other.

it was so good to be able to looking at his eyes this close.

"why are you doing this? I am not all-father, you know it. you need your protection, not me."

you left his shoulder, going to your bed that had a high level, reaching till your knees. sitting on it, you heard heimdall's low voice.

"no." he said, approaching you. "no." he said again, more sure this time.

"what?" you asked the moment he reached your bed, standing right in front of you. when his stomach were on your eye level, his hand touched your cheek, lifting your head higher to make you make a contact with his eyes that made your heart warming and beating faster.

"I need to protect you too." he said, slowly caressing your lips with his thumb, making you close your eyes. "not only all-father has a space in my heart."

a question hit your mind, creating a huge blow that was full of hope and happiness; was he confessing his love?

"I couldn't imagine how much you would meant for me, but, here we are sweetheart; you are being in my heart with a huge space."

yes, he definitely was!

you opened your eyes to see his smiling one. heimdall who was cocky, the only one you had in asgard, in your life, confessed his love - he had a love for you.

not believing this, you tried to say," heimdall - "

then, he kneeled down, connecting your lips together with a joy that he brought with it, transferring it from his lips to your heart.

moaning shyly, your hands placed on his shoulders, pulling him closer. you realized how you waited for this moment - for so long. you really love him before he even realized your presence. you loved every detail he had. you loved how you waited for him to visit you in your room, every one of them, and you loved how he treated you differently than others, closer and further.

so, when you finally had him, it took a great time to leave him.

when you broke the kiss finally, he smirked, not leaving your side, being close still.

"I love you." you said, feeling a huge joy. "I love you entirely heimdall."

"I know sweetie, I know."

taking deep breaths, you asked, "so that's why you were so protective, huh?"

"about time your brain works cutie."

slapping his shoulder, you rolled your eyes, "how you can expect me to understand your, well, complex behavior."

"I can end every man's, woman's, creature's life that has a threat to your being. I kill thousands just for you - just for knowing you are safe and well. is it the complex behavior, huh, dummy?"

smiling to him, you held his golden hair, caressing it gently," now you talk, huh, cocky?"

he left a smirk lastly before kissing you again, "and now, I will act."

this was the last thing you remembered from that day, following with lots of unholy things with it.

since that day, heimdall always found his way to sneak into your rooms to well, doing lovely and nasty things while protecting you from everyone, having a protective behavior with the love he felt for you in his heart.

the end.

🍰

[imabiscuitinthousandworlds]

i'm going to he so fucking insufferae about theatre btw. just started my job at the theatre, with which i'm already obsessed bc their plays and stuff are just plain brilliant i could go on rants for hours and boy am i gonna know these plays by heart once i've sat through one half a dozen times. AND i joined a theatre class at school. with four other people but. i'm so incredibly motivated. i NEED. anyway it's tumblr y'all know i regularly go full obsessed nerd on things i am a Freak when it comes to these things and BOY is it gonna be Bad with the theatre

[koushirouizumi]

Digimon Adventure+02/tri./Kizuna/(+Adventure:) {2020 Reboot} + Digimon Adventure 02: The Beginning (+minimal Kizuna) A.M.V x “Apologize” {David Archuleta} Live Concert Version Featuring Characters/Duos/Ships: + {+2020!}/{Kizuna!}KOUTAI, {02!}KENSUKE, (Implied/Former?/Un-requited??) YamaSoraTai/Yamachi, {briefly/+also from Yamato's end); Adventures Chosen; (Overall 02 Chosen-Leaning +Side KouxTai)

“I’m hearing 'what' you say…”

“Take a Fall {?}”–

“I Need you like a heart 'needs' a BEAT– … BUT that’s Nothing {N E W…}”

“{’XXXXX’} like the A N G E L…"

“IT’S TOO– (???)”

"...Ten feet..."

Comment: If you think I'M not in this CROWD somewhere, {despite the fact my voice is really soft 'irl'} you might just be Mistaken,,,,, (Also - This is my overall personal 'final thesis' on The Beginning.) {If you watch, please genuinely try to FOLLOW the themes presented.}

{Note: Tri Pt. #6 Bokura no Mirai/"Our Future" Spoilers, Major The Beginning Spoilers, (select scenes from opening, final battle, FINAL Post-credits scene at very end clip) + middle part Big spoiler (Rui’s eye & Ukkomon) {Notes: Eye Trauma/Injury; Blood}

Original Song © O.n.e.R.e.p.u.b.l.i.c Archuleta cover from AUGUST 1st 2009’s Sunrise, Florida Concert {“Hey O.P., can you explain that GAP in your blogs' hISTORY of this fANDOM—???”} [Do you hear 'THEM' here???]

*Edited in about 5 hrs 10~ min overall (Preparing for this however took at least four days of off-and-on out-lining) {Any final fix's will come in the future...!!}

{*Slightly LOUD/Low quality audio at points!!} (*Contains cheering, as its LIVE Ver.)

by Me/Hikari M. Productions @hikari-m/@koushirouizumi/@izzyizumi {DO NOT Repost} {DO NOT Copy} {DO NOT Reproduce my Work/Video Edits Without my Permission Under any Circumstances}

[cottoncandytomu]

The feminine urge to write a slow burn enemies to lovers fic of Abby Anderson x F!Reader is at an all time high I fear

I may have started a concept 😅😅 https://www.tumblr.com/cottoncandytomu/716807081369518080/slow-burn-enemies-to-lovers-fic-in-the-works