#crystalline materials

[jcmarchi]

AI model can reveal the structures of crystalline materials

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/ai-model-can-reveal-the-structures-of-crystalline-materials/

AI model can reveal the structures of crystalline materials

For more than 100 years, scientists have been using X-ray crystallography to determine the structure of crystalline materials such as metals, rocks, and ceramics.

This technique works best when the crystal is intact, but in many cases, scientists have only a powdered version of the material, which contains random fragments of the crystal. This makes it more challenging to piece together the overall structure.

MIT chemists have now come up with a new generative AI model that can make it much easier to determine the structures of these powdered crystals. The prediction model could help researchers characterize materials for use in batteries, magnets, and many other applications.

“Structure is the first thing that you need to know for any material. It’s important for superconductivity, it’s important for magnets, it’s important for knowing what photovoltaic you created. It’s important for any application that you can think of which is materials-centric,” says Danna Freedman, the Frederick George Keyes Professor of Chemistry at MIT.

Freedman and Jure Leskovec, a professor of computer science at Stanford University, are the senior authors of the new study, which appears today in the Journal of the American Chemical Society. MIT graduate student Eric Riesel and Yale University undergraduate Tsach Mackey are the lead authors of the paper.

Distinctive patterns

Crystalline materials, which include metals and most other inorganic solid materials, are made of lattices that consist of many identical, repeating units. These units can be thought of as “boxes” with a distinctive shape and size, with atoms arranged precisely within them.

When X-rays are beamed at these lattices, they diffract off atoms with different angles and intensities, revealing information about the positions of the atoms and the bonds between them. Since the early 1900s, this technique has been used to analyze materials, including biological molecules that have a crystalline structure, such as DNA and some proteins.

For materials that exist only as a powdered crystal, solving these structures becomes much more difficult because the fragments don’t carry the full 3D structure of the original crystal.

“The precise lattice still exists, because what we call a powder is really a collection of microcrystals. So, you have the same lattice as a large crystal, but they’re in a fully randomized orientation,” Freedman says.

For thousands of these materials, X-ray diffraction patterns exist but remain unsolved. To try to crack the structures of these materials, Freedman and her colleagues trained a machine-learning model on data from a database called the Materials Project, which contains more than 150,000 materials. First, they fed tens of thousands of these materials into an existing model that can simulate what the X-ray diffraction patterns would look like. Then, they used those patterns to train their AI model, which they call Crystalyze, to predict structures based on the X-ray patterns.

The model breaks the process of predicting structures into several subtasks. First, it determines the size and shape of the lattice “box” and which atoms will go into it. Then, it predicts the arrangement of atoms within the box. For each diffraction pattern, the model generates several possible structures, which can be tested by feeding the structures into a model that determines diffraction patterns for a given structure.

“Our model is generative AI, meaning that it generates something that it hasn’t seen before, and that allows us to generate several different guesses,” Riesel says. “We can make a hundred guesses, and then we can predict what the powder pattern should look like for our guesses. And then if the input looks exactly like the output, then we know we got it right.”

Solving unknown structures

The researchers tested the model on several thousand simulated diffraction patterns from the Materials Project. They also tested it on more than 100 experimental diffraction patterns from the RRUFF database, which contains powdered X-ray diffraction data for nearly 14,000 natural crystalline minerals, that they had held out of the training data. On these data, the model was accurate about 67 percent of the time. Then, they began testing the model on diffraction patterns that hadn’t been solved before. These data came from the Powder Diffraction File, which contains diffraction data for more than 400,000 solved and unsolved materials.

Using their model, the researchers came up with structures for more than 100 of these previously unsolved patterns. They also used their model to discover structures for three materials that Freedman’s lab created by forcing elements that do not react at atmospheric pressure to form compounds under high pressure. This approach can be used to generate new materials that have radically different crystal structures and physical properties, even though their chemical composition is the same.

Graphite and diamond — both made of pure carbon — are examples of such materials. The materials that Freedman has developed, which each contain bismuth and one other element, could be useful in the design of new materials for permanent magnets.

“We found a lot of new materials from existing data, and most importantly, solved three unknown structures from our lab that comprise the first new binary phases of those combinations of elements,” Freedman says.

Being able to determine the structures of powdered crystalline materials could help researchers working in nearly any materials-related field, according to the MIT team, which has posted a web interface for the model at crystalyze.org.

The research was funded by the U.S. Department of Energy and the National Science Foundation.

[gudmould]

Causes and countermeasures for deformation of injection molded parts - 4

Serial No. 4 (Friends who are interested can follow Gud Mold and check out previous series.) 4. Factors affecting deformation 1. Plastic raw materials Characteristics of plastic raw materials have a huge impact on deformation of molded products. Different raw materials have different molecular structures and intermolecular forces, which manifest themselves in different fluidity, orientation…

[mindblowingscience]

A team of physicists and geologists at CEA DAM-DIF and Universit´e Paris-Saclay, working with a colleague from ESRF, BP220, F-38043 Grenoble Cedex and another from the European Synchrotron Radiation Facility, has succeeded in synthesizing a single-crystalline iron in a form that iron has in the Earth's core. In their paper published in the journal Physical Review Letters, the group describes how they used an experimental approach to synthesize pure single-crystalline ε-iron and possible uses for the material In trying to understand Earth's internal composition, scientists have had to rely mostly on seismological data. Such studies have led scientists to believe that the core is solid and that it is surrounded by liquid. But questions have remained. For example, back in the 1980s, studies revealed that seismic waves travel faster through the Earth when traveling pole to pole versed equator to equator, and no one could explain why. Most theories have suggested it is likely because of the way the iron in the core is structured. Most in the field agree that if the type of iron that exists in the core could be made and tested at the surface, such questions could be answered with a reasonable degree of certainty. But doing so has proven to be challenging due to fracturing during synthesis. In this new effort, the research team has found a way around such problems and in so doing have found a way to synthesize a type of iron that can be used for testing the properties of iron in Earth's core.

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[megatron-is-a-mattereel-gurl]

I have this really ridiculous idea for both my Cyberverse AU and My Fan Contunity.

Okay not all that ridiculous but it's still embarrassing to me.

But basically the concept is that Septimus Prime(who's basically a 14th prime from the idw comics, idw is very different with how the primes work)

Becomes the Crystalline King

It makes no sense whatsoever, but i love it. I mean, kind of, actually. Septimus was rejected by the other 13 as being a prime, so he creates crystal city to get revenge and has a "Let it go" from frozen moment. (I made @kelthebookdragon laugh when I mentioned that irl)

[materiallugy]

Miller Indices and Lattice Planes

Have you ever wondered how scientists talk about the microscopic building blocks of materials? Enter the world of Miller indices and lattice levels, a language that reveals the secrets of atomic arrangements within crystals. Imagine visualizing levels of atoms stacked like bricks, each level described by a unique set of numbers that reveal its orientation and spacing.

How to determine Miller Indices?

Imagine the crystal lattice with three axes: These axes represent the basic building blocks of the crystal's structure. In a cubic crystal, for example, the axes are all perpendicular to each other and of equal length.

Identify a plane: This plane can cut through the lattice in any direction, intersecting the axes at different points.

Find the intercepts: For each axis, measure the distance from the origin to the point where the plane intersects it. If the plane doesn't intersect an axis, then the intercept is considered to be "at infinity" and is represented by a zero.

Take the reciprocals: For each non-zero intercept, take the reciprocal (flip it over).

Simplify and normalize: If any of the reciprocals have a common factor, divide them all by that factor to get the smallest possible integers.

Put the numbers together: The resulting three integers, enclosed in parentheses (h k l), are the Miller indices for that plane.

Read more:

[spiribia]

i’m sorry but this is so funny. imagine swinging your axe at an elder dragon in a desperate hail mary before blacking out and then when you wake up your axe just benignly has a dragon head. and the jaw moves and everything

[bhups15]

Micro Crystalline Wax is a versatile and valuable component in various industries. Known for its unique properties, it has found applications in everything from cosmetics to industrial manufacturing. In this comprehensive guide, we'll explore what micro crystalline wax is, its benefits, and how it's used across different sectors.

What is Micro Crystalline Wax? Micro Crystalline Wax, often referred to simply as microcrystalline wax, is a type of wax derived from petroleum. Unlike paraffin wax, which is more crystalline and brittle, micro crystalline wax has smaller crystals, making it more flexible and adhesive. This wax is produced by de-oiling petrolatum and refining the remaining waxy material to achieve the desired consistency and properties.

Key Properties of Micro Crystalline Wax Micro Crystalline Wax stands out due to its unique properties:

Flexibility: Unlike other types of wax, micro crystalline wax is highly flexible, which makes it ideal for applications that require pliability. Adhesiveness: Its excellent adhesive properties make it useful in various industrial applications, including coatings and adhesives. Oil Retention: Micro crystalline wax can hold and retain oil, which is beneficial in cosmetic formulations to provide moisture and protection. High Melting Point: This wax has a higher melting point compared to paraffin wax, making it suitable for applications that require heat resistance.

[milk-and-cereal]

might have to submit a snow miku design this year 🤔

[screampied]

‘ SAVE A HORSE, MILK A . . DEMON ?! ’

ᡴꪫ sum. who would’ve known the king of curses can lactate? not you and certainly not him. this is dire, he needs help but more importantly - he needs you.

warnings. fem! reader, heian era, vırgin sukuna, pùssy drunk sukuna, established relationship, unprotected, láctation (sukuna), we literally milk him, squırting, nıpple play, brēeding, brief ōral (f! receiving), premature ejac, overstim, praise.

wc. 5.7k

an. elaborating more on here. need him so bad

“you, c’mere,” you pause dead in your tracks, feeling a bit special that the sukuna ryomen, your worthy king was seeking out for you. his voice was loud, it rang through the walls of his kingly chambers before huffing out a single breath. he rests on his throne - bawled fist smushing into the edge of his cheek and he grumbles. “quickly, woman. close the door behind you.”

without replying, you do as you’re told. closing the old wooden doors, they shut with a bang. the demon’s eye twitches and he does a quick scan around his domain — empty, good. “are you okay, my lord?” you break the silence with glossed eyes, gazing how his body language was more awkward than normal. he lets out a blow, flushed face growing heated the second your mouth opens. crimson red eyes peer into you and his hair was a bit more ruffled - sukuna’s kimono was halfway on and he looked like he was burning up.

“what do you think?” he snarls, and he rolls his eyes before staring at the ground. “tch, anyways. i . . require your pathetic aid, brat. i don’t ask for anything but—”

“just tell me what’s wrong.”

with a abrupt scoff, he yanks off the silky woven fabric of his kimono - callused fingertips brushing against the material. your eyes ogle at the sight he’s showing you, his exposed body. you’ve seen him shirtless countless of times but this time, it was different. the second your eyes rover toward his swollen perky nipples, you see it. pearly remnants of white droplets seep from him and you hold back a sheepish snort.

“oh,” and you’re stunned, hearing him groan. although it didn’t sound like an irritated groan as usual—it sounded more pleasurable. sukuna buries his sharp fingertips into his thigh before you inch closer, softening your voice. “my lord. are you . . lactating?”

there’s a long pause—his chest huffs and his pink cheeks puff out. the more you laid your eyes on him, the more embarrassed he became.

the air surrounding the both of you suddenly felt hot, and with one of his hands, he tightens his grip against his throne’s armrest. “no, i don’t even know what this is,” he gruffs, and his breath hitches once you come closer to fully examine him. your eyes skim down every part of his body. with his kimono hanging onto him by a thread, it’s almost falling off his body. you gaze at his perfectly sculptured body. his muscles—you could stare all day if you really wanted. people would kill to be this close to the king, and yet here you were. his pecs seemed a bit tender from appearance and his entire body was sheeny, covered with a shiny coat of sweat. his ancient tattoo markings that paint his skin—they were glowing a bit too, glowing an almost crystalline color. “tch. stop starin’ at it. it’s creepin’ me out.”

“sorry,” you hum, but you don’t lose sight at all. you couldn’t. averting your eyes back toward the problem, as you spoke—each nipple was leaking with creamy substance. “um, so how long has this been happening, my lord?”

sukuna slumps back against his throne in exhaustion. he’s breaking an entire cold sweat and his mind was in a literal euphoric daze.

his entire body feels like it’s sweltering with heat, it’s purely indescribable. but it feels good.

it takes him a good seven seconds before he finally murmurs out a hoarse reply. “ugh, it maybe started about a hour ago,” and he pauses, gnawing down on his bottom lip. you watch and you couldn’t lie—seeing him like this, so vulnerable and desperate—it did something to you. you’re so used to a ruthless cold-hearted king, it’s like this current sukuna was an entire different person, an imposter. briefly, ruby-red eyes meet back toward you. “just make it stop. please.”

“what—” you murmur, and your wrist was gently pulled upon. you don’t pull away from his grasp and he leads your hand closer toward his chest. his entire abdomen, it was so warm. sukuna was burning up, and now that your fingertips were brushing up and down against his skin, he was even hotter.

“don’t say anything, woman,” he curses, shame tremoring underneath his husky tone.

sukuna ryōmen was embarrassed, and his awkward body language was a dead giveaway.

the past hour was absolute hell for him, ironic considering. you can hear him panting between broken sentences before he lightly squeezes your wrist. “touch me. i think physical touch might h- help,” he grunts a stammer, back pressing into his steel made throne. “i read somewhere that you might ease my um . . issue if you touch me.”

“you mean ease your lactating?” you tease, taking the opportunity to get right on his lap. at the second you do, his breath hitches. the audacity, your legs wrap around his slim torso before meeting his glossed gaze.

sukuna grimaces. “don’t call it that, brat,” sucking his teeth in annoyance, he rests back against his kingly seat, eyeing you cautiously. a few of his arms grab ahold of your waist, pulling you closer. his pecs tense up at the proximity of bodies closing the remaining distance. his nipples were even more swollen by this point, and you couldn’t help but stare—gawk at the uncanny sight right in front of you. “but yeah. just do something.”

with the demon right underneath you, you felt him shiver once you scoot up against his lap. tresses of pink spiked hair were unkempt, sticking to his forehead as he’s just bathing in his own sweat. this entire situation had him hot, but your touch was only going to make it so much worse. he swallows the circular lump that forms in his throat only to then grow quiet as he watched you lower your head toward his chiseled pecs.

he’s so toned, you spot a few prodding veins roam down each of his four arms—perfectly coating his body along with his scars and ancient notorious marks. sukuna’s entire body was a canvas that you didn’t mind exploring. his entire body was painted either markings, you just wanted to see more of him.

the inside of his royal chambers was quiet, deadly quiet.

so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

“may i?” you murmur, using the padded print of your thumb to gingerly smear the dripping substance that leaks from his nipple. the way it poured out of him so effortlessly, it was so lewd.

you knew judging from his changing breath patterns that his pecs were where he was most sensitive. it wasn’t exactly rocket science.

although it’s the heian era—most would have took sukuna as a king who’s had his fair share of women. he has, but never anything intimate. he was secretly sensitive and shy, and furthermore, even touch alone was enough to get him off. with you though, he never minded your touch. it was his favorite.

“hmph. do your w- worst,” the demon grumbles, trying to have a bit of attitude but it’s clear he’s already wrapped around your pretty little finger.

he called you out of all his other servants and concubines for a reason. to him, he didn’t see you as either role, but rather just a human.

his human, maybe even his favorite.

at his bellowing comply, you bring your lips closer toward his chest. with hooded eyes—he ogles at the sight, his throne occasionally creaking at the moving pounds of weight that’s creating pressure.

as your head goes further into him, you do the least thing he’d expect. you latch your lips against his right nipple. sukuna lets off a throaty gasp, feeling your warm welcoming lips cling onto his pec with such ease.

“ugh, brat,” he groans, burying a few darkened nails into his left knee. it was tame—it was tame until your tongue decided to feature itself in, flicking slowly against his leaking nipple. you moan, fluttering your lashes shut as you savor the creamy taste that trickles its way into your mouth. “fuck, i said touch not s- suck.” and he finds himself pulling you closer, using a hand to cradle the back of your head. he’s never felt such a feeling. his pec was positioned right in your mouth and it felt so good.

you lean into his touch, sliding your twitching tongue in different directions purposely just to feel him squirm.

one of his arms drags you tighter, wrapping around your torso as you occupy your mouth.

the taste was sweet, it’s as if this entire thing was some sort of fantasy. of course—you had lots of questions, for starters—since when can demons lactate? rephrase that, since when can sukuna ryōmen lactate? but you were more of the ‘do first ask later’ type considering you were too busy to even ponder more of the thought.

sukuna bites his lip, feeling a strain in his boxers as he hears the occasional pops and slurrrrps of your mouth. “y- you’re fuckin’ nasty,” he huffs, but his voice cracks, butchering his once intimidating delivery entirely.

nasty but he didn’t want you to stop,

nasty but he felt himself getting hard the more you grind against his lap,

nasty but he’s holding back his needy bratty moans by biting his fangs down on his tongue.

sukuna purses his arched pink brows together into a frustrated furrow as his head tosses itself back. within seconds, you taste more of the candied flavor — it’s almost got a bit of a bittersweet honey taste to it. it sprinkles onto your sensitive taste buds and your eyes squeeze a bit, moving your head against each of his pecs to give them both equal amounts of attention. the demon’s nipples were even more red and swollen now, glimmering with your saliva dribbling from the centers. “hah, f- fuck,” he breathes, still maintaining a grip on the back of your head. you sit up to collect breaths yourself, licking your stained lips before he stares at you. his eyelids lower and he’s already whipped. “i— oh fuck.”

you raise a brow, opening your mouth to speak before you suddenly pause.

sukuna was quiet, too quiet.

with his kimono still half on, he’s practically shirtless. toned chiseled pecs stare at you right in the eye before you feel the heavy print of his dick directly underneath your shorts.

“my lord,” you sheepishly rub your neck, fingertips skimming against the few hairs that stand. there’s a certain wet spot that’s damp on the fabric of his lower clothing. your words were smooth, he could listen to you speak all day. with a smug smile curling against the corners of your lips, you throw your arms over his broad shoulders. “did you just . . cum?”

“nonsense,” sukuna denies you right away, the cutest grump of a pout stretching against his lips.

but, oh he did.

and it was a tough pill to swallow. sukuna, the sukuna who’s often known as his righteous title of being the king of curses, feared upon many, had just came. not only that, but he came from you sucking on his nipples. he came from the little problem he was currently having. out of all the enemies he’s beaten—this had to be the toughest one. he didn’t know how to deal with it nor did he know how to defeat it. the weakness was him.

and yet, that’s why he called you.

the feeling of your warm rotund lips attached to his nipples, he already missed it. it’s been seconds since you pried your mouth away and he missed it so bad. the way you sucked against his tender skin, your hot breaths fanning into his skin, making him even more hot.

sukuna was having withdrawals of you and your tongue slowly lapping up the excess ‘milk’ that dribbled out of each nipple.

this was crazy,

this is crazy.

he’s a demon for crying out loud—he’s never heard of demons doing such things. lactation. what even is lactation? sukuna knows such an activity was for women, not him.

but here he was, weak and panting like a dog, all for more of your beloved touch.

sukuna’s lying back, staring at you with docile blown irises—he’s at his worst, clammy hands never leaving the sides of your waist.

“fine. i . . came,” he murmurs in defeat, taking every spare second to gasp for air.

he’s drowning in sweat, probably drowning in his own heat too. with a pout continuing to compress across his lips, his voice lowers. but once you prepare to sit up, he lightly grabs your wrist. “fuck, don’t go yet,” he utters, knowing you did your part successfully in helping him. he hated how he was suddenly so weak, so dependent, so . . . submissive.

after all, you did help ease him a bit— although he was still begging for more.

it was as if some sort of sorcery spell was casted on him. this was a curse, yeah it had to be.

to sukuna, it couldn’t have been a more reasonable explanation. you peer at him as he speaks and he’s trying to find the exact right words without embarrassing himself. there’s a scowl that continues to marinate agaunst facial features before he sighs. “i- there’s somethin’ else,” he admits, hanging his head down in ignominy. he’s annoyed, sukuna groans at the words that were hanging onto his teeth—trying desperately not to slip them out but he can’t take it anymore.

he wants you.

he needs you.

“since you helped with my . . situation, it’s made me a little um—famished.”

you gulp, barely catching on to what he was implying—yet with a blink of an eye, you then find yourself arched over the arm of sukuna’s throne.

“i’m so fuckin’ starved,” he grunts, using a hand to caress the bare skin of your exposed flesh. serrated fingertips lightly graze against you as he feels everywhere that’s presented to him. the palm of his hand feels all up and down your curves, taking in your gorgeous physiques. he wanted to touch you. sukuna was horrible at expressing his feelings—yet he found himself humping his pillow at the thought of you. he didn’t know how to voice how bad he wanted you, but now that this moment was finally here, he couldn’t waste anymore time.

you’re so pretty, especially in such a erotic position. it seems as though a wave of clouded lust wafts in the air. sukuna tugs on the hem of your shorts, so needy to get a taste. he was dehydrated—but not for water.

“please,” a husky low voice pleads, groans and groans scratching out of his throat. you decide to tease him, wriggling your ass in the air right in front of his face before he hisses. “tsk. such a brat.”

“go ‘head.” you mumble, clinging onto the edge of the throne for support.

your positioning was a bit awkward but you made it work. you bury your head into your arms before he shifts—sitting up to prop himself right against you from behind.

sukuna wastes no time, dragging your shorts to your knees before scoffing at your laced panties. so soaked, his tongue eagerly licks against his lips as if it was natural animal instinct.

you weren’t just soaked, you were sopping.

he saw the dampened fabric and couldn’t help but lean in—placing his tongue right against the wet spot that formed. “ngh,” he purrs, and you feel the texture of his forked tongue tickle against your protected clit. you moan, biting back on your incoming words and growls before he gives your sloppy entrance a chaste kiss. “god, w- what’s wrong with me. i feel so hot.”

pathetically, he’s stammering out a bunch of words as he slowly laps his tongue against your sobbing cunt. sukuna grumbles in exasperation at how your panties got in the way of his ‘meal’ but literally forgot he had to actually pry take them off of you.

he was lazy though — so instead, he easily pulls them to the side to get a better and wetter view.

“so sloppy,” he snickers, admiring the way you’re dribbling with slick. it’s so ethereal, nothing like he’s ever seen before. a translucent tint colors down your drooling folds and you gasp once he starts to suck against your pussy. almost immediately, you throb right in his mouth and he feels the greeting pulse. “mhh—stay still, let me eat p-please.”

sukuna sounds so desperate—you don’t think you’ve ever heard your king beg.

he wasn’t begging for forgiveness, to cleanse sins, nothing of the sort. but alas, instead, he was just begging for pussy.

your pussy.

he couldn’t help it, especially when you tasted so good. your flavor was something he severely dreamt of devouring.

you might have just been his favorite for a reason. sukuna groans as his tongue maneuvers in multiple directions near your clit until he slurps vigorously against your tender labia. “fuck, m- my lord,” you whine, the stickiness between your thighs soaking more onto your skin.

you were dripping like a faucet, and it doesn’t take that long before his entire chin gets coated with your syrupy arousal.

it’s to no one’s surprise really, and he doesn’t even mind. he’s honored, lapping it up with his tongue before blowing his warm breath against your spiraling convulsing cunt. your breath continues to hitch and hitch as he dives his deeper. the button tip of his nose swipes back ‘n forth against your folds and you whimper.

he’s slurping you clean, through and through. sukuna’s got two wide hands to spread your ass apart more, delving his long pink tongue back and forth between your puffed entrance—you whimper out his regal title of his name and it falls off your tongue in such a sweet way every time. “y- your tongue’s so long, fuck. right there, don’t stoppp.”

but tasting you wasn’t enough - he wanted more.

strings of your webby slick entangle with his saliva as he suddenly departs his lips away. he’s gasping for air, swiping a tongue near your puckering hole before spitting right on it. a hand feels against your twitching cunt before he spanks it — his palm now coated with your slick.

you were sopping wet, and with how you just spurt on his hand, he wanted to make you wet even more.

it’s slow,

he watches with hooded eyes as your soddened entrance gets soaked and even more drenched. all from his hands and tongue. you could only imagine what he actually felt like from the inside.

“more,” was all he could moan out, and his pecs started to feel tender again.

his body was so strange—there’s a weird sensation that’s tingling in every part of him but it feels good.

you pout once he abruptly stops eating you out, only for him to flip you over. facing him and back on his lap, you’re met with the hungry eyes of a demon who wants more than just a taste.

he wants you.

with the help of his arms, he positions you upright on his lap again. you’re straddling him—but the difference was that you didn’t have any shorts on from before. “i- i want you to ride me, woman. can you do that?” and you can hear the faint plead in his voice—he looks desperate, he was breaking more sweats as each second passes.

“yeah,” you hum, cupping his face.

the demon surprisingly leans into his touch. the warmth of your palms made his heart stir into mush. a hand of his reaches down to play with the string of your panties that was shoved to the side but with quick reflexes—you grab his wrist. “nuh uh,” and he scowls, watching as you use your other hand to spring out his achy cock. “no touching just yet.”

he bares a fang at you. the nerve, if it was anyone else it’d be off with their head in an instant. but to sukuna, he found your teasing behavior to be quite . . cute.

of course, he’d rather perish than admit that thought to your face. just like how he secretly fantasizes about you but— he wants to keep at least some pride, even if it’s just a little.

“keh, you’re getting cocky, brat. remember your place,” he grouses, pink brows tugging amongst each other. his pout never left him and it only made him more adorable. sukuna’s eyes flicker down at your hand that’s now wrapped around his length. he swallows thickly, a breath of fresh air leaving from his full lungs. “hurry up. don’t got all da—”

“you talk too much,” you press your palm over his mouth, silencing the remaining of his sentence.

you’re met with a stone cold glare—but his vexed gaze gradually turns into a look of desired pleasure once you’re aligning yourself on his leaky tip.

his lips were so close to your palm - out of nowhere, you then feel his tongue lick against your hand. you refrain from giggling before feeling his angered tip slowly start to insert its way inside. the stretch, he’s so thick that your mouth drops open and you moan. he’s finally going inside—it’s better than he thought it would be. you’re so hot inside and it’s got his head spinning. gnawing on the skin of your lip, you let off a soft shaky whine. “fuck, you’re so big.”

he shakes his head, making you loosen your grip against his mouth before he boasts loudly. “heh, of course i’m big. you wouldn’t last a second with both of my cocks. i’d break you in hal— shit.”

he’s cut off by the rudeness of your cunt. you sink down on him and his tip poked a certain area inside of you that scratches your brain.

you bite back an incoming moan as your swollen cunt constricts around his length invitingly. his tip blushes inside—you reel into him, an attempt to steady yourself before already gasping for air.

the girthy stretch was immaculate, the base of his cock was tannish and already preparing itself to be milked. sukuna had a bit of a hooked curve. you felt it and you felt the stretch.

it was purely appetizing, almost drool worthy. just a few seconds in and he was already rearranging your insides. as you’re trying to start up a pace, you don’t know why but the thought of taking both of sukuna’s cocks made you a lot more wetter than you thought it would.

he’s mentioned it at least once or twice and you knew for a fact he probably would break you. there’s no probably, he really would. the demon was twice your size—alas anything was possible.

you lean in for a kiss and he instantly responds by returning the gesture. you taste so flavorsome and sweet - his tongue swirls against the lip gloss that paints on your mouth before he groans.

with lips moving in syncing tavern, you start to rock your hips a bit quicker.

the creaking of his throne gets louder until it’s just echoing, bouncing off the ancient walls of his chambers.

your cunt was just being ravaged by his hefty size, he’s just so big that you could barely even keep up your hips at first. sukuna’s hands—all of his hands roam over your body, clinging onto your hips and even a few feel near your chest. he gives your breasts a soft squeeze, a few thumbs toying with your perky nipples that poke out through the wooly-made blouse you were.

“f- fuuuck,” he swears between hot kisses, clawing a hand at your back.

as you rode him, his heartbeat starts to accelerate. you were a menace, rutting clashing hips gave him whiplash as the minutes pass. you were coating him in a mess of your own. sappy strings of your juices form into a saturated web with his own colorless mess that resides near his thickset base. you’re being so stretched. you cup his face once more whilst tongues fight and fight for dominance and tango together.

above him—you’re just a puddled mess.

sukuna couldn’t keep his hands off you no matter how hard he tried.

strained inhales escape out of him while he breaks away from kisses every few seconds. you were addicting - addictive.

his velvet red lips were all swollen and pursed up from your kisses and he’s desperately yearning for more of your syrupy forbidden taste. you were sweet, but your pulsating cunt was even sweeter.

with a quick piston of his hips, you felt your body jolt up. “hngh,” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his broad neck once more. from the neck down, his entire body was lathered with perspiration. sukuna was already feral, his hair was a mess and his fangs stuck out from his lips as he lies back. he hits every part of you so good, every single spot.

you’re struck in awe at how well his cock carves its way through your insides so perfectly, so thoroughly. it knows exactly where to go, never once missing the crevices of your pussy. despite having little to no experience—you could say he was definitely a quick learner. sukuna’s cock french kisses against your g-spot a plethora of times, creating a sloppy trail of them to send every part of your body butterflies. “ ‘m getting close, ‘kuna.”

“tsk. it’s still ‘my lord’ to you,” he corrects.

yet even though he’s trying to keep his cold façade - he’s failing miserably. sukuna’s bottom lip quivers as he cups your chin, hearing the filthy weeping squelches of your cunt grow louder. with each thrust, it gets more blaring to his ears and he groans at the tenderness he’s constantly feeling. “but ‘m gettin’ close too. so f- fuckin’ close.”

you hear how his voice shakes — his irises, they’re dilating from how you’re intently staring back.

but oh, he’s whipped.

a pair of hands grip onto your waist tightly, encouraging you to create more haste with your movements. your body swerves in swift arcs, feeling the sudden lock occur in your knees that’s buried into his thighs. he’s hitting you deep and he’s hitting you raw. you blabber out a few whimpers before slumping into his chest.

“fuck, fuck,” you sob out, reaching a hand down to spread two fingers against your pearled clit. you were throbbing, a sheath of your arousal then starts to cover his entire length the more you bounce. your folds were weeping as you grinded further against him. but as you’re chasing your incoming high, you lean in toward his pecs, taking one of his sensitive nipples into your mouth again.

and sukuna does the one thing you never thought he’d ever do.

he whimpers.

it sounds so pretty - so harmonic.

it’s like it happens on random—out of nowhere, he starts to lactate again. the familiar taste from earlier cascades down on your tongue and you suck a bit harder, moaning against his sensitive skin.

the jittery vibrations of your noises makes him groan, awkwardly ruffling your hair. “hah, g- good girl. milk me, that’s it. jus’ like that, keep going.”

and your hips slow down a bit so you can get a good angle. as you come to a brief stop, your body acclimates against him, but even still—you had a lot to get used to, especially with how well he stretched you out.

it’s pouring out a lot now, a bit of it starts to dribble down your chin and he just watches.

his cock twitches at the sight and you feel it from the inside. both bodies move rhythmically against each other and it feels like momentarily bliss.

your hand still has itself occupied between your thighs, playing with yourself to quicken your release.

it was right there, right at the tip of your tongue. sukuna moves a few strands of hair out of your face as you sucked against each pec. as he silently watches, if you squint you could see heart eyes forming in his pupils.

his nipples had so many nerves - so many nerves that he felt.

“god,” he curses, his thigh starting to bounce. you both were close, so so close.

sukuna feels his body temperature grow hotter the more your tongue whisks against each tender nub. it spills down the crevices of your lips. again, he’s just thinking how such a thing was even possible. you were so unapologetically messy too, he used a thumb to swipe the milky dripping substance away from the fissures of your plump lips.

you moaned, the stimulation of your cunt adequately sucking him dry continuously making you more and more aroused.

leisurely, an unpredictable wave of electricity prepares itself as you’re rutting into him on constant repeat. your unsteady rhythm had his jaw locked and he could barely utter out any final words at the moment because your pussy had him so utterly drunk.

the epitome of pussy drunk,

you finish first and it’s like you were shooting actual blanks.

your mind goes dimwitted as you’re gushing all over his cock, covering him in your obscene filth. “fuck, fuck,” you whimper out in a whine of individual babbles and doing so, your hips pick up again its recent speed. just for a moment. he groans at the skin against skin contact, throwing his head back and his adam’s apple bobs. it’s such a sight, you throbbed right between your legs.

sukuna crudely spanks your ass, his palm leaving a temporary sting before he squeezes it, admiring the precious recoil.

it takes you a second to realize you’re squirting. you were already dumb, but once you’re finally succumbing to pleasure, your mouth opens. “oh my goddd.” you elongate your moans, dragging out your sweet melodic words. your walls were preparing to wring him dry. from the inside—they cling onto him tight like velcro, you were attached and there was no pulling you off.

as you moan out your final vehement whines, you go back to sucking on his tender nipples and now . . . it was his turn.

“y’ jus’ squirt all over me ‘n ya still haven’t had enough,” he whews, his cock repeatedly and rigorously punctuating each single thrust. there’s a ringing in his ears, it’s loud and deafening. sukuna’s eyes grow droopy at the mere feeling and repetitive sounds of skin slap slap slapping every few seconds.

“ ‘m gonna cum—” and he pauses, gingerly pulling your head up so you can face him directly. your hips start to slow down again but it’s still got somewhat of a fair pace. with his bottom lip poking out, he’s still pouting visibly. “oi, brat. i- i can finish inside, huh? wanna fill you up. ‘m burnin’ up, fuck.”

you give him a nod, savoring his frosted taste that’s still remaining to drizzle onto your tongue.“mhm,” and as you’re still very much sensitive yourself, you slowly jerk back and forth despite how your pace wasn’t as fast as it was before.

“fuck, ‘m gonna give you so much,” he grunts, dewy lips mashing together as he spoke. he was so full and yet he had so much to give. sukuna feels himself grow inside you from each pump, he’s so thick that you’re just wholly tongue-tied.

the muscles in his abs tense and tighten before he grabs the fat of your ass with a single bare hand. “shit shit, take it all. take it all please.”

and at his feeble pulse, the moment finally comes where he shoots inside.

sukuna collapses back into his throne, bringing an arm hand toward himself to cover a broad hand over his face.

he grunts lowly into his palm and its sexy, his posture was so lazy and yet he was still so pent up. your limbs were just as limp as his, weak and defeated. a decent load of cum oozes into you raw and you gasp whilst his perky nipple was still in your mouth.

coincidentally enough, as he’s cumming—he ends up lactating at the same time too. more of his creamy substance pours onto your tongue while he’s pumping you full of satiny fresh ropes of sultry hot cum. it’s carnal.

you moan, losing yourself in such pungent nirvana as his taste suddenly turns sweeter.

sukuna was milked out entirely. he’s squeezing against your ass even tighter as he’s dumping such massive loads into your needy cunt. it was goopy—strings and strings of his cum tangle with your slick juices and you only imagined what it looked like up close. your hips moderately slow all the way until you’re just barely grinding against him now.

panting, you find yourself tracing the outline of his ancient tattoo markings with the tip of your finger.

your touch, by this point he was gonna cum again.

it’s a lot. actually, saying it was a lot was a bit of an understatement.

you don’t register how much he’s flooded into your pussy until you finally pry your mouth away from his chest, looking down at the impure sight.

so much, your entrance was filled to the very brim with such a nice amount, sweltering from the outside of your folds.

“you’re really sensitive,” you breathe, numbing thighs of your own gluing together against him. you didn’t want to move because it would spill out but it did anyway. a few wads of creamy ropes dribble down your swollen slit and you watch, scrapping a bit of it up with your thumb. “mmm,” you coo out, shoving and smearing the sticky strands of filth back inside. you felt so full, you don’t think you’ve ever felt more stuffed. the base of his cock was gummed with your slick along with a concoction of his own miry mess.

as you’re still trying to recollect breaths, you plant a kiss near the corner of his lips, watching it twitch at your touch. “my lord, you did so good. i didn’t think you’d cum from just getting milked.”

“s- sukuna,” he whines out his name as a form of correction. doing so, you lean into his touch once he cups your chin for the nth time.

his hold on you was always gentle—he’s got the most neediest look in his eyes, longing for you to continue to ‘aid’ him of his problem.

you worn him out— not only that but you milked him for all he was worth and yet he was still cumming.

“jus’ call me sukuna,” and your heart flutters at the sudden privilege. you’re still straddling him, keeping his cock warm before he leans in for a kiss.

you thought it was a kiss but instead, he inches his face toward your chin before lolling out his long forked tongue, licking the remaining excess milk that was running down your chin from earlier. “call me sukuna, mistress . . please.”

[jcmarchi]

Professor Emeritus John Vander Sande, microscopist, entrepreneur, and admired mentor, dies at 80

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/professor-emeritus-john-vander-sande-microscopist-entrepreneur-and-admired-mentor-dies-at-80/

Professor Emeritus John Vander Sande, microscopist, entrepreneur, and admired mentor, dies at 80

MIT Professor Emeritus John B. Vander Sande, a pioneer in electron microscopy and beloved educator and advisor known for his warmth and empathetic instruction, died June 28 in Newbury, Massachusetts. He was 80.

The Cecil and Ida Green Distinguished Professor in the Department of Materials Science and Engineering (DMSE), Vander Sande was a physical metallurgist, studying the physical properties and structure of metals and alloys. His long career included a major entrepreneurial pursuit, launching American Superconductor; forming international academic partnerships; and serving in numerous administrative roles at MIT and, after his retirement, one in Iceland.

Vander Sande’s interests encompassed more than science and technology; a self-taught scholar on 17th- and 18th-century furniture, he boasts a production credit in the 1996 film “The Crucible.”

He is perhaps best remembered for bringing the first scanning transmission electron microscope (STEM) into the United States. This powerful microscope uses a beam of electrons to scan material samples and investigate their structure and composition.

“John was the person who really built up what became the MIT’s modern microscopy expertise,” says Samuel M. Allen, the POSCO Professor Emeritus of Physical Metallurgy. Vander Sande studied electron microscopy during a postdoctoral fellowship at Oxford University in England with luminaries Sir Peter Hirsch and Colin Humphreys. “The people who wrote the first book on transmission electron microscopy were all there at Oxford, and John basically brought that expertise to MIT in his teaching and mentoring.”

Born in Baltimore, Maryland, in 1944, Vander Sande grew up in Westwood, New Jersey. He studied mechanical engineering at Stevens Institute of Technology, earning a bachelor’s degree in 1966, and switched to materials science and engineering at Northwestern University, receiving a PhD in 1970. Following his time at Oxford, Vander Sande joined MIT as assistant professor in 1971.

A vision for advanced microscopy

At MIT, Vander Sande became known as a leading practitioner of weak-beam microscopy, a technique refined by Hirsch to improve images of dislocations, tiny imperfections in crystalline materials that help researchers determine why materials fail.

His procurement of the STEM instrument from the U.K. company Vacuum Generators in the mid-1970s was a substantial innovation, allowing researchers to visualize individual atoms and identify chemical elements in materials.

“He showed the capabilities of new techniques, like scanning transmission electron microscopy, in understanding the physics and chemistry of materials at the nanoscale,” says Yet-Ming Chiang, the Kyocera Professor of Ceramics at DMSE. Today, MIT.nano stands as one of the world’s foremost facilities for advanced microscopy techniques. “He paved the way, at MIT, certainly, and more broadly, to those state-of-the-art instruments that we have today.”

The director of a microscopy laboratory at MIT, Vander Sande used instruments like that early STEM and its successors to study how manufacturing processes affect material structure and properties.

One focus was rapid solidification, which involves cooling materials quickly to enhance their properties. Tom Kelly, a PhD student in the late 1970s, worked with Vander Sande to explore how fast-cooling molten metal as powder changes its internal structure. They discovered that “precipitates,” or small particles formed during the rapid cooling, made the metal stronger.

“It took me at least a year to finally get some success. But we did succeed,” says Kelly, CEO of STEAM Instruments, a startup that is developing mass spectrometry technology, which measures and analyzes atoms emitted by substances. “That was John who brought that project and the solution to the table.”

Using his deep expertise in metals and other materials, including superconducting oxides, which can conduct electricity when cooled to low temperatures, Vander Sande co-founded American Superconductor with fellow DMSE faculty member Greg Yurek in 1987. The company produced high-temperature superconducting wires now used in renewable energy technology.

“In the MIT entrepreneurial ecosystem, American Superconductor was a pioneer,” says Chiang, who was part of the startup’s co-founding membership. “It was one of the early companies that was formed on the basis of research at MIT, in which faculty spun out a company, as opposed to graduates starting companies.”

To teach them is to know them

While Yurek left MIT to lead the American Superconductor full time as CEO, Vander Sande stayed on the faculty at DMSE, remaining a consultant to the company and board member for many years.

That comes as no surprise to his students, who recall a passionate and devoted educator and mentor.

“He was a terrific teacher,” says Frank Gayle, a former PhD student of Vander Sande’s who recently retired from his job as director at the National Institute of Standards and Technology. “He would take the really complex subjects, super mathematical and complicated, and he would teach them in a way that you felt comfortable as a student learning them. He really had a terrific knack for that.”

Chiang said Vander Sande was an “exceptionally clear” lecturer who would use memorable imagery to get concepts across, like comparing heterogenous nanoparticles, tiny particles that have a varied structure or composition, to a black-and-white Holstein cow. “Hard to forget,” Chiang says.

Powering Vander Sande’s teaching, Gayle said, was an aptitude for knowing the people he was teaching, for recognizing their backgrounds and what they knew and didn’t know. He likened Vander Sande to a dad on Take Your Kid to Work Day, demystifying an unfamiliar world. “He had some way of doing that, and then he figured out how to get the pieces together to make it comprehensible.”

He brought a similar talent to mentorship, with an emphasis on the individual rather than the project, Gayle says. “He really worked with people to encourage them to do creative things and encouraged their creativity.”

Kelly, who was a University of Wisconsin professor before becoming a repeat entrepreneur, says Vander Sande was an exceptional role model for young grad students.

“When you see these people who’ve accomplished a lot, you’re afraid to even talk to them,” he says. “But in reality, they’re regular people. One of the things I learned from John was that he’s just a regular person who does good work. I realized that, Hey, I can be a regular person and do good work, too.”

Another former grad student, Matt Libera, says he learned as much about life from Vander Sande as he did about materials science and engineering.

“Because he was not just a scientist-engineer, but really a well-rounded human being and shared a lot of experience and advice that went beyond just the science,” says Libera, a materials science and engineering professor at Stevens Institute of Technology, Vander Sande’s alma mater.

“A rare talent”

Vander Sande was equally dedicated to MIT and his department. In DMSE, he was on multiple committees, on undergraduates and curriculum development, and in 1991 he was appointed associate dean of the School of Engineering. He served in the position until 1999, taking over as acting dean twice.

“I remember that that took up a huge amount of his time,” Chiang says. Vander Sande lived in Newbury, Massachusetts, and he and his wife, Marie-Teresa, who long worked for MIT’s Industrial Liaison Program, would travel together to Cambridge by car. “He once told me that he did a lot of the work related to his deanship during that long commute back and forth from Newbury.”

Gayle says Vander Sande’s remarkable communication and people skills are what made him a good fit for leadership roles. “He had a rare talent for those things.”

He also was a bridge from MIT to the rest of the world. Vander Sande played a leading role in establishing the Singapore-MIT Alliance for Research and Technology, a teaching partnership that set up Institute-modeled graduate programs at Singaporean universities. And he was the director of MIT’s half of the Cambridge-MIT Institute, a collaboration with the University of Cambridge in the U.K. that focused on student and faculty exchanges, integrated research, and professional development. Retiring from MIT in 2006, he pursued academic projects in Ecuador, Morocco, and Iceland, and served as acting provost of Reykjavik University from 2009 to 2010.

He had numerous interests outside work, including college football and sports cars, but his greatest passion was for antiques, mainly early American furniture.

A self-taught expert in antiquarian arts, he gave lectures on connoisseurship and attended auctions and antique shows. His interest extended to his home, built in 1697, which had low ceilings that were inconvenient for the 6-foot-1 Vander Sande.

So respected was he for his expertise that the production crew for 20th Century Fox’s “The Crucible” sought him out. The film, about the Salem, Massachusetts, witch trials, was set in 1692. The crew made copies of furniture from his collection, and Vander Sande consulted on set design and decoration to ensure historical accuracy.

His passion extended beyond just historical artifacts, says Professor Emeritus Allen. He was profoundly interested in learning about the people behind them.

“He liked to read firsthand accounts, letters and stuff,” he says. “His real interest was trying to understand how people two centuries ago or more thought, what their lives were like. It wasn’t just that he was an antiques collector.”

Vander Sande is survived by his wife, Marie-Teresa Vander Sande; his son, John Franklin VanderSande, and his wife, Melanie; his daughter, Rosse Marais VanderSande Ellis, and her husband, Zak Ellis; and grandchildren Gabriel Rhys Pelletier, Sophia Marais VanderSande, and John Christian VanderSande.

[placeinthemiddleofnowhere]

A Rocky Start

Pairing: König x Reader

Summary: You're determined to find out why everyone thinks König is so scary, afterall he's just some guy that's taller than most people right? He's probably harmless! Well, he's a little scary, but you still like him anyway.

(No use of y/n or mention of gender/race)

Part 1 of A Rocky Start - Full Masterlist Here

-☠️-

There was one thing that was a given when it came to the KorTac guys - stay the fuck away from König. It wasn’t a spoken rule or anything, but everyone tended to avoid him whenever he was around. He would loom in corners and sit silently like a mountain at tables, sending people running off whenever he so much as looked in their direction with his shadowy crystalline eyes. 

It made you curious eventually, how could it not? Why was everyone so afraid of him? Was it his sheer size alone or was it the dubious nature of KorTac combined with his blank crocodilian stares? Perhaps a combination of all of those, you'd figured.

Though, one day you finally decided to settle your curiosity, you’d thought he looked harmless enough - you caught him cleaning his gun and humming an unfamiliar tune in the kitchen. There was no one else around, just König and the meticulously laid out pieces of his weapon laying on the table. 

You supposed he was probably unaware of any observers, you were nicknamed Sneak for a reason after all (much to your chagrin, what kind of a name was that? It didn’t exactly inspire awe or fear like the other guys in your unit). So you stopped in your tracks, deciding to join him instead of carrying on down the hall. He couldn’t be as bad as people made him out to be, right? 

“Just back from a mission?” You asked, making your way into the kitchen.

Most people shit themselves when you did that - when you’d stroll in and break the silence out of nowhere. Though König merely looked up from the piece he’d been focusing on polishing and fixed his eyes on you. It was as if he’d known you’d been there all along. 

“Yes,” he finally said, quiet voice muffled through his hood.

He sounded strained, as if he might have said more, but thought better of it. You smiled and fetched a mug from one of the creaky cabinets and set it silently on the counter, pausing as you were about to reach for the kettle. 

“Would you like some tea?” You offered. 

He tilted his head to the side for a moment, considering your question as if it merited more brain power than it did. He let the silence brew a little before he shook his head, the heavy material of his sniper hood accentuating his answer. 

“No thank you,” he said briskly. 

You shrugged and offered another smile for good measure. This was probably the most anyone from around the base had talked to the big guy, you wanted to set a good impression. You wanted to show him there was someone around that wasn’t so afraid - like the comms guys -  or merely indifferent - as was the case with guys like your lieutenant. 

The room was rumbling with the noise of the kettle as you set the water to boil, though after a few seconds you realised that the humming that had been there before had stopped. König had gone back to his work, but he was silent this time. You missed the sound of the old fashioned tune that had been bouncing through the corridors before.

“What was the song you were humming?”

You’d waited to ask your question once the water was finished boiling. You had your back to him as you poured it generously into your cup and set the kettle back down again, turning to see Königs measured stare toward you. He didn’t look very pleased, his eyes were narrowing and his gloved grip on the cloth he was holding looked tight. The steam that was billowing out of your cup could very well be pouring out of his ears under that hood for all you'd known. 

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, I just heard it when I was coming into the room,” you explained, holding your hands up in appeasement. 

König continued to stare at you with that shark-like gaze, as if you were a silly warbling seal swimming up to him. You tilted your head, wondering if he was going to get angry, but instead he looked back toward the doorway and peered around as if someone were waiting there, ready to strike. 

“Something wrong?” You asked, following his gaze and trying to find what he was searching for. 

“You ask a lot of questions.”

Königs eyes returned to you and you stared dumbly back at him. What could you say to that? 

“Just making conversation,” you laughed, stirring the darkening water in your cup. “But I guess you’re the quiet type? I’ll leave you alone soon, I’m almost done.”

You were just about to dispose of your teabag and be on your way when the silence was broken by his gravelly voice again. He probably could’ve done with taking you up on your offer, his mouth was clearly dry from disuse.

“No one ever talks to me when I’m here...”

He trailed off as if in thought, considering his next words carefully. You tilted your head this time and felt your heartbeat pattering in your chest, thudding faster as you thought about what he said. It must be crappy to be ignored all the time. 

“Did someone put you up to this?” He finally asked, eyes narrowing again. 

“What? God no, I just didn’t want to do that thing I always do where I walk into a room like a silent assassin and scare the crap outta you when I finally make a noise,” you babbled, “plus It’s kinda rude to ignore people, yknow? And doubly rude to make a drink and not offer to someone else that’s sitting right there.”

Your voice pitched probably three times higher than it normally did, you sounded like a squeaky toy. Finally, you were beginning to understand why most people kept out of his way. That calculating glare could freeze the devil himself - you felt like you were walking along the edge of the Andes. 

“Oh.”

That was all he said. Oh. He sounded light, his tone had shifted once again. Well that was better than, I don’t believe you and you’re a minute away from being at the end of this reassembled rifle. However, you’d wished he’d said more. 

Instead, he went back to his work and kept his head down. His eyes were completely hidden from your view now.

End of interaction. Peace out.

You frowned, but decided not to pester him anymore. Instead, you walked out of the room with your cup in hand, ducking out like a shadow and sticking to the walls. 

Note to self - stay the fuck away from König. 

-☠️-

The next time you encountered him, König was once again alone in the kitchen, and this time you weren’t looking to disturb his peace. However, you did really want to make a cup of tea. You paused from your spot by the doorway, angling yourself so that you couldn’t be seen, and considered your next move, wondering if it was worth being in there alone with him again after your last not so friendly encounter.

Don’t be ridiculous, you thought to yourself. It wasn’t like he could actually do anything to you, you’d just go in and get your tea and leave again. In and out, nice and quiet. You’d be fine.

Though, when you finally crept into the kitchen you were faced immediately with his blank stare as he stood by the freshly boiled kettle. Finally someone had given you a taste of your own medicine and scared the shit out of you. You jumped and clutched at your heart, glaring over at him when you inevitably recovered. 

“Tea, yeah?”

You frowned, looking confusedly at the hooded man. What?

“Tea?” you repeated, feeling like you were in some kind of sketch show. 

“Would you like me to make you a cup?” he asked, voice lilting with amusement. 

Oh!

He’d practically chased you out the room last time for asking that very same question and now he was playing house for you? You felt your lip curve into a smile and nodded your head. This was a welcome change to being accused of toying with him. 

You were about to tell him to get one of the herbal teas you kept shoved to the back, the ones no one else ever touched because they’d be too afraid of the mockery, but you were stopped before you could open your mouth. König selected one of the flowery bags without being told and plopped it in a fresh cup of boiled water before he tended to his own cup, stirring in a dark instant coffee. 

“What have you been doing today?” he asked cheerfully, hood shifting as he motioned his head.

Had you emerged into another universe? Was this a different König you were speaking to? You smirked to yourself seeing as he couldn’t catch you with his back turned and took a second to think about your answer. It’s not like you'd had an exciting day, but him being chatty all of a sudden really had you second guessing yourself.

“Uh, did some training, hung out with some of the guys for a bit. I was actually just watching a movie there, but I got thirsty…soooo here I am,” you said finally, watching as he stirred up the drinks. “What about you?”

“I was here for a debriefing, but I was dismissed before it ended and now I seem to be at a loose end,” he answered, finally handing you your tea. 

“Huh, that’s annoying.” 

You both sat in silence for a moment after that, you sipped on your hot tea and watched with amusement as König took to looking at his coffee, stuck in a dilemma. He couldn’t very well drink his coffee with his hood on, so either he would have to remove it, or he’d have to remove himself from the room. 

Oh, this should be interesting. 

Your eyes widened as he made up his mind and lifted the bottom of his hood, revealing his stubbly golden chin and soft pink lips. He was hiding a pretty face under there, a little bruised, but very defined. From what you could make out of his jaw at least, he seemed like a good looking man.

You briefly thought of Ghost, remembering back to all the times Soap teased the Lieutenant for probably being a “big ugly bastard under that mask” and realised you assumed the same of König. Well there was that theory out the window. 

Once König finished taking a drink his eyes wandered over to yours and you panicked, feeling your heart leap into your throat as you raced to cover up your staring. You’d made headway with him, and you didn’t want to set him back by making him feel like a museum exhibit. Not to mention, you’d flustered yourself thinking about how soft his lips looked. 

“You wanna watch the rest of my movie with me?” you asked hurriedly, hoping to distract him from your mini freak out. 

When you finally met his gaze again, König looked surprised. His eyes were widened into crystal saucers, but he soon seemed to recover and tilted his head at you, considering his answer. 

“What are you watching?” 

“Uh, I only have a few movies downloaded on my tablet, but I was just starting to watch Rocky if you like that? We can always put something else on though, I’ve seen it a million times…”

König paused in thought, then looked back at you. 

“I’ve never seen it.”

“Never seen- What? I don’t understand?”

“I believe that was the correct way to say I’ve never watched Rocky, no?” He laughed.

His voice sounded light and airy, nothing like it had the last time you’d encountered one another. It almost felt like you were just two normal people conversing, instead of you talking to the scariest man on the base. Well, neck and neck for the scariest man on the base - Ghost was top dog in that area most of the time. 

“No, like grammatically sure, but I just don’t think those are words that should be said. Rocky is a classic,” you explained, looking at him as seriously as if he’d just said he liked to kick old people in his down time. “We gotta fix this!”

“We do?”

“Yes! Just- trust me, this is happening. Stay there, ok?” 

“Is that an order?” he asked, amusement snaking around his words.

“Yes, soldier,” you grinned, 

With that you raced off to get your tablet and found yourself back in the kitchen quicker than light speed, practically hearing the whoosh of air that fell behind you as it feathered through your hair. You were so caught up in the euphoria of showing someone one of your favourite films, you didn’t even blink at the fact you’d ordered König to sit and watch it with you. 

Though, despite being all too capable of moving away because he wasn’t taking any of your shit, König remained in place and continued to sip at his coffee. You walked in just as he was taking another drink, letting you confirm for a fact that your original thoughts were indeed correct. There was a good looking guy hidden under all those layers somewhere.

Focus!

You pulled yourself out of your thoughts and motioned for him to join you on the ratty couch in the corner - if you were going to be providing him with a cinematic education, you resolved that you weren’t going to have a sore ass afterwards. So, with that, he silently got up and joined you, sitting his massive frame down on the other end of the small leather couch. The seat was cosy at the best of times, but it was especially cramped with the giant you had next to you. 

You decided not to think about it too much. Instead, you set the scrubber back to its starting position on your tablet and held it at the edge of your lap, making sure that König could see. Then, without further ado you hit play, and watched giddily for his reactions, excited to see what he thought of the movie.

While it played, there were a few people that came into the kitchen. They clearly hadn’t spotted you two in the corner to begin with, but once they had they set about getting what they wanted and left like there was a great migration. Even with you there, it wasn’t enough to offset the fear of König, people that usually smiled when they saw you were turning away like you were sat there licking a leper. 

You paid them no mind, instead you bounced between watching Rocky and watching König, grinning to yourself when he smiled at parts or gasped softly to himself. He was a very kinetic movie watcher, he fidgeted and raced his knees, but despite that he stayed next to you watching the whole thing.

It was priceless. You’d not only broken down König’s barriers enough that he was actually talking to you, but you had him watching one of your favourite films and he was enjoying it!

“So, what’d you think?” you asked as soon as the credits played. 

You weren’t letting him think about it - you wanted his honest answer. 

“I liked it, it wasn’t what I expected, actually…”

“Oh?”

“I thought it was just going to be a dumb boxing movie, but it wasn’t,” he shrugged. “His character was pretty interesting too. He kinda comes off as someone that would be a big two dimensional aggressive guy, but he was actually pretty nice.”

Like someone else you know…

You smiled to yourself. You’d both succeeded in befriending König and getting him to watch Rocky, so your mission for the day had been achieved and you could go to bed happy. No doubt, you’d be thinking of what you’d seen under that hood in your last conscious thoughts, but that was for later. 

“Well, thank you for watching the movie with me. I suppose I better go find my team now,” König murmured politely, shifting from his position.

During the movie he’d drawn closer to you, you supposed to see better, but couldn’t help noticing that he’d been touching you for half the run time. His big bulky thighs were pressed up against yours and he leaned into you more and more over time, almost stifling you with his warmth. Though, you felt like you missed his body heat now as he stood up and walked over to the door. 

Though, he didn’t leave without acknowledging you again. 

“I’ll see you another time, yeah?”

“Course! Thanks for the tea as well, you brewed it just right,” you complimented, lifting your now empty cup.

He didn’t answer, he just nodded and you could’ve sworn you caught a twinkle in his eyes before he walked off out of sight. Well that just happened. 

You sat almost giggling as you thought about how close you’d been to him, and how many glances you’d gotten of that chiselled jawline. If you weren’t certain before, you were sure now. You had a crush on König - The resident scarecrow. You knew you had a thing for big guys and accents, but for a time you’d managed to suppress your interest in König given his reputation. Though, now that had all changed apparently. 

Just as you were getting up to get a bottle of water, you froze as you heard Ghost’s rasp from down the hallway and shook yourself off. You couldn’t walk around with your head in the stars while he was around. He’d ask questions, and you hardly wanted to talk to him about your new found crush.

“Oh, well look who it is, Johnny, little Sneak.”

You bit your lip and squeezed the water bottle in your hand, hoping to relieve the pressure that had creeped down your spine. They were onto you already.

“Two cups o’ tea was it?” Soap teased, eyeing up the mugs you’d just placed in the sink. 

“No, just one,” you said through a strained smile. “Can I make you both some?”

“You know I prefer the normal stuff,” Ghost said, emphasising exactly what he thought of your fruity herbal tea, “but I hear you had someone joining you, and like Johnny so observantly pointed out - you got two cups there, sweetheart.” 

Fuck. Clearly gossip had got round and now you were in an interrogation with the only two men that could put most old biddies to shame. You weren’t ready for their teasing, if they got wind of your feelings for König it was over for you. It would be all there was to talk about. 

“I did have someone join me,” you answered nonchalantly. “You know I hardly ever sit by myself.” 

“Hmm, usually don’t take up König’s company though, do you?”

You felt your body go rigid and licked your lips, uncomfortably standing there as Ghost kept perfect eye contact with you while he poured water into the kettle. He fetched a pot noodle from one of the cupboards and you found your breath again when he finally looked away. Your nerve was somewhere outside the field of his vision. 

“I was just watching a movie with him.”

“You were watching Rocky with him,” Soap noted. “That’s your favourite, right?”

“Well, yeah…I always watch it.”

“Sharing your favourite movie with your favourite KorTac operator, sounds cosy,” Ghost chuckled, pouring the boiled water into his instant noodles. 

You swore your legs were going as soft as the contents of that black plastic pot. You could only dream that the ground swallowed you up in a whirlpool of water and took you away. Though, unfortunately, you remained stuck in place.

“He’s hardly my favourite, I just started talking to the guy,” you frowned.

“So you’ll be talking more with him then?” Ghost asked, stirring the boiling cup with a fork. 

You had half a mind to knock the pot noodle all over him, and if he weren’t leagues above you in rank and stature, you actually might have. You’d pity the poor person that would do that to Ghost though. Instead, you shrugged and got on with washing the mugs and made a move to leave, but you were blocked by Soap, who’s bulging arm was hardly an easy obstacle to overcome. 

“The Lieutenant asked you a question,” Soap grinned.

You sighed.

“It’s polite to make conversation,” you said simply, tilting your chin up to meet Ghost’s gaze. “So, I suppose I will, yes.”

“Well, as long as it's all just polite conversation, Sneaky.” Ghost said, tilting his shoulders up teasingly. 

You frowned at the two men in front of you and looked between them, catching the hard look that was in both their faces - or rather in Ghost's eyes. Despite the fact they were above you, it hardly concerned them who you spend your time talking to. Especially when it was someone that wasn’t even in your squad. It’s not like he was a superior or anything…

“I hardly see why it concerns the two of you.”

Soap raised his eyebrows, surprised you had the balls to come back at Ghost like that. And soon enough you were doing the same as you realised what you’d actually said. 

“It doesn’t concern us, it concerns Price,” Ghost shrugged, “He said, and you can go confirm with the Captain if you like ‘I catch Sneaky and that psychotic mammoth cunt together, they’re going to be scrubbing toilets well into retirement’.”

“Price didn’t call him a cunt to be fair,” Soap corrected, smiling as he caught your gaping mouth. “But yeah, that was the long and short of it.”

How the fuck did word get all the way to Price? You hardly had to ask, it was definitely the gossips in front of you that had told him. And even so, to your earlier point, why did it matter to Price who you ‘got together’ with? And scrubbing toilets? Really? 

“You two are fucking with me aren’t you?” you smiled, tilting your head in hopes the captain wasn’t seriously putting the order out for you to stay away from König. 

Ghost and Soap both looked at each other and laughed, tipping their heads back like they were in a cartoon. For a brief second you had hope that you were right, and that would be the end of it, but soon enough Ghost was staring you dead in the eyes again with that ghoulish look of his and killed your moment of peace dead.

“Oh no, he was absolutely serious, love. He doesn’t like König one bit.”

You gulped and begun to reconsider your crush. Was a handsome jawline worth the risk of being knee deep in piss? 

“If you ask us though, you make a real sharp couple o’ coconuts,” Soap laughed, recalling a line from the aforementioned film. 

Oh now it was going to get childish. That was your queue to leave.

“Oh really?” you replied sarcastically, moving around him finally and heading toward the doorway.

You were ready to escape from their scrutinising looks and dumb comments. 

“You’re right, Johnny. It’s just like the movie - they’re dumb and he’s shy! Wait - it’s the other way around innit?”

You growl out in frustration and traipse down the hall, listening to their hyena like laughter die out as you escape from them. Being stuck with them on the next mission was going to be hell. As was another encounter with a certain forbidden KorTac operator…

-☠-

Next Part

[pluvialpoet]

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself 

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot. 

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway.  While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.” 

 As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.” 

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory-  but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly. 

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once. 

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined. 

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?” 

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.” 

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?” 

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them. 

Not the way they used to, anyway. 

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,” 

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

everyone who requested to be tagged: @js-favnanadoongi @kalulakunundrum @1lellykins @octodog17 @novelizt @nesta-houseofwindfantasy @corgiqween576 @whiteglovemanor @godcreatoreli @lassmich1 @consternat1on @deffnotnia @haloney @iananiko @noodlesketchbook @thescarletcryptid @obsessedwthdilfs @vanice-e @taintedmaroon @holybatflapexpert @whatismypurpos @heylookwhoitis @corpseflower6 @heavenlym0chi @lokiwannacry @boywondergrayson @tetzoro @oiztsy @naf3211

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Send me some feedback, or request to be added to my taglist! (please specify which taglist you’d like to be added to- character or general) !Requests: OPEN!

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[materiallugy]

Crystalline imperfections of materials

In reality, crystals are never perfect, and they contain various types of imperfections and defects that affect many of their physical and mechanical properties, which in turn affect many important engineering properties of materials such asthe cold formability of alloys, the electronic conductivity of semiconductors, the rate of migration of atoms in alloys (Diffusion), and the corrosion of metals.

Crystalline Imperfections

Crystalline imperfections, also known as crystal defects or lattice defects, are deviations from the ideal atomic arrangement in a crystalline material. Crystalline materials have a regular and repeating three-dimensional atomic or molecular structure. However, in reality, perfect crystals are rare, and most materials contain various types of imperfections. These imperfections can significantly impact the properties and behavior of the material.

Types of imperfections in crystals

Crystalline imperfections are classified according to their geometry and shape into:

Zero-dimensional or point defects.

One-dimensional or line defects (dislocations).

Two-dimensional or Planar defects.

Three-dimensional volume defects.

Read more:

[anantaru]

DAY 5 — APHRODISIACS

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — tighnari, kazuha

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, aphrodisiacs, dry humping, cowgirl, a little sweaty (side effect of the drug) & lots of cum, feral feral feral, both parties are consenting

𖧡 — TIGHNARI

before you can blink, tighnari presses a metal, at a size of a toothpick, with a drop of crystalline liquid against your tongue, the fluid thawing into your flesh before you're closing your mouth, watching how he's planting the exact same dose on the inside of his lips— moreover, in just a matter of time the bizarre solution began to express certain signs on the state of your body and overall mental capacity when you're touching all over each other, lightheaded tearing and feeling each other up, as if detained by a beclouded response.

the wet sounds of your lips crushing on top of his, rounding your tongue inside his mouth in an almost animalistic rush while your nails were desperate to rake over tighnari's scalp, digits brushing over his sensitive ears to pull him close, the kissing turning heavy when he settles one of his hands on your back, squeezing you against his scorching hot, reactive body with his growing erection nestled in between, in dire need to expose of those tight, uncomfortable pants.

it feels like torture was slowly being forced on to the both of your bodies— despite it being tighnari himself assuring you about the strange substance he was researching on, that you will experience a sense of unwavering calmness, hand in hand with a collected perception by an additional seventy percent.

the side effects would barely show themselves, he promised before muttering something under his breath, but now— the obscene sounds of sloppy kissing slowly drilled and conquered your mind, by now being pressed tightly against the bed, your pussy soaked through the flimsy material of your panting and clenching in longing for his cock to finally bore inside.

tighnari humps his aching cock into your clothed pussy, adding and greatly fueling the frustration and helplessness, if neither of you don't turns out mad because of the mixure taking your mind hostage, you would certainly go mad from lust.

whilst, particularly how tighnari was placing his length just the right way on your core— with towering on top, adjusting his hips and grinding in between your folds until all the way up to your clit, he rubs you there too, thrusting fast with no remorse as to how you're being ruined by not only the drug rampaging inside your blood, but him appearing feral alike.

"fuck—" tighnari moans, "i feel.. hot." and almost winces, cupping the side of one of your thighs to pull you close, his disheveled clothes glued on his body due to the excess sweat the drug was producing, his lips shortly after trailing down against your ear to your neck which also had a faint film of perspiration on top, causing the helplessly rocking of his hips pressed against your wet pussy to increase, hitting extremely near to an orgasm without even taking your clothes off.

"baby.. please." you say, "tighnari— i feel so good.." you repeat and say it loud enough that it would suffocate you— and everything feels heavy around your muscles, your drenched clothes webbed on your skin, the humidity of the room burdening a hefty amount that it limits your capability to breathe as tighnari hides in the nook of your neck, your head falling back before he ends up to shifts his entire weight on top of your body.

you're distorted with pleasure, welcoming the blows of his hips rutting into your clothed pussy as your panties messily crumble against your folds— dried up with your arousal and a surplus of sweat you have to tell tighnari about adding on to the possible side effects.

although in spite of that, neither of you cared about that presently, tighnari was more so occupied on crumbling his eyes down to your wet, fluttering hole and your underwear soaked, presenting the outline of a perfect cunt to his hankering gaze.

𖧡 — KAZUHA

kazuha grins widely at you, drunken on a literal winning smile when you swallow down the strange pill he flaunted in front of your very curious, enchanting eyes— to take it, gulp it down and let it work it's so called “magic”, as he tends to say, whereas his hands were there to take you, listlessly going around the plush of your ass while he's aiding you in straddling his lap.

interestingly enough, it has merely been a good ten minutes before your reactive senses sharpened and you perceive everything to a greater degree now— the aphrodisiac expanding in your system, littering around your body to work when you flinch at the uncommon sensation, then whine against kazuha’s lips, melting your tongues in a heated exchange. his traces and rubs on you felt like fire against your hypersensitive flesh, but, archons, how come being on fire suddenly feels so unexpectedly good?

with deft movements, kazuha clumsily unbuttons his pants and tugs them down his legs so they'd hang uselessly around his knees, opening the view to his cock throbbing in between your thighs— he's swollen and his girth looks in pain, and you're taking it in your hand before placing your cunt right on top, small, needy ruts sending shivers down the entirety of your spine.

his mouth finds yours the second your hips roll into his ache, hungrily pressing your core on him yet all you really longed for was for him to sink his cock inside you, right now, please.

neither of you was intending to wait any longer, especially with the pent up frustration growing and being amplified by a ten fold. you quickly push your panties aside, your boyfriend watching you intently whilst drinking in the moans you'd let out against his lips from his cock fusing on your soaked cunt, his mouth attaching around your every curve on your face as you hear him sigh heavily against your ear.

whilst kazuha was left with no choice, thinking that if he wasn't about to slide his cock inside your warm, wet cunt, he would end up exploding from the painful bristling on his groin, together with your hearts racing and synchronizing, chests pressed against one another, his free hand helping you to take him inside as you're sinking down on his inches, swallowing him whole, the movements slow yet powerful enough to have you whine through a clenched jaw, responding to the slow, deep kisses of his swelled tip nudging against your fuzzy patches with gentle ruts of his cock, jointly with his other hand swiping over your hips, your body jolting at the contact of his nails digging into the plush of your ass.

and when it's all said and done, the drug had sent you into a frenzy, the small dose of the aphrodisiac long since devouring you.

by contrast, kazuha was insatiable, the sweet moans from your lips growing a warm, flushed shade on his face as his cock drags against the spongey spot within your walls, hips rolling, pressing inside the flesh fast and your cunt giving his length good squeezes that he's sighing your name in a breathy heave. the stickiness between your legs and across kazuha's lower stomach making your toes curl in both embarrassment and the need to continue.

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[lovebugism]

How about "89. I’m drunk and fall asleep in a snow bank and you’re the kind stranger yanking me to my feet and lecturing me on how dangerous that is" with Steve?

ty for requesting!! — steve harrington rescues you, his worst enemy, after finding you all alone on a snowy bench on main street (enemies to lovers, hurt/comfort, tw for toxic relationships, 2.4k)

blurbcember ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

On his way home from the Wheeler holiday party, Steve thinks he sees a dead body in the snow.

He slows at a stoplight and knows he sees a dead body in the snow.

With nothing but sheer stupidity and a savior complex, the boy rushes out of his warm car and into the vacant road on Main Street. The piling snow crunches under his sneakers and dampens them instantly. Crystalline flakes fall from the pitch-black sky at a merciless rate, sticking to his lashes and his fuzzy Christmas sweater. 

The snow glistens as it clings to the limp body lying on the bench. A girl, Steve realizes as he gets closer — a pretty girl in a pretty dress who’s not at all clothed for this kind of weather. 

He steps closer, blinks snowflakes from his eyes, and realizes that it’s you. The reigning princess of Hawkins. The homecoming queen. His absolute worst enemy. 

Steve loses his sympathy in an instant. Now that he knows you’re not dead, anyway. 

But he nudges at you gently — just to make sure — and you grumble something unintelligible into your folded-up arms.

“What are you doing?” he wonders aloud.

“What’s it look like?” you slur, rubbing your cheek against your sleeve like a cat.

“It’s freezing out. You know that, right?”

“Really?” you muse sleepily, eyes still shut. “I haven’t noticed.”

Steve scoffs a bitter laugh and rolls his honey eyes. He puts his hands on his waist, cocks his hips to the side, and leers down at you even though you can’t see him. He wonders if you even recognize his voice — if that’s the reason you’re being so short with him or if you’re just too drunk to care.

“It’s good to know you’re still a priss after all this time. It’s really refreshing, actually.”

He expects you to argue with him. That’s what you used to do, anyway. Your relationship (or lack thereof) is built on this kind of petty, meaningless banter. So he feels a little empty when you don’t bite back. Maybe even a little bad.

You fall back to sleep, a soft snore sounding from your throat. You shift in your slumber and it sends you rolling off the bench. Steve catches you before you can. He puts you back into place with two warm hands around your arms.

“Alright. Get up,” he says with an annoyed huff.

“No, thank you,” you sigh, still sleepy.

“No. Seriously. Get up before you get frostbite.” 

His voice is coated with an obvious concern. You don’t miss it — not even in your exhausted, drunken, and heartbroken state. Maybe that’s why you don’t fight him as much when he forces you to sit up, but you’re still hardly more than dead weight. He’s forced to hold you so you don’t fall over again.

Steve can see you better now that you’re fully upright. Snowflakes stick to the strands of your done-up hair, made-up lashes, and the knit material of your dress. Your eyeliner is smudged beneath your eyes, and your lipstick has been mostly kissed off. There’s a hole in the knee of your tights, too, and scuff marks on the toe of your boots.

You’re pretty. You’ve always been pretty, but just a little extra now. Way too beautiful to be all alone on this bench in the middle of Main Street.

“What are you doing here?” Steve blurts as he crouches in front of you. Snow wets the knee of his jeans, but he’s too distracted by you to care. “Where’s your boyfriend? Why isn’t he with you?”

He can’t even say the name — of your douchebag boyfriend, that is. Just thinking of the words Billy and Hargrove makes him feel like vomiting. Steve didn’t think he could hate anyone more than he hated you until he met that asshole. The two of you deserve each other, really.

Your tired head lolls to your shoulder. Your eyes flutter shut as you shrug.

“You weren’t with him?” the boy presses.

“I was,” you slur dramatically. “But he left.”

“He left you?”

You nod, slow and lazy.

“He left you here?”

You nod again.

Steve’s chest stings. His heart aches for you, even though he knows it shouldn’t.

“Why?” he agonizes.

“I got too drunk at a party… And I talked to a guy he didn’t like very much.”

“Then what?”

You start to go limp in his hold. Exhaustion weighs you down again, accelerated by the winter’s bitter cold. Steve squeezes your arms to keep you upright. Your eyes open again but the lids of them are visibly heavy. 

“Um… We fought in the car. And he told me to get out,” you explain in mumbled slurs. Your voice is calm and airy, as light as the falling snow. You’re too drunk to understand how heartbreaking this is. “And I tried to get back home, but then I forgot how to walk.”

Steve’s eyes start to burn. He feels like he could cry. Because sure, you’ve been his enemy since the third grade, but you’re soft and you’re gentle and utterly undeserving of Billy’s assholery. 

Because of this (and his lingering savior complex), he feels the overwhelming urge to take care of you.

“Here. C’mon,” he huffs as he rises to full height again, jaw tense to keep his teeth from chattering. He tugs at your arms to pull you up with him. You comply (as best you can on frozen, drunken limbs) but not without confusion. Your face twists with it.

“What?” you murmur.

“Get in the car, okay? C’mon.”

You plant your feet. It becomes virtually impossible to move you. You and Steve idle at a standstill with your shoes digging into the piling snow. Your toes feel close to frozen, but your hands are strangely warm with Steve holding them so tight.

“No,” you insist, dramatically stubborn in your less-than-sober state.

“No?”

“Billy will get mad.” 

Steve scoffs. “Screw Billy.”

“I do that already.” Your reply comes so swiftly, and without a single hint of a smirk, that it’s impossible to tell if you’re joking or not. Maybe you aren’t and you’re just too drunk to understand sarcasm. Maybe you are joking and the receptors in your brain aren’t firing properly enough to tell you to smile at yourself.

Either way, Steve’s face scrunches with disgust. “Gross,” he mumbles under his breath.

—————

Steve has to drag you to his car. 

He puts his palm over the crown of your head to keep you from bumping it when you duck inside. He guides your legs in, too, when you have trouble maneuvering them. Then he reaches over to buckle you in before you have to ask him for help — because god knows there’s no way you could do it on your own.

He smells like cedar and something sweet when he leans over you. His whole car smells like that, actually. It’s nice. Comforting. Almost achingly warm. 

You curl into the heated seat and provide exactly zero help when he drives you home.

“You still alive?” he asks after a couple minutes of driving.

You grunt, slumped over in your seat with your forehead pressed against the window.

“What’s your address?”

“Hm?” 

“Where do you live?” he presses.

“Why do you wanna know, perv?” you slur, obviously not all there as you shift to get more comfortable in the passenger seat of his car.

Steve scoffs. “Oh, right. I’m the perv ‘cause I didn’t leave you out in the freezing cold. Makes so much sense. Maybe next time, don’t call me when your asshole boyfriend abandons you, alright?”

He’s bitter. Intentionally hurtful. 

You’re too drunk to understand. “I didn’t call you in the first place,” you retort sleepily.

He falters. “Well— you know what I mean.”

“I can’t go home,” you answer finally.

His structured features twist with concern, but your eyes are closed so you don’t see it. His honeyed gaze squints with worry, flitting from your limp form to the darkened road and back again. “Why?”

“‘Cause I live with Billy. And he doesn’t want me there,” you tell him with a lazy shrug. Then, more quietly, you mumble. “Nobody wants me anywhere…”

You say it so softly that he barely hears it. He wishes he hadn’t. It’d make it a whole lot easier to hate you if you were still the same priss he grew up with. He isn’t so sure that you are — or if you ever were. All you are to him now is a heartbroken girl he found in the snow, in desperate need of some kindness.

So when you drift off again, he lets you. And he doesn’t wake you until you get to his house.

You feel the warmth of his presence first — the weight of his chest at your side and his hand on your waist. Your heavy eyes flutter open to find him leaning over you. He fusses with the seatbelt buckle for a moment before it clicks.

“What are you doing?” you wonder aloud, voice weighed down by exhaustion. There’s a million questions swirling in your head right now — where am I, why are you here, why are you taking care of me. That was just the first to slip out.

“Good. Now I don’t have to carry you,” Steve jokes.

He holds your hand to help you out of the car, then wraps an arm around your waist to keep you from falling. He guides you towards a too big house, lit up white with expensive Christmas decorations.

“Where are we?”

“My place. You can sleep off the alcohol on my couch.”

Your head lolls to your shoulder, eyes red-rimmed and glassy as you blink up at him. “And they say chivalry is dead,” you tease, still slightly misarticulate — though not nearly as much as when he found you in the show.

Steve’s rolling his eyes at you one moment, silently scolding himself for getting out of his car in the first place — and the next, he’s standing in his kitchen, filling up a glass of water and putting slices of bread on a plate for you. He even cuts off the goddamned crust. Just in case.

He left you on the couch in the living room, but you’re gone when he gets back. It’s like he blinks, and he’s annoyed with you all over again. A huff tumbles from his mouth as he trudges up the stairs to find you.

The door to his room is cracked open. 

He finds you curled up in the center of his bed.

“No. Nope,” Steve scolds as he walks further inside. He sits the bread and the water on his nightstand and tries to shake you awake. You’re totally knocked out, hardly anything more than deadweight from the alcohol. 

And he can’t even be mad at you about it because it’s not even your fault. You shouldn’t have gotten left in the first place.

“C’mon. Get up— you’re not sleeping in my bed,” he insists. His hand curls around your arm with the intent to pull you up before he realizes how cold you are. You’re freezing, even over your dress. The notion makes Steve stop in place. 

He squints to take a better look at you — to really look at you — and swears the color of your skin is tinted blue from the cold. Your mascara is smeared — from where you’d been crying, maybe. He thinks those might be dried tear stains on your cheeks, too.

All at once, he doesn’t have the heart to wake you. He curses himself for being so hard on you. You never deserved it — not tonight, not ever — and he figures this is his time to atone.

He maneuvers you beneath his navy blue sheets with a warm and gentle hand. He brings the top of the comforter up to your jaw and you curl into his bed on instinct, sighing as you settle further into the warmth. 

Your eyes are still closed and you’re still barely conscious, but the pillow is soft against your cheek. It smells like floral detergent and musky cologne and sweet-smelling hairspray. It brings you a foreign comfort that lulls you into a deeper, much-needed sleep.

Steve settles beside you, over the covers and with his clothes still on. He wants to be awake in case you need him. He doesn’t want you to get sick and not be alert enough to help you. 

He’s laughing at the sound of your gentle snores one moment, then falling asleep to them the next.

Hawkins’ royalty. Arch enemies since elementary school. Sleeping together in one bed like you haven’t spent the majority of your lives hatingeach other.

You sleep soundly together in spite of all that. You don’t wake for several hours — not until you’ve slept the alcohol off and your suddenly sober brain reminds you of the night before. Touchy guy on the dance floor, Billy’s rough hand around your wrist, “God, you’re such a slut!” 

The last thing you remember is passing out on a bench on Main Street, so you’re not entirely sure how you ended up in a bed. 

You wake with a start, distinctly and palpably terrified. 

You’re rousing wakes Steve up, too.

“Billy?” you murmur, heavy with sleep, as you squint in the navy blue darkness. 

A part of you hopes it was all just a too vivid nightmare. Or, at the very least, that your boyfriend came to his senses and picked you up after completely abandoning you — but somehow that feels more unrealistic than all the shit he put you through the evening before.

“No—” Steve answers groggily, then clears throat when the word gets stuck there. He rises to his elbows and looks over his shoulder at you, squinting a tired eye to see you better. “No, it’s— it’s Steve.”

He can’t see you too well, not in the pitch black of his bedroom, but he swears he hears you sigh. One of relief, maybe, or maybe one of ease. Either way, you don’t seem very upset that he’s here with you.

“Oh,” you answer, still a bit breathless. “Okay…” You lie back down again, feeling eons safer than just seconds before, as you curl back into your shape on his mattress. You sigh into your pillow and try not to gravitate towards the warmth beside you.

Steve’s hands fidget with a similar fight to keep from holding you. “It’s okay,” he settles on instead, hoping his words can embrace you in a way he doesn’t let himself. “You’re okay.”