#Bio-based Oil)

[priteshwemarketresearch]

Demand for High-Performance Industrial Lubricants: Market Drivers and Trends

Industrial Lubricants Market: Trends, Industry Analysis, Growth Factors

The Industrial Lubricants Market is expected to reach a value of USD 55.34 billion in 2023 and, with a linear growth pattern, reach USD 75.68 billion by 2033, with a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 3.8% from 2024 to 2033.

The Industrial Lubricants Market plays a vital role in various industries, ensuring the smooth operation of machinery and equipment. These lubricants help reduce friction, wear and tear, and overheating, thereby enhancing the efficiency and lifespan of industrial components. As industries continue to expand, the Industrial Lubricants Market Size is projected to grow steadily. This article provides an in-depth Industrial Lubricants Market Analysis, covering key trends, growth factors, challenges, and future opportunities.

Request Sample PDF Copy:https://wemarketresearch.com/reports/request-free-sample-pdf/industrial-lubricants-market/1356

Industrial Lubricants Market Segments

Market, By Type

Mineral oils

Synthetic oils

Bio-based oils

Market, By Application

Manufacturing

Transportation

Energy

Mining and construction

Food and beverage

Pharmaceutical

Others

Market, By Product

General industrial oils

Process oils

Metalworking fluids

Industrial engine oils

Industrial greases

Industrial Lubricants Market Trends and Analysis

Growing Demand for High-Performance Lubricants

One of the significant Industrial Lubricants Market Trends is the increasing demand for high-performance lubricants. These advanced lubricants offer superior protection, longer operational life, and enhanced efficiency in extreme conditions.

Expansion of the Manufacturing Sector

The rapid expansion of manufacturing industries worldwide is driving Industrial Lubricants Market Growth. As automation and heavy machinery usage increase, the need for efficient lubrication solutions is also rising.

Shift Towards Bio-Based Lubricants

Environmental concerns and regulatory pressures are encouraging industries to adopt eco-friendly alternatives. The rise of bio-based industrial lubricants is one of the major Industrial Lubricants Market Trends, reducing the carbon footprint while maintaining performance.

Digitalization and Smart Lubrication Systems

The integration of IoT and AI in lubrication systems is enhancing predictive maintenance. Smart lubricants and automated monitoring systems help industries optimize lubrication schedules, minimizing downtime and improving efficiency.

Industrial Lubricants Market Growth Factors

Increasing Industrialization and Urbanization

Rapid industrialization, especially in emerging economies, is driving the demand for lubricants. The growth of construction, automotive, and manufacturing industries directly contributes to Industrial Lubricants Market Growth.

Rising Demand from the Automotive Industry

The automotive sector is a major consumer of industrial lubricants. With increasing vehicle production and technological advancements, the demand for specialized lubricants is expected to rise.

Growing Energy and Power Sector

Industrial lubricants are essential in power generation, including wind, hydro, and thermal energy plants. The rising global energy demand is boosting Industrial Lubricants Market Potential.

Advancements in Lubricant Formulations

Ongoing research and development in synthetic and bio-based lubricants are leading to innovative products that enhance machinery efficiency, extend maintenance cycles, and reduce operational costs.

 Key Companies in the Industrial Lubricants Market

ExxonMobil Corp

Fuchs Group

The Lubrizol Corporation

Royal Dutch Shell

Phillips 66

Lucas Oil Products, Inc.

Amsoil, Inc.

Bel-Ray Co., Inc.

Total S.A.

Kluber Lubrication

Valvoline International, Inc.

Chevron Corp.

Clariant

Quaker Chemical Corp.

Houghton International, Inc.

Castrol

Blaser Swisslube, Inc.

Calumet Specialty Products Partners, L.P.

Petronas Lubricant International

Idemitsu Kosan Co., Ltd.

Yushiro Chemical Industry Co., Ltd.

Key Points of the Industrial Lubricants Market Report

Comprehensive Industrial Lubricants Market Analysis covering trends, size, share, and forecast

Market segmentation based on product type, end-use industry, and application

Regional insights covering North America, Europe, Asia-Pacific, and Latin America

Key market players, competitive landscape, and strategic developments

Impact of regulations and environmental policies on the market

Benefits of This Report

Provides accurate Industrial Lubricants Market Forecast

Identifies key market drivers and challenges

Offers strategic insights for businesses and investors

Analyzes competitive landscape and key players in the industry

Helps stakeholders understand future market potential

Challenges in the Industrial Lubricants Market

Fluctuating Raw Material Prices

The Industrial Lubricants Market Price is influenced by the cost of raw materials such as base oils and additives. Price volatility poses challenges for manufacturers and consumers alike.

Stringent Environmental Regulations

Governments worldwide are implementing strict regulations regarding the use and disposal of industrial lubricants. Compliance with these regulations requires significant investments in research and development.

Increasing Competition from Alternative Technologies

The rise of self-lubricating materials and advanced coatings is posing a potential threat to the demand for traditional industrial lubricants.

Supply Chain Disruptions

Geopolitical tensions, trade restrictions, and global economic fluctuations can disrupt the supply chain, affecting Industrial Lubricants Market Share and availability.

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q1: What is the current Industrial Lubricants Market Size?

Q2: Which industries drive Industrial Lubricants Market Growth?

Q3: What are the major Industrial Lubricants Market Trends?

Q4: How do environmental regulations impact the market?

Q5: What is the future Industrial Lubricants Market Forecast?

Related New Updated Research Report:

Antimicrobial-Coatings-Market

https://medium.com/@priteshwemarketresearch/antimicrobial-coatings-market-analysis-type-size-trends-key-players-and-forecast-2024-to-2034-f644d5e8f094

Heat-Transfer-Fluids-Market

https://medium.com/@priteshwemarketresearch/heat-transfer-fluids-market-industry-trends-and-forecast-to-2033-f6e6da647626

Global-Nanocomposites-Market

https://medium.com/@priteshwemarketresearch/global-nanocomposites-market-latest-trends-and-analysis-future-growth-study-by-2034-374bc36be5d6

Global-Green-Solvent-Market

https://medium.com/@priteshwemarketresearch/global-green-solvent-market-growth-trends-analysis-and-dynamic-demand-forecast-2024-to-2034-6cf30e39c8de

Industrial Lubricants Market:

https://wemarketresearch.com/reports/industrial-lubricants-market/1356

3D Printing Materials Market:

https://wemarketresearch.com/reports/3d-printing-materials-market/1338

Conclusion

The Industrial Lubricants Market is poised for significant growth, fueled by technological advancements, increasing industrialization, and rising demand from key industries. While Industrial Lubricants Market Challenges such as regulatory restrictions and raw material price fluctuations exist, the industry offers substantial opportunities for innovation and expansion.

[aarunresearcher]

United States lubricants market size reached USD 32.6 Million in 2024. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach USD 41.9 Million by 2033, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 2.9% during ​2025-2033​. The escalating advances in lubricant technology, including the development of high-performance synthetic lubricants, which contribute to increased efficiency and extended equipment life, are driving the market.

[sartajblog]

Transformer Oil Market Navigating Dynamics and Opportunities in the Global Transformer Oil Market Forecast 2023-2032

Transformer Oil Market: Powering the Future of Electrical Infrastructure

Introduction

The Transformer Oil Market is poised for robust growth, driven by the increasing demand for electrical power and the global shift towards sustainable energy. Transformer oil, also known as insulating oil, plays a crucial role in maintaining the efficiency and insulation of transformers, ensuring the smooth functioning of electrical systems. In this comprehensive market analysis, we delve into the dynamics, trends, and factors influencing the Transformer Oil Market.

Market Overview

In 2023, the Global Transformer Oil Market is estimated to be valued at USD 2,981.5 Million, with a projected compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 13.2% for the forecast period from 2023 to 2032. Transformer oil, recognized for its stability at high temperatures and superior electrical insulation properties, serves as a key component in transformers. Its dual function of suppressing arcing and dissipating heat is vital for the efficient operation of transformers.

Get a free simple request:-https://dimensionmarketresearch.com/report/transformer-oil-market/request-sample

Functions of Transformer Oil

Transformer oil performs two crucial functions in transformers:

Moreover, transformer oil acts as a protective layer against oxidation of metal surfaces and aids in better cooling and insulation by properly dipping the core and windings of transformers.

Alternatives and Environmental Concerns

To address environmental concerns and economic considerations, alternative transformer oils, including soybean oil, palm kernel oil, and coconut oil, have emerged. These alternatives are readily available in countries like India, Malaysia, and Sri Lanka. Bio-based transformer oils are gaining traction due to their superior fire resistance and non-toxic characteristics, aligning with environmental sustainability.

Market Dynamics

The Transformer Oil Market is experiencing significant growth, primarily fueled by its extensive use in the power generation sector. The global emphasis on sustainable energy sources and the rise in electricity trade across borders, particularly in Asia, contribute to market expansion. The surge in wind power projects further bolsters the demand for transformer oil, serving as a lubricant and coolant in turbines and transformers.

Challenges and Opportunities

Despite the positive outlook, challenges such as the acceptance of alternative transformer techniques and fluctuations in crude oil prices exist. Strict regulations addressing the negative impacts of minerals and crude oil price variations also impede market growth. However, the expanding distribution of energy, driven by increased electricity consumption in emerging economies like India and China, presents significant growth opportunities.

Research Scope and Analysis

By Type

Mineral-Based Oils

Mineral-based oils dominate the market, holding a maximum share in 2023. These oils find extensive use in various sectors, including circuit breakers, capacitors, and high-compatibility areas. The preference for mineral-based oils in conditioning switchgear, transformers, and boilers is attributed to their efficiency in heat transfer and preservation of transformer interiors.

On the other hand, a shift towards bio-based products is evident in recent times. Bio-based oils, derived from vegetable sources, offer superior performance and environmental friendliness. The rising trend of bio-based products is expected to create new growth avenues, although challenges related to non-biodegradability may impact certain mineral oil products.

Silicon-Based Oils

Bio-Based Oils

By Rating

The market is segmented by rating, with the 100 MVA-500 MVA segment dominating in 2023. These transformers, designed for extensive industrial environments, play a crucial role in power generation, transmission, and distribution. The <100 MVA segment follows, anticipated to exhibit the fastest CAGR by 2032 due to widespread applications in power distribution channels.

By End User

Industrial

The industrial segment commands the market with the maximum share in 2023. The global rise in industrialization has increased the demand for transformers across sectors like food processing, chemicals, steel, and automotive. Transformers are essential for various electrical machinery operating at different voltage levels, driving the demand for transformer oils to ensure smooth operations.

Residential

The residential segment is poised to grow with the maximum CAGR in the coming years. The increasing population and residential developments drive the need for transformers in houses, apartments, and villas, contributing to the demand for transformer oils.

Recent Developments in the Transformer Oil Market (as of February 5, 2024):

Market Growth:

Global Transformer Oil Market Report Segmentation

By Type:

By Rating:

By End-User:

Regional Analysis

Asia Pacific

Asia Pacific dominates the Transformer Oil Market, commanding a significant share of 55.8% in 2023. The region's rising electricity demand in economies such as India, China, Australia, and Japan is a key driver. The focus on capacity building for renewable energy in China and India contributes to the demand for transformer oil in the sub-transmission segment. Local producers in Asia Pacific pose challenges for international entrants seeking market foothold.

North America

In North America, the market is driven by the growth of the industrial and manufacturing industries in Canada and the U.S. Technological advancements and developments in established transformers, coupled with the decline in the crude oil market, are anticipated to propel the market in these nations.

Buy Now Click here:- https://dimensionmarketresearch.com/checkout/transformer-oil-market

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

1. What is the expected valuation of the Global Transformer Oil Market in 2023?

2. What functions does transformer oil perform in transformers?

4. What challenges does the Transformer Oil Market face?

5. Which region dominates the Transformer Oil Market in 2023?

[theonottsbxtch]

HONEST | LN4

an: this is dedicated to the anon who noticed my bio and saw i loved honest by the nbhd, it inspired me to write something based off of it <3

wc: 3.5k

summary: lando and his girlfriend keep going back to each other despite her numerous attempts to get him to open up, what happens when she finally has enough.

The night was alive with the hum of possibility, the city draped in neon light and the buzz of distant traffic. She sat cross-legged on the floor of her cramped university apartment, a half-finished canvas propped up against the wall, colors bleeding together in a way that made her frown. Her fingers were smudged with paint, her hair twisted into a loose knot that threatened to unravel with every frustrated exhale.

Her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a notification: “Lando Norris finishes P2 at Hungary Grand Prix.”

She hesitated before swiping it away. The world might have celebrated second place, but she knew him better. For Lando, second was nothing more than a public failure.

The knock at her door came minutes later, sharp and deliberate, like him. She didn’t need to check who it was.

When she opened it, there he stood, still in the McLaren jacket with the logo stitched across his chest. His dark hair clung to his forehead, and his jaw was set in that stubborn line she knew too well. He smelled like engine oil and exhaustion, and she couldn’t decide if the ache in her chest was for him or the weight he always carried.

“You’re here,” she said, the words soft, more observation than greeting.

“I needed to see you.” His voice was low, barely audible over the sound of her radiator ticking in the background.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating? Champagne showers and all that?” she asked, stepping aside to let him in.

“I didn’t win.”

She closed the door behind him, watching as he moved to her window, his silhouette framed by the city lights outside. He didn’t sit, didn’t even take off his jacket. He just stood there, the tension radiating from him like heat from a burning track.

“You came in second,” she said carefully, crossing her arms as she leaned against the door. “That’s not nothing.”

“It’s not first,” he snapped, his voice sharper than he meant. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. I just—”

“You don’t have to explain,” she interrupted, her tone softer now. She was getting used to this.

But he shook his head, turning to face her. “I do. You don’t get it. The team made me and I know I shouldn’t have kicked up a fuss but I’ve been working my ass off. Oscar doesn’t deserve this bullshit but I’m so close—”

“Lando,” she said, cutting him off again. “You’ve done this before. You’ll do it again. But it’s never about the race, is it?”

He stared at her, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to find the words.

“It’s not enough,” he finally said. “No matter what I do, I’m never enough.”

Her throat tightened at the familiar refrain. She’d heard it before—in the way he avoided eye contact when he talked about his expectations, in the way he deflected her compliments like they were a nuisance. She stepped closer, her arms unfolding as she reached for his hand.

“It’s enough for me,” she said softly.

For a moment, she thought he might pull away, but he didn’t. His hand was cold, trembling slightly against hers. He looked at her like he wanted to believe her, like he wanted her words to be true.

“You don’t get it,” he said again, quieter this time. “I don’t know how to be okay with less. I don’t know how to stop chasing.”

“Then stop chasing,” she said, her voice firm. “Just… stay. For once, just stay.”

He closed his eyes, the weight of the words hanging between them. When he opened them again, she saw the cracks in his armour, the vulnerability he fought so hard to hide.

“I don’t know if I can,” he admitted.

The words stung, but she didn’t let go of his hand. “Then figure it out. I can’t do it for you, Lando. I can’t keep filling in the spaces you leave blank.”

The silence stretched, heavy and uncertain, until he finally nodded, a small, reluctant gesture.

She didn’t know if it meant he would stay, or if it was just another moment in the long cycle of him crashing into her life and pulling away again. But for now, it was enough.

“Come on,” she said, leading him to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll make tea.”

And as she moved to the kitchen, he sank into the cushions, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. He watched her from across the room, and for the first time that night, he allowed himself to breathe.

The tea kettle whistled, a sharp note cutting through the quiet tension. She poured the hot water into two mismatched mugs, her movements slow, deliberate. Every sound—the clink of the spoon, the soft rush of liquid—felt amplified in the silence that stretched between them.

Lando sat hunched forward on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. His head was bowed like he was waiting for something to break, or maybe trying to hold it all together.

When she placed a mug in front of him, he looked up, offering her the smallest nod of thanks. She sat beside him, tucking her legs beneath her. The couch was old, the cushions sagging, forcing them closer than either might have chosen in that moment.

“I used to think art was about perfection,” she said, staring into her tea. Her voice was calm, but there was an edge of vulnerability, like she wasn’t sure where the words would take her.

He turned his head toward her, waiting.

“When I started studying, I wanted to control every detail, every brushstroke,” she continued. “I thought if I just worked hard enough, it would all come together the way I imagined. But no matter how much I tried, it always felt… wrong. Like something was missing.”

He didn’t reply, but his gaze stayed on her, heavy with unspoken questions.

“I realised it wasn’t about getting it perfect. It was about letting the imperfections in, letting the chaos fill the spaces. That’s what makes it real. That’s what makes it art.”

Lando exhaled, a slow, almost shaky breath. “You think I should just let chaos into my life?”

“I think it’s already there,” she said gently. “You’re just pretending it isn’t.”

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not. But what you’re doing isn’t easy either, is it? Beating yourself up every time you don’t hit perfection? Trying to control everything, even things you can’t?”

Lando stared into his tea, the steam curling upward like a ghost of his thoughts. “When you’re on the track,” he began, his voice low, “everything depends on precision. One mistake, one miscalculation, and it’s over. You don’t just lose the race—you crash. You burn.”

She didn’t interrupt, letting him work through the words that seemed to take more effort than any lap he’d ever driven.

“That’s what my life is. Corners and braking zones and split-second decisions. If I let chaos in…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“You’re not on the track right now,” she said softly.

His head turned sharply toward her, his expression unreadable.

“I know you don’t think you can stop,” she continued, her eyes meeting his. “But you’re not just a driver, Lando. You’re a person. And people aren’t built to live like that all the time.”

He looked at her for a long moment, the walls in his eyes flickering, wavering. Then he leaned back against the couch, his shoulders slumping as if he’d finally allowed himself to feel the weight of it all.

“You make it sound like I have a choice,” he murmured.

“You do,” she said. “But you have to be brave enough to take it.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Bravery. That’s funny, coming from you.”

Her brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re the one who made us go on break last time,” he said, the words sharper than he intended. “You couldn’t stick around when things got hard.”

She flinched, the accusation landing like a slap. But she didn’t look away. “I didn’t leave because it was hard. I left because you wouldn’t let me in. You let me see pieces of you, but never the whole thing. And I can’t keep guessing at who you are.”

The air between them felt thick, charged with everything they’d never said.

“I don’t know how to do that,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly.

She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing his knuckles. “Then try. That’s all I’ve ever asked.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, his hand turned, his fingers intertwining with hers.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said, so quietly she almost didn’t hear it.

Her lips curved into a small, bittersweet smile. “You never lost me, Lando. But I can’t be the one holding us together anymore.”

He nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion. It wasn’t a promise, not yet. But it was something.

The next race that went to shit for him was Baku.

The door to her London apartment creaked open, and Lando stepped inside, his bag slung over one shoulder. His face was a map of exhaustion—dark circles under his eyes, his jawline shadowed with stubble. The scent of jet fuel and rubber seemed to cling to him, a remnant of the race he’d just returned from.

She was sitting at her desk, the glow of her laptop illuminating her face as she worked on an assignment. The sound of the door closing made her glance over her shoulder. Her expression softened for a moment, then grew guarded, like she was bracing for impact.

“You’re back,” she said, her voice neutral.

“I’m back,” he echoed. He dropped his bag in the corner and rubbed a hand over his face, his fingers lingering at his temples. “How’s your week been?”

“Fine,” she said, turning back to her screen. “Yours?”

He let out a dry laugh as he collapsed onto the couch. “Do you want the press-conference version or the real one?”

She swiveled her chair to face him fully, her arms crossed. “The real one, obviously.”

He hesitated, his mouth opening and closing as if the words were caught in his throat. Finally, he shrugged. “It was fine. Finished P4. Made a stupid mistake in qualifying, couldn’t recover. Typical.”

She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s it?”

“What else do you want me to say?”

She stood, crossing the room to sit on the armchair across from him. “I don’t know, Lando. Maybe something real? Maybe talk to me like I’m more than just an audience for your race recap?”

He looked at her, startled by the sharpness in her tone. “I am talking to you.”

“No, you’re not,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. “You’re telling me what you think I want to hear. You’ve been doing that since the moment we got back together.”

He sat up straighter, his brows furrowing. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not fair?” she repeated, incredulous. “Lando, we’ve been stuck in the same pattern for months. You come back, you barely say anything real, and then you leave again. We took a break because you said you’d try, and nothing has changed.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, his voice rising defensively.

“Then tell me what’s true,” she countered. “Tell me what’s actually going on in your head, because I don’t know anymore.”

He looked away, his jaw tightening. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

“See?” she said, throwing her hands up. “This is what I mean. I’m sitting here, begging you to let me in, and you’re just… shutting down. Again.”

“It’s not that simple,” he muttered, his voice barely audible.

“Yes, it is,” she said, her frustration boiling over. “It’s as simple as you deciding whether or not you actually want me in your life. Because I can’t keep sacrificing myself for you if you’re not willing to meet me halfway.”

Her words hung in the air like a challenge, daring him to respond. But he didn’t. He just stared at the floor, his hands clasped tightly together.

Her voice softened, trembling slightly. “We need to break up. For real this time.”

His head snapped up, panic flashing across his face. “No. Please, don’t do this. I can do better, I promise. Just—”

“No,” she interrupted, shaking her head. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them away. “I’ve heard that before. I can’t keep waiting for you to figure this out while I’m breaking myself apart trying to hold us together.”

“Please,” he said again, his voice desperate.

But then something shifted. His shoulders sagged, the fight leaving him all at once. He let out a long, shaky breath and finally met her eyes.

“Okay,” he said, the word soft but resolute.

She froze, her heart skipping a beat. She had expected resistance, pleading, anger—but not this.

“Okay?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, his expression unreadable. “You’re right. I don’t know how to give you what you need. And I don’t think I ever will.”

Her chest tightened, the weight of his words cutting deeper than any argument ever could.

“I’m sorry,” he added, standing and grabbing his bag. He hesitated at the door, his hand on the knob. “I hope… I hope you find someone who can.”

And just like that, he was gone.

She sat there for a long time, staring at the closed door, the echo of his and her words ringing in her ears. She had gotten what she’d asked for, but it didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like the quiet hollow left after something breaks.

The weeks after he walked out passed in a blur of quiet moments and restless nights. Her apartment felt bigger, somehow emptier, though his presence had always been fleeting. At first, she moved through the days mechanically: attending lectures, working on assignments, and scrolling mindlessly through her phone when she couldn’t concentrate.

That was how she saw the first video.

It popped up on her social media feed one evening—a clip of Lando during a post-race interview. He stood with the same calm precision he always carried, his dark eyes serious as he talked about tire degradation and strategy.

But she noticed the way his jaw tightened when the reporter mentioned the championship battle. The way he rubbed the back of his neck when he thought no one was watching. The things only she would have picked up on.

She swiped away from the video quickly, her heart hammering in her chest.

For days after, more videos surfaced. Clips of him on the podium, the national anthem playing in the background. Snippets of races where he pushed through the pack with surgical precision. Even candid moments, fans catching him as he signed autographs with a tight, practiced smile.

She didn’t go looking for them, but they seemed to find her anyway.

Part of her wanted to stop watching. Every video felt like a small knife twisting in her chest. But another part of her—the part that still woke up some mornings thinking about the weight of his hand in hers—couldn’t look away.

And then there was the guilt. The nagging voice in her head that whispered she could have done more, been more, stayed longer. That maybe if she’d held on just a little tighter, he wouldn’t have slipped away.

But the rational part of her knew better. She couldn’t keep sacrificing herself for someone who wouldn’t let her in. She couldn’t keep living in the spaces he refused to fill.

Throwing herself into her work became her salvation. She spent hours in her studio, her fingers smudged with paint and charcoal, her mind racing with ideas.

Her project started as a simple concept: inner thoughts, the things we hide from the world. But the more she worked, the more it grew, expanding into something bigger than anything she’d ever created.

The centerpiece was a massive installation—an abstract figure built from fragmented mirrors, wires, and twisted metal. Each shard reflected something different: colors that didn’t match, faces distorted in impossible ways. Surrounding the figure were interactive panels where viewers could write their own hidden thoughts, projected onto the walls in real-time.

It wasn’t just art; it was a conversation. A reflection of the unspoken truths that lived in everyone.

Her professor was floored when she presented it during a critique. “This is… remarkable,” he said, circling the model she’d built as he spoke. “It’s raw, vulnerable. It demands engagement.”

She flushed under the praise but nodded, unsure what to say.

“You need to exhibit this,” the professor continued. “There’s an upcoming gallery in Monte Carlo—prestigious, international attendance. I’ll submit your work.”

Monte Carlo.

Her stomach tightened at the name. She thought of glitzy hotels, sharp corners, and the sound of engines echoing through narrow streets. Of Lando, and the apartment she’d only been to a few times.

But she nodded again. “Okay,” she said.

And that was how she found herself in Monaco.

The gallery hummed with conversation, the din blending with the soft background music that played over hidden speakers. She was standing near the wine table, engaged in a lively discussion with an older couple who were gushing about her work.

“It’s so… visceral,” the woman said, gesturing animatedly with her glass of champagne. “It feels like you’ve captured something universal but deeply personal at the same time. Like it’s speaking directly to me.”

Her lips curved into a polite smile. “That’s exactly what I hoped for,” she said.

As she explained the inspiration behind the installation, the doors to the gallery opened again, and Lando walked in.

He wore a crisp suit, his usual casual edge replaced by something sharper, more formal. The team required his attendance. His hair was nicely curled, and his presence was magnetic, commanding subtle glances from attendees who didn’t recognise him but knew he must be someone important.

Lando’s gaze swept the room, searching, but her back was to him. She was too engrossed in her conversation to notice the way his shoulders stiffened when he saw the installation—or the way his expression softened when he realised it was hers.

He approached the centerpiece quietly, his hands in his pockets as he took it all in. The mirrored figure seemed to hold his gaze, fragments of his reflection staring back at him. His attention moved to the interactive panels, where dozens of anonymous confessions lit up the walls.

“I’m afraid of being alone forever.”“I miss the person I was before them.”“I don’t know how to move on.”

Lando stood there for a long moment, his chest tightening as he read the words. Finally, he stepped closer to one of the blank panels and picked up the stylus.

He hesitated, the pen hovering just above the screen, before he began to write:

"I wish I could have been honest.”

He paused, then added something small, something only she would understand:

4♡

It was the way he’d signed every note he’d left for her. Scrawled on Post-its stuck to the bathroom mirror. On napkins tucked into her lunch bag. On the inside cover of a sketchbook he’d bought her. It had always been their little secret, a shorthand for everything he couldn’t say out loud.

Lando stepped back, his throat tight. He cast one last glance around the room, his eyes lingering on her as she laughed softly at something the older man said. Then he turned and walked out, unnoticed.

The crowd thinned as the night wore on, and the gallery grew quieter. She stood alone now, gazing at her installation with a mixture of pride and exhaustion. The panels were almost completely filled with confessions, their glowing words painting the walls in a kaleidoscope of emotion.

She walked up to the nearest panel, scrolling through the entries. Some were poignant, others painfully raw. But one stopped her in her tracks.

"I wish I could have been honest.”

Her breath hitched as her eyes darted to the small signature below it.

4♡

Her hand flew to her mouth, a tremor running through her as she stared at the words. For a moment, she thought she might have imagined it. But no—there it was, unmistakable.

A wave of emotions crashed over her: shock, sadness, and a deep, aching tenderness that she had tried so hard to bury.

She sank onto a nearby bench, tears slipping down her cheeks.

She thought of him standing here, reading her work, writing those words. The quiet acknowledgment of everything left unsaid between them. And the small, stubborn piece of him that still lingered in her world, no matter how far apart they were.

She wiped her tears, but they kept coming, her chest heaving as the weight of it all settled over her.

For the first time in weeks, she allowed herself to feel the full depth of her loss. But alongside the grief was something else—a fragile, flickering sense of closure.

He had been here. He had seen her, her work, her heart laid bare. And he had left her a piece of himself, as he always had.

It wasn’t enough to fix what had broken. But maybe, just maybe, it was enough to let her begin to heal.

the end.

[chiiroptereh]

Edit: thanks for all the notes, guys! I made some edits so that this is easier to read. If you like Bill and spec bio vibes, here's another one I made of some possible psychological instincts a Euclidean might possess. Lots of love :Dc

A study into 90% of Bill's organs

I went so overboard omg but I wanted to try underpainting :Dc See if you can guess what color was the base for each of em! Reasoning for design choices beneath the cut.

Teeth are retractable so as to not puncture the eye when not in use

Lashes are retractable because I couldn't figure out what else to do with them LOL they're pretty thick whiskers and so he'd have some trouble if they stayed in the way, but having them fully retracted would, I imagine, risk them getting stuck or the pores plugging with oil/dirt

Whether or not his tongue is forked varies in canon, just as his blood color does, so I just chose the ones I prefer! I do really like it when people give him blue blood but I think in subtler hues it can make him look a lil nauseous so it's easier for me to work with red

He cleans himself with his tongue because he's a gross little beast and can't just take a shower or something. Ok but really I just thought it was cute what are you a cop leave me alone

Every villain needs to be able to have claws it's like a rule somewhere I think

The second set of eyelids serve to protect the optic nerve but are mainly something I added partially for emoting purposes and partially because of how many times the animators do this thing where his lashes don't follow his lids and it drives me less insane to have a hc about it

[nizhspo]

genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff

pairing: osamu miya x fem!reader

summary: based off of this post, ty @dearru <3

you wake up to the sound of oil popping.

not violently. just the low, lazy kind. like it’s stretching. like it’s comfortable. sunlight is spilling in through the living room windows, catching the edge of your hallway rug. osamu always forgets to pull the curtains all the way shut. you don’t mind anymore.

the hallway smells like garlic and toasted bread and something else, something buttery and warm that hugs your chest the second you step out of the bedroom.

“’samu?” your voice is rough, still tucked in sleep.

he doesn’t turn, but you hear the grin in his voice. “in the kitchen, baby. don’t peek yet.”

you blink toward the doorway. “are you recording?”

“maybe.”

you sigh, dragging your blanket with you like a cape as you cross the living room.

“you know tiktok doesn’t need to see me lookin’ like this.”

he finally glances over his shoulder, bare arms flexing as he flips something in the pan. he’s in his usual hoodie and gym shorts combo, hair a mess, wedding band glinting even though the wedding hasn’t happened yet. it’s a habit, he says—trying it on early. like muscle memory.

“you look cute. shut up.”

you plop into one of the bar stools at the island. what are you making?”

“well today’s is part 37 of cooking for you so you don’t divorce me, so looks like you’ll just have to wait ‘til i’m done.”

you laugh into your sleeve. “we’re not even married yet.”

he points at you with the spatula. “which is why i’m working overtime.”

you glance past him toward the phone propped on a little stand, already recording. the red light is blinking. he’s been at this since last fall—making dumb videos where he cooks for you, edits them all pretty, adds little captions like “she said this one made her cry. i win.”

his tiktok bio says: exhausted line cook, full-time lover boy.

you lean your cheek on your hand, eyes squinting. “i smell garlic. is that cream? are you making—”

“no peeking,” he cuts in, moving to block your line of sight with his body. “you’ll ruin the surprise.”

you try to look around him, grinning. “come on, just tell me.”

he sighs, mock-defeated. “fine. pasta. chicken alfredo.” he raises an eyebrow at you. “and yes. i snuck spinach in it.”

you groan. “you know how i feel about green things hiding in my food.”

“yeah, yeah. picky eaters deserve love too.”

he slides the pan to a cool burner and pulls a plate from the oven—warm, already plated. you watch him top it with a drizzle of parmesan, a stupid little flourish he does because he likes the aesthetic.

“for you,” he says, setting it in front of you, “even though you hate flavor and joy.”

you roll your eyes, but the pasta smells incredible. creamy, cheesy, garlicky, and the spinach is chopped so fine you almost don’t see it.

he leans on the other side of the island, watching you take the first bite. not saying anything. just watching, arms crossed, eyebrow raised like he’s waiting for the verdict.

you chew slowly. swallow. then shrug.

“…it’s okay.”

he lunges for the plate, laughing when you jerk it away.

“hey! it’s good! i was just kidding!”

“don’t play with me like that,” he grins, circling around to steal a bite. “i almost cried.”

you flick his shoulder. “you always say that. ‘oh, i almost cried,’ ‘oh, you almost gave me a heart attack.’”

“and one day it’s gonna be true,” he says, mouth full. “you’re gonna say you want peanut butter toast for dinner and i’m gonna collapse.”

you eat in silence for a while, sharing bites. he switches off the camera eventually. says he’ll edit it later. tells you the audio this time is kitchen sounds and the sound of me not getting dumped.

you hum, still chewing, voice soft.

“who said i’d ever dump you?”

osamu doesn’t answer for a second. then he shrugs. “you’d have reason. i make you eat vegetables.”

you snort. “you make me feel spoiled.”

he glances over, and for a second, he really looks. like he’s taking in the soft hoodie you’re wearing. the way your knees are tucked up on the stool. the sunlight in your lashes.

“yeah, well,” he murmurs, “i plan on doing that for a long time.”

your chest does that soft, slow flutter.

he finishes your plate when you get too full. wipes your lip with his thumb, rinses the dishes without you having to ask. when he finally joins you on the couch, you curl up into him without thinking, head against his chest, blanket thrown over both your legs.

and later, when you’re half-asleep against his side, scrolling on your phone while he edits the tiktok, you see the caption he types in, all lowercase:

“she said the spinach was just fine. i’m gonna marry her anyway.”

[julymusings]

okay, i just needed to share this with someone who also loves jason todd to a (un)healthy degree.

set in the arkham universe, jason hates the j-shaped scar on his cheek, but he tries to ignore the brand. tries to imagine that it stands for his name, and not joker's.

but he's told you the truth before, and you understand. so one day, you say off-handedly, 'i could put bio-oil on it. it helps fade away scars.'

at first, jason is completely against the idea, repulsed even by the thought of you touching the most hideous part of him (in his opinion because i beg to differ that there's anything not beautiful about him). but then he gives in, like he usually does when it comes to you.

so imagine this man sitting on the edge of your bathtub, hands figeting while you dab bio-oil onto your finger and turn to him. imagine this man, with all his scars and intimidating structure, reduced to a shivering mess because how can you be so gentle with something so ugly?

he's staring at you the whole time as you rub the ointment into the raised skin, handling him with nothing but tenderness.

imagine this rough-around-the-edges, sweetheart of a man, nearly reduced to tears by the determination in your eyes to love every part of him.

*sigh* no, i'm okay. it's fine. um, might write this into an actual fic. we'll see. oh, and happy valentine's, july!

omg sorry this took me a decade to answer (happy late Valentine’s Day??), but i thought it complemented something i was already working on well so i decided to combine the two-- originally this was about jason having acne scars that he's insecure about and reader doing skincare on him but i loved your idea so i made it scar scars instead👍

and a kiss for good luck

also; the acne scar hc is based on a post i saw on here once about jason having acne scars and picking at them too much, but he's so used to pain that he doesn't notice when they start bleeding anymore so he'll just be walking around with blood on his face without realizing it but i can't find it anywhere so if anyone knows who posted it please lmk so i can credit

[fordiaz]

Tangled Up (Evan Buckley) ִ ࣪✮🕷⋆˙💥

“It’s just—sometimes when I don’t know what to draw, I just sketch people I see often. You’re always walking around in that hoodie, looking like you’ve got some secret life.” 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Synopsis: Spider-Man!Buck finds peace in the quiet company of his fire escape neighbor—an unbothered artist who couldn’t care less about the city’s chaos. What you don’t know is that he’s the guy swinging over rooftops… until the night he saves you, and you thank him with a kiss that turns his whole world sideways.

Genre: Romance, Fluff

AU: Spiderman!au

Pairing: Spiderman!Buck x Artist!Reader

Warnings: None

Note: Fun fact, the character of the reader is based on me! I graduated just recently as an art student in highschool (It’s kinda complicated but where I’m from we have 2 extra years of highschool and you major in stuff like engineering, business, and in my case, I majored in arts!) so I thought why not put a little bit of myself into this fic to honor my major? Also here’s to a self indulgent little fic of Spiderbuck because it’s been plaguing my mind for weeks. Love you guys and happy reading! Thanks for the support as always, with every like + reblog and comment comes a token of why I continue to do what I love! (

Evan Buckley was the kind of guy who was always a little too curious for his own good.

At twenty-two, he was a college student juggling a full course load in mechanical engineering, part-time shifts at a local auto shop, and an inexplicable tendency to be at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time.

He lived in a cramped but homey Brooklyn apartment with his older sister Maddie, who worked nights as a nurse and had long since accepted her little brother’s chaotic energy as a fact of life—like gravity or taxes.

The day everything changed had started out completely normal.

Buck had cut class to fix the brakes on Maddie’s clunky old Corolla, spilled coffee all over his only clean hoodie (which he’d later keep wearing anyway), and gotten roped into a last-minute errand run that ended with him tagging along to a university-sponsored lab tour.

Science wasn’t really his thing. He liked taking things apart, sure—but the molecular level? That was more Chim’s speed.

Still, there was a certain comfort in watching the glass-encased spiders of the university’s bio-genetics program crawl in their terrariums.

Buck had stared at one particularly twitchy red-and-blue arachnid, laughing to himself about its resemblance to a Fourth of July parade float, before a series of moments blurred together: a distraction, a bump, a crack in the glass no one noticed. And then—

A bite. Sharp. Hot. Quick.

The pain had radiated up his arm and burned like wildfire through his veins. He didn’t remember much else except nearly blacking out on the subway home and waking up sprawled on his bedroom floor, sweating through his sheets with the overwhelming urge to… climb.

And so began the freakishly strange, secretly exhilarating new chapter of Evan Buckley’s life: learning to web-sling through alleyways, punch through steel, and crawl upside down on ceilings—all while still managing to grab groceries for Maddie and pretend he wasn’t literally climbing the walls.

But despite all the chaos—the nighttime patrols, the bruised ribs, the suit he sewed together by hand with shaky fingers and leftover fabric from Maddie’s DIY Halloween bin—there was always one constant in Buck’s world:

You.

His next-door neighbor. The girl on the fire escape.

You didn’t talk much, not to him anyway.

You always had paint on your fingertips and headphones on, lounging on the rusty fire escape outside your window like it was a throne.

Sometimes you sketched in charcoal, sometimes you painted in oils, and sometimes you just laid there with your eyes closed and a cigarette tucked behind your ear, completely unaffected by the world spinning madly around you.

Buck would catch glimpses of you when he came home from patrol, exhausted and aching. The moment he saw you sitting on that fire escape, illuminated by the yellow glow of your window, something in him stilled.

You never looked up—never noticed the way he lingered by his window to watch you—yet somehow, your calm bled into him through the walls.

He liked to imagine what kind of art you made.

Whether you drew the city like it was, gritty and unforgiving, or how you wanted it to be. Maybe you drew the man in the red mask who was starting to appear in headlines and blurry phone videos—the masked vigilante who flung himself between danger and disaster, who arrived just in time and disappeared just as fast. The man the internet had nicknamed Spider-Man.

He wondered what you would say if you knew it was him.

But for now, Buck kept his mask on — both literal and metaphorical.

He swung through alleyways and over rooftops with city wind tearing past his ears, adrenaline roaring in his blood, balancing the impossible weight of his double life:

Evan Buckley, college burnout with a tendency to care too much, and the faceless vigilante the internet had started calling Spider-Man.

And still, no matter how chaotic the night had been — whether he’d stopped a robbery, pulled a kid from a burning building, or barely escaped with a cracked rib — it was always your window that he looked for when he came home.

You, on the fire escape, one leg dangling off the side, sketchpad balanced on your knee, music low in your headphones. You never looked up. Never said anything. But somehow, your stillness reached through the chaos like a tether.

It grounded him more than any rooftop, any anchor line, ever could.

Maybe one day he’d say something. Maybe he’d knock on your window. Maybe he’d show you who he really was — not the mask, not the headlines, just Buck.

But not yet.

For now, he’d just watch from the window, heartbeat finally slowing, the world briefly at peace as you drew under the stars.

And for the first time all night, he’d breathe.

It was raining again.

A soft, cold drizzle that stuck to your jacket and turned the streets of Brooklyn into one giant watercolor palette—muted grays, splotched browns, wet cement smeared with light.

Buck tugged the hood of his sweatshirt tighter over his head as he jogged across the street, nearly slipping on the corner thanks to some particularly slick cobblestone.

“Of course,” he muttered under his breath, water dripping down his neck.

The city always had a way of testing his limits, even when he wasn’t in the suit.

He made it into his building, boots squeaking across the tile as he shook out his jacket and hit the elevator button, tapping his foot impatiently. He was running late — of course — and Professor Harley didn’t give second chances.

Then the elevator dinged, and the doors opened to reveal you.

And everything else just… faded.

You were hunched slightly under the weight of your tote bag, sketchbooks crammed into your arms, a few charcoal pencils sticking out at odd angles from a roll that looked like it was held together by a shoelace.

You didn’t seem to notice him at first — your headphones were still in, your hoodie sleeves slightly stained with paint, your mind probably a thousand miles away in some idea or image you were trying to pin to paper.

Buck stepped in quickly, offering a small nod, but his bag knocked into yours. Your sketchbooks teetered, and before he could say anything—

Everything spilled.

“Oh no—shit, I’m so sorry—” Buck dropped to his knees immediately, hands scrambling to catch one of your sketchbooks before it could land spine-first on the grimy floor.

Pencils clattered, a kneaded eraser bounced once and rolled toward the elevator wall.

You blinked at the mess for half a second before crouching down with him, laughing softly under your breath.

“Guess gravity’s not a fan of me today.”

Buck looked up just for a second before he fully looked up at you.

You were smiling.

The soft kind — not performative or polite, but effortless, like you’d found something quietly funny in all of this.

Your eyes met his, a glint of curiosity in them, and for a moment, Buck forgot where he was. Forgot the elevator. The rain.

The fact that he was, technically, very late.

It was as if the whole city paused.

The hum of fluorescent lights, the distant honk of a car, the muffled conversation from the floor above — all of it blurred behind the simple click of that one moment.

“Seriously,” Buck stammered, clearing his throat and handing you a battered sketchbook with a corner bent. “I’m really sorry. I wasn’t looking.”

You shrugged, brushing your thumb over the bent edge.

“It’s okay. Honestly, I’ve done way worse. Last week I spilled ink all over a professor’s desk.”

You smiled again, a tiny self-deprecating tilt of the lips. “This is nothing.”

“I’m Buck, by the way,” he said, still crouched, handing you the last pencil.

You tucked it into your roll. “Y/N.”

And then, something shifted.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him.

“Wait. You live upstairs, don’t you? I’ve seen you come home late sometimes.”

Buck tried not to panic. “Yeah, uh—night shifts. Campus security.”

Half a lie. It sounded like a job a sleep-deprived student might have. It also covered for the nights he swung home bruised and limping with smoke in his lungs.

The elevator dinged again, and you both stood. Buck didn’t even realize he’d hit the ground floor button.

“What major are you?” he asked as you rebalanced your tote on your shoulder.

“Studio arts,” you replied. “Painting concentration. You?”

He almost said, Spider-Man, full-time disaster, part-time community college bio major, but instead: “Engineering. Sort of. Still figuring that part out.”

The two of you walked out of the building together, the rain now just a whisper on the wind. Buck hesitated a second before glancing over.

“You taking the subway?”

“Nah,” you replied. “It’s only a fifteen-minute walk.”

He nodded. “Cool. I’ll walk with you.”

You didn’t protest. Just slipped your headphones around your neck and fell into step beside him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For the first five minutes, neither of you spoke much. But it wasn’t awkward — it was easy.

You pointed out a mural someone had defaced and then half-fixed, a new bakery you were meaning to try, and Buck listened, letting your voice settle into the quiet corners of his mind.

It was stupid, maybe, but he felt like he’d stepped into one of your sketches — something warm, a little offbeat, a little messy but real. Brooklyn didn’t seem so gray anymore.

When the two of you turned the corner onto campus, he gestured toward the arts building. “You’re in here, right?”

You nodded. “Yep. First class is figure drawing. Which is basically two hours of wondering if your proportions are garbage.”

Buck laughed. “I think that’s just… college.”

From across the quad, someone whistled. Buck turned to see Chimney and Eddie walking toward them with Ravi trailing behind, coffee in hand. Chim cupped a hand to his mouth.

“Is that a smile, Buckley?”

Eddie raised a brow. “Didn’t know your face could do that this early.”

Buck rolled his eyes. “Ignore them.”

You laughed, already heading toward the doors. “I’ll try. Thanks for walking with me.”

He watched you go, shoulder brushing your sketchbag back into place, headphones back in. Then he turned back to his friends, still grinning.

“Who was that?” Ravi asked, clearly interested.

Buck didn’t answer right away. Just shoved his hands into his pockets, the morning gloom finally giving way to something a little brighter.

“Just my neighbor,” he said simply. “She’s an artist.”

Eddie nudged him. “You like her.”

“I—what? No—shut up.”

They all laughed, but Buck didn’t fight it.

For the first time that day, he really did have something to smile about.

Buck leaned back against the brick wall of the fire station’s rooftop, the city sprawling endlessly beneath him—a chaotic, restless beast that never truly slept.

The orange glow of streetlights mixed with neon signs and the occasional flash of emergency vehicles weaving through traffic.

The hum of Brooklyn at night was relentless, but somehow, it was the only soundtrack that made sense.

His classes were finally done for the day, and for once, he’d thought maybe he could take a breath. Maybe catch up on sleep, or hell, maybe even cook something edible. But the city had other plans.

A fire at a nearby warehouse, a car accident with trapped passengers, a mugging in a dark alley—each call pulled him away from any semblance of rest.

When the last siren finally faded into the distance, Buck swung silently between rooftops, the familiar rhythm of web-slinging a brief balm for his restless mind.

His muscles ached, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his focus, but the city was safe. For now.

He landed softly on the fire escape outside his apartment, the metal cold and slightly slick from the evening’s drizzle.

The window to his room was just above, cracked open to let in the cool night air. He wiped a hand over his sweaty face, peeling off his jacket and tossing it onto the floor inside before unzipping his hoodie.

Finally, some relief.

That’s when he saw you.

You were perched on the fire escape just a few floors down, knees pulled to your chest, sketchbook balanced on your lap.

Your hair was pulled up messily, strands falling around your face, illuminated by the soft glow of the streetlamp below. You looked up just as he shifted to climb inside, and your eyes met his.

You smiled and gave a small wave.

Buck smiled back, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little. “Hey,” he called softly.

You nodded, your fingers twitching as if you wanted to say more but held back. For a moment, the world felt smaller, quieter, and somehow more manageable.

He climbed into his room and closed the window behind him, the familiar scent of his sister’s incense and textbooks greeting him.

Maddie was in the kitchen, humming softly as she stirred a pot on the stove. The clinking of dishes and the warmth of the overhead light made the apartment feel like a refuge from the city’s chaos.

“You’re home early,” Maddie said without turning, her voice carrying a teasing edge.

Buck shrugged off his shoes and tossed his hoodie over a chair. “Work’s been… lighter, today. Maybe the city finally gave me a break.”

He settled at the small kitchen table, rubbing the back of his neck. “You ever notice the girl on the fire escape downstairs? The one who’s always sketching?”

Maddie glanced over her shoulder, a knowing smile spreading across her face.

“You mean Y/N? Yeah, I know her. She lives alone in that little apartment with the big windows.”

Buck leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You’ve met her?”

“More than a few times,” Maddie said, stirring the pot again. “She’s quiet, but she’s kind. Always polite when I’ve bumped into her in the hall. Seems like she keeps to herself mostly.”

Buck nodded slowly. “She seems… grounded. Like she’s not trying to fight the chaos, just living through it in her own way.”

Maddie smiled softly. “Sounds about right. You think you want to say hi? More than just a wave?”

Buck felt his cheeks heat up and looked down at his hands. “Maybe.”

Dinner was simple—spaghetti and meatballs, just like Maddie’s favorite from their childhood.

They ate quietly at first, the kind of easy silence that only siblings shared. But Buck’s mind kept drifting back to you—your quiet presence on the fire escape, the way your eyes caught his in that fleeting moment.

After the last bite, Maddie pushed her plate aside and looked at him pointedly. “You’re going to talk to her, aren’t you?”

Buck hesitated, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I think I’m ready to try.”

Back on your fire escape the next evening, Buck found you again, sketchbook open and pencils scattered around your lap. He lingered a few feet below, careful not to startle you.

“You’re still drawing?” he called up, voice softer than he expected.

You glanced up, surprise flickering across your face before a small smile curled your lips.

“Yeah. Helps me think.”

Buck shifted on his feet, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Mind if I join you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you patted the spot beside you.

He climbed up slowly, settling next to you. For a while, neither of you spoke, the quiet interrupted only by the scratching of your pencil on paper and the distant sounds of the city.

Finally, Buck said, “You ever think about how weird it is? We’re neighbors and never really talked until now.”

You chuckled. “Yeah. Guess we were both busy in our own worlds.”

He nodded. “Yours looks a lot more interesting.”

You glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh really?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “And I’m not just saying that because I want to see what you’re working on next.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t push him away. Instead, you handed him the sketchbook.

“Here,” you said. “Maybe you can’t swing from rooftops, but you might have an eye for art.”

Buck flipped through the pages, genuinely impressed by the swirls of charcoal and bursts of color.

“This is amazing.”

Your smile grew softer, more real. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you both sat there, the city sprawling below, the night wrapping around you like a secret.

And for the first time in a long time, Buck felt like maybe the city’s noise could wait.

Because here, on this fire escape, everything felt just a little bit clearer.

The morning sun filtered through the early autumn trees on campus, scattering dappled light across the pavement.

The quad buzzed with its usual weekday chaos—students rushing to class with coffee cups in hand, flyers being shoved into backpacks, music playing faintly from someone’s speaker across the lawn.

Buck adjusted the strap of his backpack as he jogged lightly across the courtyard. He was cutting it close—again.

Physics class was on the far end of campus, and his last patrol the night before had stretched far too late into the night. But the city had been oddly quiet that morning, which gave him time for something he hadn’t done in a while: sleep.

He rounded a corner just as you were coming down the path with a friend, laughing at something she had said, your arms swinging a bit more freely than usual.

You had your sketchpad tucked under one arm, hair caught in a messy bun, glasses perched lazily on your nose as the clouds had started to gather.

Buck’s pace slowed almost unconsciously.

“There’s our friendly neighborhood science major,” your friend teased when she noticed him approaching.

You looked up, surprised but not unwelcome. “Hey, Buck.”

He offered a smile, adjusting the hoodie he hadn’t bothered to zip. “Hey yourself. Didn’t think I’d run into you before caffeine.”

“Me? I’ve been up since seven,” you said, lips quirking up. “Studio time.”

“I don’t know how you manage that. I can barely make it to class with both shoes on.”

Your friend snorted and nudged your elbow. “He forgot his coffee and his left brain last week.”

Buck chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. “Harsh, but not inaccurate.”

The conversation lingered for another minute—light and easy, the kind of small talk that made him wish he had nowhere to be. But your friend tugged on your sleeve.

“We’ve got to go if we want a table,” she said. “C’mon, Van Gogh.”

You rolled your eyes and started to walk away, waving to Buck as you did. “See you around?”

“Yeah,” he said, watching you go. “Definitely.”

As you and your friend disappeared down the path, Buck caught her voice floating back: “So, what’s the deal with Hoodie Guy? You two flirting or what?”

Your flustered laugh followed immediately after, and Buck found himself smiling like an idiot all the way to class.

That evening, the city still held its breath.

No sirens, no car crashes, no desperate police radios begging for backup. Just the normal hum of traffic and soft city chatter.

So Buck went to the fire escape early.

He didn’t even change out of his hoodie and jeans—no suit, no mask, just Evan Buckley in socks and sweats, sliding open his bedroom window with the casual ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times.

The cool breeze greeted him as he climbed out and onto the rusted steps. The scent of paint, graphite, and street-level incense drifted upward. You were already there, cross-legged on your usual step, sketchpad open and pencil in hand.

You glanced up, mildly surprised.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Didn’t think I’d get the early shift Buck tonight.”

“City’s calm,” he said, settling down beside you. “Thought I’d come hang out.”

You nodded and returned to your sketching, the moment folding into a peaceful, wordless quiet.

Buck let his gaze drift, watching how your pencil moved across the page—careful, deliberate, intimate. You worked like you breathed, natural and steady.

Then, almost shyly, you tilted the sketchpad toward him.

“I’ve been drawing you,” you admitted.

Buck blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Not like… creepy drawing,” you said quickly.

“It’s just—sometimes when I don’t know what to draw, I just sketch people I see often. You’re always walking around in that hoodie, looking like you’ve got some secret life.”

He laughed—sharp and genuine. “That obvious, huh?”

You shrugged. “It’s not a bad thing. You always look like you’re running toward something. Like you’ve got purpose.”

Buck’s throat tightened a little.

There was something too real about that observation—too close to the truth he constantly had to keep hidden.

He took the sketchpad and flipped through the pages, gaze softening.

There were drawings of him laughing on the fire escape, one of him in profile looking out toward the skyline, and even a half-finished one of him leaning against the brick wall, hoodie bunched up at the sleeves.

“They’re really good,” he said, voice quieter than before. “You’ve got an eye for… I don’t know. Soul.”

You shrugged again, this time a bit more bashful. “I draw what makes the world feel a little less loud.”

A silence settled, heavy but comfortable. Buck leaned back on his palms, letting the quiet wrap around them. Your elbow brushed his, barely, but it was enough to anchor him.

For a moment, he forgot everything else. The pressure. The responsibilities. The secret tug of the red suit folded away under his mattress.

Then—sirens.

Buck’s head snapped up as the whine of fire trucks echoed down the street, distant but growing louder. He turned just in time to see three engines blur past the avenue below, red lights flashing wildly against the apartment windows.

You straightened too, watching them. “Wonder what that’s about.”

Buck stood abruptly, his body already moving toward the window.

“I—uh—I should head in,” he said quickly. “Promised Maddie I’d help with some stuff.”

Your brows drew together slightly at his sudden shift. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Just… gotta go.”

You didn’t push. “See you later?”

Buck gave a tight smile. “Always.”

And then he was gone—slipping back through the window, heart racing, already halfway into the suit before you could even put your pencil down.

There were little things about Buck that didn’t quite make sense.

He always looked tired. Not just college tired, but the kind of tired that made you want to cradle someone’s face and ask, What are you carrying?

His hands were always scraped, his knuckles bruised more often than not. Sometimes you’d catch a fresh cut just beginning to scab over, and when you’d tilt your head questioningly, he’d brush it off with a half-lie about “tripping on a sidewalk” or “burning himself on a hot pan.”

You weren’t oblivious. You noticed things. Like how he always seemed to disappear right before something happened—sirens wailing, smoke curling into the sky, chaos blooming somewhere in the city.

But you didn’t ask.

You really, really liked him. And liking someone for once felt simple. You didn’t want to ruin it with questions.

Until the first time Spider-Man saved you.

It had been late. You were walking back from the print shop off campus, earbuds in, when a guy on a bike zipped past you and grabbed your bag right off your shoulder.

The adrenaline hit like a punch to the chest, but before you could even scream, someone in red and navy streaked across your peripheral vision and had the guy webbed to a telephone pole within seconds.

You remembered blinking, breathless, when Spider-Man dropped from the rooftop and handed you your bag, his mask wrinkled at the nose, his chest rising with heavy breaths.

“You okay?” he’d asked, voice soft but roughened by fatigue.

“Yeah,” you’d whispered. “Thanks.”

You were too shaken to notice then—but later, as you curled up in bed, a creeping familiarity itched at the edge of your thoughts. Something about the shape of his shoulders. The way he stood. The blue of his eyes when the mask caught the streetlight just right.

You didn’t say anything. Just tucked the memory away.

But it happened again.

And again.

Once when your cab skidded on a rain-slicked road. Another when someone tried to break into your studio space on campus. Always, somehow, Spider-Man was there. Steady. Reliable. Familiar.

And every time, afterward, Buck would show up to the fire escape looking tired, moving a little slower, smiling a little more like it hurt.

Today, the sky was clear and too blue—an omen, maybe, because that’s when the worst stuff always happened.

You were walking back from your last class, sketchpad under your arm, when you caught sight of a crowd forming on the pedestrian bridge near the quad. Your heart skipped.

There was shouting. Someone yelling about an unstable piece of scaffolding. You edged closer before anyone could stop you.

And then the world tilted.

You didn’t even register what gave way, only that the rail near where you stood suddenly cracked loose. Your foot slipped. The edge of your boot lost traction and—

Free fall.

For a split second, the only sound you heard was the rush of your own breath before gravity claimed you.

But then—

Thwip.

A web caught you midair. Strong arms followed.

You crashed into something warm, steady, secure.

“You really have a knack for this,” came a familiar voice.

You clung to the suit in stunned silence. He landed you both gently on a rooftop, crouched low to keep you close.

You looked up—his mask covering everything but his eyes, breath huffing out behind the fabric.

“Spider-Man,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, casual like it was the hundredth time.

And that’s when it hit you.

The voice. The hands. The way his shoulder curled slightly when he caught his breath—like he was carrying something heavy.

“Buck?” you whispered.

Spider-Man stiffened.

You blinked slowly. “Evan.”

He looked like he stopped breathing entirely. Your hands, still clinging to the suit, slid up toward the base of his mask.

“Can I…?” you asked.

He hesitated. Just for a beat. Then he nodded.

You reached up, fingers grazing the fabric, and tugged the mask halfway up—just enough to reveal his lips and his nose.

Yeah. It was Buck. No doubt about it.

You didn’t ask why. Didn’t press. Instead, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth—firm, slow, deliberate.

When you pulled back, you were smiling.

“I’ll see you later,” you whispered.

Buck was still frozen, stunned into silence, a dazed smile tugging at the edge of his lips. “Uh-huh,” he said dumbly.

And then you hopped down the fire escape, the echo of your kiss still buzzing against his mouth as you disappeared around the corner, sketchpad bouncing at your hip.

The city buzzed outside the window—horns blaring, chatter echoing up from the street below—but inside your apartment, everything felt warm, slow, still.

Buck sat cross-legged on your floor, a carton of Chinese takeout balanced on his knee. He was in sweatpants and a hoodie that had clearly seen better days, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a post-patrol shower. A smear of lo mein sauce sat smugly near the corner of his mouth.

You’d been sitting opposite him on your tiny couch, legs pulled under you, chopsticks dangling lazily from your fingers—but now you were leaning forward, elbow on your knee, fully focused on what he was finally ready to say.

“I didn’t mean for any of it to happen,” he began softly, eyes cast down into his food. “It was supposed to be a normal Tuesday.”

You waited.

“I got roped into running an errand for one of Maddie’s friends. She needed a signature for some campus form, and I was already nearby, so… I figured, why not?”

You smiled gently. That sounded like him.

“One thing led to another, and I somehow ended up tagging along on a university-sponsored lab tour. Just me and a bunch of overachieving STEM kids with clipboards and fancy pens. I didn’t belong there, not really. But I was curious. Always am.”

You nodded, heart open. “And then?”

He looked up, finally meeting your eyes.

“There was this spider. Red and blue. Looked like it had been dipped in fireworks. I remember staring at it, kind of laughing to myself about how ridiculous it looked. Like a walking Fourth of July.”

You stifled a grin. “Sounds cute.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t laughing when it bit me.” His voice turned wry.

“There was a distraction. Some guy dropped a camera, I think. Everyone turned their heads. No one saw the crack in the glass. No one saw the damn spider crawl out. Except me.”

His fingers flexed instinctively at the memory, like he could still feel the sharp pinch. “The bite was quick. Hot. And then everything changed.”

You stayed quiet, but your expression told him to keep going.

“I made it home, barely. Almost blacked out on the subway. And when I woke up, I was on the floor of my bedroom, drenched in sweat, burning from the inside out. I remember trying to grab my phone and instead sticking to the ceiling.”

You let out a surprised laugh, and Buck grinned, cheeks pink.

“Yeah. It was a mess. For weeks, I didn’t tell anyone. Not even Maddie. I tested things. Pushed myself. I got stronger, faster. Could see and hear things I wasn’t supposed to. And when I realized what I could do… I couldn’t not help. You know?”

You nodded slowly, still absorbing everything. “So that’s why you disappear. That’s why your hands are always bruised.”

“And why I’m terrible at texting back,” he added sheepishly.

You reached out, resting your hand on his knee.

“I figured something was going on. I mean, the disappearing, the exhaustion, the fact that Spider-Man always seems to show up five minutes after you vanish…”

Buck gave you a lopsided smile. “I thought I could keep you out of it. Keep you safe. But after the third or fourth time you almost got hurt…” He paused, swallowing thickly.

“I realized it wasn’t if you’d find out. It was when. And I needed you to hear it from me.”

You looked at him for a long moment, letting the weight of the truth settle.

“I love you either way,” you said quietly.

His brows lifted.

“I mean it, Buck. I don’t care if you’re Spider-Man or just the guy next door who eats like a raccoon and forgets laundry in the washer for three days.” He snorted, but you continued, voice soft and sincere. “You save people. You care. That’s what matters to me.”

Buck’s throat worked as he looked at you, expression open and stunned, like the floor had dropped out from under him and he hadn’t expected you to be the net that caught him.

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You’re not alone anymore.”

He closed his eyes, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. “I really, really love you.”

You smiled, letting the moment stretch around you like a cocoon. The city could keep buzzing. Emergencies would come and go. But right now, you had each other, Chinese takeout, and a shared secret that somehow made everything more real.

© fordiaz 25’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[ducksido]

Hai! It’s ur fav Idia anon😈😈😈😈😈😈😈😈 okay hear me out, Idia with a half frank stein half cyborg reader. Like reader has an electric heart and organs but a human brain and is like made out of like ten dead human parts, oil for blood type. So Idia is just like checking up on their vital robot organs on his computer, like using wires to connect to reader’s organs (entry thing on back??) while reader is on his lap, just relaxing and chilling, and u can interpret the rest😝😝😝😝😝

[Yes you are my favourite Idia anon😁]

(Tw: mild body horror mentions, nothing gory, just wires and weird organs. Soft vibes override.)

The room is bathed in a neon-blue glow, flickering slightly as a screen updates line after line of data—pulses, pressure, charge levels, synaptic fire. All of it you.

“Okay, okay… entry port's clean, transmission’s stable…” Idia mutters, fingers dancing across his keyboard, fast as lightning, faster than your own synthetic nerve relays. His hair pulses in hues of cerulean and violet, glowing brighter every time your vitals spike. Which they do. Every time you shift in his lap.

You’re leaned back against his chest, legs folded sideways over his, like a puzzle piece slotted in place. Calm. Almost sleepy. Like it’s normal to have a bunch of cables trailing from the base of your spine, connecting your bio-mechanical organs directly into Idia’s rig.

Your heart? Electric. Hums like an engine when you're content. Your lungs? Powered by soft hydraulic pulses that compress with a hiss and expand with a shudder. And Idia? Well, he’s obsessed.

Not in the "science project" kind of way. More like the "I can't believe you're real and I get to be the only one who gets this close to your wiring" kind of way.

"How’re you feeling?" he asks, voice unusually quiet. His hand’s resting over your sternum, right above the casing where your electric heart clicks and pulses like a steady metronome.

"Warm," you murmur. “Even with the oil circulation. Feels… nice.”

That makes him freeze for a nanosecond. Nice. Nice? YOU think it’s nice??? His brain blue-screens. You’re literally half-built from corpses and spare parts—there’s tubing under your skin instead of veins, a synth-liver that processes coolant, and an actual operating system that pings him when your battery’s low. And you're just… on his lap like a cat.

“Uhh… yeah… obviously it’s nice. My setup is, like, peak comfort optimization. Nothing less for my… my um…”

He trails off.

You blink up at him. “Your…?”

"...My favorite test subject." He coughs. Loudly. “N-not in a creepy way!! Just, like, statistically you’re the one I monitor the most, so it’s just accurate, you know?? Purely clinical—"

You tilt your head back a little more so you can look up at him with that half-synthetic eye of yours that flickers softly when you smile.

“Idia.”

He stiffens.

"You don't need to short-circuit over every compliment."

"...I d-don’t short-circuit." (He does.) (He literally does. Your neural link picks up a micro surge in his output whenever you’re too close. Which is always.)

Still, he leans down, brushing his nose against the crown of your head. “Just sayin’. No one else gets to do this. Monitor you, I mean. Tinker. Maintain. You’ve got, like, a whole corpse-Wi-Fi situation going on, and I’m the only one who knows the password.”

You hum again. You like that. The idea of belonging—not as a project, but as a person only he understands.

“Okay, diagnostics are good. All organ-tech’s running smooth. Heartbeat's in the sweet zone. No overheating.” He lets the wires retract with a whirr, but doesn’t move you off his lap. If anything, he wraps his arms a little tighter around your waist. “Guess I’ll just keep you here a little longer. For observation. You know. For science.”

You smile, letting your body rest fully against him, your cold frame soaking in his heat.

“Sure, doc. For science.”

[aarunresearcher]

United States industrial lubricants market size reached USD 7.8 Million in 2024. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach USD 10.5 Million by 2033, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 3.3% during 2025-2033. The growing utilization in the production of vehicles and the maintenance of manufacturing equipment, rising adoption of industrial automation, and increasing investments in research and development (R&D) represent some of the key factors driving the market.

[sickeninglyshoujo]

Idk if you do requests or suggestions n stuff like that, so feel free to ignore this, but how do you think Simon would feel about a significant other who got caught in an explosion or something that badly scared/disfigured half her face?

She’s not insecure enough to hide her face because of it, but she gets irritable when people stare, and will will sometimes make self deprecating jokes about being an, “eyesore” and how she, “ain’t exactly a beauty anymore”

a/n: this is actually the first time anyones requested anything from me and it made me so happy omg

masterlist here

buy me a ko-fi

warnings: mentions of injury, blood, scars, a dash of smut

word count: 1.4k

The scarring that covered a little under half of your face rarely bothered you. The occasional tightness or twinges of pain with the weather changes was the worst of it and nothing that couldn’t be remedied with a thin coating of bio oil and a gentle massage.

The appearance of the scarring didn’t bother you either, compared to the angry red skin that had first grown back after the explosion.

One misplaced charge by a newbie to blow open a door had sent you sprawled on your ass, your pride hurting. You’d hardly noticed the pain until you’d seen Johnny white as a sheet when he kneels down over you, “Don’ worry lass, ‘ve gotcha.”

“Johnny?” You ask, a little out of sorts from the shockwave of the charge.

“Lass, ‘ve gotcha!” He affirmed, stripping your helmet and his tac gear, before his thin cotton vest was pressed over your face.

“Ah know, lass, best ah can do now.”

“Can’t see, Johnny…”

“Hush, lass, gotta keep you covered. Yer in a state… Bleedin’ through already.”

Johnny kept heavy pressure on your face, barking out orders at the others on how to complete the mission, all the while holding his vest pressed tightly, so tightly onto your face.

“S-soap, i’ hurts,” you moaned.

“Hush, lass, we’ll get out soon,” His hands disappeared from your face and you were being hauled up into his arms, “Gotta finish the mission then we’ll get you to a medic, promise.”

Ghost is in the medical wing before your wounds have even been cleaned, “Where’s the fucking shithead who placed the charge!”

You blink, swiping at some of the blood covering your face.

“The rookie’s still in debrief, Ghost, she only came here because she needed medical,” Soap says.

“Get that little asshole in here, he’ll need medical by the time I’m done with him.”

The healing had been slow and painful as your nerves knit themselves back together.

“You don’ have to worry about getting revenge on the rookie, lass,” Johnny said one day as he visited you in the medical wing, “Ghost has been at the poor dog’s heels, not giving him a moment’s rest. Think he’s about to keel over and die from the amount of suicides hes been given.”

Ghost sleeps in the armchair next to your bed.

Ghost helps to remove the stitches after you insisted on not returning to the hospital.

Ghost is the one who helps to massage the medicated creams on while you grit your teeth at the bone deep pain that radiates.

Ghost is the one ready to bite off heads when people so much as let their eyes linger on the raised and angry skin.

“Don’t worry about it, Simon, I really don’t mind the looks much. People are just wondering what happened,” The mission had been need-to-know and even the details of your injury weren’t allowed to leave confidential briefings.

Your opinion changes as your scars settle into a raised and mottled mauve, pockmarks and dents covering half of your face, the stares on base continue.

“What, you’ve never seen an eyesore before? I think you’d be used to looking at one in the mirror every morning with a face like that,” You snapped at a new recruit who had completely stopped in his tracks, mouth opened in shock at your appearance, “Meet me in the gym tomorrow at oh-six-hundred. You’re going to learn to respect your superiors' battle wounds the hard way,” You snarled out at him.

Off base, the stares are worse so you begin to limit your time on leave.

You grit your teeth and set your face in a hard line in public, schooling your expression so that people don’t notice the way that their wide-eyed glances hit you like punches.

You don’t notice how fewer stare when Ghost is around, he’ll glare them down over your head and make them scurry away before their eyes even reach you.

You don’t notice the way Ghost’s eyes darken in the rec room when you make a joke to the lads about being “damaged goods” and “Frankenstein” even if your eyes are filled with tears of laughter as you cackle at your own jokes.

“Don’ like hearing you talk like that,” Simon corners you after you leave the rec room to refill your drink.

“Jesus Christ! Simon! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You clutch your chest where your racing heart resided, “Give a girl some warning before I attach a bell to you.”

He didn’t speak for a beat, “I don’t want to hear you calling yourself ��damaged goods’ anymore, love.”

“Just speaking the truth, Si,” You gestured at your face, the still painful and shiny skin, “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought it too? I know I wasn’t winning beauty contests before, but now I would probably be better as a scare actor.”

“Tha’s not true.”

“You don’t have to be nice to me just because I’m your girlfriend!”

“If I was bein’ nice I’d tell you tha’ you were the scariest,” Simon begins, still kissing down the line of scarred flesh, now reaching your chest, free of scars.

“You’re so pretty,” Simon murmurs against the line where healthy flesh met mottled scarring, “Want you to say it back to me, love. Need to hear you say it.”

The healthy skin of your face began to flush, nearly matching your scars in color, “Si-”

“I need you to know how pretty you are to me, before and now,” His kisses continue tracing your healed wounds, “Never seen a prettier bird.”

His hands trace your hip bones, settling at their crest, “Before I could only think how soft you were, that I had to protect you on missions. Nearly got my head blown off more than once. Now all I can see is how strong you are,” His hands begin to trail lower, petting over your stomach and then lower still.

“There she is,” He coos when you jump as his fingers make contact, “Now tell me how pretty you are for me doll, wanna hear you say it before I make you cry it f’ me.”

He makes you cry that night.

He switches from nipple to nipple, “Say it, lovie,” He tells you as he pauses to thumb at your nipple, giving his mouth a break.

“‘M pretty,” You whimper out.

“Again,” he says, kissing down your stomach, “Give yourself another compliment, sweet girl.”

“Si!”

“I’ll help you pretty girl,” He coos at you, in between mouthing at your hip bones, “You’re strong, now say it.

“I-I’m strong,” Now his mouth travels lower still, you wriggle trying to rush him into going faster. He can tell your game and deliberately pulls his mouth off, “You’re impatient too, lovie, but I’ll forgive it and give you what you need if you give me another compliment.”

“‘M not an eyesore!”

“That’s right, you’re beautiful, lovie,” He finally lowers himself to give tiny licks at your clit sending you jerking up into his mouth.

“Everytime you say those things about yourself it drives me mad that you don’t see what I do. Even with your scars you’re still beautiful and sexy and knowing you’re all mine makes me hard as a fucking rock.”

You whimper under him, trying to grind down onto is tongue to get more, more, more.

“So pretty for me, pretty face, pretty body, pretty cunt,” Simon murmurs into you, pulling his mouth away just long enough to watch his fingers tease along your hole before slipping one inside, “Givin’ me the prettiest little moans when I touch…here,” He crooked his fingers inside of you and made you jerk under him, crying out.

“The scars just make you prettier, dove,” Simon says, “Shows me you’re real and can take anything the world can give you. That you can’t be taken from me.”

His words fizzle into your brain as you grind down onto his finger everytime it thrusts into you, “Si, more,” You pant out, “Need more.”

“Gimme another one, pretty girl.”

“‘M brave,” You can barely get the words out, torn between trying to whimper out praise to yourself to try and get Simon to do more or to beg him for it instead.

“Good girl, you’re listening so well,” He slid another finger inside of you, “You’re so brave sweet girl,” He kissed your thigh.

[candycandy00]

The Offering - A Sukuna x Reader Fic Part 1

Once upon a time, Sukuna was a human man, albeit a monstrously cruel and powerful one. Villages across the land worshipped him as a living deity. One such village holds a festival for seven nights in his honor every year, and on each night they make generous offerings to him, including women who are never seen again. On the fifth night, you are selected to be the offering.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Any feedback whatsoever is greatly loved! If you’d like to be tagged when I post another part, comment to let me know. You must have your age in your bio or pinned post and be 18+ to be tagged.

Smut. 18+. Sukuna is a human (my theory is that he got his four-armed body by modifying himself with jujutsu fuckery later in life). Dubcon. Mentions of rape that happened “off screen”. Very rough sex. Blood. Sukuna just generally being a sadistic monster. F!Reader.

Your forehead touched the ground, your entire body bent to bow as low as possible as the honored guest of the festival passed by. You didn’t dare look up at him. You’d heard stories of villagers being instantly beheaded by invisible blades for such an offense. 

Even when he was gone, climbing up the steps to the shrine your people had built for him several years ago, you kept your head pressed to the ground. There you and all the other villagers remained until someone announced that Lord Sukuna, your village’s living deity, had gone inside the shrine. 

Every year your village held a festival in Lord Sukuna’s honor. It was a week long affair, and each night generous offerings were left at the shrine’s doors for him to partake of. Sumptuous fruits, tender cooked meats, fragrant oils, delicate trinkets made of precious metals, sake of various types, and of course, beautiful women. 

Lord Sukuna remained inside the shrine for the entire seven days and nights, then left until the next year, when the process began again. The women offered to him were never seen again. 

On the fifth day, you were helping your mother prepare a basket of fruit for an offering. There were juicy pomegranates, glossy apples, and ripe peaches. They smelled heavenly, and you smiled as you arranged them to look as beautiful as possible. 

A sudden voice at the entrance to your home caught your attention, a man speaking to your father. “Please try to stay calm,” the man was saying, “but your daughter has been selected to be tonight’s offering.”

Your mother wailed beside you, clutching you in her arms as if she could keep you from being taken. Your father turned to look at you with an anguished expression. You yourself simply felt numb. A part of you knew this could happen. You were of age, unmarried, and had been told you were pleasing to look at. It was only a matter of time, really. 

So you stood in your home, your sobbing mother still holding you, as three shrine maidens walked in. They were quiet, older women dressed in white robes with downcast faces. They bowed to your parents, as if thanking them for their involuntary sacrifice, then took you by the hands. One of them helped your father pry your mother’s arms away from you as the other two led you outside. You didn’t even have time to say goodbye to your parents. 

You went with the shrine maidens willingly. To struggle or resist would mean death for you and your family, and then another girl would be in your place, being pulled out of her home while her parents cried. It would happen to someone regardless tomorrow night, but at least this would spare one family the misery. 

The shrine maidens took you to a small temple that sat at the base of Sukuna’s shrine. There they removed your simple garments and had you step into a large, warm bath. Floating in the water were near countless cherry blossoms, giving the entire room a sweet fragrance. You looked at the pretty pink flowers and, upon realizing this was the last time you would see them, began to cry. 

One of the women came closer and rubbed your shoulder in a comforting manner. You looked up at her in surprise. The shrine maidens were normally quite stoic, keeping to themselves, maintaining Sukuna’s shrine between festivals, and helping to prepare offerings and see to the Lord’s needs while he was there. From your understanding, they were the only people besides the village elders who were allowed to have any contact with Lord Sukuna at all. 

“Try to keep your head down,” the shrine maiden whispered, “and don’t look at Lord Sukuna until he tells you to. In fact, don’t do anything until he tells you to. Try to please him in whatever way he asks.”

You wiped your tears with your hands and looked at her sadly. “Does it even matter? Has any woman pleased him enough to survive?”

The shrine maiden’s grip on your shoulder became slightly more firm. “It does matter! If you please him, he might give you a quick death. We’ve been forced to clean up the remains of many women who displeased him. Believe me, you don’t want to be among their number. There are far worse fates than being beheaded.”

You shivered at her warning, but decided on the spot to follow her advice. Although the shrine maidens had remained silent about what happened to the other offered women, only confirming their deaths, rumors had drifted among the village for years. Stories of women being skinned alive, having their eyes ripped out of their sockets, having every bone in their bodies broken and their mangled limbs twisted into nightmarish shapes. You’d always hoped they were merely stories made up by the more morbidly curious villagers. 

You composed yourself and then asked the older woman a question. “What is he like?”

The woman glanced back at the other shrine maidens who were preparing a garment for you to wear, then said in a low voice, “Lord Sukuna is cruel. He has no mercy for anyone. He is a monster.”

You felt your heart sink. You would be taken by this man tonight, and you’d never even laid eyes upon him. 

When the bath was finished, you stepped out and were dried off by the women. They then dressed you in an extremely thin white robe. It was so thin that you were certain anyone could see right through it, making you feel embarrassed at the thought of walking into the shrine this way. Then you reminded yourself that he would probably rip it from your body anyway. 

They lightly painted your face and combed out your hair, leaving it unadorned. Then they opened the doors and motioned for you to follow. 

As you climbed the steps to the shrine, the shrine maiden who had spoken to you before gave you instructions. 

“When you enter, keep your eyes down toward the floor. Lord Sukuna will be seated on a dais before you, but you must not look up at him until you are given permission. Once you reach the dais, bow down as low as possible and remain that way until commanded otherwise.”

Your heart was pounding as you neared the end of the stone steps, and the end of your life. You stopped in front of the doors and took several deep breaths to try and steady yourself, then you lowered your gaze to the space in front of your bare feet as the women opened the shrine. 

You could feel his eyes upon you from the moment you stepped inside. The shrine maidens did not accompany you, and closed the doors behind you, leaving you to your fate. You slowly walked forward, keeping your eyes down, feeling a terrifying sense of pressure emanating from the dais that was supposed to be in front of you. 

The walk toward the dais was nerve wracking. You didn’t know how close or far it was, and you felt naked in the sheer robe, your cheeks no doubt burning red at the thought of this man staring at you. 

When you saw the edge of the dais come into view, you stopped and immediately knelt down, pressing your face to the floor as you always did with the other villagers every year. Then you waited. 

For several minutes, you heard nothing. No breathing, no movement. Then a smooth, deep voice said, “You may look up now.”

You shuddered, then worked up the courage to raise your head slightly while maintaining a posture of submission. When you did, your vision was suddenly full of the man your village worshipped, the dreaded monster called Sukuna. 

He was a man, not a beast, and you were shocked by how handsome he was. He sat not on his chair but across it, one leg drawn up at his side and the other hanging down, in a surprisingly casual pose. He wore white robes, the front open to his waist to reveal a muscular torso that drew your eye. 

His face was lined with strange tattoos, and in his eyes there was an intensity that nearly took your breath away. You remained perfectly still even as your heart thundered in your chest. You didn’t know what was happening, why you suddenly felt drawn to this man. You could feel the danger, you had the sense that he would rip you to shreds without a second thought, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. Something about the terror he provoked also excited you. With a spike of alarm, you realized you wanted to touch him. 

When he spoke again, his voice had a silky texture that made you feel weak. 

“There are three types of women who end up here,” he began, looking down at you as if you were an insect he was about to stomp on. “There are those foolish enough to think they can seduce me. They feign love, and I let them live in their delusions, right up until I take them to my bed. The delusions shatter pretty quickly then.”

His lips curved up into a fiendish smirk, and you were left wondering what terrible things he did to those women in his bed. 

“Then there are the pathetic ones who cry and beg for mercy from the start” he went on. “Unfortunately this is the most common type. I have my way with them and then utterly destroy them. It’s what they deserve for boring me.”

Were these the women who displeased him? The ones who received the most brutal deaths? The cruelty of it stunned you, that the weakest and most frightened women were given the most horrific fates. 

“The last type is my favorite,” he said with a haunting grin, “the ones who fight and scream and claw. These provide me with the most amusement, but sadly are the most rare. It’s hilarious, you see, to watch them slowly realize they never had a chance in the first place. I enjoy breaking their bodies and their spirits. And to reward them for the entertainment, I have them on my plate after having them in my bed.”

Your eyes widened as his words sank in. Plate? Meaning he ate them? He kept grinning, perhaps guessing what you were thinking. You felt a wave of nausea hit your stomach, but you kept your breakfast from coming back up through sheer force of will. 

“I wonder what type you are,” he said, his red eyes boring into you, his unusually sharp teeth bared in his smile. “Try not to disappoint me.”

He stood up then, and his height was imposing, even more so because you were still kneeling on the floor. 

You kept your expression blank, but your mind was racing. What type were you? None of the three he described matched how you felt. You had initially resigned yourself to your fate, and had planned to simply be quiet and obedient until he tired of you and killed you. But now that you were in his overwhelming presence, you couldn’t suppress the thrill you felt, the animal-like attraction to this brutal yet beautiful man. 

The rational part of your brain was filled with terror and dread. Lord Sukuna was going to do indescribably awful things to you this night, then murder you and discard you as if you were nothing. But a bizarre little piece of your brain, one you’d never realized was there before now, was growing more excited by the moment. 

“Stand,” he commanded, and you hurriedly got to your feet. You felt your face burning again when his eyes roamed over your barely concealed body. He turned and walked toward the back of the shrine, looking over his shoulder at you to say, “Follow.”  

You obeyed, walking after him, careful to remain several steps behind. You soon came to a room marked off by sheer curtains, which Lord Sukuna pulled back to reveal the most lavish, ornate bed you had ever seen. Unlike the thin futon you were used to, this bed was thick and elevated off the floor. There were silk pillows and a satin-lined blanket, and the fabrics had apparently been perfumed, as they carried a heady, floral scent. 

When Sukuna reached the bed, he stood beside it and turned to face you. “Remove your robe,” he said in his rich voice. 

You nearly buckled right then and there. The fear and shame were mixing with arousal, and you thought you might collapse. With shaking fingers, you untied the thin sash around your waist. Then, with Sukuna watching intently, you opened the robe and slipped it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. 

You’d never been bare in front of a man before, and it felt as if your skin burned wherever his gaze fell as his eyes moved up and down your form. 

He stepped closer and looked down at you, into your eyes. Did he see the turmoil inside you? The raging war between horror and lust? 

His hands fell upon your trembling shoulders, and his touch felt electric. Finally, his hands on your skin! But then he jerked your body around so that you faced away from him, and those hands roughly explored your exposed flesh. One of them squeezed your right breast while the other moved down to grope between your legs. You gasped at the sensations, at being touched in this way for the first time, at the realization that you didn’t hate it even though his touch was harsh. 

One of his fingers slipped into your folds, and  your breath hitched in your throat as he grazed over a particularly sensitive spot. You felt him pause, both hands going still, and then he suddenly turned you back around to face him. He seemed to study your face for a moment, and then a smirk spread across his features. 

All at once you were thrown onto the bed, your little cry of surprise ignored as Lord Sukuna slowly climbed on top of you. His hands were upon you again, grabbing and kneading the soft, plush areas of your body, his grip strong and bruising. He moved down, then pushed your knees up toward your chest, opening your thighs obscenely wide apart. 

There was a strange look in his eyes as he gazed down at your most private place, and again that smirk. He bent down, his face getting so close to your body that you could feel his breath. You couldn’t help blushing at the closeness, and then you felt something warm and wet glide up your slit. When you looked down, his tongue was extended from his mouth, a string of clear fluid attaching it to your body. 

A shudder rippled through you as he dove back in, this time pressing his tongue in between the folds of flesh to lick your swollen and sensitive clit. “Ah… ahh!” The small quick moans escaped your lips before you could stop them, and you felt a stab of fear when Sukuna looked up at your face. You were told not to do anything without his permission, so you had refrained from speaking. You didn’t want to displease him in any way, so you were trying to be completely silent. But when his tongue returned to your clit, circling it and then pressing into the top corner, even more moans came out. 

Lord Sukuna continued until your body stiffened, your hands gripping the silken sheets as pleasure shot through you and one last, long moan broke free. He pulled away from you and looked down, watching you pant as you started to drop your tired legs back down. He grabbed them before they could straighten and touch the bed, pressing your knees back up. 

You looked at him just as he opened his own robe, revealing the same pattern of black tattoos all over his body. It was a strangely alluring sight, but your eyes were quickly drawn to the very large and imposing organ between his legs. It stood stiff and ready, and you knew what was about to happen. 

Sukuna looked you in the eyes as he shoved himself inside you, so deep and so hard that you could only describe the motion as violent. He didn’t give you even a moment to adjust before he was thrusting viciously into you. It hurt, and even as naive as you were, you understood that he wanted it to hurt. He was clearly being as rough as he possibly could without literally tearing you apart, and tears stung your eyes as you bit back a scream, using one hand to cover your own mouth. 

Sukuna pulled your hand away from your face, then leaned down close and spoke into your ear, a whisper that that sent shivers through you despite the pain you were in, “Cry for me. I’ll allow it. Let me hear your voice.”

Hearing that, you let out a cry of pain before beginning to sob. You looked up him with wet eyes and found him grinning, enjoying your suffering. He truly was a monstrous man. His motions only became rougher, his hands gripping your thighs so hard you thought he might crush them. 

“Please… L-lord Sukuna…” you managed to cry out.

“Please what?” Again, that voice in your ear, that self-satisfied smile while watching you cry. 

“I-I don’t… I don’t know…” You didn’t know what you wanted. Did you want him to stop? You wanted the pain to end, but you didn’t want him to climb off you. 

“Really? Then I won’t let up.”

Unbelievably, he was thrusting even harder, even deeper. When you could no longer bear it, your hands that had been clenched at your sides flew up to wrap around his neck. He would probably kill you for touching him without permission, but you couldn’t stop yourself. Clutching him in your arms somehow made the agony between your legs subside just a little. 

If he was angered by your touch, he didn’t show it. Instead, he laughed as if he were amused by your desperation. 

Finally, when you were nearly at the limit of what you could withstand, you felt Sukuna’s cock twitch, his body go tense, and then  warm, sticky fluid shoot inside you. Your arms slipped down from his neck as he pulled out of you and let your sore legs fall to the bed. Somewhere in your dazed mind you knew this was the end. He’d had his fun with you and now he would kill you, just like all the others. You saw him stand up from the bed and wrap his robe around himself, but before he could even turn around, you passed out. 

*****

Sukuna looked down at the offering, feeling slightly annoyed that she had given out so quickly. She had held out better than most, however. 

Despite what he’d told her earlier, over half the women offered to him never even made it to his bed. They were crying too loudly or shoving their fake affection in his face or even having the gall to try to attack him. They ended up as chunks of meat in front of the dais. 

But this girl had been frustratingly blank and silent. He’d considered beheading her, but on a whim had decided to force a reaction out of her, thinking she could provide some entertainment. The reaction he got was not what he’d expected. 

Sukuna was fully capable of making a woman become aroused, but it was always after applying plenty of stimulation to certain areas, not because he wanted to pleasure them, but because fucking them felt better for him when they were wet. This girl, however, was practically dripping from the moment he first touched her. And when he’d looked at her face, he’d seen reddened cheeks and lusty, glazed eyes. He also saw fear, and that mixture was too delicious to waste. 

Those sounds she’d made, from the little hitching breaths to the soft moans she’d struggled to hold back, to the screams and cries of pain, had all been irresistible. He wanted to hear more of them. 

He stood looming over the bed, watching the growing red stain beneath her naked, still open thighs, and wondered what he should do with her. He could kill her right then and there as she slept, but that would be boring. Much better to listen to her sweet death cries. 

He reached up and absently touched the back of his neck. He could still feel her weak arms clinging to him. He stared down at the bruised and bleeding girl in his bed, at her sleeping tear-streaked face, and came to a decision. 

He summoned one of the shrine maidens, who entered the room with her eyes on the floor. She pointedly avoided looking toward the bed, probably afraid of what she would see. 

“Inform the village I won’t be needing a woman tomorrow night,” Sukuna told her. “I’m not finished with this one yet.”

The shrine maiden’s face lifted very slightly, the shock so much that she nearly forgot her manners. She quickly bowed again and said, “Yes, Lord Sukuna,” before hurrying out of the room. 

He sat down on the bed, then sighed before pulling a thin silken sheet up and draping it over the offering’s body. 

“Sleep while you can,” he murmured, a wicked grin returning to his face. “Tomorrow you’ll be entertaining me again.”

[helslastangel]

My experience having 5H in Scorpio

Disclaimer: These are based on personal observations and experiences and may not resonate for everyone with these placements. If it doesn't apply, let it fly 🪽

I have many "normal" interests (makeup, fashion, hair, shopping, music, TV, etc) and I tell new people about those, but my true interests and hobbies always skewed towards dark or slightly morbid matter, so I keep them hidden. The sheer number of times I have to swallow back a Salad Fingers reference or refrain from giving my opinion on Fran Bow's mental condition in normal conversation... istg...Anyhow, due to my upbringing, I was sheltered from knowing exactly how odd I was until I left home at 18. That's when I got to catch up on some of the shows and cartoons that other people grew up on (for many reasons I don't feel like getting into right now, but "home school" and "radical religious parents" should give you a basic idea).

Thankfully I had a few friends who experienced similar childhoods, some of whom I even grew up with so I could talk about my weird stuff and they could tell me about theirs. For example, I've always been a little fascinated by blood. That whole thing with Angelina and her blood vial necklace did not gross me out at all - I found it cute and I'll die on that hill. Things like blood oaths and so on in history just capture my attention for some reason. Honestly, if the substance itself weren't a bio-hazard, I'd make art with it.

I remember talking with a friend about how I couldn't fully get into Avatar, but out of the little I HAD watched, I developed a very SPECIFIC hyper fixation with blood-bending and deep-dived the topic for WEEKS.I did not give a shit about any of the other bending abilities. Not even normal water-bending. 🫠 Just blood-bending. Idk if it's the power and control factor, or if if I'm just due for a wellness check. Who am I kidding-I have Capricorn & Scorpio stelliums. OFC IT'S ABOUT POWER.

History is another example. My favorite subject. Left unattended, I will look up every deformity that came about by royal family inbreeding or watch a fellow history nerd compile a tier list of the most brutal execution methods of all time. Once, for my birthday, my dad bought me a book called "A Left-Handed History Of The World." That was one of the few times I've felt truly seen by either of my parents. That tome was RIGHT up my alley. I'm a lefty myself and it was nice to read about so many famous and infamous people who were left-handed too. Like Jimi Hendrix - one of my favorite musicians.

I also know a wide variety of herbs, oils and flowers to use to cure or relieve many ailments by heart, and enjoy teaching people how to use those, along with basic reflexology to relieve minor symptoms during the day, so ah, there is that. Not sure how I got into herbology and such, but I do remember being horrified when one of my best friends used to regularly eat leaves off the trees on our street. We were like 7. I kept telling him he would die if he did that and he'd eat more lol. Ofc, nothing happened to him and he was never sick that I remember. So ever since then I was fascinated by the idea of using leaves to feel better.

(Yes, I smoke weed now - are you surprised? lol)

I also enjoy doing synastry readings for friends, family, coworkers, etc., when they're feeling lost or confused about a crush/friend/partner. It's always nice to see their faces light up with understanding when I explain a certain dynamic or give them advice on how to clear up recurring miscommunications. Most of what I enjoy is kinda witchy, but it's not all horrifying, lmao. Like children. Can't mention 5H Scorpio without kids coming up, lol. I was obsessed with the idea of children when I was a lot younger. I had names picked out for them, I would imagine their personalities and somehow they were always stubborn and unruly (I think subconsciously, I enjoy a challenge). In my daily life, anyone or anything in my care automatically became my child in a way. I actually wanted 6 kids at one point. Or some large even number. Babysitting was never a chore for me because I genuinely find children sweet and entertaining.

Even the supposedly misbehaved ones. They need love too. ❤️

Speaking of obsessions, I am a highly possessive person, but because I also have Venus in Scorpio + Mars in Cancer, I'm prone to have VERY strong reactions to rejection, betrayal and the like. For me, though, these are usually implosions. Being a Virgo sun, Capricorn moon, I generally refuse to let my inner turmoil get out into the public eye unless I feel like showing it.

So at any given time, I can be SEETHING inside, but look cold and unbothered.

Having 5H Scorpio is also often associated with being extremely creative, and....IT'S TRUE OMG. I love interior design and decorating, and lots of aesthetically pleasing crafts like crochet, origami, embroidery, etc. Sometimes I waste a phenomenal amount of time at work to make a spreadsheet pretty or play with the fonts in a document. I can't help it, I need to make things look beautiful and stand out.

I am easily consumed by whatever I'm into, and I guess that would be a bad thing if there were people relying on me to be emotionally present on a regular basis, but since it's just me, I get to be lost in my passions most of the time like Frankie (from the TV show Grace and Frankie, lol

𓆩♡𓆪

MASTERLIST

[eat-healthyisgood]

SALMON AVOCADO SALAD

-

mixed green base, red onion, tomato, cucumber, radish, red cabbage, avocado, salmon, tzaziki. to make the salmon: combine juice of 1/2 lemon, 2 minced garlic cloves, 2 tbsp olive oil, and a tbsp of dill. salt the salmon and cover with seasoning mixture. bake at 375 for 20ish minutes🌟😙

Transform your health with The Ultimate Keto Guide Cookbook! 🍳 Featuring 1001+ easy, delicious recipes and a 28-day meal plan, this guide helps you shed pounds effortlessly, boost energy ⚡, and enhance focus 🧠. With quick prep and full nutritional info, vibrant health has never been easier. ✨ Click the link in my Bio to order Now! 👆

[materialsscienceandengineering]

Reusable moss-based adsorbent can help clean up oil spills

Hidden within sphagnum moss, commonly known as peat moss, is an adsorbent material that can help us combat oil spills. A study by researchers from China presents a new bio-based oil adsorbent derived from sphagnum moss that can selectively soak up oil. Chemically modifying the peat moss resulted in a potential oil sponge with the ability to maintain over 90% of initial adsorption capacity even after 10 cycles of usage, according to the findings published in Scientific Reports. Every year, hundreds of tons of oil get spilled into water bodies as a result of oil drilling gone wrong, pipeline leaks and big oil transportation ships sinking. Such oil and chemical spills can have devastating effects on aquatic wildlife, poisoning habitats and disrupting the food chain, among other serious consequences. Humans aren't immune to the impact of these oil spills either, as exposure can affect the lungs, heart and the immune system.

Read more.

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Hey T! Hopefully, you're feeling a semblance of recovery from a terrible week. But I come asking a couple of questions.

1. What's your WIP current, on hold, in works now? With WTDB wrapping up, I was curious about what's next. Lol

And seeing as I'm rereading everything due to being home from having breast surgery, my second inquiry..

2. Do you have a recommendation for a water-based lotion for my scar massage? 🤔 I'm gonna ask if an oil would be okay, too. Cause I've noticed the lotion seems still too thick to really massage with, to where, like a massage oil or something similar could be better for that.

Lol, well, my current Wips is sitting at 26 (down from 33, so yay me!) 3 of which are original works that I'm attempting to finish.

As for question 2, I find Bio Oil to be great for scars. But I recently found a massage oil with arnica (great for swelling) chamomile and lavender that I've been using in my massage practice that is great for my arthritis. That one would be good for the massage aspect (breaking down excess scar tissue), while Bio Oil helps reduce the look and thickness of your scars.

Sorry for the late reply. I was working (massage) today after working (reception) all week and crashed hard when I got home. But I have tomorrow off now, so woo!