#Translucent Concrete

[arc-hus]

Yale Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Connecticut, USA - SOM

[martinlambie]

Factoria Cultural Matadero is a creative incubator in Madrid

[krstseo]

Translucent Concrete and it’s Structural Aesthetics in Civil Engineering

[marketresearchtrendsandinsights]

Translucent Concrete Market trends growth & Analysis

https://www.researchnester.com/reports/translucent-concrete-market/3816

[industrialresearch]

The global translucent concrete industry was estimated at $2,469.7 thousand in 2019, and is expected to hit $21,022.8 thousand by 2027, registering a CAGR of 39.9% from 2020 to 2027.

[sixeyesonathiel]

what happens when your childhood best friend, satoru gojo carries you through the rain so your socks don’t get wet?

a/n: i missed the chance adding a scene like this on love thy neighbor 👹

"ugh, no. nope. i’m not walking through that."

you halt on the sidewalk like a pampered cat avoiding a puddle, your polished mary janes hovering dramatically over a wide sheet of grimy rainwater. your nose scrunches with disdain as you frown at the murky mess rippling over the uneven concrete. your arms are crossed high over your chest, blazer sleeves wrinkled and damp from gripping your umbrella like it personally offended you. the storm murmurs softly in the background—low thunder rumbling like a sleepy yawn, cars hissing by with sloshes of tire spray, the whisper of tree branches dripping above you.

behind you, satoru lets out a theatrical groan—deep, dramatic, and just exaggerated enough to be obnoxious. like he’s auditioning for a soap opera.

"it’s water, not lava," he drawls, standing just a few paces behind you, half-soaked and absolutely unbothered. his white button-up clings to his torso like a second skin, translucent where it’s stuck to his skin. the rain has darkened it enough to reveal the faint lines of his undershirt beneath, and the tips of his silver-white bangs are plastered to his forehead in chaotic strands. he shakes his head slightly, droplets flinging in every direction, as if he’s some golden retriever in human form.

"my socks," you state flatly, tone clipped and decisive, as if that alone should shut down the discussion. you angle your leg forward just enough to showcase the offending problem—white frilly ankle socks with delicate faux pearls stitched along the cuff. you tilt your chin, posture confident despite the drizzle misting your skin. "they’re new. and expensive. and limited edition."

satoru shifts his weight with a scoff, running a hand through his soaked hair. it flops back into place anyway. his tie hangs crooked and loose around his neck like he forgot it existed. his glasses are foggy, making his pout look vaguely scholarly. "god forbid your royal toes get damp. whatever shall we do?"

you shoot him a glare over your shoulder, one brow arched like you’re ready to launch a lawsuit. "i will push you into that gutter and make it look like an accident."

his grin breaks across his face instantly—wide, lazy, and all mischief. his blue eyes glint behind the foggy lenses. rain drips down the bridge of his nose and off the tip like punctuation. "please. you couldn’t even tip me over if you used both hands and a running start."

he’s always been like this—unshakably smug, insufferably tall, the kind of boy who got too handsome too young and decided to weaponize it. but he’s yours. the annoying, overgrown boy who used to share bento lunches with you and still calls your mom ‘auntie’ like you’re twelve again.

suddenly, without a word, he crouches. his school bag lands with a soft thunk on the nearest dry stoop, and he tilts his chin back to look at you.

"get on," he says.

you blink. once. twice. the rain drips rhythmically off your umbrella, trailing rivulets down the curve.

"...excuse me?"

"you’re not walking through that, right? so get on. before your overpriced socks file a class action."

he pats the backs of his thighs with both hands like this is a perfectly reasonable idea. he doesn’t even look back at you.

"you are not carrying me," you say, scandalized. your voice pitches higher, more out of pride than disbelief. you narrow your eyes and toss your wet bangs from your forehead. "this isn’t a k-drama."

"don’t flatter yourself, diva. you’re tiny. i’ll survive."

"i swear to god, satoru—"

"think of the socks. their sacrifice would be in vain."

you groan, dragging a hand down your face. you look up at the stormy sky as if asking some divine entity for strength, before stepping forward with all the dramatics of a tragic heroine. your shoes click exaggeratedly against the pavement as you adjust your skirt, clutch your umbrella in one hand, and prepare for the social suicide of being princess-carried down a public street.

"this is humiliating," you mutter, wrapping your arms around his neck half-heartedly. your cheek grazes his as you shift your weight against his back. he’s warm despite the rain. sturdy.

"you love it," he says smoothly, rising like you weigh nothing. he adjusts his grip around your thighs and angles the umbrella so it shields you both better, though the side of his face still gets peppered by stray drops. "you’ll tell this story at our wedding, won’t you?"

you splutter. "delusional."

he hums, unconcerned. his steps are slow and exaggerated, carefully avoiding puddles with exaggerated grace, like he’s performing for an invisible audience.

rain beads on his lashes. he doesn’t blink them away, just keeps humming under his breath—some tune from that magical girl anime you watched with him last weekend out of boredom. or maybe affection. not that you’d admit it.

"if you drop me, i’m telling your mom," you warn, voice muffled slightly against the slope of his neck.

"if i drop you, it’s because your couture socks distracted me with their hideous sparkle."

you gasp so loudly a couple walking past under a shared umbrella actually turns to look.

"they’re elegant, you fashion criminal."

"they look like something you hot-glued onto your doll’s clothes in third grade."

"they’re vintage inspired!"

he grins again, quieter this time. it reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"nah, they’re cute. you’re cute."

a pause.

the air stills just enough to notice the sound of a single raindrop hitting metal, distant thunder mumbling behind the clouds.

your fingers, damp and chilly, twitch just slightly against the curve of his collarbone. the fabric of his shirt clings between you, and your breath feels embarrassingly warm against his skin.

he doesn’t say anything else.

and you don’t let go.

not even when the rain begins to ease, not even when the sidewalk turns dry, and definitely not when your socks stay perfectly, gloriously dry.

[rodante-architecture]

Park landscape construction light transmissive concrete sitting stool #translucent concrete #grc #uhpc # art cement #stool #Transparent fiberboard # cement board#flowergarden

[mahina-honu]

Concrete Pavers - Front Yard An example of a mid-sized modern partial sun front yard concrete paver retaining wall landscape in fall.

[servicpop]

electric fueled adefemi akinola ( cyberpunk oc ) x racer ! bttm ftm reader

ⓘ a bit more dialogue heavy than I'd want it to be, implied you've been hooking up, unprofessional doctor / medical play(?) , he uses his vibrating fingers , use of pussy and cunt like once or twice

The city of dreams they called it. Nothing short of a dream when you're seeing holograms reach out to you, and people on the streets with metal and wires embedded into their skin. Adefemi was no stranger to it, having one fully cyberware arm himself.

Day and night he ran this little shop, favored by racers who badly beat up their rides on those hellish courses—only the best of the best could make it through without missing at least a bolt or more. People drove their vehicles in and out, scratched and dented for him to fix with a price.

Though, he had one recurring customer he'd always slip in a discount, for whatever reason he could find.

“'Nother crash?” Adefemi chuckled as he saw you duck under the roller, and push your bike towards him.

You'd come almost everytime he was about to switch that open sign closed, everytime the sun lowered it's harsh rays past the horizon and just barely seeping through the cracks of those high rise buildings. Nonetheless, Adefemi had his shop on the outskirts of the city, so there was nothing but desert and maybe a few gas stations out front. It was far enough that the sun could come through without the disturbance of the buildings.

“Yeah,” he hears you sigh, walking out from behind his workbench as he takes a good look at the state of your bike. All battered and bruised like you'd deliberately swung a bat at it just for an excuse to see him again—or so he'd hope you did.

He ran one metallic finger over the flat surface of your bike, running over the jagged edges of metal from concrete slashes. It seemed like you really had a tough time this race.

“I could probably fix her up in a few days,” He concluded, pulling away from the bike as he rose to a stand from his previous squatting position. He glanced down at your back and then back to you, taking that damned face of yours.

“Say, you came here few weeks ago didn't 'cha?” Adefemi tucked one arm under another as he tilted his head slightly to the left, his metal arm glinting in the low light of the shop. “If you just wanted an excuse to see me, just walk in,” he shrugged, his dark eyebrows raising with the rise of his shoulders.

“Before I get to work, any metal needin' fixing for you?” One thing he liked about you was how human you were. You strayed away from bulky cyberware sticking mainly to little enhancements, never anything flashy like a metal spine or a chrome leg. It made Adefemi think of you less like a metal zombie.

“Maybe just a routine check-up will do.” It didn't hurt to get checked up occasionally seeing that you pretty much neglect your metal needs. You didn't have anything flashy enough to constantly take care of, which was good in a way.

Adefemi nods, hand on his hip as he juts his thumb behind him, pointing to the medical recliner chair hidden behind the plastic translucent curtains. It was very much like a medical setting, one you'd find in a hospital if it wasn't so worn out and stacked with metal parts and whatnot.

You climb onto the chair, laying awkwardly down on it. The fabric of the chair sticks to your bare skin as you adjust your position on it to get comfortable.

Adefemi comes in shortly, pulling those plastic curtains around the two of you as if there were people to see—there wasn't. But it undoubtedly sets the "doctor" mood.

He's wearing one blue glove on his hand with flesh and bones while he disinfects his metal one. They're a sort of silicone material for his fingers, but his palm and the rest are full metal. But it always changes, everytime you come Adefemi always has a new set of fingers like he switches them out based on preference.

“Just a regular check-up aye?” He leans on the side of the recliner with one forearm along it before pushing himself off of it to grab a few tools. “How's your eyesight? I could enhance your night vision if that suits your fancy.”

Night vision. Crucial for races in the dark, especially when those other sadistic assholes always push to ride in the night. You were never one to be into that sensory depravation stuff when it comes to races, preferred to know when you're about to hit the curb and total yourself and your bike.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Adefemi doesn't need a verbal confirmation from you, he just knows from that look in your face “This might sting or feel a bit weird but if you need—one—nice, warm hand to hold onto, I can take off my glove.” What a charm.

You almost consider his proposal when the tweezers come dangerously close to your eye; he's already done the necessary calibrating and loosening screws to ease the process but you can never get used to having your eye plucked out of your head.

It's jarring feeling yourself lose vision in just a second, all you could do is hear Adefemi walk around with his heavy boots against stone cold floors. He's talking—which is a relief—about anything just to reassure you that he's still there and he hasn't disappeared.

Your fingers twitch a little when he's slotting your eye back into its socket; a few blinks and everything seems just a tad bit sharper, clearer.

“What a big boy,” He's praising you, but in the way a mother would do to her son, which only slightly offended you, “Didn't need me to hold your hand, so brave.”

His chest puffs out every time he laughs and he's ruffling your hair before moving on. You see his eyes flicker a gentle blue as he scans your whole body in what you guess for any signs of injury. It was common that you'd get at least a few scratches or cuts from your races.

He pauses after seeing a particularly nasty gash running from your hip bone down to your inner thigh. You must've taken quite the fall to get something like that, to have a gash all the way from the side of your hip to your thigh.

“Nasty,” he grimaces, almost as if visualising how you got it. “I gotta get a little close n' personal, hope that's alright,” He raises his palms, holding his hands up in surrender and to show his peace.

He's unbuttoning your pants and sliding it under your legs, folding it neatly and placing it on the table beside him. You can tell he's been raised well, folds your clothes efficiently and neatly, makes you wonder if he's the type of person to have his closets and drawers all tidy like that.

He pushes the bottom of your underwear up to see a little more of that marred skin. He takes a good look at it before grabbing a cotton ball and gently dabbed it along the cut. There were some awkward moments were he had to blindly apply the medication to the gash that was covered by your clothing. The cotton ball was coated in some sort of antiseptic which inevitably stung, and before you could squirm or start kicking him in the face out of pain, Adefemi uses his cold, metal hand to hold you down by your thigh.

“Don't go thrashing your legs like a madman, you'll hurt yourself more than me,” His voice is lazy, almost tired but still has a playful lilt to it. His hand eventually travels to your lower stomach, and he applies a gentle heat to his hand to soothe you—an enhancement he gave himself.

It's a new one, since you've never seen him use it before but it's nice, like a heat pack resting on your tummy.

“New enhancement?” You ask, and momentarily the stinging pain is forgotten.

“Yeah, you like it? I got a few others too,” His eyes are trained on your wound but his mind is focused on your words. A true multi-tasker. He lifts his head to reach for some bandages, before he looks back up at you.

“I'm gonna take off the uh—rest just so I can bandage you properly,” He's sliding down your underwear extremely slowly, giving you enough time to back out and tell him to stop if you ever got uncomfortable. He slides it down your legs and off from your feet, placing it on top of your folded jeans.

He lifts your thigh up just enough for him to roll the bandage under and over the flesh. Both his hands are on you, one metal hand gently cupping the side of your thigh while the other secures the white bandages over your wound. You're staring at his face, gazing at the way his eyes always seem to flicker to one specific spot. It makes you concious to say the least, but you'd trust him with your whole body.

Adefemi seems to notice your darting eyes and he sighs with a small smile, shaking his head as he looks up at you.

“Gettin' nervous are we?” He drawls, his voice a low rumble as if etched with a lack of sleep—or too much, “We can check that up too, If you're up for it.”

You can't bring yourself to say no, it's been awhile since you've really been able to spend time with your good ol' mechanic in that way. Though you're not entirely sure if he genuinely means to check or if he's inviting you to do something else.

“Y'know dysfunction is gettin' real common lately.”

Right.

“Can't hurt to treat it early, can it?”

Right.

You slowly nod, tilting your head to the side mostly out of embarrassment. He's so slow in his movements, gently brushing his fingertips along your folds, using two fingers to push them apart in a V shape. Its a strange feeling, cold metal on the warmest part of your body, it makes you twitch. Adefemi stays in that position, just staring at your flesh, taking note of whatever he's observing.

“Looks good, I'll run a few tests alright?” You know what he's implying with that, and he's taking it a step further by flexing his metallic hand “We can test my new features while we're at it.”

He shifts to stay beside you rather than at your legs, one hand leaning over the table beside your recliner with a pen between his fingers while his other hand rests low on your pelvis.

“At anytime you feel any pain or uncomfort, let me know,” He's using that fake tone of his to make himself sound a little more like a real doctor. More than the back alley mechanic he is.

He's careful with his movements as he slips a finger over your slit, the base of his finger brushes against your clit as he dips the tip into your opening. He hears you gasp a little and you can faintly hear a small chuckle to himself, followed by the scribbles of pen on paper.

He's so slowly rubbing his finger in and out, ensuring everytime he pulls his finger out, he digs the ball of his palm against that sweet nub. The mechanical heat from the rest of his metallic hand on your lower stomach doesn't help either; its almost soothing despite how agonisingly gentle and lazy he's being with you.

Adefemi glances back down at you before speaking, “Don't freak out, yeah? I ain't here to hurt you. It's just a little buzz—it'll feel good in a sec'.”

You feel a soft vibration from his finger, like a slow massage gun. He lets you adjust, getting all your squirms and soft whimpers as you restrain your back from arching up into his hand.

He slots another finger in—his ring finger alongside with his middle—firmly warming his fingers deep within your tight walls before upping the intensity. He arches his hand up from its resting position along your body, pressing his thumb against your clit. Adefemi rubs it in deep circles, observing the way you rake your fingers against his poor chair and hike your knees up to half-assedly alleviate the overwhelming sensation.

“You enjoying yourself?” He snorts at the tremble of your eyelashes and the whines bubbling in your throat, “Feels good don't it? Got it just for seein' pretty boys like you come all unwrapped.”

He pulls his soaked fingers from your cunt, rubbing your aching pussy like a gentle caress before delving his fingers back inside. You would've thought the soft scribbling in the background would drive you insane but its hard to think about what pisses you off more than what pleasures you.

“You gonna come pretty boy?” He teases slowly, the drowsiness of his tone was pretty much hypnotising—the things this man could do with his voice alone. His lazy chuckles were a product of seeing your pre-cum spray out from the frequency of the vibrations his hand was giving off, and the desperate raise of your hips to meet his fingers.

“Hmm... ain't that right?”

He writes down something for one last time before he places the pen down, turning his full attention to you. His free full flesh hand comes down on your head, stroking along the direction your hair sprouts from the crown of your head.

Adefemi's gentle head caresses have a great difference to his other hand. He's taken the responsibility to get you across the edge, curling his fingers agaisnt your sweet spot as he starts thrusting his fingers. It makes an obscene plap noise each time he pounds his thick, metal fingers into you.

With the hand so delicately stroking your hair, he grips it enough to manipulate the angle of your head, tilting it back so he can better hear all those noises spill from your mouth.

As your legs shake and your eyes squeeze shut, Adefemi hums softly, watching as you soak his recliner with the evidence of your orgasm. He works you through the after-high tuning down the vibrations and focusing on making it feel comfortable.

“Better than I thought,” He notes, sliding his fingers out before walking over to the sink to wash his hands. He glances back at you, legs shut and your head tilted back as your chest rises and falls from your breaths.

“Nothin' to worry about,” he swivels back around, grabbing your underwear as he wipes your bottom half with a warm cloth, slipping the fabric over your ankles, up your thighs and around your hips.

He reaches over and grabs your pants, helping you put them back on and even doing up your buttons for you.

“Next time though, if you just wanna see me, you don't hafta' crash your bike over it.”

[golddustwomanwins]

Pastor Art Donaldson x single mom reader

18+

This could be shit for all I know but here ya go.

You moved to town a few months ago, after looking at the small little town and thinking it was perfect for you and your little girl.

It was that town where everyone knew and helped each other. Where you had nosy neighbors which were good at heart, dropping by pie and freshly made casserole. It was something out of a movie.

You settled in pretty quickly, your daughter finding friends in kindergarten and a smile gracing her lips everyday. It was the first time you could take a steady breath, letting it settle in your lungs without having to look over your shoulder.

Most of your weekdays were full with working, picking up Zoe from kindergarten, cooking, reading her a bedtime story and falling exhausted into bed. You were drained, the faucet in the kitchen was leaking for the past week and your car kept making rattling noises any time you handled the accelerator too roughly.

You ignored it. Knowing your daughter was happy and looked after was everything that mattered to you.

Every Sunday she’d beg you to take her to mass, despite you never raising her religiously, she’d always been interested in it. Despite it being the main reason why you had left your ex husband you still indulged her curiosity.

For her sake you took her to mass every single Sunday. And while your lips moved without actually saying the prayer your eyes couldn’t help but stay focused on the towns Pastor.

Reverend Donaldson was popular among the town’s people. Since it being such a small town everyone knew and valued the Reverend and his little community.

He’d help when something was broken, an elderly lady needed her groceries carried, a kid scraped its knee on the concrete. To pinpoint it, Reverend Donaldson was a Saint.

He even stopped by your place once when you were talking to Mrs. Robinson about your broken radiator. Art was quick to offer his help and you being overwhelmed by his innocent offer, agreed it. Like you said, he was a saint.

And he sure did look like it. Golden strands of hair gracing the top of his head like a halo. Skin pale and eyes translucent blue. He was cute. Especially with that concerned look on his face when a townie was pouring their heart out to him. He’d lay a hand on the shoulder, his gentle voice soothing, “God has his plans for you. May his path lead you to your deserved destiny.”

For you it sounded like utter bullshit but you’d never say that out loud. You had seen what utter devotion to a religion could do to people. Still, you liked him. Your daughter was obsessed with him, her cheeks tinting pink as she hid behind your leg as you introduced yourself to him the first time.

His hand was warm and sure as he shook yours.

“If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to reach out to me,” he had said, his eyes dipping to the collar of your dress for a moment.

You’d smiled politely and thanked him, knowing you’d never take him up on his offer. You could do everything alone. You always had. Little did you know that in this town people didn’t take no for an answer.

When the town’s elders giggled and told you to make a move on Reverend Donaldson, since he was a ‘serious catch’, only smiled politely, indulging their gossip only so far that you talked to him once and again.

It had been a bad week. The faucet in the kitchen broke again after you fixed it up, Zoe was particularly whiney for some reason, you’d slipped on a toy and busted your knee against the living room table, and you had bills to pay that seemed impossible at that moment.

Oh, and it was pouring rain, pressing against the windshield of your car. You could hardly see the road in front of you, headlights lighting up the mess of wet concrete and muddy dirt.

The rattling of your truck was loud enough to be heard over the music and the pouring rain but you happily ignored it. Zoe was with a friend tonight and you were looking forward to lay down and get some sleep for a few hours.

You had still over twenty minutes to drive when the rattling noise turned into a suspicious gurgling. Your eyes scanned the dashboard but everything seemed to be fine. You decided to ignore it until your car started to stutter.

“No, no, no,” you whispered, foot on the clutch as the engine slowly gave away. With a final huff your truck gave up, stopping in the middle of the road. You couldn’t help but stare at the path in front of you, now in the dark as the steady sound of rain filled the silence. You leaned forward, groaning, the steering wheel cold against your forehead.

It took everything in you not to cry in frustration. You didn’t know how much time passed while you tried to ignore the insistent sting in your eyes and the way your throat seemed to close off every time you took a breath.

A sudden honk made you sit up. You could see an old mustang in the rear view mirror, stopping right behind your car. The headlights of the car felt like a spotlight on you.

“Go around,” you called despite the fact that the driver couldn’t hear you. He honked again and you made a vulgar gesture with your hand into the backseat. Was this idiot too dumb to understand that your car wasn’t running anymore?

You flinched when someone knocked against your window. You could barely see the person through the pouring rain. The golden hair seemed almost brown now that it was wet, his cheeks and nose flushed from the cold.

Art Donaldson was standing at the side of your car in the pouring rain. You rolled down your window as you stared at him dumbfounded.

“Your car broke down?” He had to yell lightly over the rain. For a moment you could only stare at him. The way the usually carefully brushed strands clung to his head, beads of water rolling over his long nose and plopping down on his slightly blue lips.

“Do you need help?” Reverend Donaldson repeated and you swallowed softly. Your eyes flickered to the dashboard to somehow find an answer. You could decline. But that meant staying in this car miles away from home with no way to leave.

You’d call Jim to come tow your car, he was the local mechanic, but that would surely take hours.

“I’ll take you back into town and we’ll call Jim from there, come on,” it seemed like Reverend Donaldson was making the decision for you.

He pulled the car door open, pulling his jacket off his shoulders to hold it up as a cover for you. The two of you rushed over to his car, Art opening the door for you and getting you safely inside.

Once Art sat inside, he turned the heaters on fully, making you shiver slightly. His eyes caught the movement and his fingers went quickly to turn on the seat heater as well.

“Thanks,” you mumbled. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Of course I did.” There was no room for discussion in his voice. He drove off, slowly rounding around your car. It was weird to be this close to him. The car smelled of rosemary and incense. A crucifix was dangling from the rear view mirror, Jesus judging you condescendingly.

You tried to focus on the road but your eyes kept glancing back at Reverend Donaldson and the way his wet shirt clung to his chest. Were Pastors allowed to do sports? Because holy hell, the abs showing through his shirt needed to be studied and could not possibly be only from genes.

-

Art drove you back to your house, parking the car in your driveway before following you inside.

“I am sure I can find some clothes you could change into,” you mumbled distractedly, rummaging through your dresser, as the kettle whistled slowly on your stove.

“No need, it is fine,” he looked around your living room curiously, dolls and pink pearls scattered around the room. Pink princess shoes and glitter strands on the couch. He barely remembered your home from the last time he was here.

“No, I don’t want you catching a cold,” you dug out some gray sweatpants and a shirt from your ex husband and gave it to him.

His fingers grazed yours as he took the clothes and the contact sent a shocking current through you. You quickly pulled your hand back.

“You can change in Zoe’s room. She’s at a sleepover tonight.”

He nodded and left the room. Ten minutes later you both were sitting at the too small table beside the west window of your living room. You felt self conscious. With the chipped wood on the table, the faded writing on your teacups and the far too small chair Art was sitting on.

Everything seemed so small compared to him. His whole hand swallowed the steaming cup of tea, his knees banging against the table every time he shifted his legs.

“There is no need to be nervous.”

You looked up surprised from your tea. “Why do you think I’m nervous?”

Arts lips pulled into a soft smile. “It is part of my job to read people. To know what they need.”

You tilted your head at him.

One side of his lips pulled up, ending in an endearing, crooked smile.

“You’re doing a good job,” he said, his hand twitching around his cup of tea. Art was watching you intently as if he didn’t want to miss a single thing.

“I am?” You smiled shyly.

Art nodded, seemingly unsure before he reached out with his hand. His pinky grazed your knuckles for a moment.

“Zoe is a great kid. She’s happy and open for her age,” Art said. You trailed the pattern of the wood of the table with your finger.

“Well, I try.”

“I know you do,” his words slipped like warm honey over your skin. You looked up at him then, tilting your head.

“Are you doing it right now?”

He arched a brow at your question.

“Are you saying these things because you think that’s what I need to hear?” You clarified.

“I’m saying it,” Art noted. “Because it is the truth.”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly at his words. Oh no. You could feel it. The dam breaking. You were still laughing but now silent tears were slipping over your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffed. “I dont know why I’m crying.”

You blinked surprised when Art was suddenly on his knees at your side, softly brushing the tears from your cheeks.

“You’re a good mother,” he repeated as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. As if he was courageous enough to creep into the ugly and dark corners of your soul and face your insecurities.

You sank slightly forward, you knew you were going to be embarrassed about it after, and let Art hug you. He whispered sweet prayers into your ear as his hands softly stroked your back.

When you calmed down enough you leaned back and looked at him. His eyes were so open and worried it made your heart tug.

Without thinking you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. The moment you felt those soft plush lips of his you instantly pulled back horrified.

“Oh god, I am so sorry.” Your hand covered your mouth in shock.

“No—“

“I don’t know why I did that,” you went to stand up.

“No, no, it’s fine.” Art grabbed your neck to keep you from moving. You stared up at him with wide eyes and watched the inner tumult inside his blue eyes.

Your lips parted and his eyes dipped before his head moved. He was gentle as he pressed his lips against yours, a soft whimper falling from his throat. Your hands fisted his shirt desperately, hips connecting with friction.

Arts lips trailed along your jaw, soft sounds falling from him as your hands went for his belt buckle. He quickly captured your wrists and you looked up at him.

“I’ll make you feel good, promise.” And before you could say or do something, he grabbed you by the hips and lifted you onto the table. His hands were under the skirt of your dress in a matter of seconds. His hands were warm on your rain dried thighs, his gaze intent on your face.

“Relax for me,” one hand came up to press on your stomach and make you lean slightly back.

“I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” Art whispered, his lips trailing hotly along your thighs, knees and hip bones. He placed a kiss on each knee, his grip on you sure but not too tight.

His plump lips trailed a wet path up your thighs, closer and closer to right were you were burning, writhing with pain. You sighed when he kept talking. “I know I shouldn’t, but you in those light sundresses. You know, last Sunday you didn’t wear a bra with your dress,” he groaned into your clothed cunt and you shivered, cheeks reddening in embarrassment.

“I was in a rush and forgot,” you mumbled quietly. “Ahh,” Art licked a long wet stripe over your underwear, “it won’t happen again.”

“Oh it will,” Art murmured, teeth dragging over your panties. “Those perky little tits looked amazing any time you went to your knees and prayed.”

“Fuck,” you moaned at his words, hand flying to his hair. Art looked up at you then, eyes so dark it looked like he was possessed.

His gaze stayed on your face as his fingers tugged the fabric of your panties to the side, slightly slipping through his fingers with all the wetness dripping from it.

“Jesus,” Art breathed as your glistening cunt came into view. His pupils blew wide before he dove forward, hands gripping your hips and pulling you to the edge of the creaky table.

A surprised gasp escaped you that dipped into a moan when his tongue licked your cunt.

“Oh, fuckk, Art.”

“Yeah, Baby. That feel good?” His voice vibrated against you, making you sure in pleasure.

Men had went down on you before but it had never felt that way. Art was fully devoted to eating you out, tongue moving with passion, fingers slipping through your wet lips before sinking into the hilt.

“God, I knew you’d be perfect. Take me like the Angel you are,” Art whispered to himself as he slowly fucked his fingers into you. His mouth kept licking and sucking, teeth tugging gently at your clit and making you see sparks.

“Art,” you whined, hand tugging at his hair and moving his head just the way you liked. Your hips started to rock on the creaky table as you palmed one of your tits, squeezing roughly.

“You can relax with me. I’m here for your pleasure and no one else’s,” Art murmured. “You taste like heaven, baby.”

His fingers fucked faster as he felt your walls starting to squeeze around him, small moans falling faster and faster from your lips.

“Art—I don’t think…I can’t—ahh.”

“You can,” he encouraged you, fingers curling and hitting just the right spot. “You’re always so good to everyone. Be good for me. Please.”

It was as if Art knew exactly what you wanted to hear. Hearing him beg was the last straw and when his fingers slammed into you, this time curling perfectly, you came right on his hand.

“Ohh fuckk, yes, yes, yes,” the breathy words fell from your lips as you arched your back, moving quickly as Art fucked you right through your orgasm.

When the fog in your brain slowly disappeared you noticed a cooling sensation between your thighs. You blinked at Art who was cleaning you gently with a wet cloth.

Once he was finished he tugged your panties back into place and stood up. His hands came up to your head securely and he pressed a chaste kiss against your forehead. The motion almost made you cry again.

“You’re okay,” he whispered and pulled you into his arms. You didn’t dare say anything not wanting him to move an inch.

[arc-hus]

Chongzheng Academy Bookstore, Weishan, China - TAO (Trace Architecture Office)

[funlovinzara]

“Speechless” Turbo!ken and Okarun x reader

I didn’t know id cause so much trouble, but in the end i met someone who touched my heart…i don’t know if I’ll ever be able to love him.

Warnings: none really

A/n: im back divas 💜 IM SICK AGAIN

______

Okay, lets not start off with “im just a normal person, who attends a totally normal school.” Because its stupid and dumb and i really really just want to explain this whole situation. This school is weird. Ive been experiencing some supernatural things happening to me and i dont feel safe wherever i go and i think something bad might hurt me. I walk home after school one day and i notice the air getting thicker and thicker and i just feel the tense pressure of something following me

I rush home and all i can do is ponder about whats going on with me, am i mental?? Is this some of condition?? Im having nightmares and i cant take it anymore. I cant even talk to anyone about this because i hardly talk to people at this stubborn school…

Besides all the crazy things happening to me, theres this guy I’ve had my eye on, not romantically or anything i just keep seeing him wherever i go and he just sticks out like a sore thumb. I think his name was Ken….im going to talk to him, he seems like the only person who wouldn’t judge me.

I walk up to him and before i could even mutter a “hey” a girl comes first and speaks to him, it seems like they’re close. Suddenly everyone must have a friend besides me, thats so annoying. I’ll speak to him at lunch then. And as i expected, that girl was there again. So i guess i’ll just speak to him afterschool.

“Hey..” i tap his shoulder while walking out the gate of the school. He swiftly turns around looking at me in surprise and quickly blushing. “O..oh hello!”

“I wanted to know if you’d like to be friends…you look really cool and i thought it would be nice.” His face flushes even more “Cool..? Me? Oh- yeah s-sure we can be friends thats totally awesome! Yup! Cool!” He was geeking out, and it was really cute

“Can w-“ before i could speak again he cuts me off. “How about we talk together at lunch tomorrow or if we have the same class..? Its s-super nice to meet you. Im Ken takakura!”

“Oh im y/n l/n, sure we can talk tomorrow” he bows and runs off home, i mean at least i’ll be able to actually talk to him. I start to walk home and the sun starts to set, i really don’t want that feeling to come back again. But it’s not my choice is it..

While i walk home i start to feel it again, the feeling that im being watched. But no it’s way worse this time. My ears start to ring, and i hear footsteps slowly pick up behind me. I start to run home, it wasn’t far anyway, i could make it! I run into a neighborhood I’ve never seen before, but I’ll do anything just to get away.

A blue light appears above my head and i turn around to see 3 large men with a horrifying smile standing behind me. I turn again to sprint for it until they catch me in a millisecond. “What a fine specimen!!! We shall take your banana for inspection.”

“What the heck does that even mean??? Let me go!!” I hear another pair of footsteps and i see..Ken? And that other girl..

“Get em okarun!!” The girl exclaims, and before my own eyes i see okarun leap forward to one of the men holding me, transforming into something so unknown. The aliens are caught off guard and unhand me while i see that other running behind us, a big set of translucent blue arms emerge from her back and grabs on hold on one of the men and slams him.

“Okarun!! Take the girl somewhere else!! I’ll be safe i promise!” This new…person that is ‘okarun’ sighs in laziness “such a drag..” he picks me up bridal style and starts to speed away into a secluded area where the strange men were sure not to search. He lays me down on the concrete floor and i think i recognize this area, this is a part of my neighborhood thankfully!!

I look up at him in disbelief, “your…ken..?” He was prepping to sprint back to where the other girl was but he looks at me instead “in the flesh.” What was up with his lingo..

“..how are you able to do that?” It’s absolutely incredible, i was totally mesmerized, he’s beautiful! “Dunno, i gotta go. Stay safe babe.” He pats my head and then gets into a crouching start position to run, he sprints off and into the night he goes. What just happened, and he called me babe? How am i going to even talk to him tomorrow??

It takes me a minute to get back up and into shape, i make my way back home and i was later than usual. I make myself comfy, shower and change, and hop right into bed. I shut my eyes and start to recap.

‘Alright, what the hell was going on today. Ken is some secret transforming boy, and i guess his nickname is okarun? This other girl has magical powers and i almost got kidnapped by some disgustingly terrifying ‘men’. Based on what I’ve seen today, were those even men?? Im speechless..’ I continue to yap on in my head until i drift off into slumber.

—

I wake up the next morning trying to figure out if i should just stay home today, but then again i need answers. I quickly hop out of bed and get myself ready while having something small to eat for breakfast. I make my way to campus and i see Ken and that girl again, i really need to get her name..

“Hey Takakura.” While he was speaking to that girl he turns around to look at me, she gives me a glance and her face brightens, it seems like she recognizes me. “Hey y/n, is everything alright?”

“Um yeah no, what even happened last night?? That was totally insane! Do you guys know what was going on it freaked me out, and you turned into some creature and that girl had big arms coming out of her back-“

The girl giggles and cuts me off “okay i know it’s crazy, and I’m momo! What you saw yesterday wasn’t normal i know, it’s a long story. But those men you saw were aliens, thats why they looked so weird. Okarun here has this new ability to transform into something completely new, i have psychic powers.”

My face must have been absolutely confuzzled because they both started to giggle “Don’t worry, we’ll talk more about it at lunch! By the way whats your name?”

“It’s y/n l/n, nice to meet you.” She smiles and rests her arm on my shoulder “Sweet! Cmon okarun, let’s head to class!”

He follows right behind us and my smile fades a bit, that person okarun was…i can feel my heart start to strain. This isn’t good, i think i might like him but every-time i see Okarun and Momo together, they just seem like an unbreakable bond that stays together forever and i might be tinkering and getting in the way of that. I want to go home already.

“Hey y/n, matter of fact how about you come to my place after school? Then we can totally go over everything you’re confused about.”

“Oh, yeah sure! I don’t mind.” They day goes on as it fades into the mist of night. Her house is more larger than i thought, i enter and it has this calming feel to it. I spot Ken taking off his shoes and my hear starts to race a bit, this is making me insane. “Alright Okarun, show em!” I watch him transform again and i see that boy…wow he is so alluring. His droopy sleep eyes and tall slim frame would have anyone at campus falling head over heels

“So this is what you saw yesterday, this form is when he blah blah blah blah…”

I really should have payed attention but i was lost in his thoughtless eyes, and he was staring right back at me. I wonder does this form have the same mind as Okarun or is it someone else? While momo continues to talk, without her noticing he nods his head up at me in a “sup” motion, with his hands in his pockets. He was trying so hard to be cool and he really was. I feel my brain melt to my toes as i nod my head back at him.

“So do you understand?”

I snap back into reality, “Yeah..so what can he really do?”

“Well he can only run really fast, he has no good fighting skills yet.” “Wow, harsh.” He said while leaning back on the wall. Momo takes out her phone and looks at the time, she jumps and shrieks “its really late! Hey how about this, you can come over again tomorrow and we can go over how you’re able to see things like this. Okarun since it’s dark outside and you’re a fast runner, take em home!”

“whatevs, I’m the fastest yo.”

We head out the door and he lets me get on his back. “later y/n!”

Ken gets into the crouching start position again and speeds to my neighborhood “quick, where do ya live” I whisper my home into his ear and he quickens the pace all the way until the destination. He slows and gets down, allowing me to step off his back. I was hesitant to walk into my home and i turn around right before he was going to speed back to momos place.

“Cya on the flip side babe.” Seriously does he call everyone babe…but then i realized he was leaving and as he took off i managed to shout “See you tomorrow!!” I see him wave his hand in the air while he ran, this wasn’t so bad. I lay back in my bed ready to disclose for the night, this is crazy.

Will he be someone i can love or am i just going to be a nuisance..?

—

GUYS I JUST finished watching dandadan please i had to write something y’all idk it set something off in me for real!! bye DIVAS 💜

[inkykeiji]

⋆₊˚⊹♡ 𝐡𝐚𝐳𝐛𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐧 + 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮

characters: vox, val, alastor, lucifer warnings: implied smut in some; 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink (+ papi for val), toxic relationships, pet/master dynamic (for alastor), reader is a bit of a brat with vox, implied drugging the night before (val), praise + pet names, fem!reader, reader is carried in val’s words: 2.7k

₊˚⊹ 𝐯𝐨𝐱 ⊹˚₊

You love mornings with your Daddy—truly, you do; love waking up next to him, slow and soft as his fingertips outline your features; love eating breakfast with him, feet kicking back and forth on one of the barstools as he prepares something simple for the two of you, know that he had to pull teeth to get the mornings off of work so he could spend them with you, getting you ready for the day and seeing you off—but there is one part, right at the very end, that you absolutely despise. 

Like everything with Vox, dental hygiene is a meticulous procedure, a rigorous routine with a set of immutable steps to be followed in the exact order Vox has laid them out in—carved into concrete, set in stone.

And, like everything else with Vox, no one knows how to perform them correctly except for him.

Still, it isn’t like you ever make it easy for him.

What else could he expect from his little troublemaker, really?

“Open up.” 

A thumb and a forefinger clamp down on the hinges of your jaw, palm wreathed around your chin, and squeeze, popping your mouth open with practiced efficiency.

“Daddy,” the word comes out as a stringy whine, slightly garbled, face crumpling in petulance. “Dun wanna.” 

Jerking a little in his grasp, you try to pull away from the advancing toothbrush slathered with translucent teal gel, and Vox clicks his tongue. 

“And I don’t care,” he says simply, fingers flexing in warning. “Good little girls need to brush their teeth—especially if they’ve eaten two bowls of sugary cereal for breakfast.” 

“But—”

Vox pulls back, face flattened into something serious. “Do you want cavities eating holes in your teeth?” 

“No—”

“Didn’t think so. Now hold still and let Daddy do this for you, yeah?” 

A groan vibrates on the back of your tongue, but your body goes pliant in his grasp, chin leaning into his pillowy palm.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs to himself, a small smug smile on his face.

Warmth blossoms in your chest, swells your lungs and stretches your ribs as you droop a little more beneath his praise and he chuckles, a fond little melody playing on his tongue, grip tightening infinitesimally. 

And he’s so precise with it all, maneuvers painstakingly perfect as he tilts your head one way, then the other, sure to scrub each tooth thoroughly, bristles scouring in little circular motions as he cleanses.

“Aaaah,” he hums, mimicking the action as he pries his mouth open wider, another praise falling from his lips as you instantly obey, allowing him to reach the molars at the very back of your mouth—brushing on top, on either side, behind, then on top again. 

“Tongue out.” 

Another whine sticks in your throat, brows pushing together and crinkling your forehead, open mouth downturned in a frown with a slight shake of your head, struggling against his hold.

“Come, now,” Vox chastises, but his voice is hard, fortified with a subtle threat. “You were doing so well for me—don’t start acting up, Daddy’s almost done.” 

His gaze holds yours steadily, a single eyebrow raising in question—are you really going to test me?—and you cave, again.

Reluctantly, your tongue unfurls from your mouth, face still scrunched in irritation as he scrapes the bristles across the muscle, working up a healthy lather, refusing to cease until that telltale disgruntled whine claws at your throat, evoking another one of those patronizing little chuckles.

“Alright, alright,” he’s pacifying as he tips a glass to your lips, a palm cupped protectively beneath your chin. “Rinse.” 

And, Christ, he loves how fucking obedient you are, even as the urge to misbehave bubbles behind your ribs, lips set in a deep pout as you follow his instructions, swishing a mouthful of water between your cheeks, waiting perfect and patient for his next order. 

“Spit.”

Oh, so compliant, so disciplined you are as you instantly spew blue liquid down the drain, a fierce sense of pride, of ownership, igniting deep within his soul, blazing bright and hot and strong, reflected in the amplified glowing of his eyes.

Your features are still scrunched up in a cute little pout, glaring at him through your lashes, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” A thumb runs along your forehead, attempting to iron out the crease between your brows in a gentle caress.

“It was awful.” 

“Fucking brat.” 

And he just can’t help but laugh out the word, the sting the insult should bring instantly negated by the tender affection it’s smothered in, turned soft and melty on his tongue.

No, you never make such endeavours painless for him, but you do always make them interesting, and for that, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

₊˚⊹ 𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐨 ⊹˚₊

It’s late in the afternoon when Val decides it’s time to get up, deep crimson light spilling through the narrow gaps in his thick curtains and painting thin, long strokes across the shag carpet.

He doesn’t bother formally waking you as two of his hands scoop you from the nest of silk and cradle you to his body, chuckling out a coo as you automatically snuggle into his chest, legs latching around his waist. 

The haze of sleep still hangs heavy in your skull, a soft protest grumbled into his skin as he carries you somewhere, lids staying firmly glued shut, body beginning to melt into his again as the bliss of unconsciousness entices you with promises of whimsical dreams and relief from your aching muscles. 

Cold marble stings your bare thighs suddenly, forcing a small jolt through your form, a soft hiss exhaled from between your teeth.

“I know, I know, it’s cold,” Val pacifies, his voice a pleasant fog curling around your cheeks as he leans around you, tinkering with something.  

“Papi,” you whimper, reaching blindly for him, lethargic head falling forward, forehead pressed tightly to his sternum.

“Mmm, I’m here,” he murmurs distractedly, two of his hands still wrapped firmly around your hips as the other set busy themselves with uncapping a tube of toothpaste.

“Wanna go back to bed,” you slur out in a whine, nose nuzzling into his chest, fruitlessly looking for a place to rest your head, dense drowsiness curling the edges of your mind.

“But it’s time to get up, princesa,” he chides gently, a finger tracing the curve of your cheek. “You’ve been asleep for fourteen hours.” 

“M’still tired.” 

A hum of contemplation vibrates at the back of his tongue as a hand twines around your jaw, examining your face this way, then that, before tilting your chin up.

“Maybe I gave you a little too much last night,” he muses to himself through a dark snicker. “It’s kinda cute that you’re still this fucked up, though. Can’t even open your eyes for me, can you?” 

And you try, really, you do, attempting to heft your leaden lids, features screwing up cutely with the immense effort, and Val coos again, as if your intoxication is so pathetically precious—poor little girl can barely handle her Daddy’s drugs! How sweet.

“Well, that’s okay,” he purrs, first pair of hands slipping further beneath his dress shirt—a makeshift nightgown, his favourite nightgown on you—and tugging you closer to the counter’s edge. “You don’t have to worry your pretty little head about anything; Papi will do it for you.” 

A sound of indignation sticks in your throat as you finally pry your eyes open, squinting against the harsh light of the bathroom, bleary gaze fixed on the sparkly pink toothbrush in one of his hands, face rumpling into a pout. 

Your lips press into a tight, firm line, sealing your mouth against the rapidly advancing utensil as your eyes slip shut again, weighted with narcotic-laced exhaustion, head shaking in messy little motions.

“C’mon, be co-operative,” the points of his nails dig into your skin, hard enough to leave superficial indents—a warning. “Don’t upset Daddy this early in the day, baby.” 

Wrenching your eyes open again, your nose twitches with a sniffle, chin beginning to quiver.

“But—But—Do I have to?”

“Yes, you have to,” he says, but his voice trembles with the effort to stay calm, to stay pleasant. “Your mouth is very dirty from last night, and it needs to be cleaned.”

A thick torrent of tears rush to cloud your vision, sudden and stinging, a hiccup stuttering your chest. The hand curved around your jaw tightens, yanking your face toward his own, foreheads knocking together.

“Now, open, before I make you open.”

Your jaw falls slack, a slave to his orders, unable to disobey a direct demand from its owner, and Val purrs, something wicked unravelling on his face, smile stretched sharp and sleazy from edge to edge, the glow in his eyes flaring with your instant compliance.

“Good girl.”

₊˚⊹ 𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫 ⊹˚₊

Alastor, you’ve come to learn, has a plethora of odd regimes; stringently scheduled customs that are non-negotiable, that extend to you, including brushing your teeth. 

It’s become routine, now—habitual, as most things with Alastor are—and your days no longer feel right without it; weird, off, incomplete. 

Because it’s become something of a comfort; something so simple, yet so intimate, something calming and rewarding, something to look forward to—a moment shared between the two of you, twice a day, once at the beginning, and once at the end. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” you try tell him, the first time he insists on doing it, trying desperately to look over your shoulder as he ushers you into his ensuite.

“Nonsense!” he waves a hand in dismissal. “It isn’t a problem at all. Now, sit.” 

“Alastor—”

“Sit.” 

With a tiny frown, you perch gingerly on the edge of the bathtub, fingers curling around the rim.

“I’m serious,” you murmur, teeth nibbling superficially at the skin of your lip, wary eyes watching as he flits with practiced ease around the bathroom, a twinge of confusion settling in your chest, something akin to shame sitting thick and bitter on the back of your tongue. “I can do it myself…” 

“I know you can,” he replies simply, focused on depositing a strip of white toothpaste on your toothbrush. 

“Then…” you blink up at him, watching him advance with wide eyes, shoulders shrinking as he blankets you in his shadow. “Why are you doing it for me?” 

Irritation twitches at the edges of his grin, Alastor exhaling a controlled sigh.

“Because,” he begins, keeping his voice light, taking your chin between his index finger and thumb. “A good Master takes proper care of his pet.” 

His grip strengthens, tilting your face up further, his form looming over your own as you sit, vulnerable and exposed, beneath his touch. Crimson eyes glow as they scour your face, his back bent at an uncomfortable angle as he practically curls around you, the scent of earth and cedar tinged with copper wafting across your face with his calm, even breaths. 

“Besides,” he continues, voice dropped an octave lower, his nose nearly nudging yours. “I couldn’t possibly trust you to do it adequately.” 

A cruel little chuckle plays on his tongue, as if the mere thought itself is preposterous, the sound stinging as it seeps into your cheeks, hot and full of spikes. 

“Now, open.” 

Instantly, your mouth falls agape, and Alastor’s smile stretches infinitesimally wider, a sharp glint flaring in his eyes.

“A good owner maintains their pet’s hygiene,” he explains as he works, gaze fixed intently on his actions, cleansing with a meticulous sort of vigilance. “Bathes them, grooms them, dresses them—performs all of the basic necessities a pet needs to appear presentable.”

His hand shifts slightly, angling your head to the side, and you follow easily, malleable in his grasp, his smile shimmering. 

“And I pride myself on taking very good care the things that belong to me.”

And, really, he does. Because Alastor doesn’t just brush your teeth with rigorous care, conscientiously certain to cleanse every dip and gap; he flosses them, too, with gentle hands and painstaking precision, then ensures you’ve rinsed with germ-killing, enamel-strengthening mouthwash for exactly forty-five seconds, counting uniformly and observing with large, unblinking eyes as you adhere to his every instruction, cheeks bulging with burning liquid, eyes squinting from the intensity, but never daring to blink, to glance away, to stop at all. 

“Look at you,” he purrs after you’ve spit down the drain, gazing back up at him with a sort of desperate devotion—demented, devious, damned to his hell—syrupy condescension dripping from his teeth. “So well behaved for me, aren’t you?”  

A palm cups your jaw, his thumb running across your cheek in rhythmic strokes, the tip of his claw caressing your skin with just enough pressure to leave behind shallow scratches. 

“What, hoping Master will give you a treat for being so obedient?” 

“No, Sir,” you whimper out, voice gone dreamy as you nuzzle into his hand. “You taking such good care of me is more than enough.” 

Something sinister oozes into his face, something that contorts his smile and corrodes his eyes, leaving behind nothing but raw hunger, like he’s about to devour you whole, pops of static fizzing thickly in his voice. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

₊˚⊹ 𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐫 ⊹˚₊

Everything hurts, muscles stiff and aching and full of sand, your motions clumsy and cumbersome as you attempt to brush your teeth, joints creaking with every slight shift.

Fatigue blurs the edges of your eyes, your vision fading out of focus again, mind gone fuzzy as you try your best to concentrate on your movements—up, down, all around, repeat—features screwing up in a wince as you catch the harsh bristles on your gums, again. 

“You’re making a bit of a mess, sleepyhead,” Lucifer’s tender chuckle pulls you from your foggy stupor, a quiet hum vibrating in your throat as you look over at him in question, the gesture lethargic and delayed. 

“You’ve got some—Here,” he says softly, hands curling around your shoulders and turning you to face him, then tilting your chin up. “May I?”

Another affirmative sounds on the back of your tongue and Lucifer uses his thumb to carefully clean the foaming paste collecting at the corners of your mouth, then catching a slow dribble streaming down your chin with a deft knuckle. 

A frown mars his face, his forehead creasing beneath the strain, his other hand stroking your shoulder as worried eyes search your face, slow and careful.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart?” he asks. “You’re really struggling to brush your teeth.”

“Jus—really tired,” you mumble through the bubbles in your mouth, Lucifer skillfully catching another trickle of watery paste, concern tugging at the corners of his lips, frown deepening.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” 

Sleepy eyes blink up at him, slow and sluggish, your hazy mind taking a moment to process the question.

“Mhmm,” you finally nod, hand loosening the instant his fingers skim yours, allowing him to gently uncurl your grip from around the base of your toothbrush, his own effortlessly taking its place. 

“Alright, alright, Daddy will help you,” he’s pacifying in a murmur, but his gaze has turned melty, glow dimmed and pupils gaping, lids heavy with love. “Poor thing…Last night was a long night for you, huh?” 

“S’a lot,” you confirm in a messy mumble, lids drooping heavily with the weight of exhaustion.

“Yeah?” his thumb rubs loving little circles into your jaw as he works, gaze trained on his task. “Was Daddy a little too rough with you?” 

The question is uttered out tenderly, full of sympathy and care, his brow furrowing as his eyes flit back to yours, searching for veracity in your pupils.

“Maybe I should be a bit gentler next—”

“No!” you cough around the refusal, puffy lids snapping open suddenly, the unexpected vehemency causing Lucifer to flinch.

“No?” he laughs, and it’s warm with affection, his features, hard with worry, mollifying beneath fondness, amorous amusement twinkling daintily in his eyes. 

“No,” you whine out with a tiny pout, head shaking a little in his grasp. “Please.”

“Okay,” the pad of his thumb runs along your cheek, his stare trailing after it. “If nothing else, at least Daddy will always be there to take care of you the morning after.”

[krstseo]

Translucent Concrete and it’s Structural Aesthetics in Civil Engineering

Translucent Concrete and it’s Structural Aesthetics in Civil

As a third-year civil engineering student, I constantly marvel at the groundbreaking that are shaping the field. Recently, I had the opportunity to get into studying the world of translucent concrete. It is a material that is revolutionizing the way we perceive and design structures.

Discovering Translucent Concrete

My journey with translucent concrete began with a fascination for its unique properties. Comprising traditional concrete embedded with optical fibers, this material has the remarkable ability to transmit light. Further, I learned more about its applications and potential impact. Moreover, its ability to seamlessly blend aesthetics with functionality captivated me.

Click for more...

https://krct.ac.in/blog/2024/05/20/translucent-concrete-and-its-structural-aesthetics-in-civil-engineering/

[vinnyvamppp]

https://x.com/twighead_/status/1906404810410103078?s=46

pleas write for evil variants of eve omg 😫😫 i mean look at the fanarts i’m living off of crumbs fr. (there’s literally only fics of mark vro 💔 i need eve i’m a lesbian)

She Who Remembers You

Note: I love writing for my wife, I'm sorry this took so long, EXAMS. There's room for a part two if anyone wants it. Enjoy!

Synopsis: In a fractured world with collapsing timelines and bleeding skies, you finally catch up to her, only to find that she remembers you. Not just your face, but who you were across universes. What you could have been. And what you might still be.

Warnings: Graphic Power Use, Memory Loss (from those damn lips), Reality Breakdown/Multiverse Themes, Other Variant Introductions, Power Imbalance, Dubious Morality, YEARNING, DIFF TIMELINE, Heavy Make-out Session, Dread, Smut Flashbacks, Pussy Eating, Scissoring, Strap Riding, Explorative Touch. WC: 2.2k

Samantha Eve Wilkins/Atom Eve x Fem Reader

You were trained to bring her down. That was the mission: track Eve Wilkins, codename Atom Eve, last seen turning a Tier One hero into a glass statue mid-sentence—then shattering them like they were a holiday ornament. Yet, you watched it frame by frame as if entranced in a horror you couldn’t look away from. The CCTV archive begins in static. There’s a city intersection under crimson sky. Chicago, but wrong, it looked warped. Skyscrapers bend at the top like they’re praying. Streets are empty, windows cracked inward like they tried to scream. You fast forward until it happens.

Bulletproof—no rather, a man who resembles him—approaches Eve, his voice is muted in the footage, but the way he held his costumes bifocals in one hand as the glass splintered, like he’s appealing to an old friend, says enough. He’s begging her, pleading as he’s all that’s left nearby. Her expression doesn’t move.

Then, she raises her hand. For a heartbeat, the air shimmers, a beautiful magenta hue. A slow build of atomic rearrangement, glowing at her fingertips, vibrant red strands of hair crowning behind her like rays of light. The man steps back, raising his hands before his eyes widened in petrified terror. She says something—one word, but no audio. Her expression is imperceptible, maybe regret, maybe histation. You don't know, not with this Eve, not with the one who isn’t in a hospital bed.

You watch, horrified, as veins of light travel over him like cracking ice. His skin turns translucent, splintering up his skin as blood taints the glass pink. Muscles fold into crystal lattice, his eyes remain moving, until they don’t. You could even say it looked painless, not that he could express that, glass gouged into his drool ridden maw from silenced screams. Then she flicks her wrist and he shatters.

CCTV audio kicks in just long enough to catch the sound: A thousand mirrors breaking in one scream where nothings left but crimson-edged glitter on concrete. Then—the city’s silence again. Her figure blinks out of view mid-frame, the rain turning into shards as the tape ends.

The GDA never released it, even Cecil flinches upon its playthrough. But you play it in your head every time you hear her name. And yet, now, in the ruined control room where she's standing inches away from you—you almost forget. … She was fast, too fast and dangerous in ways no one had predicted. It was as if something inside her unlocked. Not rage, no—clarity. She’s not hiding anymore, she’s convinced, and dangerous like a walking tyrant and goddess.

You’re deployed to pursue. Your ability to tether time in localized threads—freeze a moment, rewind seconds, slow a heart’s beat to the edge of stillness—makes you one of the only operatives with a chance of keeping up.

But even with your edge, she’s always just ahead. You catch her outside Chicago where the air crackles where she flies. She’s painting a sky with her power, luminous threads weaving structures midair like she’s rewriting physics. You pull time taut and hurl it at her like a net.

Yet… she smiles. "That little trick again?" she murmurs, her voice cool and intimate like you’re two old lovers at the end of the world. Again…? Just how many times have you—? "You’re still predictable." You lunge and she meets you midair. Your body slams into hers, and for a moment it’s not battle, it’s a collision. Energy sparks off her skin and yours sings back in defiance.

She grapples you mid-flight, blood slicking your wrist where her blast grazed you. You twist time—rewind just enough to dodge the full hit and slam her into the side of a building. "Still playing soldier, huh?" she gasps, one eye bruised, blood on her lip as her tongue flicked against the wound. "I told you. I’m not your enemy."

You grimace, voice dropping an octave with disapproval, your chest heaving. "You killed him." Her brows curve upwards, those sweet lips tighten into a frown. "I freed him." She throws you off with a scream that rips the pavement open. You’re dazed, and something surges under your feet with an unnatural hum.

Then, before you could react, a portal tears open behind her. A scream echoes from another world. Angstrom’s multiverse signature flickers as it swallows her whole, your blood boiling at the sight of his games. "No—" you lurch forward. "Eve—!" But she’s already vanishing into that breach, her eyes locked on yours as she disappears. Again.

The multiverse collapses inward the next day. Not completely, but enough. Enough that you are no longer in your Chicago. The GDA building is different here—fractured at the edges, like a mirror that’s been glued back wrong. Half the agents don’t recognize you. There are four versions of Donald walking around and only two of them breathe.

And above it all were rumors, whispers of her. THE Atom Eve, a crimson sovereign. She was seen walking into the GDA—alone. No backup, no army, no resistance, and no one’s heard from the director since. You push through the rubble, wounded, bruised, heartbeat out of sync. You’ve tethered time too much this week—it leaves your bones aching like frostbite.

Your thoughts go numb as you see her in the war room alone. She stands in front of the cracked tactical display, her hand casually resting on her hip, still dressed in that iconic pink and black, only darker now, like the colors faded from rage and resurrection.

She turns to face you with a smile, eyes softening, "You came after all." Your fingers clutch over your pulse, brows knitting. "You rewrote the building's biometric systems," you rasp. "Killed half the GDA." Her hands gesture around her. "No," she says calmly. "I absorbed what was necessary. They’ll be reconstructed. Better. No more suffering. No more waiting for men to decide when it’s time to act." She steps toward you, and you plant a foot forward. "I’m building something new. Surveillance to catch the fall before it happens. Genetic refinement. Curation."

"You mean control." "I mean safety." Her voice doesn’t rise. That’s what’s so terrifying, how even she sounds convinced. "I saw a thousand worlds break before they listened. This time, they’ll have no choice." You look at her, tired and bleeding. And something in her gaze softens, like denial finally dissipating and acceptance taking its place. "You’re not from this universe, are you?" You shake your head. "Does it matter?"

"It does to me," she says, her voice low, soft. "Because I lost my version of you before we could ever have this conversation." She’s close now, too close but you don't move. You feel her power behind your teeth, in your spine, like pressure before a storm. "I almost kissed you," she says, looking at your mouth like it’s something forbidden, something she craves that eats at her memories. "Back then. Just before I shattered everything."

"You didn’t."

"No," she says, almost wistfully. "But they say if you kiss me now, you’ll forget your name." A breath catches in your chest. Is… is this her flirting? "Do you believe that?" the slightest huff of air leaves your nose. "I don’t know." Her hand hovers near your cheek. "But I remember yours."

The air warps between you. Everything about this is wrong, the multiverse is breaking. She’s a threat to the timeline, to global autonomy, to everything. And still, you lean in and so does she. It seems you’d been craving more, perhaps unfulfilled needs. The kiss is soft… then it isn’t.

Your body locks, your mind reels like a broken record. Time stutters around you, folding in, trying to thread you back into place, but her power overwrites it. She tastes like ozone and roses, like burned sugar and thunder, maybe a drizzle of honey. Her hand slides behind your neck, soft and a tad unsure. You can feel it, her power grazing yours in the space between atoms. Reality bends at the edges of your lips. Light folds into darkness, and somewhere in the corner of your mind, a year of memory slips from your grasp like a bird set free. You feel something tear inside you, a thread of something simple you should remember.

She makes a soft sound—a breath, almost a whimper—and pulls you closer. Your fingers clutch her waist, then higher, into her hair. She feels something bittersweet and addictive as your tongue rakes over her lips. Every kiss deepens with a kind of desperation, like you’re chasing the version of her that never looked your way in your world.

Her body presses into yours with warmth that burns. Her lips drag down to your jaw, to the corner of your mouth, then return in a hungry, aching kiss that feels more like a confession than anything she’s ever said aloud. You pull away, through smothered kisses and warm breaths, your lips find her pulse, teeth tickling her neck as it engulfs her cricoid, head tipping back for you. Your back hits the cracked concrete, and she follows, legs wrapping around your waist like she never plans to walk away again. Your hands find the curve of her thighs—hot under the fabric, trembling slightly with the energy she hasn’t released yet. She grinds down against you, hips rolling with maddening control, like she’s trying to brand the rhythm into your body. Into memory. "You don’t get to disappear again," She groans, fingers clumsily pulling you up to meet her. She bites your lip, not hard, just enough. "Then don’t let me."

Her hands slide up your heavy garments, palms flat against your stomach. They drag higher, heat rising in their wake, until her thumbs rest just under the band of your bra. "You changed," she says, kissing along your jaw, your throat. "Different power signature. Different heartbeat."

"You remember my heartbeat?" You ask, sounding puzzled. "I remembered everything," she says, voice rough now, almost shaking. "You were the only thing I missed across every world I burned." You try to respond, but her hips roll again, and your breath stutters. Her power crackles down your spine, a low current that makes your knees buckle.

You press her tighter to the wall. She wraps her arms around your shoulders, lips tracing the edge of your ear as her body rocks against yours again, slow but insistent. "Let me have this," she whispers. "Just once. Before it all breaks." Your hand slides down her side, finds the bare skin at her waist, and pulls her closer. You wanted to ask what she meant, but you couldn’t care.

FLASH.

You're on your back, her body bare above yours, bathed in pink light. Her thighs lock with yours, slick, hot, pulsing, and she’s moaning your name like it’s the only thing she wants to remember. The air is damp from sweat, with each pull away her puffy pussy lips leave strings of arousal. Was that... mixed with yours? You can practically taste it; that sugary tang is addictive enough to rot your teeth. Her food of her clit peaked through the curtains, kiss yours with each grind. Your eyes were unable to focus, and your senses are overwhelmed.

You're crying into her mouth. The pressure of her against you, your legs trembling as your hips meet again and again and again—

FLASH.

You’re in a garden made of glass. She’s between your thighs, eyes glowing as she murmurs things she shouldn't know. Your hands are in her hair, and you’re grinding, chasing something that makes the stars flicker. The sound of a wet squelch echoes below, but not from you, from her as her fingers pump with a precise tandem. Her eyebrows knitting as she stared up at you through her lashes.

You come together—loud, as if the sky will split. Somewhere, it does.

FLASH.

You're on top of her this time. Eve’s eyes are wet, lips parted. Your fingers are laced, one hand planted against your hip. She’s arching into you, breathlessly. Proof of a previous orgasm dampened the bedsheets, it looks like you two were taking turns. "You always ride me like this," she whispers, tears on her cheek. "In every universe. You never stay."

FLASH. BACK TO NOW.

So, that's what she meant; time really was breaking. So much so, you could view the past, the future, and other worlds enveloped within her lips. Her soft mewls echo between the building's groans. And you almost say it—I would’ve stayed, my love. "...What’s your name?" she whispers through gasps. You stare at her, dazed. And then laugh—because for a second, you really don’t know. But the heat in your chest, the ache of her lips on yours, the echo of your purpose? You remember that. "You always made me forget mine first..." She cradles your jaw like she’s memorizing it. "Stay," she murmurs. "Help me build it. Be my second chance." You don’t answer. You don’t have the chance to.

BOOM.

The room explodes in pink light. Eve tears herself away with a snarl and you stumble, dazed, lips bruised, the taste of her still on your tongue. Standing in the breach of the war room's wall—four silhouettes. Each one glowing and each one... her.

One a Scorched Earth Eve with her hair shaved, body wrapped in scorched armor. Skin blistered with radiation tattoos. Her voice is rough like sandpaper. “I told you not to go soft,” she growls at your Eve. "You're letting it rot again."

Viltrum Eve whose calculated eyes flickering between you two almost with disdain. Her mouth never moves, but her voice vibrates the walls. “You're interfering emotionally. Unwise.” Then Child-Eater Eve this one doesn’t speak. Her pink energy dances in strange sigils around her feet. Her smile is all teeth with false promises but an odd warmth, her cloak is stitched with names.

And a… Heartbroken Eve. The last one stands apart. Her suit is stained and her eyes are bloodshot, saddened like a puppies. You recognize your own jacket on her shoulders. She doesn't meet your gaze.

Your Eve steps in front of you protectively. “I didn’t bring you here,” she snaps. Scorched-Earth laughs. “No, but you dragged them in anyway. And now we all feel it. You touched something that doesn’t belong.” You try to step forward. “She’s not like you.” Viltrum Eve’s eyes finally rest upon yours, recognition flickering within them, a slight tightening of her jaw. “She’s exactly like us. Just hasn’t finished breaking yet.”

You’re surrounded and every version of her stares like you’re an echo of something they lost.

And deep inside something tugs at you. You feel your name flickering in your own mind. Eve turns to you again—your Eve, hands glowing now, blood on her lip. “Don’t listen to them,” she breathes. “You felt it. When I kissed you. I didn’t erase you. I saw you.” You try to speak again but the ground splits. The ceiling groans and time slips sideways.

The Eves advance, and you realize this is no longer a fight, but a reckoning you may not survive. A/N: DUN DUN DUNNNNN. Also, that fucking fanart is SCRUMPTIOUS.

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚