#Stainless steel double lift table

[superliftcanada]

Compelling Reasons to Buy Stainless Steel Low Profile Table

Stainless steel low-profile tables are mostly used in different fields due to their unique characteristics like reduced height and sleek design. Loaded with outstanding industry-friendly features like versatility, durability, and aesthetic appeal, they make the working environment smooth and free from clutter. Due to these outstanding features, one can buy stainless steel low profile table to make the industrial application even more efficient. 

Application of Stainless Steel Low Profile Table 

Here is the major application of the stainless steel low-profile table. 

Manufacturing and Industrial Application 

These low-profile tables are used extensively in various industrial applications to smooth out processes while carrying out different manufacturing applications. Their robust construction allows them to withstand heavy machinery and equipment, and their low profile makes them easy for industrial operators to access. These tables work well, particularly at workstations where workers have to move large or heavy items. 

Food Processing Industry 

When it comes to the food processing industry, they ought to be safe from all odds, and in such conditions, low-profile stainless steel tables become essential. This is because the material is completely non-porous, resistant to corrosion, and easy to clean, so there will not be much effort required to ready the table for the next process. These tables offer ample workspace for food preparation and can withstand the constant cleaning and sanitizing required in these environments. 

Medical and Laboratory 

Stainless steel is perfect for use in medical and laboratory environments because it is resistant to germs and other diseases. Low profile tables minimize the danger of strain and injury for laboratory workers and other medical professionals by providing a sturdy surface for tools and equipment and by having a lower height that may be modified to meet individual ergonomic needs.

Retail Industry 

These tables are used for product displays in retail environments. Their sleek, contemporary look improves the merchandise's aesthetic appeal. The low profile makes it simple for customers to interact with the products, which could improve engagement and lead to a rise in sales.

Residential Application 

Low-profile stainless steel tables provide fashionable and useful furniture for homes. They are especially well-liked in industrial and contemporary home design styles. Kitchens, dining rooms, and workplaces can all benefit from their robustness and resilience to stains and damage.

Why Use Stainless Steel Low Profile Table? 

The best advantages of these stainless steel low-profile tables are mentioned here. 

Durable and Hygienic 

Stainless steel is well known for being strong and resilient to deterioration. This material is suitable for low profile tables that must withstand severe usage and weather without losing structural integrity. They are therefore an affordable investment for both home and business use. Because stainless steel is non-porous and does not retain bacteria, maintaining a sterile atmosphere is simple. In environments where cleanliness is crucial, such as hospitals, labs, and food preparation areas, this is especially crucial.

Corrosion Resistance and Aesthetically Rich 

Stainless steel's clean and contemporary appearance improves any space's aesthetics. Because of its sophisticated reflecting surface, it's a popular option for high-end kitchens, cutting-edge labs, and chic retail spaces. These tables will always look good and work well because stainless steel is resistant to rust and corrosion, even in the presence of chemicals and moisture. This is especially helpful in contexts like the industrial and culinary industries where exposure to these components occurs often.

When you buy a stainless steel low-profile table, you have plenty of reasons to rejoice. From durability, aesthetic appeal, and versatility to making them for a wide range of applications, these tables can make the work environments safe and sound. Whether you install these tables in any industrial setting, culinary environment, or medical facility, they can deliver the best results as per your requirement by optimizing the space and making the work environment even more productive. 

Resource: https://superliftcanada.wordpress.com/2024/06/18/compelling-reasons-to-buy-stainless-steel-low-profile-table/

[peachesofteal]

ghoap x reader / 18+ mdni / dark themes / prev here / masterlist

Six thirty in the morning might be your favorite time of day. 

It’s the before.

Before anyone else comes in, before the morning rush, before the chime of the front door’s bell, before the shop is filled with lines of people, before it all upends you.

At six thirty in the morning, you sit in the back, perched on the prep table, with a fresh cup of coffee. You leave the side door open, screen separating you from the world, fresh air mixing with the smell of strawberry basil scones, cinnamon coffee cake and mini kolaches, fruited with whatever jam you’ve managed to throw together. Steam rises, semolina spills, the sun dawns, and the world wakes… all well after you’ve had your breakfast.

This corner of the city is busy, and the shop always hums like a well-oiled machine in the dregs of a rush, the front counter team churning out specialty coffees and teas effortlessly. It’s cyclical, similar faces every day, morning commuters rushing in and out, locals settling in a nook with their laptops and lattes, people swinging in for a quick bite. You hide in the back, usually, elbow deep in sudsy warm water with your mountain of dishes, answering the occasional shout of 'do we have more of-' and 'just sold the last-'

This morning in particular, cranberry orange scones, pumpkin muffins and mini quiches are the only things left cooling on the speed racks, waiting patiently for their turn to be placed in the display case, an endless cycle of replenishment lasting until the rush dies down, morning fading into afternoon, triple shot monstrosities turning into decaf coffees. 

It’s laborious, this routine. Five, six, sometimes seven days a week, going to bed with the sun, rising before it. Your wrists ache from rolling dough, cutting dough, scraping dough. Your back weeps when you lift the bowl from the mixer stand every morning, and your joints fare no better. You need new boots, and new insoles for your new boots, and probably a new standing mat, though you know your boss will never go for it. 

You’re tired.

The exhaustion settles into your bones easily today, wearing you down until you’re allowing your eyes to close, wilting atop the butcher’s block- 

The shop phone rings. 

You heave yourself down and swing through the double doors to the front, scrambling for the classic corded receiver, nearly fumbling it in your hands. 

“Hello?” Shit. You always forget to answer with the shop’s name. You’re not exactly the customer facing part of the operation. “Galaxy’s.” You correct and… wait. 

There’s no response. 

You think you can hear someone breathing, something rustling, but it’s too faint and difficult to make out. 

“’Lo?” You try again, but still, there’s silence. It’s an unending moment, you on one end… who knows what on the other, and you hold your breath, straining to hear, to listen. 

The line clicks dead in the next second. 

Odd. 

The shop girl is chewing gum. 

You’ve told her a million times not to chew gum when she’s working the counter, but clearly, she’s never heard of norovirus, and you’re not the boss, or the owner, so being the broken record only gets you so far. 

“There’s someone out front to see you.” She snaps it between her front teeth, and your molars grind together like stone. 

“Who?” You toss a clean towel on the stainless steel table in the middle of the kitchen with a frown. You don’t really get visitors here, most of your friends are in the same industry, and either work the line too late to be up in time to even get coffee somewhere, or are already at work, buried beneath a bain-marie and the never-ending sound of a ticket printer. 

There’s dried, caulked dough caked to your fingers, shoved up underneath your nails, and you brush them self-consciously against the ratty old apron stretched across your waist. 

The surprise lingers on your tongue, and then explodes when you spot the massive dusky blonde from the other day, the one who was with the guy who split the coffee all over your favorite dress. He’s too tall, and too broad, and too imposing, everything in your sense of self-preservation screaming at you to run when he notices you approaching, gleam of a predator sparkling in his eyes.  

Still, somewhere, tucked away, it thrills you, the idea of them, the balancing act, two halves of a whole. He’s etched from stone, strong and steady, while his partner is saporous, vibrant, and riotous, crystal blue eyes sparkling in the mid-day sun. 

You wonder what they're like. What they talk about. What they do.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Your skin prickles once you fall into his orbit, immobilized by the molten toffee pooling around his irises. You float for a second, tracing his knife’s edged jaw, the fullness of his lips, imperfect pieces puzzled together to make a masterpiece, and then crash back to earth quickly, realizing you’re standing in front of him… staring. 

“Uh. Hi.” What is he doing here? How did he know where to find you?

“Sorry to barge in on you at work.” He starts immediately, wallet appearing from his back pocket like a magic trick. “Wanted to make sure we settled up.” Thick fingers hold a folded nest of notes, and you stare down at them, slowly processing what he means.

Cash? 

“Oh, I… I have… venmo. Or we could use apple pay, you didn’t have to come all the-“ 

“Don’t have venmo.” His mouth tilts, and you go with it, head listing to the side like a wayward buoy. “This is easier.” He pushes it into your hand, peeling your fingers back to enclose the money in your palm, heat sparking up your spine. 

“How did you know where I worked?” You blurt, unable to keep it at bay any longer. The question singes, settles uncomfortably in the sparks between you. 

“Saw you in the back yesterday, when we were in for a cuppa.” Oh. Suspicion sheds, snakeskin left behind on a cold, dusty trail, suspension of disbelief settling in the back of your mind. Sure. After all, this is where you ran into them last week, on your day off. They do come here. 

“Well. Thanks.” 

“It’s our pleasure. Hope the stain came out okay.” 

“Oh, yeah. It’s… still at the cleaners.” This is absolutely false, but he doesn’t need to know that. The spare bills will probably go towards your energy bill, and the ruined dress will go in the trash. 

It is what it is. 

“Couldn’t help but notice when I was comin’ through the parking lot that the back door is open.” His voice swoops low, dropping into a rumble, and you blink, lips parting. 

“Oh, um y-yeah. I like the breeze.” He shakes his head, a simple rejection, leaving you spinning. 

“City’s not the safest right now, yeah?” Oh, yeah. Of course, you knew. Rival factions of organized crime were leaving a red sea of bodies in their wake all over town, a new murder popping up in the headlines nearly every week. 

But you were safe. You were fine. Galaxy’s had never been stained with the bloody touch of any of them, and you took it as fact. Permanence. 

You agree reluctantly, watching the storm clouds roil on across his expression before evaporating. You shrug, hands clutched in your apron, doubt and skepticism clear on your face.

His expression shutters. His eyes turn cold.   

His thumb and forefinger dart through the air, latching onto your chin. 

You freeze. You should tug away, jerk backwards, yell and scream and hiss, but all you can do is stand there, caught in a trap and trembling as he leans forward to murmur in your ear. 

“Lock the door, little doe.” 

[extra-stout-stories]

The Weight Clinic

A fat man who's unsure about losing weight signs up for a very unusual treatment program led by a dominant doctor with an agenda of her own. (SSBHM feedee, SSBBW feeder, implicit XWG. CW: Dubious consent, drugs, medical and deathfeedist elements.)

This story was written swiftly in response to an ask on my old blog: "A man signs up for a blind study of a weight loss drug (he doesn't want to lose weight, but you know how society is.) Unfortunately for him, it's run by a less than honest BBW scientist who decides to fatten him up instead." When I read that, I had to immediately sit down and transcribe the thunderbolt of inspiration before it passed. This could easily turn into a much longer story, and now that I've created this little fictional universe, I might come back to it some day. The dubcon is because I wanted to write a dommy mad scientist feeder, but if the story continued, our protagonist would definitely come to enjoy it and realize that she was right all along.

(April 2024: This is by far the most popular story I've written, and I'm moving it here so I can centralize likes/reblogs and deactivate my defunct account. I'm slowly working on a sequel as the inspiration strikes me.)

Please read the content warnings. If dubcon and medical/deathfeedist themes upset you, please don't click.

If you like it, on the other hand, please reblog.

--

He sighed inwardly as the receptionist led him past the double doors and into the medical suite of the clinic.

He didn't want to be doing this. Being fat had never bothered him. He had been fat since childhood, and as an adult he embraced the freedom of eating whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. In fact, there were times when he secretly enjoyed being fat. There was something profoundly satisfying about the way his belly was soft and heavy in his lap when he sat, the way his double chin was like a cushion when he tilted his head. Lately it seemed like he was inching closer and closer to 400 pounds whenever he stepped on the scale, and sometimes a part of him even looked forward to it.

But he was getting sick of how the rest of the world treated him. At Thanksgiving dinner, after he had gone back to the side table for a fourth helping of mashed potatoes, his parents had given him a fierce tag-team lecture about how his weight was out of control and he was overdue for a diet. Buying new clothes was getting expensive. And while the thought of 400 seemed strangely intriguing sometimes -- that's only a hundred pounds away from a quarter ton, he thought to himself -- he worried that if he got any bigger, he'd become one of those fat guys who was so big that they had trouble walking and had to use a scooter or wheelchair to get around.

There was a wheelchair in the corner of the room that the receptionist led him into. He couldn't help notice its gigantic width. "This is the suite where you'll be staying." The room looked like it was outfitted for a patient much bigger than he was. The king-sized bed was equipped with a bariatric Hoyer lift, and in addition to the usual IV bags and oxygen tanks, there were all sorts of medical machines he didn't recognize. The door to the bathroom and shower was only a few steps away from the edge of the bed, and he noticed a stainless steel railing to allow someone to steady themselves as they walked.

Noticing his expression, the receptionist continued. "You'll be staying here in the regular suite, since you don't have any serious mobility issues. Further down the hallway there's a second suite for larger patients. Both rooms will be kept operational during your stay in case there are any complications. As we discussed earlier, you'll be forbidden to leave the premises for the duration of the study. We can't have you going out to eat and breaking your diet."

He sighed inwardly again. He was already thinking of his usual Friday night meal, nachos and mozzarella sticks followed by a hamburger and fries at his favorite diner, washed down with a milkshake or two with each course. I guess I am a binge eater, he thought to himself sadly. This isn't going to be fun, but if I don't get myself under control, I really am going to end up weighing 400.

As if reading his mind, the receptionist gave a prim smile. "I hope you'll find the results of the study to be satisfactory. Dr. Moore is excited to be taking you on as a patient. Come back to the front desk with me and we'll get your paperwork finalized."

They returned to the waiting room through the double doors and he sat down on a double-wide chair to review the clipboard full of paperwork. HIPAA, check. Records release form, check. Insurance card, check.

After several more signatures, he came to the final document on the clipboard. Consent to Experimental Treatment, the header read. He skimmed through the legal verbiage, trying his best to take note of anything significant. The clinic was a private enterprise, he read. Dr. Moore had affiliations with several prestigious universities, but he waived his right to hold them liable for treatment outcomes. No guarantees were made as to results. "The Moore Clinic program is designed to help patients reach a satisfactory body weight through the application of both physiological and cognitive-emotional treatments. To ensure accurate data collection and clinical efficacy, all care will be taken by the clinic staff to prevent external influences from interfering with treatment. Patients acknowledge that for the duration of the study they will be under the exclusive supervision of Dr. Moore. Her permission will be required before patients can contact outside parties via phone or Internet."

He thought to himself for a moment. Well, I'm no good at sticking to a diet on my own. I might as well give this a shot. He signed his name on the last page of the form.

"Congratulations." The receptionist smiled as he turned over the stack of forms. "We're glad to have you here. I'm sorry Dr. Moore couldn't be here to welcome you to the first night of the study, but she had another engagement. These are our nurses, Sandra and Kevin. They'll help you get settled."

Soon he was being ushered into the hospital suite by the two nurses. Sandra was short and curvaceous, Kevin tall and stocky, and he couldn't help notice that neither of them was skinny. Both of them were chubby, in fact. Chubby verging on fat. They gave him a hospital gown and a plastic bin to store his belongings in, then drew a curtain around the bed and waited patiently while he changed.

Naked beneath the loose-fitting hospital gown, he couldn't help being aware of how fat he was as the two nurses drew the curtain aside and began to prep him for the treatment. He could feel the softness of his belly against his thighs, the subtle motion of his rolls quivering, as Kevin attached electrodes to his moobs and belly. A fold of his fat upper arm brushed against his elbow as Sandra straightened his arm and swabbed to insert an IV. I'm going to miss all this, he thought to himself. If this works, I'll be just another skinny guy in a size M. I might even have abs. And I'll probably never eat mozzarella sticks again. As the drugs in the IV began to take hold, making him woozy and disoriented and sleepy, he couldn't help wondering if waking up skinny was going to feel like a nightmare.

--

"Well, well. My patient has finally come to."

From the slant of the light in the hospital suite, it was late afternoon. He lay in bed, still naked beneath his hospital gown, the IV tube still in his arm, the electrodes still on his chest. Staring down at him from the foot of the bed, an appraising smile on her face, was a fat woman. A very fat woman.

She wore a crisp white coat over a snug set of scrubs that did little to conceal how gigantic she was. Her stethoscope bounced against her enormous belly as she stepped around to the bedside and lowered herself onto a double-wide chair next to the IV bags. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her triple chins swayed and quivered as she craned her neck slightly to take a readout from one of the machines beside the bed, then bent her head down to type some notes on a tablet.

"Welcome to the clinic. I'm Dr. Moore."

He couldn't help but be baffled by her size. A private clinic specializing in weight loss, and she was the doctor in charge? She must have read the expression on his face, because she immediately burst out laughing. "Yes, I'm really Dr. Moore. And I'm very excited to have you as my patient." She scrolled through the tablet, her eyes moving rapidly as she reviewed his case file. "You're here for morbid obesity. You say you struggle with binge eating. And you're concerned that your weight is continuing to rise."

He nodded, feeling suddenly hazy. The anesthetic had worn off, but whatever else was in the IV was still taking effect.

"Tell me." Dr. Moore's voice was suddenly stern. "Did you come here to lose weight?"

"Yes." His throat went dry as he began to speak. He realized with a start that he was dreadfully thirsty, and something in Dr. Moore's tone made him nervous. "My primary care doctor says my goal weight is 180 pounds. I've tried a couple of different diets, but nothing worked."

"One hundred and eighty pounds?" Her voice was full of disbelief. "Oh, no, no, no. That won't do at all. I'm going to write you a new prescription."

His heart was suddenly pounding. He didn't like the way she was talking to him. "I think your goal weight should be… five hundred and eighty pounds. For a start."

He tried to speak but no words came out. His throat was terribly dry. Dr. Moore turned the tablet to face him. "See? Goal weight five hundred and eighty pounds." There it was on his patient chart, as clear as day. She smiled. "I think you must be disoriented. Did you know you've been under anesthesia for four days? The treatment takes time to take effect. I'm going to get you something to drink." Without rising from her chair, she reached to open a refrigerator by the side of the bed. He had seen it during his tour and had assumed it was full of syringes and dry ice, but it was full of… cups? Giant cardboard cups with straws, the kind a fast food restaurant might use for a soda or a milkshake. She reached out and grabbed two.

"Drink. This will help settle you down." He wrapped his lips around the straw and sucked eagerly, feeling a cool, sweet, creamy liquid flow down his throat, soothing the dryness. It was a milkshake, he realized. Then he realized that he was ravenously hungry.

"Yes, that's your appetite coming back. Or rather, coming to. It never left, but you've been getting your nutrients intravenously while you were under. We call that one the 'feedbag.'" She gestured to one of the IV bags that fed into the tube leading to his wrist. In the color scheme he had already come to recognize as the Moore Clinic's branding, it was stamped with the words: "HIGH CALORIE FORMULA."

His heart was still pounding, but he was feeling more relaxed now. He heard a rustling behind him and realized that Sandra, the nurse, was busy adjusting the proportions of the IV bags.

"Yes, that's a sedative." Dr. Moore smiled. "I thought it might help put you at ease while I explain the details of my treatment program." Her voice took on a firm and didactic tone, as if she were giving a lecture to an auditorium full of med students, but underneath it he felt that he could hear something almost… flirtatious?

"The Moore Clinic takes an unorthodox approach to the treatment of obesity. As a dual-certified endocrinologist and psychiatrist, I bring a unique perspective to both the metabolic and biosocial components of extreme weight gain." She paused. "Sandra, another high-calorie bag. Thank you." As the nurse replaced the now empty bag of formula, Dr. Moore continued. "Many of my patients arrive with deeply disordered cognitive attitudes towards body weight. They are unduly susceptible to social influences, preventing their full psychological individuation as a mentally well, hedonically satisfied obese person. They regard themselves as suffering from morbid obesity instead of enjoying it." She reached out to pat his belly. "I'm afraid you're a textbook case."

He could feel himself getting hazier and hazier until the world seemed to shrink to himself, the milkshakes and Dr. Moore. He couldn't tear himself away from her gaze as she continued to speak, her triple chins and dimpled fat cheeks quivering hypnotically as her eyes seemed to pierce right into him. "This is why the use of psychotropic drugs is a key component of my program. To fully undo the traumatic effects of societal fatphobia on my patients, I must be prepared to use the entire arsenal of modern psychopharmacology."

Sandra laughed, catching a hint of the shock on his face. "It's a real cocktail in these IV bags, honey. If Dr. Moore tried to sell this stuff at a nightclub, she'd be arrested."

The doctor smiled at her nurse. "That's right. Some of these are experimental drugs, and Federally scheduled. I'm fortunate to have a license, and a substantial research grant which pays for high-grade laboratory synthesis. And the same is true for my metabolic work."

She reached out and slipped a hand under his hospital gown, grabbing ahold of the fold of one of his moobs and squeezing playfully. Even through the increasingly powerful haze of the drug cocktail, he could feel himself blushing. "The other vector of cure," she continued, "is to address the body itself. Too many patients labor under the delusion that the unfortunate medical side effects of morbid obesity are somehow a reason they must lose weight." Her voice grew stern. "Nothing could be further from the truth. Obesity is not a disease. It's a lifestyle. And it's beautiful."

"But sometimes," she continued, a frown on her face, "my patients resist. This is why I require a minimum of four weeks' supervised stay at the clinic. The setting here accustoms my patients to the possibility of living with bariatric equipment as a full-time lifestyle." He looked around the room, suddenly seeing it with new eyes. "And while my patients get used to the pace and challenges of their new lifestyle, my metabolic treatment can do its work."

Despite the sedatives, his heart was pounding faster than ever. Her words seemed to move as slowly as molasses, her chins swaying back and forth like a pendulum, as her eyes gazed into his. "There's more than just calories and party drugs in those bags, you know. There's drugs to shock your system, break down your metabolism, destroy your body's resistance to gaining ever more weight. Even if you left the clinic right now, all the diets in the world couldn't fix your metabolism. My treatment has taken you to the point of no return."

Just barely, as if fighting his way through a slowly moving fog, he managed to gasp out a single word. "When?"

"When?" Dr. Moore threw her head back in laughter, exposing a beautiful smile, her cheeks and chins quivering with mirth. "Darling, I told you -- you were under anesthesia for four days, and my treatment works quickly. It's already happened."

He tried to protest, but before he could speak another word, the fog seemed to close around him and he drifted into a deep anesthetic sleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed of being fatter than ever.

[rxvera]

You Don't Fear The Reaper (But I Do)

This is reallyyy heavy, be warned now. I wrote one thing, I just had to write some more for Steve and Bucky. I forgot how much I love writing for them.

So enjoy, or wallow in the angst, whatever you prefer. Warnings are in the tags.

---

Steve swipes the butter knife through the perfect surface of brand-new almond butter. He's allergic to peanuts, but he's sure this is equally as good. He smoothes evenly over two slices of untoasted white bread. The crumbs cling to the sticky residue coating the stainless steel surface.

Steve's just squishing the two halves of his sandwich together when he hears the faintest rasp of his name behind him "Stevie?"

He turns around. "Yeah?" Bucky's white as a sheet. His hands are shaking. His expression is one that puts a lump in Steve's throat and a pounding in his chest. "What's wrong?"

"I..." Bucky's lower lip quivers. His face is already tear-stained, but Steve can see the subtle shift in his eyes that means they're welling up again.

"You should sit," Steve says softly. Bucky nods and takes a seat carefully on the couch. The tension in his movements makes it look like he's expecting a hard slap for any wrong twitch, and he probably is.

Steve turns back to his sandwich. He slices it diagonally in one swift motion. He picks up one half in each hand.

"Here," He gives one to Bucky, and keeps the other for himself as he perches two or so feet away from Bucky on the sofa. He hopes having food involved will break the anxiety bubble a bit, like how a restaurant aides a bad date.

Bucky takes a tentative bite. He chews for a moment, then swallows thickly. "I..." He sniffles.

"You can tell me anything, Buck," Steve murmurs. "I promise," He takes a bite of his own sandwich.

"I'm..." Bucky takes a steadying deep breath. "I'm gonna..." He hands the semi-sandwich back to Steve and breaks eye contact. "I think I'm gonna hurt myself," His voice cracks painfully on the last few words. He sobs, although he tries to mute it with his palm over his mouth.

Steve furrows his brow. He places the almond butter bread down on the coffee table. He scooches slightly closer to Bucky. "What do you mean, Buck?" The calmness of his voice doesn't match the intense distress in Steve's gut.

"I already..." Bucky shakes his head. "It's all too much..." He crosses his arm over his chest, settling his hand over his stump. "I need to know...know that I'm real, and I need it to stop."

"Hey," Steve hovers his arm over Bucky's shoulder blades. "Can I?" Bucky sniffs and nods slowly, still avoiding Steve's eyes. "Oh, Buck..." Tears press into Steve's sinuses.

"I'm sorry," Bucky chokes out. "I'm so sorry, Stevie."

"Don't be," Steve whispers. He drops his head onto Bucky's shoulder and gently slides his palm back and forth over his upper back. "I love you, you're real, I'm here, you're here, it's gonna be okay."

"But it ain't gonna stop," Bucky mumbles. His voice breaks into a cry at the end.

"What's not gonna stop?" Steve asks. He has a feeling he knows the answer. He just can't stand the way his insides cringe when Bucky brings it up.

"What they did..." Bucky inhales sharply. "The whole damn thing, all of it," He breaks away from Steve and bends double at the waist. His chest touches his thighs, with his arm squished in between. "It ain't never gonna stop, Stevie..." He coughs quietly. "I'm sorry, it's too fuckin' much."

"I...I know, Buck," Steve wipes his own tears away. He doesn't know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. "I...I..."

"I'm so sorry, Stevie," Bucky repeats. "I just wanna be done."

"Buck..." Steve leans back and lifts his elbows over his face. "I...I know it's hard, but..." Guilt, empathy, and anger all swirl in his gut. "I can't lose you, you've gotta know that, I can't lose you, Bucky."

"I'm sorry," Bucky cries. "I don't wanna hurt you, Stevie, I just...I need help, I need some fuckin' reaper to take it all away."

"I can't let you, Buck," Steve digs his fingernails into his own scalp. "I'm so sorry, I love you too much."

"I love you, Stevie," Bucky barely sounds like himself, just an echo of the walking smiley kindness he once was. "I don't know my own mind," He shakes his head against his knees. "Don't let me go."

"I won't, Buck," Steve leans over Bucky, resting his head on his lower back and wrapping an arm around him. "I never could."

[owmylasagna-blog]

The Ed Must Go On

Eddy prepares for a last minute gig. Edd helps.

—

A familiar clatter punctuated by loud profanities compelled Edd to emerge into the living room. Much to his dismay the place had been turned upside down, drawers open, piles of paraphernalia strewn on surfaces and the floor. Edd could feel the incensed energy radiating from his partner.

Eddy riffled through one of the shallow top drawers of the break front. He stifled a yell and threw a pack of AA batteries back inside, the sound making Edd flinch.

“Where are the goddamn scissors?”

Edd sighed: if only Eddy would let him label the drawers with their contents, maybe these sort of headaches would be avoided. The vintage veneers had won that battle: a triumph of form over function.

Scanning the room in an effort to help Eddy in his search, the taller man’s eyes fell on the kitchen shears precariously teetering on the edge of the record player stand. Eddy had grabbed them and on second thought cast them aside as a last resort: he knew Double Dee detested mixing up the scissors from their intended use.

Edd took the shears, clasping them in both hands to his chest, and joined Eddy’s side. The angered man slammed the drawer shut, the hardware clacking from the momentum, before tearing into the one adjacent to it and pulling out fistfuls of user manuals and take-out menus.

No more than a foot away the shimmer of stainless steel blades peaked out from beneath their most recent mail. In his periphery Eddy registered movement, then witnessed his partner produce the elusive utility scissors from right under his nose. Edd calmly presented them to Eddy and it took everything in the shorter man not to erupt in a fit.

“I hate when you do that,” grumbled Eddy, a poor stand-in for the truth which was that he hated his utter lack of object constancy.

Snagging the scissors and stomping his way to the coffee table Eddy planted himself on the floor and started turning the garment laying on their shag rug inside-out. Edd returned the kitchen shears to the knife block, the floorboards of their pre-war apartment creaked as he tentatively crossed the living room. He peered over Eddy’s hunched shoulders.

“A dress?” Edd questioned. A long groan escaped Eddy while he hacked away at the armhole.

“Sandra Oh-No-She-Didn’t’s out on her honeymoon, Mother Mayhem rolled her ankle and Patty Melt got the effin’ flu so your brilliant boyfriend here volunteered to host drag trivia tonight.”

Double Dee knelt down beside said brilliant boyfriend, watching as he successfully extricated one sleeve and began cutting away at the other.

“Couldn’t you wear something you already have in the closet?” Edd suggested. There certainly was plenty to choose from. He couldn’t see why Eddy was adding more stress to the situation.

“Yeah, if I wanted to look like an overstuffed sausage,” Eddy griped, then snipped the sleeve clean off.

It had been almost a year since the last time he’d dolled up and in that time he’d put on a bit more weight. He’d thrifted this old frock at the last second just for the job but the sleeves had been so constricting he feared losing feeling in his arms half way through the evening. They had to go. Hit with a pang of guilt, Edd awkwardly fidgeted with the side seam of his house pants.

Eddy threw the scissors aside and lifted the dress up.

“Well, that looks like shit,” he grimaced at the jaggedly frayed arm holes. He dropped the garment in disgust and shoved the heels of his palms into his eye sockets, growling in frustration. “Fuck me.” Double Dee reached out a sympathetic hand and caressed Eddy’s thigh.

“Oh, don’t despair, my love. Let me find the sewing machine.”

He patted Eddy’s knee before getting up from the floor and scurrying to the hall closet. Once the machine was set up on the dining table, Edd instructed his partner to put the dress on inside-out. Eddy stripped down to his boxer briefs and shimmied into it.

Eddy wiggled impatiently as Edd painstakingly pinned the fabric in place.

“Would you stay still!” Edd reprimanded through clasped lips, where he was holding a few sewing pins.

“These sequins are drivin’ me nuts, babe.”

“Just… a few… more… and done. Mind the pins as you remove that. Actually, let me help you.”

As Edd unzipped the back and guided the sleeves over Eddy’s shoulders, he couldn’t resist trailing a few kisses along the nape of his lover’s neck. This area was Eddy’s weak spot. His eyes rolled back and he smiled.

“Mmm,” he hummed, delighted, “now that’s what I call customer service.”

“This would be highly unprofessional.”

Eddy’s shaved hairline tickled Edd’s nose as he inhaled deeply.

“I should report you, ya perv.”

The dress dropped around Eddy’s feet and Edd’s arms wrapped around his naked torso. He planted a few more kisses from the crown of Eddy’s head to the stubble of his left cheek. The affection released some of Eddy’s wound-up tension. They kissed on the mouth before Edd gave a squeeze and asked, “Would you like me to come tonight?”

“Oh I bet you would.”

Edd simply glared back. Eddy sighed before trivializing the question with another quip, “What, you like me or somethin’?”

“Eddy…”

“You know it’s gonna go past your bedtime-”

Edd frowned. “I’ve managed well enough before on less sleep.”

“And it ain’t like you’ve got a team.”

“Some of my coworkers could be enticed.” There was a pause. Edd caressed the hairs on Eddy’s arms.

“Yeah?” Eddy responded in a softer, curious tone. His mouth curled into a goofy smile. It wasn’t every day that Double Dee made last minute plans.

“Yeah.”

Eddy turned to face his adorable partner when he got a foot-full of sewing pins.

“YEOWCH!”

Eddy jumped into the air and into Double Dee’s arms. The lankier man staggered under the weight, sputtering high pitched whines from the exertion, until they both collapsed on the couch in a heap.

After getting a bit… distracted… on the couch, Edd inspected the parts of his sewing machine. He dropped the foot and slowly applied pressure to the pedal as he fed in the fabric.

“Now, see, Eddy, I needed to secure the lining to the outer fabric like this to get a tidy seam.”

“Mhmm.”

The absent tone of that utterance made Edd pause and look up from his work. He raised a brow at Eddy, who was rapidly tapping away a message on his phone. Double Dee cleared his throat and the other man looked up.

“Wha-”

“You know, it wouldn’t hurt for you to become acquainted with some basic sewing techniques. Then you wouldn’t need me for every minor alteration.”

“But it’s better when you do it,” Eddy winked.

“You can lead a horse to water…”

“Aah I’m messin’ with ya,” Eddy replied, waving a hand limply on his wrist before clasping both hands together with a clap, “So which side is facing what again?”

Edd smirked as he detailed the construction of the seam, Eddy intently listening. It was refreshing to know the version of Eddy that had outgrown the exploitative labor practices of his youth, more often than not opting to learn new skills and pitch in his handiness when needed. The first armhole completed, Eddy nudged Edd’s elbow.

“Do I get a crack at it?”

“Absolutely.”

Eddy took over Edd’s seat and slowly started the machine up.

“So I was thinkin’ I’d wear the black wig, but the red wouldn’t look half bad either.”

“I like the black more,” Edd said, crossing his legs.

“Then it’s settled. Blonde.”

“Why even bother asking my opinion then,” Edd tilted his chin up smugly.

“Sometimes you don’t know what you want till someone suggests somethin’ you don’t want.”

“Hmm,” Edd absently hummed in reply, watching Eddy’s hands closely, “sorry, do you mind if I- “ he motioned to the machine.

“Here we go,” Eddy raised his hands like it was a stick-up.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Edd prickled. He scooted his chair closer to Eddy and repositioned the fabric. Eddy just leaned back, crossing his arms.

“You know. It’s your way or the highway.”

“Well I can’t help that you were pulling the fabric too taut. Your seam is going to be cockled.”

“Maybe I like my seams cockled.”

“Eddy, please. Can you- “ Edd stopped himself with a huff. Eddy had to sympathize just a little: the poor guy was tortured by the mundane on the daily. The shorter of the two men stood from the table.

“You finish that and I’ll put on espresso.”

Double Dee considered this an agreeable arrangement.

“Thank you, dear.”

With the seam ripper he went to town undoing Eddy’s stitches. Eddy just snorted, refastened the straps on his robe, and headed to the kitchen where a good house floozy belonged.

[witchpair]

"I don't understand," says the middle-aged, caucasian, blonde man named Mitchell Young who is apparently an alien.

He--and yes, his pronouns are he and him--is sitting on the other side of a glass window by a stainless steel chair and table set in a sterile quarantine chamber. His small crew of seven are either spaced throughout the small observation room, following Young's conversation with rapturous attention, or engrossed by various earth online media in the privacy of their temporary living quarters.

"You're saying," continues Young, with an expression that can only be characterised as profound disbelief. "That your genetic material is double-stranded, and your amino acid synthesis derives from a three base system?"

He puts a hand in his hair. "Do you know how nuts that is? Three? We use ten! And you-" His accent, which you've found to be oddly South African, is getting thicker by the word as he gestures with one hand in a vaguely circular motion at you, "-look like...that."

He's gesturing with both hands now. "Like us."

You hold the results of the crew's blood tests loosely in both hands. They're shaking. The only sign of that cocktail of nerves and excitement that you're failing to hide behind your calm proffesionalism.

"I think it's astonishing we use the same biological terminology at all, let alone the same language. Considering we're built from very different stuff," you say, level. "And I don't know how plausible you'll find this, but Zoroastrianism has been a dead religion for three millennia."

Young's eyes widen briefly before he reaches to his chest and touches his dog tag.

"Ah. You've got a good eye," He looks back up at you. "twenty-twenty?"

"Yeah."

"Pilot?" He asks.

You tilt your head slightly. "Yeah."

"I figured," he nods. From the look on his face, you can tell he wants to say more. You let him continue.

"Isn't it strange that different organisations on both of our planets are so similarly structured so as to produce similarly distinct people?" His fingers are tapping his lower lip. "How could I have possibly guessed you were ex-air force--am I right? Ex-air force?"

You nod. Slowly.

"Right, exactly. How could I have guessed based on--excuse the term--vibes alone? I think you could tell as well. You honed in on me because you got the feeling I was the biologist."

"Takes one to know one. I suppose," you respond.

"Right." He says with a slightly self-satisfied grin.

He leans forward fractionally into the microphone. "Despite how infinitesimally unlikely it is, across this empty and uncaring universe, we're one and the same. All of us," says Young, grinning now with an unreserved joy.

Momentarily, you're left breathless by the same joy of recognising the self in the other on a species wide scale and you grip your papers tighter. But before you have the chance to respond, there's a whisper at your ear.

"The PM wants you on the phone," says Eilidh, who has seemingly materialised next to you.

"Sure," you mutter back, then into the microphone. "Excuse me."

Young moves out both his hands as to say 'please, by all means'.

As you move away from the mic the other scientists jump at the opening. "Any of yous a maths person?" Is what you hear before you leave the observation room, lead by Eilidh.

"What does she want, then. I've only just got the blood tests back," you ask as the two of you swiftly navigate seemingly endless fire doors and corridors.

"Just what you've found so far, like. I'm sure she knows you're all busy, but there's fuck all else in the news right now. And number ten wants to be sure they're ahead of the press on everything, you know, like."

You nod. The two of you get in the lift and Eilidh punches in the floor.

You stand in silence with the mechanical whir between you. You're coming down from the adrenaline. Of talking to an alien.

"He's wrong." Eilidh says, suddenly. "I don't think you knew he was the biologist."

You look at her sideways until she elaborates.

"Like, I don't think that's why you were staring at him," she says, giving you a meaningful look.

You narrow your eyes at her, before looking away and shoving at her shoulders, muttering an embarrassed 'shut up'.

It turns out all alien life has evolved the same way, they’ve developed the same languages as us, the same advancements as us, and they look exactly like humans, and because of this, the first aliens to visit earth are extremely confused.

[knebelblacktown]

5 Kitchen Designs That Will Turn Your Kitchen Into a Workhorse

Kitchen designs come and go, but the basics remain the same. If your budget allows, consider a galley layout to optimize the classic work triangle of fridge, sink and stove.

Use a gridded pattern on countertops to add texture and visual interest, as designer Lauren Liess did in this mountain-inspired 2020 Idea House kitchen. She also added slipcovered counter benches and a wood-and-iron table.

Open Shelves

Many homeowners rule out open shelving because they think it's visually chaotic and dusty, but it can be a beautiful design element. Choose a shelf finish that matches the wall color for an integrated look, or add visual interest with contrasting colors and finishes.

For example, shelves painted white with dark iron brackets pair nicely with a wood Kitchen designs island and dark cabinetry. Here, @homeofwhimsy displays a curated collection of keepsakes to enhance a modern-industrial kitchen with herringbone subway tile and Shaker base cabinets. A brass double sconce provides the final elegant touch.

When it comes to functional items, keep the tops of your open shelves reserved for cookbooks and other everyday crockery that can easily be reached. Also, think twice about storing heavy pots and casserole dishes on your upper shelving because lifting and lowering these pieces from such a high spot can be dangerous. Keep it practical and family-friendly by stowing less-used items in attractive wicker baskets or metal tins to help eliminate cluttered appearances.

Blue & White

The classic duo of blue and white has stood the test of time. Whether it's used sparingly or incorporated throughout the entire kitchen, this color scheme offers a timeless elegance that's sure to stand out.

Bright shades of blue create a crisp, energized atmosphere. They pair beautifully with a variety of different materials, from natural wood to marble and polished concrete. Blue accents can also offer a hint of retro style, blending well with both classic and modern kitchen trends.

In this kitchen, a blue island and cabinets take center stage against an airy background of sky-blue walls and white surfaces. The neutral palette also includes white countertops, backsplashes, and a wood range hood. Metallics can also add a contemporary touch, and copper or brass accessories mesh well with blue kitchen decor. This kitchen design from Rita Chan Interiors(opens in new tab) uses coordinating hardware to connect the lower navy blue cabinets and upper white ones.

Industrial-Chic Seating

Industrial kitchens work well in rooms with high ceilings, open spaces and rough materials. Exposed brick walls, concrete surfaces and unplastered ceilings all create a raw, industrial look in your home.

You can also get the same style by painting walls a shade like gray, which is ontrend and looks smart with natural-looking tile or wood countertops. Bold shades of yellow or blue also keep in line with the rustic, industrial theme and look striking against a dark backdrop.

For those with a little more design commitment fear, try mixing metals in your industrial kitchen by adding stainless steel bar stools or painted furniture. Mixing metallics also adds a cool, modern touch to the design and looks stylish against dark walls or cabinetry. Add a little kitsch flair with eye-catching pendant lighting and a splash of kitchen wall art to finish off the style. This style of kitchen is perfect for those who love to entertain and host friends and family.

Bold Colors

Bold colors in kitchen design ideas are a great way to create eye-catching focal points and visually stunning design elements. However, it’s important to choose a color that will complement the rest of the room and fit your design vision. It’s also important to consider how the color will interact with natural and artificial lighting.

For example, bold blue hues can create a calming effect while contrasting well with white cabinets and countertops. On the other hand, bold reds can evoke energy and excitement. If you’re not sure what color to choose, try painting a small patch on your wall or cabinet and observe how it looks at different times of the day.

Additionally, bold countertop materials are a great way to add character and personality to your kitchen. Choose a unique material that complements your bold color scheme while still maintaining functionality. Incorporate open shelving or display areas to showcase your favorite dishes and glassware for a curated look that’s uniquely yours.

[madammuffins]

BIRTHDAY - PT 18

Fandom: Rise of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Rating: Teen and Up

Warnings: Canon typical violence, Bad Future Timeline, Main Character Death, Angst, No Happy Endings, Kraang Invasion

Links: AO3, Wattpad, Playlist

FIRST | PREVIOUS | NEXT

You were fucking tired. Your hand and shoulder were numb from the kickback of your gun. You tried flexing your hand as you walked through the halls, the dust of your scavenging mission kicking off your boots, the drying sweat cast a chill over your skin.

"See ya later!" You grunted at the back slap of your squad mate.

You nodded, free hand rubbing your wrist, trying to summon the feeling back. You watched them turn, ducking off to dump their belongings. Less people died now, during the smaller missions. Maybe it was because you all worked so closely together.

The smaller the crew the higher the chances of being thrown together.

Again and again.

And again.

You sighed, rolling your aching shoulder, hearing your joint pop. You winced. That sucked. Shoving past the double doors to the canteen you were shocked to find it more lively than ever. Balloons taped to the walls, streamers, obviously used and worn, draped around the room. Music played from strategically placed boom boxes and mismatched speakers.

"Hey!!"

You froze. Lieutenant Michelangelo was shouting from behind the food displays, something noxious sweet was filling the air. The bowl he had been holding, along with a whisk, were floating beside him, shining orange before gently lowering into his grasp.

Curious, hesitant, you moved closer - observing.

Lieutenant Raphael, General Leonardo, Lieutenant Michelangelo, Commander Jones all in the room. Your heart spiked, sweat starting anew.

Oh boy. You had picked the wrong time to enter the canteen. Silently you sat at a table just adjacent, wanting to stay separate from the rambunctious party, but still wanting to observe.

"It's our special man's birthday!" Effortlessly Leonardo pulled the kid up on his shoulder as the room erupted into cheers and song, dancing around the stainless steel prep table.

Casey Jr was beaming, his gap-toothed grin wide, cheeks flushed. Fingers tangled under Leonardo's chin.

"How old are you again, Junior?" Raphael teased, face wrinkling. "Twenty?"

"No!" Junior protested, legs swinging to be put down.

You watched Leonardo acquiesce reluctantly.

"Raph don't know nuthin." Mikey sniffed, pulling food out of the fridge that looked suspiciously like cupcakes. "He's thirty-two, of course." A confirming nod and wink as his cheeks bubbled, dimple in the right.

"I am not!" Little hands hit the table top. Deep brown eyes glared.

"You aren't?" His mother leaned an elbow on Raph's shoulder, cracking her knuckles. "Then how old are you?"

"Moooom." Junior rolled his eyes, pushing a hand through his unruly mane of black waves. "I'm this many!" He held up a hand.

"That many?" Cassandra gasped, catching Raph's gaze. "How many is that?"

"Gosh I don't know." Raph frowned exaggerated. "I don't think I can count that high."

Junior stood, lifting each finger proudly as he counted. "One. Two. Four. Seven. Five!"

You couldn't help but smile as the adults all but died trying to contain their laughter at the incredibly serious child.

"H-he's got the general idea." Leo chuckled, dipping a finger into the bowl of what you recognized as frosting.

Mikey swept the bowl away glaring.

"Don't let Uncle Donnie know." Cassandra pounded a fist on the table and pointing to her son, "Or you'll be doing math for a week straight."

"Know what?" Junior's head tilted.

That gave everyone pause, titters from across the room following.

"Don't sweat it kid." Raph winked his bad eye, ruffling the kids hair in his massive palm.

"Ready." Mikey announced, motioning for everyone to follow his lead as he inhaled.

"Happy birthday to you-"

The room was practically bursting with song as everyone joined in, still more entering the room as they heard the unusual commotion.

"Dear Junior!"

You bit your lip, eyes closed.

"Happy birthday to you!"

No one celebrated birthdays anymore. Not like this.

An extra ration, some surplus ammo or medical supplies. New boot laces or a patched up shirt. But Junior was special. He was a baby born in an apocalypse. Life in an endless cycle of death.

And the leaders were his family.

It hurt you. You sniffled, wiping at your suddenly blurry eyes. The memories of cake in the backyard, slip'n'slides, roller rinks. Fucking pinatas. Presents.

Embarrassed, you looked up only to see the emotion echoed around you. Some were downright sobbing as they clapped for little Junior. You glanced back to the main party, Mikey handing out cupcakes as people lined up.

"We didn't have all the ingredients, so I fudged it a bit." His voice sounded sad.

You wondered when the last time was he'd been able to cook or bake anything that felt truly satisfying.

The lines in General Leonardo's forehead were deep, the down turn of his lips made him look ancient. You didn't miss the way Michelangelo's hands shook, the way Raphael ducked his head. The angry tears on Cassandra's face.

"Happy birthday, kiddo." Leonardo smiled, wrapping a blissfully oblivious Junior under an arm.

[metalbuckaroo]

ALRIGHT! YOU WANTED AN AU THAT YOU HAVEN'T DONE YET AND I AM HERE TO PROVIDE! HOW ABOUT A LITTLE HORROR AU WITH BUCKY?!?

Got some prompts for ya, love!

“this is the opposite of what i told you to do.”

“did i ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?” <-thought maybe you could do this one if they're hiding in a small space together 👀🥴

“that was, by far, the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

Don't Listen

Summary// A cry for help has you stopping the car to check it out

Warnings// Usual horror movie warnings, mentions of violence, guns, weapons, injury, nightmares and death, could possibly be considered dark since it's horror movie themed (just in case I did tag it dark) there's a tinge of fluff in there, cursing.

AU// Horror Movie!AU x Cop!Bucky x Reader

Note// this was a lot of fun to write and I'm soooo happy that you had this idea 🥺 as always, requests and asks are open. Though this doesn't include smut, 18+ only

Masterlist

Moodboars by: @commonintrest

Just like every other Friday night after Bucky's shift, he took you with him on a drive on a backroad. The same back road as always, one that wound around and had houses that were a mile or more apart.

Windows down and light music playing to unwind from the long work week both of you dealt with.

"Wait-wait-" You grabbed Bucky's arm to stop him from pulling away from the stop sign. "What?" He sighed, looking over at you. "Did you hear that?"

Bucky nearly stopped breathing to stay quiet enough to hear what you were talking about, the only sound he could hear being the quiet music from the speakers and soft mechanical whirring of his left arm.

You could've swore you heard a woman's voice screaming from the abandoned house you drove by every week. The one that looked to, at one point in time, doubled as a junk yard from the rusted out cars that littered the back and front yard, along with the tree line in the back of the house.

He shook his head, furrowing his eyebrows at you. "I don't hear anything." He shrugged. You still didn't move your hand, listening intently.

Bucky nearly choked on his own spit when you suddenly got out of the car, making your way up the walkway to the run down house.

"Godda- what the hell are you doing?!" He barked after you, jamming the car in park and opening the glove compartment for his gun.

"How could you not hear that?" You huffed, trying to peak in the cracks of the boarded windows as Bucky secured his gun into the holster on his belt. "You going crazy on me? It's an abandoned house, babygirl." He said, gently gripping your wrist in the metal of his left hand.

"Then you won't mind going in to check it out, Deputy Barnes." You sassed, poking a finger into his chest at his title.

Bucky rolled his eyes, going to the door to twist the handle open; knowing it'd be useless to argue with you.

The house was completely dark, Bucky clicking on his flashlight to peer around the living room at the old, torn up furniture that was covered in dust and dirt.

He exhaled and turned back to you, seeing you chewing on your bottom lip. "See? It's just an old, vacant house." He assured, getting ignored as you pushed pass him. "Yeah, yeah." You dismissed, taking his flashlight to look for yourself.

Bucky followed close behind as you went towards the kitchen, different types of bugs and rats scattering when the light would land on them.

"C'mon, back in the car. Need to get ya home." He went to grab your arm again and you moved away to a door that was cracked open, a dim light peaking through. "Hey-" He let out an aggravated groan and followed you down the stairs that the door led to.

"This is the opposite of what I told you to do." He snapped, looking at your completely froze form at the bottom of the stairs.

When he reached the bottom, he looked into the lit room. Everything was completely new, stainless steel tables, glossy, concrete floors and plastic sheets on the walls.

"What the fuck..." Bucky grumbled, walking further into the room. There were different hallways, meaning the bottom of the house stretched much farther than the main part.

He looked over to your wide-eyed face, nudging your arm. "Go back to the car." He said softly, stepping further into the room. "What? No, I'm going with you." You said, furrowinf your eyebrows at him.

"You really are going crazy." He huffed, going to one of the hallways, your footsteps following close behind. "Are you still hearing- whatever it was you were hearing?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at you.

"No, but that doesn't mean that nobody is down here."

Peaking one of the doors halfway down the hall open, there was a dark closet on the other side; Bucky opening the door more to flick on the light. "Nothing." He exhaled, looking behind the door.

A sudden slam of a door made you suck in a sharp breath and grip onto Bucky's sturdy metal arm; both of you standing completely still.

A tall, slender man covered in blood stood by one of the sets of metal drawers, pulling out different sharp instruments and whistling an upbeat tune as Bucky shoved you into the closet with him. Shutting the door as quiet as possible.

"Shit..." He cursed under his breath, pressing the heel of his right palm into his forehead. "What are we gonna do?"

Bucky huffed a breath at your question and shook his head. "I don't know." He mumbled, looking at your scared expression. "You're the one with a metal arm and gun. Fucking do something." You blabbered before his hand clamped over your mouth.

"Shut the hell up, you're gonna get us killed." He hissed, staring down at you for a moment as he listened for any movement. "Did I ever tell you how beautiful your eyes are?" He said, squinting at you.

You swatted at his hand and huffed a breath. "Now is not the time." You mumbled, raking a hand through your hair to help think of how to get out of this situation. "This was, by far, the stupidest thing you've ever done." Bucky snapped in a hushed voice, cracking the door open so he could peak out.

"Do you see him?" Bucky nodded his head at your question, hand on the handle of his gun again, just in case as he shut the door again. "All of these hallways, there has to be another way out." He sighed, rubbing his metallic hand down his face.

"Maybe we can make a break for it down the hallway while he's not looking?" You shrugged, the nervous look on Bucky's face making you worry more and more. "No, that's a terrible idea."

The woman's voice you heard earlier echoed into the room, making you grab for the door handle. "What are you doing?" Bucky said in a whispered yell. "I hear someone, they need help, Buck." You choked out, trying to keep your voice quiet as you pulled at his metal hand that held the door shut.

The cry for help was close to driving you crazy, echoing into your ears as you pulled harder on his arm. How could he not hear it? It was so loud, the woman might as well have been in the room with you.

"Hey, sweetheart. C'mere." Bucky cooed, grabbing both of your hands in his left hand, his right lifting to hold your chin. "Don't listen to it. Okay? Don't listen to it." He muttered, trying to soothe your fidgety form. "Bucky, there's someone else down-"

The grip on your hands tightened when you tried to jerk them away from him. "We'll deal with it when we get outta here. Can't do anything if we're dead." He said through gritted teeth.

You were starting to panic more. Trapped in the basement of some house, no way to get to the phones or the car that was still parked at the side of the road outside.

"This is my fault, I should've never got out of the car. I'm so sorry, Bucky. I'm sorry." Bucky had to think fast to silence your quiet crying and apologies; to find a moment to think.

His lips found yours for a brief moment, making you turn your head to break away. "You idiot, this is not the time for that." You huffed, Bucky's hands going to the sides of your face.

If this was the last bit of time he had he needed you to know. "Sweetheart, listen to me. I love you, I never told you before because I'm a fucking idiot. But, I love you." He said quietly, steel blue eyes dancing back and forth as tears welled in your eyes.

"We're gonna die aren't we?" Your shaky voice broke his heart. He shook his head, looking down at you. "No, no. I promise, I won't let anything happen to you. I swear, I wont."

"What the hell do we do?" You exhaled, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyesockets. "I... I'm going to do something and I need you to run. As fast as you can, up the stairs. Don't worry about me. Okay? Just fucking run until you get to the car, get in and drive. I'll be fine."

It was finally your turn to look at him like he'd lost his mind. "You're fucking stupid if you think I'm leaving y-"

Bucky's hand left hand clamped over your mouth again when heavy footsteps started down the hallway, free hand clicking the light off.

You squeezed your eyes shut as the footsteps got closer, waiting for the moment the door was jerked open and all of it would be over, with so much that was left unsaid.

You let out a breath that had been trapped in your lungs when the footsteps passed the door, Bucky leaning to talk as quiet as he could in your ear. "You have to. Go to the station, a neighbors, anything. Just get out."

You nodded in agreement and he lowered his hand, taking his gun from the holster and opening the door.

Your heart pounded in your ears as he stepped into the hallway cautiously, gesturing for you to come out. "Straight to the car and drive away." He ordered, a loud slam of a door making both of you look back down the hallway.

"Bucky-" You started, going to grab his arm before he aimed at the lanky figured at the end of the hallway.

A single shot was let off, going straight into the man's chest; but he still didn't stop his long strides towards the two of you. "You can't escape." His ominous voice chuckled, echoing against the walls.

Bucky swallowed thickly and aimed again, firing each round into the sinister form before shoving the firearm back into it's designated spot and grabbing your shoulders. "Run."

Your eyes tore away from the menacing saunter the man kept as you darted towards the end of the hall where the large room started; Bucky following.

A loud, heart wrenching scream made your stomach churn, looking behind you to see the man pulling a knife from Bucky's side. You froze, not sure if you should try to help Bucky, or run for help as he grew closer to you.

A shake of Bucky's head as he fumbled back to his feet sent you up the stairs, a hand wrapping around your ankle and jerking your leg from under you; your chin smacking one of the wooden stairs making you whimper.

You blinked away the fuzzy feeling in your vision and gripped onto the splintering wood, pulling your body forward as you brought your knee up and rammed the bottom of your foot into his face; getting out of his grip long enough to climb the last of the stairs.

Jerking the front door open, you stumbled off the porch and down the driveway. The car was right there, nearly in your reach as your legs worked fast to carry you closer to it.

The keys were still in the ignition, but the engine wouldn't turn over; the starter clicking again and again as you sobbed and screamed for it to start.

Pounding on the steering wheel; you cursed and screamed before you gripped it as you took a deep, shaky breath, looking to where the two phones once sat in the cubby hole under the stereo. "Fuck!" You cried, pulling yourself from the car.

The front door was jerked open again, making you stop in your tracks and look to who it was.

"Buck-" you felt a tinge of relief paint over the fear that surged your veins, his once neat, clean uniform shirt now torn on his side and blood soaked. "Go! The woods! Go!" He barked, making his way down the broken down porch steps as fast as he could to follow behind you.

Lungs burning, tears streaking your face in fear for your best friend and legs threatening to give out each time your feet pounded against the dirt, you glanced over your shoulder to see where Bucky went; arms suddenly encasing your mid-section and pulling you to a near by tree.

A scream tried to rip from your chest, the familiar coolness of metal clasping over your lips stopping it. "Shhh!" Bucky hissed, bruises blooming on his face and blood coating his teeth from the cut on his lip.

Breathing heavily through your nose, you let your eyes close. The thundering of your heart making it hard to hear anything. "There's a neighboring house just outside the treeline. You can make it there." He said once he was sure there wasn't anyone close by.

"What about you?" You said once he moved his hand, voice shaky and hoarse from how raw your throat felt. "I'm gonna try. C'mon."

He pulled you along behind him, feet moving fast over logs and vines that littered the ground.

Bucky suddenly stopped, tugging you to go infront of him and urging you faster; the break in the woods getting closer and closer, finally walking into the neighboring yard.

A middle aged man answered your frantic knocking, shock and fear etching across his face at the sight on his front porch. "Deputy James Barnes, we need to use your phone." Bucky said holding his badge up.

A simple nod and he moved aside to let the two of you in; locking all of the locks on his door before going to where his home phone sat. "Honey! Can I get some help down here?! Sit down, my wife is a nurse, let her look at that." The man said, handing Bucky the phone and gesturing to one of the dining chairs.

"Are you okay? Do you need some water?" He asked, reaching a hand towards you. "Yes, please." You croaked out, still on edge that the man could come through the door at any moment.

"Oh, my god." A woman gasped from the bottom of the stairs. "What happened to the two of you?"

"Long story." Bucky groaned, letting her lift his uniform shirt to inspect the gash on his side. "I'm calling it in, we'll be outta here soon. Okay, sugar?" The promising look in Bucky's eyes added hope back into your heart. "Yeah."

Soon, ambulances and patrol cars filled the road, Bucky insisting on going with Steve and Sam to search the perimeter again; no matter how many times you protested. Only getting promises that it'd be fine as the paramedics ushered you to the ambulance.

Every second felt like an hour as you waited for the three men to appear back from the woods, Bucky limping this time as he walked to stand in front of you.

"Are you okay?" You said, lifting your hands to his blood and dirt covered cheeks, seeing him wince slightly. "I'm fine, we're fine." He said, giving a light smile and taking your hands in his, holding them to his chest. "You're staying with me tonight. Alright, babygirl?"

You gave a soft nod, pressing a tender kiss to his busted bottom lip before leaning your forehead against his. "'M so tired." You sighed, Bucky's hands moving to massage the tops of your sore thighs. "Can stay as long as you want and need."

______________

Two weeks passed, you still hadn't left Bucky's apartment to stay in your own. Every time you slept you could hear the woman's voice that hadn't been found; Bucky being right next to you when you'd force yourself awake seemed to help.

He never mentioned the incident after all of the reports and paperwork had been finished, he didn't want to bring back any memories you had managed to lock away.

But, he was worried, it affected you a lot more than it did him and it scared him. He watched you scrub the clothes from that night so many times before just throwing them away.

He didn't want you to leave the safety of his apartment or his bed for your own. It was the only thing to ease the constant uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky saw the pained look on your face everytime you'd see the crooked scar on his side, it was completely different than the loving way you'd look at the one on his shoulder. So, when you'd trace it with your fingertips he'd always make it a point to tell you it wasn't your fault and how much he loved you.

He swore to himself that nothing would be left unspoken again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @likeahorribledream @cxddlyash @iwannabekilledtwice @bookstan0618 @marvel-3407 @glxwingrxse @yliumy @pineprincess @makbarnes @cupcakehinch @doasyoudesireandlive @magicwithinnightmares @preferredrealty @andy-is-gay @stucky-my-ship

[smoothcperator]

Gael shifted his gaze from the target in front of him to Quote Unquote, a single eyebrow quirked at the huffy—almost bratty—tone of voice the other man had addressed him with. Rotating on his heels to face his teammate, he regarded Loch’s posture for a second—taking note of the discomfort in his body language—and scoffed in disbelief. This one really didn't know when to quit while he was ahead.

But, this was a hurtle he knew he'd have to drag Loch across even if he kicked and screamed the entire time.

“Look, Q, I understand that the internet has memeified anomalies to the point where people like you think SCP-2901 and SCP-4059 are fucking dateable—but the Mothmen and the Jersey Devils? Those things are basically animals. Dangerous ones at that. And they certainly don't feel the same goodwill towards you that you do towards them. I can promise you that,” Gael muttered, turning back to the shooting booth and lifting up the handgun resting on the stainless steel table separating them from the gallery. The firearm felt cool to the touch even through the shooting gloves that covered his hands.

"This is a double-action semi-automatic," he said, nodding towards Loch. He then dropped the magazine and placed it down on the table before pulling back the chamber to show that it was empty.

"Everyone on MTF Chi-00 is expected to know how to use one, even the techs," He continued, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully at his fellow operative before putting the gun down on the table and reaching for the magazine. Methodically, he filled it with bullets from a box that had been sitting at the booth when he had arrived. “And, yeah, there’s a chance that we might never get into a situation where you’ll need to use one of these, but you should learn now instead of ending up wishing that you had later."

After popping the magazine back into the chamber, Gael presented the loaded pistol to Loch. "Trust me on this one."

who: an open starter for anyone interested! what: the defense seminar

Forgive him for not having a background in these things, but it was Loch's esteemed opinion that anytime weapons were needed, he'd already failed in whatever job he was supposed to be doing and he may as well accept his fate as the red shirt of the group. Sure, he played enough video games to have half-way decent hand-eye coordination and could at least hold his own when it came to hand-to-hand and self-defense, but picking up a gun? It put a sour taste in the back of Loch's throat, like the tingling promise of bile. He was not going to enjoy this.

The person next to him likely, in his mind, didn't expect to be addressed with how quiet the room was, but the few cares Loch gave for social convention had long-since decided to abandon ship when this requirement came through. "Is this really necessary," he demanded, hand shoved so deeply into pockets it was a question on whether or not they'd reappear at all. "I'm a techy. Support class. Unspoken genius of the electronic variety, whatever you care for. Is it seriously so important I know how to shoot?"

[mariacallous]

A few years ago I visited friends from Washington D.C. who had relocated to Morocco. They live in Rabat, Morocco’s capital city, where they had a housekeeper who was also a good and generous cook. Although Fatima spoke only Arabic and French while I speak English and Spanish, we both understood the language of food. I would sit at the kitchen table or stand by her, taking notes as she worked her magic with fresh ingredients from the local market. 

True to Moroccan cuisine, Fatima was skilled at cooking in a tagine, that wondrous North African earthenware pot with the conical lid that creates tender, flavorful dishes of the same name. Tagines always involve lots of vegetables, and sometimes meat. The shape of the tight-fitting lid traps the rising steam as the food cooks, which condenses into drops of liquid flavor.

Like most of you, I don’t have an actual tagine. But after returning from Morocco, I discovered that a Dutch oven or heavy-bottomed pot can work as a stand-in, provided it has a tight-fitting lid. Many enameled Dutch oven lids have condensation rings, which are helpful. Try not to lift the lid as it will break the steam-condensation process. This recipe is inspired by Fatima’s cooking. Imitating the tagine method, vegetables are added in layers, with the ones needing the longest cooking time at the bottom.This dish is perfect for Shabbat, being both special and comforting. Serve it the traditional way with steamed couscous and pretend for a little while that you’re far away, enjoying the delights of Morocco.

Cooking notes: 

Usually only about a cup of broth or water is added to the tagine, but I’ve doubled the liquid as a bit of insurance against burning the bottom. If you want it to be more like a stew, add 2 additional cups of broth or water.

 Be sure to leave a couple inches between the top of the vegetables and the lid of your pot. 

There’s a lot of flexibility in the ingredients. No carrots in the house? No worries. Got green beans or eggplant you want to use up? Add the eggplant, cut in 1/2-inch cubes, before the zucchini, and the whole or cut green beans after. Turnips and other squashes also work well.

I have included a recipe to make your own simplified Ras el Hanout, a spice blend so important in North African cuisines that its means “head of market.” You can also buy it pre-made from Middle Eastern markets, specialty vendors like NY Shuk or even on Amazon. Keep in mind that, like all store-bought spice mixes, the combinations, taste and color can vary. 

This spice mix will freeze well for up to two months.

Ingredients

For the Moroccan spice blend: 

1 Tbsp paprika

1 Tbsp cumin

2 tsp ground ginger

1 tsp turmeric

<1 tsp cinnamon

1 tsp coriander

1/2 tsp allspice

1/4 tsp cloves

For the tagine:

2 Tbsp olive oil, divided

1 large onion, diced

3 large cloves garlic, minced

2 Tbsp Moroccan spice mixture (below) or store-bought Ras el Hanout, divided

1 butternut squash or pumpkin (2-2 1/2 pounds), peeled, seeded and cut into 1-inch cubes (3-4 cups)

1 can (15 ounces) chickpeas, drained with chickpeas and liquid (aquafaba) reserved separately

peel from 1 small preserved lemon, diced or cut into very thin strips, or 2 tsp grated fresh lemon zest, divided

2 medium sweet or yellow potatoes (1-1 1/2 pounds), unpeeled and cut into 1/2-inch slices

2 medium carrots, cut 1/2 inch wide

2 medium zucchinis, cut into 1/2-inch half moons

1 large tomato

1/2 small green cabbage, cut into 6-8 thin wedges

2 cups hot vegetable stock or water

1/2-1 tsp salt

1 cup green or black olives (optional)

chopped cilantro or parsley (optional)

Directions

To make the spice blend: Whisk all the spices together in a bowl until well blended. Store mix in an airtight glass or stainless-steel container in a cool, dry place.

To make the tagine: In a heavy-bottomed 6- or 7-quart pot or Dutch oven with a tight-fitting lid, heat 1 Tbsp oil over medium heat. Add onions with a pinch of salt and sauté, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes, until tender but not browned. Add garlic and 1 Tbsp of the spice mixture. Cook, stirring, for about 2 minutes, until aromatic.

Add the liquid from the chickpeas (aquafaba) and the squash cubes to the pot, and stir.

Turn the heat as low as possible while you layer the vegetables, building a domed shape as you go. Sprinkle about a third of the preserved lemon or lemon zest over the squash or pumpkin, then cover with potato slices. Add a layer of carrots, a third more lemon. Layer the zucchini on top. Lean wedges of cabbage against the sides of the vegetable mound.

In a small bowl, whisk together the hot broth or water with the remaining 1 Tbsp each of oil and spice mixture. Pour over the vegetables. Cover the pot and turn the heat up to medium.

While the tagine heats, use a small knife to peel the skin from the bottom of the tomato. Holding onto the top or stem, grate the tomato flesh on the large holes of a box grater into a dish, leaving discarding the skin. Add the grated tomato and juices to the pot, on top of the zucchini.

As soon as the tagine starts to simmer, reduce heat to low and let cook undisturbed until the vegetables are almost tender, about 25-30 minutes. 

Add the chickpeas, olives and remaining lemon. Add a little more stock or hot water if the pot looks dry.  Cover and continue to cook for another 10-15 minutes. 

Serve in the pot, or the vegetables can be carefully moved and arranged on a large serving platter, taking care with each layer of vegetables and serving on top of couscous or rice. Garnished generously with chopped cilantro or parsley.

[superliftcanada]

Best Features to Get When You Order Stainless Steel Scissor Lifts Online

Industrial and commercial operations need efficient material handling equipment that can easily carry out the operations of carrying heavy and bulky goods. Since there is a wide variety of tools designed for the vertical lifting of products, stainless steel scissor lifts are the best of them as they offer a seamless and reliable operational experience. These outstanding lifts come with various advanced features, including self-propelled functionality, higher and better travel capabilities, custom size to suit operational needs, and a larger platform for holding maximum goods along with the self-propelled function. One can order stainless steel scissor lifts online to match all these operational expectations. Here are the advanced features of these scissor lifts that you can get for operational readiness. 

Custom Sizes 

Each workspace needs different types of equipment to meet operational needs. This is the reason why stainless steel scissor lifts are available in various sizes with features that can perfectly match the current operational requirements. From specific dimensions to added features, these scissor lifts can thoroughly accelerate your productivity, and once you invest in this equipment, you will get the output for a longer time with less maintenance. Whether it's a compact lift for tight spaces or a larger model for heavy-duty tasks, custom sizing ensures that the lift seamlessly integrates into the current workflow.  

Self-Propelling Functionality 

There is no longer a need to rely on external assistance to move the scissor lifts from one location to another. Since they come with self-propelled functionality, the stainless steel scissor lifts allow the operators to maneuver with each, enhancing productivity while reducing the dependency on extra manpower. This outstanding feature is beneficial in a busy work environment where agility and efficiency are important. 

Higher Lifting Capacity 

When it needs to operate in elevated areas, the lift has to go for extra height, and this is only possible when you have the right scissor lifts in your production facility. Stainless steel scissor lifts with increased travel capabilities make extended vertical reach possible, making it easier for operators to reach elevated platforms and work locations. This function is a huge advantage in a variety of industries as it reduces downtime and increases production.

Easy to Maintain Highest Sanitary Standards 

Industries like food processing, pharmaceuticals and healthcare needs highest sanitary standards and this is get fulfilled by stainless steel scissor lifts. They are developed to meet the rigorous hygiene standards. 

Integrated and Internal Power packs 

Stainless steel scissor lifts with integrated power packs reduce the need for external components while ensuring dependable and smooth operation. These lifts are more streamlined and less prone to damage because the power source is housed internally, increasing their longevity and reliability. Furthermore, internal power packs lower operating costs and downtime by streamlining maintenance and service requirements.

Spacious and Larger Platforms 

The wider platform gives operators more room to work and can support more personnel or heavier goods. Larger platform stainless steel scissor lifts are more efficient and versatile when it comes to moving big machinery or performing maintenance. This capability is especially helpful in sectors where workspace optimization is crucial, such as manufacturing, construction, and warehousing.

Safety Skirts 

Any workplace should prioritize safety, and stainless steel scissor lifts with safety skirts reduce the possibility of entrapment or unintentional contact with moving parts. These skirts offer an extra degree of protection, encouraging a safe workplace and lowering the possibility of mishaps or injuries.

Foot Controls 

Operators can easily operate the lift with stability and control thanks to foot controls, which provide hands-free simplicity. This ergonomic feature increases operator comfort and productivity, especially while doing jobs that call for using the hands and feet at the same time. Foot controls increase overall productivity by streamlining operations and lowering operator fatigue by doing away with the need for manual controls.

When you order stainless steel scissor lifts online, you have all these features to choose from, and this is why it becomes easy to get all these types of features on the platter that would rightly match all your expectations while meeting productive parameters. 

Resource: https://superliftcanada.wordpress.com/2024/05/28/best-features-to-get-when-you-order-stainless-steel-scissor-lifts-online/ 

[slasherholic]

Michael Myers x Doctor! Reader | The Check-Up

behold, a drabble that went on for 1500 words too long.

synopsis: you are a doctor at smith’s grove administering the patient’s monthly physical exams. your next patient is michael. sadly, there is no world where this ends pleasantly for you.

contains: gender-neutral reader, michael being a toying asshole and giving the reader a nasty scare.

The exam room is small and drab, too intimate a space for work to happen comfortably. Its walls are not thick enough to dampen the noise of shuffling feet and voices passing by outside, and occasionally, the strident yelling of an upset patient will cut above the murmur, making you drum your fingers against the steel countertop with a renewed fervor.

On your sheet, half way down the list, the name is printed innocuously there in blue ink:

M. Myers.

You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly; it does not calm your nerves. Since you relinquished your last patient, the unease has been twisting in your gut like you swallowed a whole eel. Now, it feels almost determined to come back up.

It’s only a physical, you reason. The guards will be right outside. He’ll be restrained.

And such things might have been a comfort, if only “M. Myers” was still just a name on a list with a gruesome reputation to precede him. You are not fortunate enough for that to be the case; you have worked with Myers before. You know what he is like.

Your eyes flit to the clock on the wall while your fingers tap tap tap away on the counter. The guards have been gone eight minutes now. Some patients make a fight out of it every time they are taken from their rooms, requiring transport around the sanitarium in wheelchairs fit with heavy leather straps. Not Myers. In all your time employed at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium, you have never heard of one such related incident involving Myers. He lets himself be escorted without a fuss.

The incidents only happen after he gets to where he’s going.

It is not another full minute before there is a knock at the door.

“I’m ready,” you say promptly. The handle twists to the side. The door opens.

Four guards bring him in, double the standard patient security detail.

They lead him to the exam table while you thumb through your drawer for his file. In the corner of your eye, you watch him sit. One guard produces a key ring. The guard squats. Shortly, you hear the resounding metal “click” of a lock turning into place.

“Alright,” the guard says, standing. “All’s good over here.” After some consideration, he adds, “Want us to stick around for this one?”

“No, but thank you,” you tell him, pulling out the file. “I trust you did your job.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

The guards leave the room, one by one.

“Holler if he gives you any trouble,” the last guard states, closing the door behind him.

The silence in their stead is woeful and everything within it altogether too loud. The clock on the wall ticks. Your stool squeaks sharply when you sit upright. The open drawer screeches as you push it shut.

And you can hear him breathing.

Your heart should not be racing already but it is. You suppose it isn’t too late to call the guards back in, but in the end, it wouldn’t matter much; if Myers is determined to toy with you, he will. Their presence will not deter him.

Clipboard in hand, you swivel on your stool, and face him.

Myers sits atop the paper-sheeted table with an attentive posture. He wears his usual white patient’s garb, canvas pants and a cotton shirt, the latter too tight around the breadth of his shoulders. Short metal cuffs link his wrists closely to his waist. His ankle has been chained to the chipping grey tile; and, despite the elevation of the table, his feet touch the floor with ease.

Alarmingly, he is staring right back at you.

Ice-blue eyes consider you steadily. No hint of emotion occupies his face. The look is somehow effortless, and you are reminded of how a housecat might regard a person of mild interest, intrigued enough by the happenings to observe, but caring not to involve itself further—yet.

Your throat tightens. There have been times during these check-ups where Myers feigns detachment, pretending wholly as if he doesn’t care. Not today. Already, he is casually toying with you.

Your eyes fall to your clipboard as you stand from your stool, eager for an excuse to cast your gaze away from him.

“I’ll be administering a quick check up today,“ you say, depositing your pen in your breast pocket. “Weight, heart rate, blood pressure, nothing invasive.” It is all you can manage if you are to maintain some air of professionalism. Your voice has already begun to thin.

The physician’s scale rests against the wall beside the exam table, wholly too close to Myers for your liking. You feel his eyes following you across the room as you go and stand next to it. Adrenaline surges in your veins at the proximity.

“Stand here, please,” you say, eyes fixed on your clipboard, as though very much involved in your work, and very much not falling prey to your patient’s lingering stare.

For a beat of time that stretches on into discomfort, nothing happens. Michael’s breathing fills the room. You do not look up from your sheet. He doesn’t budge an inch in your periphery. It is as if you had not spoken at all, only imagined it. Perhaps he didn’t hear you. Perhaps he’s decided not to cooperate.

The instructions are almost past your lips a second time when Michael stands. His weight shifts fluidly onto his feet, almost soundlessly, were it not for the clank of his ankle restraint hitting the floor. The scale creaks as he steps on—the length of chain allows it, barely. Your breathing is far from measured now. While you slide the weights along the top of the scale you grip your clipboard tremendously tight.

It is a strange and terrible thing, you think, to exist next to a body that has taken so many lives. Would you lose your job if you were to obey the way your feet seem to want to charge as fast as you are able out of this room? Why, the situation doesn’t seem ethical; your higher-ups, the doctors, the psychologists, all know what dreadful acts Michael is capable of; are you seriously expected to treat this man as though he’s just the next patient on your sheet?

A series of terrible things occur to you all at once; If Michael wanted to, even in his chains, he could hurt you very easily. It is by the mere fact of the building surrounding him that he has not.

Contained in this place, to harm you is to tighten his own restraints. Michael knows this. He knows the keys to the castle must be attained through docility, or at least an act of it, which he is very good at faking. Whether he believes the game is eligible for a second round, now, with so much fresh blood on his hands, he is going to play. In fewer words; only by the grace of brick and cement are you allowed to exist within an arm’s length of this man, and still keep breathing.

On your sheet, you scribble a barely legible 210 lbs in the blank white space next to “patient weight”. In a retreating voice you ask Myers to please sit back down on the table. He decides instead to linger next to you first, broadening his chest with a few more steady breaths; after that, he sits.

The stethoscopes are stored in the stainless steel cabinets above your desk. You set down your clipboard as you dig for one, trying all the while not to think the unthinkable—you have to touch your patient now. You have to touch Michael.

Stethoscope in hand, eyes fixed to a point on the floor for the sake of your own sanity, you drag your stool across the room, its one stuck wheel screeching across the linoleum.

You settle your stool inches away from Myers and put on your best mask of doctorly calm.

“Looking good so far,” you say, not believing that Michael is actually paying attention to your words, only speaking because it seems the comfortable thing to do. “I need to listen to your heart next, so please, don’t move.”

Michael’s towering body doesn’t budge a muscle in response to your new proximity. He continues to breathe in and out, chest expanding beneath his too-tight shirt, and you can see the individual muscles of his torso rising and contracting, ribs filling out, pectorals broadening, their outline obvious beneath his meager layer of clothing.

You install the buds of your stethoscope in both ears and reach out with your dominant hand toward his chest, pressing the circular tool just above his heart.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. The pounding echoes in your skull. You can feel it beating up through his coiled muscle, throbbing so adamantly beneath your touch that you can see his pulse lifting your fingers up and down, up, down, a power which you try to ignore by filling your thoughts with numbers, counting the beats as your task demands.

Touching Michael is nearly unbearable by the fiftieth second. You withhold your heavy swallow as you shove away from him, wheeling back to the safety of the counter where your sheet rests, jotting in his results, which are incredible, but nothing short of expected—Michael has the resting heart rate of a trained athlete.

As you ink in his results in the empty box, it occurs to you that he must be getting some sort of pleasure out of this. Some carnal need of his is gratified by the symptoms of your unease—the miserable tension in your voice, the fact you cannot look him in the eye. Michael is devouring all of it.

You feel suddenly very faint as you reach again above the counter, this time taking a hand light from the cabinets. Two more empty boxes remain unfilled on your sheet; two more tests to administer. Half way done. You suppose that fact should help settle your nerves, but it doesn’t. Instead, a different angle on the matter takes form in your head; a whole half way in, and Myers is still pretending as if he’s only going to sit there and watch.

You leave your clipboard on the counter this time, because it can’t save you. To perform this next part you are going to have to bite the bullet and look Myers in the face.

Distressingly, his expression has not budged a bit. His cold eyes are still upon you.

Keeping your concern off your face seems a losing battle now. You know Michael can detect it in the tightness of your features as you roll your stool across the room, and perhaps you imagined the oh-so-faint dilation of his functioning pupil as you approached, and perhaps you didn’t.

“I just need you to follow this light for me.” You tell Michael, brandishing the hand light in front of you.

His eyes, or you suppose the one good one, survey the thin silver tool in your hand. Nothing on his face changes. He looks back up at you within three beats of your racing heart, apparently ready to comply.

Your thumb meets the little button on the side of the light and it illuminates a harsh circle on his pale cheek. A flick of your wrist aligns it with your target. Michael’s pupil contracts to a pin-point. He obliges your instructions, tracking the light as you move it left, then right, his reflexes behaving beautifully, flawlessly, in fact…

...and you are still contemplating the flawlessness of Michael’s pupillary reflexes when it occurs to you that he is no longer following the light. Instead, he is staring at your face.

You remember seeing tigers hunting on a nature show. You remember that head down, fixed-eyed look, a predator’s unbreakable concentration. That is how Myers is staring at you.

Terror rolls through you, gripping your heart in a cold fist. It makes you smaller and smaller until you feel like turning on your heel and sprinting for the door, away from this ruthless predator, because Myers is so obviously that.

“Follow the light, please.” You barely squeeze the words past your constricting vocal chords. Michael does not follow the light. He looks at you with that same deadly gaze, the darkness spreading to overtake his whole face.

You recoil from him like you’ve been shot.

His cuffed hand shoots out. Chain links rattle as he seizes your elbow. A gasp leaves your throat at the horrible pressure of his fingers digging into bone.

Very quietly, you tell him to let you go.

Michael doesn’t. His hand continues to grip your arm as if cemented there. He meets your eyes with a piercing look that says you are about to die.

Suddenly, the fact of the sanitarium walls surrounding you no longer matter. Your world swings sickeningly sideways. You know only one thing; Michael is going to murder you on the spot.

Tears cascade freely down your face. His grip hurts but the fear hurts worse. You tell him you are going to call in the guards. Michael, unperturbed, holds you, just watching, perhaps even daring you to.

“Please let go.” You are pleading with him now. Pleading with a murderer. Pleading with the monster that has already decided your fate.

The very moment before you raise your voice to scream for the guards, Michael does let go. His hand comes free and you spill to the floor with a yelp, knocking over medical supplies on the counter which clatter loudly as they fall. The doors swing open. The four guards step in.

Michael sits innocuously on the exam table as you heave and tremble on the floor. By all accounts, it would appear as though you’ve fallen due to your own clumsiness.

One of the guards rushes to your side to help you to your feet. You insist in a tight, quivering voice that you are fine; that you only tripped. You spit out that you have everything you need from Myers, and if they would please take him away, and bring in the next patient, that would be excellent.

Michael is still watching you as the guards begin to unlock his ankle cuff. You cannot bear to return his stare. Bending down, you start to pluck a tray of spilled cotton swabs off the floor, trying to occupy your shaking hands, but even long after the guards have removed Myers from the room, your hands refuse to stop their trembling.

[katelyn--renee]

Composure

Title: Composure

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader/(Y/N) Winchester (mentioned), Harper Winchester (OC, mentioned), Daniel Winchester (OC, mentioned), Crowley (mentioned)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Wife!Reader

Words: ±2670

Description: Dean and (Y/N) take their shot at a normal life and settle down. Over the years, they have a few kids. Things are good. Until they’re not. What will Dean do when his past comes back to put an end to his happily ever after?

Written For: @deanwanddamons ​ 2K Celebration! Congratulations babe! That’s awesome! My prompt will be in bold -  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Warnings: ANGST! Descriptions of blood. Mentions of breaking and entering. Kidnaping. Show level violence/outbursts of anger. 

Author’s Note: This is in correlation with another fic of mine, Sweet Cherry Pie. It takes place about twelve to thirteen years after that one, to give you a brief timeline. There will be other fics with that original storyline, so stay tuned.

Thank you so much to @wonder-cole​ for being my beta for this wonderful piece and helping me with the title. You’re awesome and much appreciated! She has some amazing work of her own, so please do yourself a favor and check it out! Check out @talesmaniac89​ for more awesome page dividers!!

Disclaimer: I do not own any photos or gifs, all rights go to original creators/owners.

Interested in more of my work, check out the link below.

Masterlist

The rain was heavy tonight, thick and angry as it poured from the dark clouds above. The fat raindrops were noisy against the single paned windows. The water coated the glass surface and made it impossible to see through, even as the flashes of lightning lit up the night sky and cast long shadows through the living room of 35 Maplewood Road. There was a heaviness surrounding the house, as if something wicked had been there.

The home was dark and empty, and the furniture was overturned and broken in places; the sofa was thrown over backwards, the cushions laying discarded across the floor with the end table toppled over beside it. The lamp that had occupied its surface was shattered to pieces on the wooden floor, and the rug had been stained with something dark and red. 

The coffee table was shoved out of place, the glass surface no longer there in one piece and the mirror that hung in the hallway had a spider web like crack across the surface, hanging now only by one screw. In the very center of the crack, something crimson and shiny caught the lighting from outside, almost as if someone’s skull had been smashed there.

The familiar idling of Baby’s engine grew louder as Dean pulled in the driveway of his home, the brakes squealing as he came to a stop and put the Chevy into park. A feeling of dread began to knot into his stomach, making the muscles of his jaw flex as he tried to bite back the feeling. Something was wrong; all those years of hunting and honing his instincts told him that much. Not a single light was on inside of the home and yet, (Y/N)’s car was parked out front. Not good.

Dean fished his phone from his jacket and swiftly unlocked the screen with a swipe of his thumb across the glass, dialing the number he knew so well. Pressing the receiver to his ear, he waited while the call rang out once... twice… “Come on, (Y/N/N).” He muttered under his breath as the fifth tone sounded. Her voice greeted his ear, but it was artificial; the recording of her voicemail, Hi, you’ve reached (Y/N)... 

“Damn it.” He cursed between gritted teeth and ended the call. He tried again, pressing redial. “Come on, baby, answer your damn phone!” He shut his eyes when he got the same results as before, cursing to himself as he shoved the device back into his pocket.

Never taking his eyes off the front of the house, he leaned over for the glove box and swiftly unlatched the compartment door, just as he’d done a million times before. Green eyes continued to scan for any signs of movement, even through the thick wall of rain that coated the windshield, despite the efforts of the wiper blades. 

Reaching a steady hand inside, he pulled out a pocket sized flashlight and his beloved stainless steel Colt, the engraving on the barrel catching the lightning as it bolted across the sky. Expertly, he removed the clip with a press of his thumb and double checked the bullets inside before sliding it back into the place, securing it with another click. It’d been years since he’d held the weapon, but the pearl coated handle felt just as natural as breathing against his palm.

Leaving the Impala’s engine running, Dean climbed out from behind the wheel and shut the door, the hinges creaking with age. Clicking on the flashlight, he approached the home with long, yet cautious strides, his booted feet silent in his approach, even through the heavy rain. 

His mind was racing with every terrible possibility, his guilt threatening to eat him alive as images of his family, in the worst possible outcome, flashed before his eyes. It made his blood run cold. His heart was pounding rapidly with fear, pushing the adrenaline through his veins and forcing him to move forward rather than let the panic overwhelm him.

He tried to peer inside the living room through the set of windows lining the front of the house, but it did little to ease his uncertainty; if anything, it only made it worse, only able to make out long shadows and dark shapes. His clothes were completely soaked through, hugging his large frame by the time he’d reached the front porch, the coolness of the rain chilling him to the bone. Droplets of water dripped down his face and the tip of his nose, and his hair clung against his forehead.

Approaching the large red door, his scowl only deepened, darkening his features when he discovered that it had been left unlatched, allowing in a single beam of light with each flash from the storm overhead. He glared at the lock and then narrowed his eyes as something caught his attention, the muscles there twitching. Stretching a hand out, he examined the wooden surface, his fingertips grazing over the chipped paint and splintered wood. Someone had broken in.

Taking only a moment to compose himself, Dean exhaled slowly and swallowed back his apprehension, forcing himself to go on. Using the weight of his body, he nudged the door open cautiously and poked his head inside. The experienced hunter kept his gun aimed high and at the ready, his finger hovering over the trigger. Wrist over wrist, Dean held the flashlight steady with the opposite hand, the beam unmoving, providing him with some light through the darkness.

All of those years of training were put to the test as he stepped through the threshold of his home, his expression as hard as stone and giving away absolutely nothing, despite the fear that was boiling just beneath the surface. His eyes darted around the room, following the beam of his flashlight, taking in every detail of his surroundings just as he’d been taught all those years ago.

Following the layout of the house, Dean came to the living room first, stepping over the broken furniture and discarded decorations. The sight of his home in this state made him uneasy and that much harder to keep his cool, able to sense the panic starting to creep in. Where was (Y/N)? Where were the kids? Who had done this to his family? Was it revenge?

Another flash of lightning caused something slick and shiny to catch his eye, and Dean let out a shaky breath. Hesitating for only a moment, he crossed the room and crouched down next to the sofa to investigate, the troubling sight seized his heart. There was a substantial amount of blood there, a large pool of crimson that had soaked into the fibers of the rug. 

Near the top of the stain, a gold chain necklace was lost within the mess and a thin layer of another substance was scattered around it. It was almost yellow in color and had a very distinct, very specific scent that accompanied it. Touching the surface of the floor next to the stain, Dean felt something grainy under his finger tips. Lifting it to his nose, the smell of sulfur invaded his senses. Demons.

“Fuck,” He cursed, the boom of the thunder shaking his house as it lit up his face simultaneously. Still crouched, he plucked the necklace out of the sticky crimson mess and glared at the amulet with a heavy gaze, his hand shaking. He shut his eyes and closed his fingers into a fist, the knuckles turning white around the piece of jewelry. It belonged to (Y/N). It had been a gift, a charm to ward off evil and prevent possession.

This was all his fault. He should have known better. Hell, he did know better and yet, he ignored it, because he had a chance to finally be happy. To have an actual family and live the normal, apple pie life he’d always wanted. And now the ones he loved were missing and more than likely dead. Or probably close to it.

His chin quivered for a moment and hot tears stung at the corners of his eyes, his emotions getting the better of him. How could he let this happen? How could he be so stupid and reckless? He knew better, damn it! Once a hunter, always a hunter. There is no getting out of the life, not entirely, because those evil sons-of-bitches will always be out there. 

One way or another, they always find a way to catch back up to any hunter who has tried, and every single time it ends bloody and messy and violent. He needed to find them, he just had to. And he would save them, no matter what it cost. He’d pay it.

Releasing a heavy breath, he opened his eyes and willed the tears away, shoving the emotions back down into the pit of his soul. Despite his efforts, a solitary tear made it’s escape, dripping down his left cheek and onto the color of his shirt before he could stop it.

Dean rose to his full height and squared his shoulders, prepared to continue his search. Sliding the necklace into his jacket pocket with care, he followed the trail into the hall with a heavy heart. 

Glass cracked and snapped under his boots as he walked through the space, his jaw flexing when he saw the picture of his family shattered on the floor. Their happy faces only added to his grieving heart and guilty conscious, their smiles making his soul ache.

That had been a good day, nearly five years ago now; (Y/N) had worn his favorite blue dress that day, the strapless one that stopped right above her knees and showed off her sexy legs. 

She had on that silly - but achingly cute - oversized tan hat that kept the sun from her eyes. He would always tease her about that goofy hat, but she never cared what others thought of her, never ceasing to be herself, no matter what.

They’d gone to the park that day, had an actual picnic and he’d played catch with his son while the girls giggled and painted their nails...  They even taught the twins how to ride their bikes that day. They couldn’t have been more than seven years old.

Harper had caught on much quicker than her brother, of course, taking after her mother in that way. Those girls were naturals at almost everything they did, only needing to try something a few times before perfecting it. That had been something he’d adored and admired about his wife and it was a huge part of what made her such a skilled hunter when they met.

Daniel, on the other hand, had to take the time to understand how something worked first. He needed to study the mechanics of things, take them apart, rebuild and understand it completely, inside and out, before he was able to master it. Danny often reminded Dean of the Winchester side of the family. That had been a good day, one of many they’d shared together.

Brought out of his memories by another angry boom from outside, Dean pressed on. Where the picture had once hung, there was a bloody handprint smeared on the white wall, the two colors contrasting greatly. 

The blood streaked out toward the kitchen, giving the hunter a clear path to follow. Damn it. Dean grit his teeth. It felt as if something had his heart in a vice, squeezing it tighter and making it increasingly difficult to breathe the further he went.

His emotions were threatening to break through the surface again, fighting hard against his resolve, but he held his ground against them, purely focused on finding his loved ones. Now was not the time to break down. Following the trail of blood and debris, he checked each room along the way, trying to be as thorough as possible. He couldn’t afford to miss a damn thing. 

Their bedrooms were empty, and unsurprisingly, every inch had been torn apart. Dean’s chest heaved with emotion, his breath hitching in his throat; if anything happened to those kids, he would never be able to forgive himself.

Continuing on, the hunter emerged into the next room, and found much of the same; broken furniture, shattered pictures and even more blood. But not a single sign of his family. The sliding glass door had been left open, allowing the rain from the storm to collect onto the tile floor. 

Dean shut his eyes and took several deep breaths, his chest aching with every forceful beat of his heart. He needed to call Sammy, needed to form a plan. When he opened his eyes, something on the countertop caught his eye; a sheet of paper. Cocking his head with curiosity, he crossed the room in three long, determined strides.

It was a note, addressed to him.

It’s been too long, darling. How’s Moose? Hope the wife and kids are well...oh, wait, that’s right, you’re as clueless as ever. No surprise there. Before we get to the fun bits, let’s talk business; I need a favor and you and your giant of a brother are going to help me. Now, to ensure that things go as planned, I have something of yours. I assure you, they are safe. For now. Do as I ask, and they will be returned to you, alive. So, Dean, dear, let’s make a deal, shall we? You know where to meet me.

Squirrel,

Yours truly, 

The King of Hell

“Crowley.” Dean growled deep in his chest, his teeth clenched as his blood began to boil over with rage. “Goddamn it!” He shouted, swiping the contents of the counter onto the floor. “Fuck!” He kicked something across the room, too angry to pay much attention to it as it slammed into the stainless steel refrigerator. He swung at the closest surface, his fist connecting with a nearby wall.

The drywall collapsed around his fist as the plaster fell to the floor at his feet. His knuckles were screaming at him, but he didn’t care, too fueled by his rage to notice. What could Crowley possibly need their help with? It didn’t matter. Whatever it was, they would get it done and save his family. Crowley would get what’s coming to him; Dean would make damn sure of that.

Taking a few calming breaths, Dean removed his phone with a bloodied hand and opened his contacts, scrolling through the names until he found what he was searching for. Sammy. Dialing the number, Dean held the phone to his ear with baited breath. After the third ring, Sam’s voice came in through the other end, sounding concerned because of the late hour, “Dean? Everything alright?”

Dean shook his head, his vision blurring with tears. He cleared his throat, trying to prevent it from shaking too much. “No, Sammy. It ain’t alright.” He admitted, gripping the counter with his free hand, bracing himself. He wanted to crumble onto the floor, his body trembling; his mind flooded with so many different emotions, each of them trying to overpower the other: fear, guilt, anger, heartache…

“Dean, what is it?” The younger Winchester questioned, the worry evident in his voice. “Is it (Y/N)? The kids? Is everyone okay?” He waited patiently on the other end, but Dean could hear him moving around; he assumed his brother was getting his things ready to head out.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean’s voice broke as a few tears slipped through the cracks, “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He shook his head, allowing himself a moment to break, his chest heaving. “We were out!” He slammed his fist down onto the counter, terrified and angry.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Sam pleaded, wanting desperately to help his big brother. 

“Crowley.” Dean clarified, going into more detail as he composed himself and straightened his stance, “Crowley’s taken them.” He took a calming breath, his moment of weakness over. “I need your help, Sammy.”

“Already on my way.”

Annnnnnd there you have it. I hope that wasn’t too rough on the heart? No worries, there may or may not be a part two in the works? We shall see. ;) 

Anyway, if you enjoyed that, please like and comment and if you’re feeling a little extra generous, share it with your friends, too! You’re feedback is like GOLD! As always, thanks for reading! 

Taglist!

Supernatural

@akshi8278​ // @flamencodiva​ // @perpetualabsurdity​

[todorokiaimee]

Dopamine (Bakugou x Black OC)

CHAPTER 1 (Note: This chapter is very spicy! Cover art by @mexi-doodler​)

“I can’t believe you talked me into this…” Bakugou groaned as he sauntered down the sidewalk beside his friends and former classmates, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.

“You can’t say no to me Bakubabe, especially on my birthday!” The pink-haired hero Ashido Mina giggled as she gave the blonde grump a tight hug from behind.

He grunted as he peeled the girl off him. “It’s the only reason I blessed you with my presence.”

“Awww you care!” The electric hero Kaminari Denki cooed as he wrapped an arm over Bakugou’s shoulder, only for him to shove him away.

“Shut it, you fucking extra!”

The tight-knit group of friends known as the Bakusquad were all out for a night on the town to celebrate Mina’s 27th birthday. The crew were dressed in their best clubwear as they walked up to the bouncer of one of Tokyo’s most exclusive dance clubs, flashing their IDs.

“Cool it, man. Let’s not make a scene on Pinky’s big day.” Kirishima chuckled as they walked inside.

Their ears were met with the driving rhythm of hip hop music, the bassline vibrations rattling in their chests. The club was filled with people dancing and drinking into the night. Pushing their way past herds of partiers, the group of friends made their way up to the bar, all ordering various drinks.

“To our Alien Queen!” Sero announced as he raised his glass, the others following suit. “The only woman who could keep us all in line all these years. Happy birthday!” The boys cheered as Ashido cheekily took a bow before guzzling down her drink.

“Thanks, boys!” she grinned before busting out her best twerking moves. “Now let's get out on that dance floor!” The pink hero laughed as she quickly made her way to the dance floor.

Everyone except Bakugou hurriedly finished up their drinks before setting their empty glasses on the bar. They all then took to the dance floor following behind the birthday girl except for Kirishima. Turning over his shoulder, he saw his prickly best friend still leaning against the bar, drink in hand. “You coming, bro?”

The blonde shook his head with a click of his tongue, “You got me here but I ain’t dancing.”

“Suit yourself!”

The explosive hero waved his friend off, watching him retreat to the dance floor. With a shake of his head, he sipped his manhattan as he watched his friends dance until a woman walked up to the bar next to him.

She was tall, easily eye level with him, with long black goddess locs. Her dark chocolate skin almost seemed to glow as he looked up her long toned legs, her round backside, over her small waist, to her generous breasts. Damn. He watched her as she easily caught the bartender’s attention.

“A double shot of whiskey, please.” Her voice was velvety smooth as he unconsciously leaned in further to hear more.

The bartender nodded as he poured her drink. The blonde watched silently as the mystery woman reached into her purse, pulling out a wad of singles. After paying, the woman quickly took the shot like it was water, Bakugou letting out a grunt in surprise.

She turned her head towards him, arching a dark brow, “What?”

Oh. She was beautiful. The hero took a moment to study her features. She had alluring emerald green eyes, full rosy lips, and he was especially fond of the small nose ring.

“Nothing,” he smirked, eying the woman. “I’m impressed.”

The woman hummed, shifting her weight to lean against the bar, her breasts pushed up and on display. “Well, it takes twice as many of those fruity drinks to get the same buzz and costs twice as much.” The ravenette paused a moment as she looked the hero up and down. “You dance?”

“No,” he scoffed, taking another sip of his manhattan.

“Aww,” the mystery woman cooed, a pout on her lips. “Two left feet huh? Don’t worry lots of macho men can’t dance.”

“I never said I can’t.” Bakugou huffed, his face bunching into a scowl.

“Prove it.” She smirked as she leaned into him, tapping the side of his glass with her finger. “Or do you still need to babysit that drink?”

The blonde stood dumbstruck for a moment as he watched the mystery woman saunter off onto the dance floor. He mulled over her invitation, his eyes falling to the drink in his hand. He swirled the ice in the glass before a small smirk pulled at his lips. He’s not one to back down from a challenge. Taking a few big gulps, the hero finished his drink, leaving it at the bar before following her out onto the floor.

It was easy to find her in the crowd. Her soft curves were dressed in a deep red mini dress and her long goddess locs swayed as she effortlessly moved her body to the pulsating music. The hero made his way behind her, his large hands resting on her hips.

“So you decided to join me after all?” She hummed as she rolled her hips, slowly grinding her backside into him.

The hero only grunted in response as he listened intently to the loud music, moving his hips to the beat to match hers. The woman melted into him, the buzz of the alcohol finally taking hold. The pair swayed and grinded together as they lost themselves in the song, the heat of the room causing beads of sweat to form against their skin.

The ravenette sighed contently as she tilted her head back to rest on the blonde’s shoulder, her eyes closed as she hummed along to the song. Bakugou watched her face carefully as he unconsciously leaned into her. He could smell the warm scent of amber and jasmine on her neck as his nose lightly ghosted across her jaw. A small smirk pulled at her lips, loving the feeling of his stubble scratch against her cheek. As she lifted her arm back to rub at the hair of his undercut at the nape of his neck, she sang along softly to the sultry song. Bakugou couldn’t help the strained breath that fell from his lips as his pants began to grow tighter.

And then, she opened her eyes.

He stared into her half-lidded emerald irises and the world seemed to stop. His body moved before he could realize, and his lips were on hers. The mystery woman returned the kiss, her lips molding to his with ease.

The hero then spun her around to face him as their lips connected again, his large hands roaming over her curves. His tongue swiped across her bottom lip, asking for entry, which she gave without hesitation. The two continued to explore each other’s mouths until she pulled away, both panting.

“You wanna get out of here?”

The blonde smirked as he took out his phone, quickly calling an Uber.

________________________________________________________________

Bakugou pushed open the door to his bedroom as he led the dark-skinned woman inside, their lips still connected. He swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, as he made his way to the bed, taking a seat on the edge. “What are you waiting for, Sexy? Don’t tell me you’re getting shy on me?”

The woman shamelessly took in the sight of his body, his rock hard abs looking especially yummy. She also noted the many red scars peppered all over his strong frame. “I’m many things but shy isn't one.” The woman chuckled as she slowly walked over to him before turning around. She pulled her long locs over her shoulder to present her back. “I just need a zip.”

His thick fingers grasped the zipper, pulling it down to reveal the smooth skin of her bare back. No bra. Gently, he pushed the mini dress off her shoulders, letting it all off her body and pool at her feet. Bakugou hummed as he took in her Coke bottle silhouette. His eyes skated down her body until they fell just above her black lace thong, making a discovery. “What’s this?” He chortled, pulling her hips closer to him. Just above her round bottom were two deep dimples at the base of her spine. He smirked as he gripped her hips, placing both of his thumbs into their indentions. “Built-in place holders.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Baby. ” The woman said softly as she turned around to face him.

Bakugou got an eyeful, her full breasts on display. He quickly took note of the stainless steel bars decorating both her nipples. “Nice hardware,” he smirked, brushing the pad of his thumb over her bud. The woman breathed a quiet moan under his touch, igniting his fire even more.

Grabbing the back of her neck, the hero hungrily claimed her lips once again, his tongue exploring her mouth without mercy. He quickly rid himself of his pants and underwear as she did the same with hers. With a huff, he tossed the woman on the bed with ease, a surprised squeal escaping her throat.

“You liked that?” he chuckled as he walked over to his bedside table, stroking his hard member. He was little over average in length but with plenty of girth to make up for it. “Fuck, I’m going to enjoy making a mess of you.” The hero opened the drawer and pulled out a condom, ripping the wrapper with his teeth.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time.” The woman purred.

Turning his head, Bakugou laid his eyes on the mystery woman presented beautifully on his bed. Her long legs were spread wide, her fingers deep within her core.

“Fuck…” His dick throbbed and twitched in his hand at the sight. “You little Minx. You just couldn’t wait for my cock would you?” He licked his lips as he put the latex on, loving the little moans that left her mouth. “That pussy nice and ready for me?” Bakugou crawled over top of the woman, caging her in between his muscular arms.

“Why don’t you find out?”

With a smug look, he leaned down kissing her roughly, leaving little nips at her bottom lip. He ground into her core, teasing her entrance with his length as his lips moved down her jaw to her long neck. He left hot messy kisses to her skin until he moved to mark his territory.

In one swift motion, the ravenette had pushed the hero off of her body, turning the tables. She pressed him down against the mattress, her hands resting against his famous pecs, straddling him at his hips. “No marks,” she smiled down at him with a wink.

He blinked up at the woman in surprise before quickly recovering. No marks, huh? “Fine.” He grinned, impressed at how easily she could throw her weight around. “While you’re up there why don’t you show me what you can do?” He breathed while grabbing her ass harshly.

“I thought you’d never ask.” The woman lifted her body and took his length in her hands giving it a few pumps. Bakugou watched her carefully, loving the sight of her long olive green stiletto nails wrapped around him. She then aligned him with her entrance before slowly sinking onto him with a mewl. “Oo, shit...” He was much more of a sweet stretch than she had anticipated.

“Fuck you’re tight.” he cursed with a hiss, feeling her clench around him.

It was then that she began to roll her hips. Slow. Torturously slow. The hero couldn’t take his eyes off her, her body was absolutely amazing. A thin layer of sweat made her chocolate skin seem to glow. His ruby red eyes locked onto her belly button piercing, watching it roll and move with as if her skin was a deep ocean. As his eyes continued to travel south, he also noticed a small delicate tattoo on her hip. He recognized the geometric shape as a molecule structure map but couldn’t recall which one.

The thought quickly left his mind as she picked up the pace, opting to bounce on his dick without a care. Bakugou groaned at the incredible feeling, his fingers digging deeper into her hips. Moans began to pour from her lips, pushing his lust even further. With a grunt he began to snap his hips up into her, plunging himself even deeper.

“Oh fuck!” she mewled, as she sensually held her breasts, nibbling on her bottom lip.

“Are you gonna give me what I want, Dimples?” He almost growled underneath her. The woman nodded feverishly as she continued to bounce his cock, her hand traveling down her body to her heat, her fingers rubbing circles over her clit. It didn’t take long for her gut to begin to coil, eager for release. Bakugou was not far off either, his breath now labored as he guided her body with his grip. “Come on, Dimples… Give me what I fucking want.”

With that, the coils snapped and the woman came hard around his length. A plethora of moans and mewls spewed from her lips as she trembled in his grasp, her eyes shut tight in pleasure. Bakugou finished right behind her, a deep raspy growl erupting from his throat followed by a cocky grin. “Fuckkkk. Goddamn, Dimples you really did make a mess.”

“Shh.” The woman whispered, her eyes still closed as she continued to ride out her orgasm. “Stop talking. You’ll ruin it.”

I’ll ruin it? The hero looked up at her, taken aback at her comment for a moment until she gracefully rolled off of him and off the bed. He watched her in disbelief as she began to pick her clothes off of the floor and redress. As she gathered her purse, Bakugou realized that she was actually about to leave without a word. “Oi!” He barked as he quickly took off the used condom, tossing it in his bedside trash can. “The fuck are you going?!”

The mystery woman turned over her shoulder as she zipped up her dress effortlessly, answering him matter of factly, “Home.”

“Oh.” Once again he was at a loss for words as he covered his manhood with his sheets. “It’s the middle of the night. You need me to call you an Uber?” he continued in a much softer voice.

“Already taken care of,” she said while typing into her phone, barely giving him the time of day. Bakugou could only stare at her as if she had three heads. Once she was satisfied with her selections she finally looked back up at the hero, a small smirk on her lips as she gave him a weak salute, “Thanks for the O. I’m out.”

“Hey! You’re just gonna walk out?!”

“Yeah?” She nodded slowly, her piercing green eyes looking him over. “You got a problem with that?”

The blonde couldn’t believe what was happening. He just rocked her world and she’s just gonna ditch? He did rock her world… right?

“No…” He huffed, a light blush beginning to form across his cheeks. He turned his body away from the woman as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “You just surprised me, is all. Most chicks are begging to stay the night or least exchange numbers.”

He had said it in his signature proud tone as if he were annoyed by the actions of previous partners, but the mystery woman saw straight through his facade. She leaned against the doorway as she looked over the contours of his muscular back and bulging biceps. She knew exactly who he was and was planning on this being a one-time thing. A Pro Hero would never stick around with a girl like her. However… Coming back here wouldn’t exactly be the worst thing ever. With a heavy sigh, she tossed her cell phone onto the bed, fighting a smile, “Put your info in.”

Bakugou turned back toward the woman, picking up the phone. A look of relief flashed across his face, which was quickly replaced with his signature smug smirk. “What if I don’t want to?”

“Then give it back!” She scoffed, crossing her arms, shifting her weight to one hip.

The blonde chuckled as he keyed in his information before tossing it back to the woman. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.” As the ravenette put her phone back in her purse and turned to leave, he spoke up once more. “Hey, Dimples. Lock the door behind you.”

The woman turned to him, flipping her long locs over her shoulder “My name’s not Dimples. It’s Jada.” She smirked, her green eyes holding a playful look. “Miss Jackson if you're nasty.”

With that, she walked out of the room leaving Bakugou in a stunned silence, listening intently as he heard her leave the house. “Jada Jackson, huh?” he hummed as he properly got into bed. “Forget it, Bakugou,” he mumbled to himself as he turned out the light, resting his head on his pillow. “She’s probably more trouble than she’s worth.” 

Chapter 2 | Masterlist 

[killervibe]

The Early Morning Plan

~.~ 

Happy birthday @mazyeve !!!! 

Killervibe fluff ❤️❤️❤️❤️

~.~ 

Caitlin stared at Cisco’s picture lit up on her vibrating phone. It was nearly six in the morning. He’s never up so early unless he never went to bed. Her eyebrows furrowed with concern at that thought. After the last meta attack last night, he’d better have gone to bed. She picked up her phone. “You better have had 6 hours of sleep last night.”

She could hear his grin from his voice. “And good morning to you, my beautiful girlfriend and favourite meta-human partner in the world—Don’t tell Barry.”

“You didn’t sleep,” Caitlin deadpanned.

“I didn’t sleep.”

Caitlin opened her mouth to relaunch this 7 year long debate but he cut her off before her breath ever properly left her lungs.

“But hey! Before you lecture me with your Dr. Snow—I didn’t go to bed for good reason! This day is important so I had to prepare.”

Caitlin sighed. She put her phone on the table so she could walk around her kitchen. She needed coffee and she hadn’t decided if she wanted to do something with her hair yet, so she had to get going. Still, she felt her mouth begin to curve up, warmth spreading in her chest as she answered, “It feels like we just celebrated this last year.”

“Funny,” Cisco said in a teasing tone. “That’s the thing about birthdays, they happen every year.”

“Do they?” she played along.

“So, what are you doing right now?”

Caitlin looked down at her unstirred coffee and began to tell him when a blue flickering light glinted off the stainless steel toaster.

She dropped her spoon and turned around just in time to watch Cisco jump out a breach.

“—Because I’ve got plans for breakfast.”

Caitlin folded her arms over her chest, appraising his disheveled yet sexy tousled hair as it blew into his face. “Like what?”

Cisco pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, wrapping his arms around her. She melts immediately, whatever hesitation she had fading away.

“You know how Barry likes to take Iris to Tahiti?” He kissed her again.

“Mhmm.” Caitlin let him steal a few more kisses. She thought about abandoning the Med Lab for a day in the hazy sun with Cisco. She didn’t even remember the last time she had even worn her bathing suit. It was a wonderful thought. They could skip meta disasters for beaches and drinks and maybe a hotel with a suite and a jacuzzi— Caitlin gripped onto the table edge behind her, the wood against her palm grounding her back. The fantasy sizzled away like the heat of hot pavement she’d never get to feel on bare feet.

 “Wait—“ She pushed back against his shirt. “No Tahiti. We have things to do at Star Labs.”

Cisco didn’t even frown. Caitlin blinked.

“No Tahiti,” she said again, in case he hadn’t heard.

“Don’t have plans for that,” he said. “I’m thinking bigger. Better.”

“What?”

Cisco took her hand and tugged her into a new breach. She followed along, abandoning her coffee and phone in her kitchen. They stepped out on a bright afternoon in the middle of a buzzing plateau. Caitlin squinted at the signs for les patisseries and acknowledged the Eiffel Tower looming in the background and —

Wait. She gasped, tuning in to the French and the busy chatter of a city much larger than her own and let her mind rewind back to les patisseries and the Eiffel Tower.

“Paris!?”

Cisco shrugged. “I may have a reservation for that bakery you still rave about that you went to on that trip with your dad when you were seven. For nous.”

“Cisco!”

He grinned at her, almost bouncing on his toes. He lifted a hand. “Though it’s like you said, we have work and it’s just a birthday totally not like I spent all night refreshing the site hunting that bakery down based off your distant croissant memories—Which was very hard by the way—for an online cancellation and we can just come back ano—”

“No!” Caitlin yanked on his hand hard to interlock his fingers with hers, refusing the possibility of any breaches or cheeky exits to be made to go back home. Cisco twists around with a smart-alecky smirk, but she wipes that off his mouth with a kiss of thanks that makes her own knees weak.

“I love you,” she said much more softly at a somewhat dazed Cisco, staggering along as she pulled him down the street. “And you’re right. It is my birthday.”

“It is,” Cisco agreed. His preen rivals those of the cats Caitlin occasionally caught with stale granola bars that Barry forgot to finish that she dumped in the trash outside Star Labs. Caitlin wiped some of her lipstick from his mouth. It was then she remembered she didn’t even check herself in the mirror or double check on that outfit she was going to wear. Oh well.

“And after this, I have an even better idea?”

“What?”

“We get you a nap.”