#staggered tile

[ephemeraltime]

Traditional Pool New Orleans Hot tub - small traditional backyard custom-shaped lap hot tub idea with decking

[recordsmycatdestroyed]

Mudroom Mudroom Ideas for a sizable craftsman-style mudroom remodel with gray walls and ceramic tile flooring

[harpe-et-nitroglycerine]

Craftsman Entry - Mudroom Mudroom - large craftsman ceramic tile and gray floor mudroom idea with gray walls

[mostly-imagines]

Moonstruck

jason todd x reader

aka sober thoughts and all that

warnings: intoxication

Jason has a thing about drinking around you. He’d kind of skirted around it for a while when you were first dating, but after a while you’d noticed he never really has more than a drink or two regardless of how much you had. The only times you ever see him drink more is when he’s downing whiskey as a pain mitigater when he needs stitches. You’d initially assumed he just wasn’t a big drinker, but eventually you’d come to realize it was more of a matter of not wanting to lose his inhibitions around you. 

You know he’s still working on trusting himself, even sober, because he’s terrified of accidentally hurting you. But you have a hard time imagining him losing control like that in any state and you’re nearly certain he’s just being hard on himself.

You’ve been falling in and out of less than peaceful sleep for the past few hours, having trouble easing yourself while your boyfriend is still out. You at least attempted to get to bed earlier tonight because for once he isn’t out fighting crime and risking injury, though you haven’t found much more luck than usual. 

You lie on your back, half ready to give up and turn on a movie while you wait.

You’re momentarily startled to hear Dick bellow out your name, no regard for the fact that it’s nearing three in the morning and you have neighbors. He’s not much of a shouter so you’re instantly on alert, worried that he or Jason are hurt.

You fumble out of bed and rush to the living room, surprised to find your fire escape empty. You turn, proceeding towards the front door, opening it cautiously. 

“Dick? What—” You don’t need to finish your question because the second you take one good look at the two of them, the state of them is immediately clear. Dick, who’s barely standing upright on his own, supports your boyfriend's weight via Jason’s arm slinged around his shoulder.

“Hey!” Dick grins at you, far more lively than he has any business being this late at night. “Sorry, couldn’t remember which apartment was yours.”

You nod pensively, “Well the perspective’s different than when you’re coming in through the window.”

He continues on past that without thought, “I’ve come to deliver,” he says, gesturing up to Jason with a bit of a strain. You’re pretty sure there were supposed to be a couple more words at the end of that sentence but you understand well enough anyway.

You nod, eyebrows raised and try to hide a smile. “Thanks, Dick.” He shifts your boyfriend off of his shoulder to lean him up against the door frame, where Jason places a majority of his weight.

You eye him warily, not confident in his steadiness. He seems to hold well enough against the heavy door though, his eyes drifting around the tiled floor. Your attention shifts to Dick, who’s clearly satisfied with a job well done and ready to go.

You tilt your head, seeing him turn away. “You good?”

“I’m great!” He calls out with a thumbs up. You watch as he staggers away, nearly missing the exit.

You look back over at Jason, who’s already staring at you with a soft gaze. “You’re pretty,” he fawns, irises blown out and flickering all over your face.

“Oh you’re drunk drunk.” You grin, watching him stumble forward a bit.

He shakes his head, looking a bit dizzy after, “Shoulda seen Tim.”

You pause mid laugh, “…Who drove you here?”

He falters at that, gaze falling to the floor. “Uh…” He winces, “Damian…”

You nod slowly, eyes wide, “We’re gonna talk about that tomorrow.”

“He’s better than you’d think.” You’d hope so. 

Well, at least he’s spending time with his brothers.

You sigh, straightening your posture in preparation for the job to come. “Alright, come on big guy,” you pull him up from his slant against the wall, hauling him into the same position he’d been in with Dick—though you’re struggling significantly more to hold him upright. “You gotta help me out here, Jay,” you grunt, trying very hard not to fold under his weight. You swat the door shut behind you, making peace with the fact that he’ll scold you in the morning for not locking it.

He presses an uncoordinated kiss to the side of your head as you try to shuffle him along, not interested in the least in easing your labor. His self discipline isn't quite gone, but his awareness of how big he is sure seems to be. 

You wobble from the heavy weight of his arm around your shoulders, holding onto him by his waist. You manage to get him to sidestep your cat, narrowly, though Salem hisses at him all the same. Jason takes no notice. You stumble into your bedroom with only about 30% of his usual balance aiding your effort.

He collapses onto the bed the second his legs hit the frame, pulling you down with him. You lie, somewhat awkwardly, on his chest as he holds you tight—probably tighter than he would if he were sober. It feels nice though.

You lie your cheek flat on his chest, relaxing against him. “What’d you guys do? Thought you were just having an easy night.”

He takes a deep breath before answering, “Raided Dick’s liquor c—” he stops, mulling over his words. “...Bruce’s liquor that was in Dick’s cabinet.” He annunciates every word in that sentence very carefully.

You squint speculatively, “Didn’t take Dick for the stealing type.”

He grumbles, “He’s not. ‘Less it’s Bruce.”

You can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face, “Aw, you really do take after your big brother, don’t you?” 

He scoffs at that, “I don’t. I’m the one who gave him the idea.” Yeah, that sounds right.

He taps on your cheek lightly and you pick your head up to find him looking at you with puppy dog eyes.

“What’s that look for?”

“Can I kiss you?” his eyes drop down to your lips, “I really wanna kiss you.” He’s nearly whispering and you feel your heart skip several beats at the feeling of his eyes on you like this.

You press a light kiss to his lips and he practically purrs.  

You pull back, admiring the serene expression on his face. “You taste like whiskey.”

“I like whiskey,” he says honestly.

You smile, nodding. “I know. Don’t know why, but..”

He leans in for another kiss but you parry, only letting his lips meet your cheek. He frowns grimly, attempting to chase your lips. 

“Lemme kiss you,” the pout on his face is adorable and while you hesitate to deny him, you retreat, resting your chin on his chest.

You smile wistfully, tracing his cheekbone, “You’re drunk, baby.”

“‘M not that drunk,” he tells you, though everything about him says otherwise.

Your hand falls flat on his shoulder. “Your eleven year old brother drove you here.”

He shrugs, “He can drive the bat…batcar? Bat…”

“Batmobile,” you finish.

“The batmobile.” he nods, as if he was seconds away from remembering. You suspect he wasn’t. 

“Bruce lets him drive it?” you question, wholly disbelieving.

“No.”

Enough said.

“You’re gonna be hungover as hell in the morning,” you mumble, taking in his uninhibited demeanor.

He nods that off, “‘S okay. You’ll be here, right?”

You tilt your head, observing him chalantly. “Where else would I go?”

His arms snake tighter around you at that, giving you a little squeeze before relenting. 

“I wanna marry you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair out of your face and tucking it neatly behind your ear. 

You blink rapidly a few times, “What?” You push yourself up on his chest, sitting up on his abdomen.

“Wanna marry you.” He repeats, eyes lidded as he breathes easy under you. “You’re m’favorite person…want you t’be my wife.”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. “..You want me to be your wife?”

His lips are slightly parted and his pupils are wide as he stares up at you, taking in your features carefully. “‘Course I do.” He brings his fingers up to your cheek, touching you softly with all the wonderment of a little kid. “You’re so pretty.”

You’re quick to return, “So are you.” Especially right now.

He shuts his eyes momentarily, shaking his head morosely, “You gotta stop bein’ so nice t’me,” he lets his hand fall to rest on your thigh. “Don’t deserve it.”

“Shut up,” you lour, “You deserve it more than anybody.”

“No. Not more than you,” his hands knead at your thighs like it’s an instinct. “You deserve everything.” He closes his eyes, tilting his chin up as his head sinks further back into the pillow. “Think I’d do anything you wanted.”

“Jay—”

He continues on, “Want you t’be happy. Wanna make you happy.”

Your face falls into an expression of dazed awe, “You do make me happy.”

He dwindles at that, “No, really happy. Take care of you. Build you a house, give you babies. Wha’ever you want.”

He paws at your thighs, trying to get you to come closer again to him. You lay back down on top of him and his hand instantly buries itself in your hair, stroking softly. “You’re just…you’re so perfect…” He turns his head to mumble against your forehead, “Feel like I dreamed you, sometimes.”

You breathe deeply against the crook of his neck, eyes feeling glassy. “I love you.” It’s all you can get out, and it’s not enough, but it’s all of it. 

“I love you,” he says like he’s trying to turn it into gospel. “So much. I love you so much, so fuckin’ much.” His words start to get lost in his weary babbling.

Your chest feels full and you can distinctly feel every beat of your heart against it. Or maybe it’s Jason’s heart. But what’s the difference?

You press a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. “You’re really sweet when you’re drunk, you know that?”

He hums lowly, head lulling against yours.

You still for a second, finding his breathing has slowed and his hand has seized its movement in your hair. His soft breaths fill the air as you press a kiss to his collarbone before settling in completely. “You’re gonna love when I tell you about this in the morning,” you whisper, letting your eyes shut too.

💗 likes are the poor mans reblog 💗

[mrs-storm]

Mediterranean Exterior Inspiration for a mid-sized mediterranean white one-story stucco house exterior remodel with a clipped gable roof and a tile roof

[bluedoveyellowsun]

Mudroom - Mudroom Example of a large arts and crafts ceramic tile and gray floor mudroom design with gray walls and a white front door

[crescendence]

Walk-In - Closet Walk-in closet - large modern gender-neutral ceramic tile walk-in closet idea with open cabinets and medium tone wood cabinets

[rinann]

Atlanta Laundry Laundry Room Idea for a dedicated laundry room with a mid-sized traditional galley porcelain tile floor, recessed-panel cabinets, white cabinets, granite countertops, green walls, a side-by-side washer/dryer, and black countertops.

[localplaguenurse]

Helmet Head

Pyramid Head Capitano x GN Reader Smut (Kinktober Week 2)

We're on week 2! This one might already be my favourite because I got to experiment with more horror writing. As a result, this one is a lot longer than Arlecchino's. I hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: Violence, body horror, blood, mild gore (honestly not really but might as well get my bases covered), other horror elements, dubcon (reader is into it but they’re also very scared and in a really fucked up situation), tenta-tongue.

Minors DNI

Your footsteps pound against the filthy tiles as you run almost blindly down the dark hallway. Screaming won’t do you any good, so you instead loudly gasp for the air your burning lungs are begging you for. You just need to create enough distance between the thing pursuing you that you can reload and take aim. 

You stumble over and drop your flashlight in the midst of the fall. You hit the ground, and you hear a crack when your flashlight does as well. Quickly you roll over and sit up, and see the flickering of your dying flashlight. 

“Fuck, fuck!” You go to reach for the light but stop at the sound of something staggering towards you from the darkness, pained croaks and garbled yelps echoing in the hospital’s hallways. You don’t know how it managed to close the distance, but you quickly snap out of your flight response when you realize this thing will be on you before you know it. 

You find your revolver still affixed to your hip, and quickly jam your hand in your pants pocket to fish out the few bullets you scrounged up. The unstable stomping of the monster echoes through the decrepit hallway, barely audible over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You pop the chamber of the revolver open and in the dark and in your terror, you struggle to load the bullets in. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” you mutter to yourself as you manage to load one, two bullets, but fumble and drop the third. You reach down and hurriedly try to find it. In your haste, you end up knocking the bullet away. It rolls into the flickering light of your flashlight, and then a bloodied, torn boot stomps down in the light. 

You shriek, quickly closing the chamber and lifting the gun into the air. You squeeze the trigger, and you see a flash of the contorted man staggering as blood bursts from his shoulder, the deafening shot rings in your ears. You pull the trigger again, and in the flash you see blood burst from the misshapen head, and that’s when it lunges forward and pins you.

You scream and thrash, pulling the trigger over and over again, but feel none of the knockback of the gun going off. You shove the heavy body off of you and keep firing. You keep pulling the trigger until your hearing returns, and you realize the only sounds you can hear are your ragged breathing and the clicking of an empty gun. You don’t hear the monster gurgling or trying to move. 

You pull yourself to your feet and stumble towards your light. You pick it up, and sigh in relief when you see it was just the lens that broke. The bulb is fine. With your light, you find the bullet you dropped in your panic. You pick it up and stick your hand in your pocket, and realize with horror that it’s empty. This is your last bullet. You have to make it last, and you have to make it count. 

You point the light at the body on the ground and cringe in revulsion at the sight of it. The doctor’s uniform is stained red and brown and black, and you don’t know how much of it is blood, or if knowing that would be any real comfort. The face is the worst part, if you can even call it that. It’s misshapen, bubbled up and swollen like a blister or cyst ready to burst. There are filthy bandages wrapped around the head, but it looks like the almost blubbery skin has meshed with or even grown over the bandages in places. Matted teal curls sprout from the top of its head. In one of its gloved hands is a large knife, caked in all sorts of filth.

You don’t remember how you got here. By all accounts, you shouldn’t be here. The last thing you remember is sitting down at the bus stop after a night out with your friends. You don’t remember getting on the bus, you don’t remember the ride, and you definitely don’t remember getting off that bus in this place. You were watching cars pass you by in the bustling city and wondering if Ajax made it home safe, and then you were waking up on a completely different bench, in a completely unfamiliar town with crumbling buildings and a perpetual fog.

You’ve been here a few days now. You’ve given up on looking for help. You don’t know what happened here, but you learned very quickly that whatever “lives” in this foggy town isn’t going to be human (at least not anymore), nor is it going to be friendly.

You’ve already encountered a few of these… fleshy bubble headed doctors, but it doesn’t make looking at this one any less horrific. They’re all over the hospital, stumbling and limping down hallways until they see something human, something living, and then they give chase. The only thing that gives you any comfort is that they’re one of the few things you can actually kill. These and those weird puppet doll things you saw in an old apartment building you checked out when you first arrived. Ironically they looked the most human compared to these doctors. Most of them had already been taken care of by the time you found them, split in half, heads crushed, short black hair torn out, absolutely brutalized. You didn’t stick around long enough to meet who or what did all of that.

You take a deep breath, and steady yourself. You’ve spent long enough in this fucking hospital. You cautiously reach down and pick up the knife the doctor is still gripping even in death, and having to touch this foul thing makes your stomach twist. Still, if you want to make it out of wherever the hell you are, you’re going to need whatever protection you can get. You doubt this knife will help you much, but it’ll better your odds.

The halls are unsettlingly quiet now on the trek back. You cautiously poke your head into open doors, seeing if there’s anything worth taking or avoiding. There’s not much as far as useful medicine or bandages go. A lot of it is either expired, or contaminated, or you’re not even really sure what the hell it is to begin with. No bullets either.

Your light begins to flicker again, before going out. Swearing, you stop to try and fix it. Fixing it, of course, being smacking against your thigh. You end up knocking the rest of the glass out as you do, but after a couple hearty hits, the light flickers and comes back to life.

You sigh, and lift your light up to look right into the malformed face of another doctor.

You do not have the opportunity to scream before the rusty pipe slams hard into your side. You cry out, toppling over on the floor. You clutch your side, and through the tears welling up in your eyes you see the shadow lift its arm back up to swing at you again. You fight through the pain and manage to crawl back enough that the pipe slams down into the cracked tile between your legs. You orient yourself and raise your flashlight. The doctor struggles to stand up straight again, but it still has a vice’s grip on the pipe. It painfully winds its arm back and steps closer to your terrified form. 

You quickly feel for your revolver, having lost track of the knife when the doctor first attacked you. You whip it out and pull the trigger, assuming that at this proximity, there’s no fucking way you would miss. Dead fucking wrong you are when this thing lunges forward to swing the pipe at your head, missing your face by millimetres while your bullet misses what would have been a perfect headshot. The flash of the gun going off lights up the hallway, and for a brief second you see a spark of ricochet just behind the doctor. Panicked, you pull the trigger again and only get an empty click. As the doctor prepares for another swing, the only thing you can hear are your thoughts.

Should have saved it for myself.

You brace yourself and hope that it’s a nice, quick swing to the head, and lights out for you.

The hit never comes. You watch the doctor stop dead in its tracks and let out a horrid, garbled scream as blood bursts from its chest. Warm droplets hit your face, and you see a large protrusion jutting out from the blood soaked coat. A blade. A sword?

The blade is pulled back out, and the doctor crumples to the floor, twitching and gurgling before finally going still and silent. That’s not what your focus is on, though.

It’s humanoid, and unfathomably massive in height and build. The skin of its arms is discoloured like a days old corpse, littered with scars and almost stained with blood. They’re also huge, the veins bulging from the biceps as if to tell you this thing could very well crush your skull with one hand if it so chose to. Considering the large, almost claymore-like blade it’s dragging around, you’re not surprised. It appears to be wearing an all black butcher’s smock, and you can see the fresh blood on the leather reflecting the beam of your flashlight. Your eyes continue moving up to its face, and find nothing. It dons a helmet that obscures the entirety of its head, save for its long, inky black hair. It almost looks like a knight’s helmet, with a metal jaw piece and a small chain dangling on each side of its head. Where the visor would be, there is none. Where the face would be, there is none. It’s a void, a maw of never ending darkness, and you can feel the abyss staring down at you.

Frozen, you stare back. You don’t know what else to do. You don’t have any ammo, you don’t know where the knife is, and you doubt the pipe would do anything to this thing. Hell, it might even just kill you if it sees you move. 

You feel sick to your stomach with fear as it slowly raises its free hand up to the helmet. There’s a sort of star shaped cross on the very front of the mask, and it gingerly touches one of the points. You look right at it, and see that while three out of four points are sharp, this one is missing the tip. You wonder what it’s doing, then recall the scene that just transpired. When you shot at the doctor, you were going for a headshot, and it missed and the bullet ricocheted off something. It hit the helmet and broke the little star tip. 

“S-Sorry…” you mumble, and you don’t think your voice has ever sounded so small.

The monster… thing… man lets out a noise. A sort of grunt of what you think is affirmation, but you only think that because this thing isn’t trying to kill you. Its staring is not comforting at all, but the fact it’s only staring gives you enough assurance to slowly and methodically stand up. The thing lifts its (his?) head as you do so, still watching. 

On your feet, you find that he still towers over you. You put your gun away and just stare back. He stands statue still, this helmet headed figure, though you can see his fingers twitch around his blade. You’re scared and torn on what your next move should be. He’s blocking your only way out of the hospital, and you hate the idea of getting closer to him to try and shimmy past, but you fear the thought of taking your eyes off of him for even a moment to backtrack and look for another way out. 

… Well, he still hasn’t killed you yet. Maybe you could talk to him?

You clear your throat, and force yourself to meet where you think his gaze is. “Th… Thank you,” you tell him, voice still a little shaky with looming anxiety. “You saved me.”

His hand twitches at the sound of your voice, and you feel a shiver run up your spine. Still, he doesn’t try anything, just continues staring at you. You take a step forward to test the waters, to see if he’ll do anything. The only thing he does is turn his head slightly to keep you in his line of sight. You feel weird for thinking it, but the hulking, helmeted figure is kind of...

You take another step forward. “Can… Can I m-move past? I’m just trying to get out of here, I-I don’t wanna bother you.”

A groan echoes out of the helmet when you get closer, freezing you in place. After a moment of quiet, you take another step, and this time it sounds more like a growl.

“Okay, I-I’ll take that as a no…” You step back, mindful of the doctor’s body. “Are you unable to let me through?”

He tilts his head.

“Like… do you need something from me? Is there something I can do or get for you to let me through?”

The man straightens his posture and sort of grumbles, but you can’t make out any words. It’s hard not to shrink under his gaze as he seemingly sizes you up head to toe. It’s very nice how he’s not killing you or chasing you down the dark halls, but you’re already regretting your offer to help him. What could you do that this hulking behemoth can’t, but also, you know doing a favour for anything or anyone in this place is bound to be a traumatizing endeavor.

You jump when you hear the screech of metal scraping on the floor. You’re immediately reminded of the actual fucking danger you’re in when the beast begins to approach with heavy footsteps you can barely hear over the scraping of his blade dragging on the floor. Fear seizes you and you immediately turn to run, but you’re not given the chance to do so before a strong hand grabs your arm. You try to pull free, but his grip is unrelenting. You’re pulled towards him with more strength than you could imagine, which sends you stumbling into his chest. 

You hear the clatter of his blade dropping to the floor, and his other hand grabs your other arm. You try to move, but he squeezes your arms tight, quietly telling you to knock it off. Your heart pounding, you look up at his helmet, wondering what he’s thinking and how the hell you’re going to get out of this.

“W-What do you want?” you ask.

After a moment of holding you and staring, you see something writhe in the darkness of his helmet. Confusion and fear twist in your stomach as you watch it slip out from within the helmet. It’s some sort of tendril tongue, you think, blackened and slimy. You watch as it traces along the metal jaws of the helmet before slipping back into the darkness.

What?

You have no idea what compels you to do this, but you find your eyes drifting down his body. To your shock, you see something poking out from under the smock—

OH.

Your jaw drops, face going pale yet also burning up. What the fuck. What the fuck. Is this thing asking for you to take care of that?! 

You tear your eyes away from the prominent tent in his crotch and look up at him. You point at it. “Y-You want me to help with that?”

He groans deeply, his tongue flicking out for a brief moment. 

You swallow, and you weigh your options. Is refusing even an option, or would he just kill you? Hell, with his strength and the size of his bulge, that alone might kill you. It’s probably something weird, too, knowing what you’ve been dealing with since arriving. That said, your other option of trying to look for another exit while there are still monsters roaming isn’t much better. You’d walk (or crawl, more likely) away from this alive, at least. Probably. 

There’s also a little voice in the back of your head telling you you’re probably going to die in this town anyways. If you’re going to die, it’s not like this is going to make your fate that much worse. Might as well get laid before you kick the bucket. 

“...” You swallow. “Just go easy on me, please?”

You shriek when the ground beneath you disappears, and you’re swung over his shoulder effortlessly. Looking behind him, you see the full glow of the exit sign, and then he starts to walk away, back in the direction you came from. The scraping of his blade on the ground is grating on your ears. 

The man, Helmet Head as you’ve decided to call him, turns into what you think is an empty exam room. He lifts the blade, and with a loud clang, stabs it down into the ground. You hardly have the chance to process what’s going on before you’re more or less dropped on the floor. You try to sit up, but Helmet Head plants his hand against your chest and firmly pushes you back down. So much for going easy, you think, but can’t deny the bizarre thrill you feel. You vaguely recall making fun of Ajax for his weird and dangerous tastes, but he might have been onto something now that you’re in the weirdest and deadliest situation you think you’ve ever been in. 

Wasting no time, his large gloved hands grasp your waist and digs his fingers under the waistband of your pants. You yelp when he yanks them down, and you hear the unmistakable sound of ripping denim. He tosses them aside, and goes to grab onto your underwear, but you throw your hands up in defense. “Hold it, I-I got it.”

Helmet Head watches you awkwardly pull your underwear down. He doesn’t even wait for you to toss them aside before his hands are on you again. He grabs hold of your legs and shoves them against your chest, folding you in half. You can feel his gaze focused on your sex, your heart pounding in your chest.

You watch as his tongue slips out from the darkness of his helmet. With his hands still hooked under your knees, he lowers his massive body with a groan. You can feel and hear his hot, heavy breathing echo from his helmet and fan over your chilled skin. Goosebumps raise up on your skin as you realize what he’s about to do.

You think you open your mouth to protest, to tell him to slow down, but the thought is gone the moment you feel his thick tongue slip into your hole. You gasp and jolt, whining as you feel it twist and writhe deeper inside you. Shocks of pleasure shoot up your spine at the feeling, making you moan with every movement. You scrape your nails against the tile in an effort to steady yourself. 

He grunts and groans as he slowly pumps his tongue in and out of you, the debauched sounds sending heat through your whole body. The only reason you’re not writhing uncontrollably is the death grip Helmet Head has on your legs. You almost want to grab his head to pull him closer, but there’s still that somewhat logical side of your brain that tells you it’s not worth the risk of provoking him. That voice is mostly drowned out by your own cries of pleasure as his tongue sinks deeper inside you, pressing into your sweet spots with ease.

Abruptly, his tongue slithers out of you and disappears into the helmet again. You whine at the empty feeling, lamenting how good it was starting to get. The lamenting is cut short when you are unceremoniously flipped over onto your stomach. You go to sit up on your hands and knees, only to be shoved back against the floor, cheek pressed against the cold, dirty tiles.

You hear the click of buckles, the shifting of leather rubbing on leather. You hear the echoey rasping of Helmet Head, and then you feel something nudging against you. Your eyes widen. You’re actually doing this. You’re actually going to fuck this thing. You take a deep breath and attempt to relax your body as much as you can. You didn’t get a good look at his cock, only the outline of it from under his smock, but you know it’s gonna be huge.

He nudges the tip against your whole, pressing into it. You whine at the stretch, and gasp when it finally slips inside. You feel your stomach flutter and your face go pale. This is only the tip, and yet it feels so much thicker than his tongue. Still, you try to control your breathing and relax yourself.

The agonizing stretch as he slowly inches deeper and deeper inside you is absolutely maddening. You’re forever thankful that he at least listened to your request about going easy, but that only helps you so much. You’re not in pain, but the feeling is so overwhelming that it feels like with every inch that manages to sink further inside your hole, the less air you’re able to breathe.

You shudder in relief when you feel his hips finally press up against your ass. Warmth fills your body at how full you feel with him down to the hilt inside you. The little air you have in your lungs is immediately knocked out when Helmet Head begins to draw back. He slips out about halfway before he abruptly pushes back into you, making you shriek in shock and pleasure. 

His pace is by no means brutally fast or hard, but he sure as shit isn’t soft and gentle with you. Every breath is knocked out of you in some vulgar moan or profane sob whenever his fat cock is thrust into your sensitive spots. You feel shame, you should feel shame. You should feel shame and disgust for letting such a creature defile you, and yet you don’t. In fact, it somehow makes the pleasure more intense, knowing how wrong this all is, knowing the danger you’re in right now.

“More,” you choke out between moans, “f-fuck me, I need it, I want it!”

You shriek when he draws back all the way only to immediately slam back down to the hilt. You feel your eyes rolling back, drool running down your chin as he repeatedly slams back into you at full force and full speed. Your chest burns as you try to breathe, but the suffocating feeling of his fat cock stretching and filling you only makes your head lighter and your body hotter.

Your whole body shakes and your teary eyed vision goes white as you feel your orgasm hit you full force. You clamp down on Helmet Head’s cock, but neither that nor your climax slows him down. He doesn’t stop, even when you start clawing at the tiles, shrieking that it’s too much, he’s too much. He doesn’t stop when his unrelenting pounding forces you into a second orgasm, or when he brings you to overstimulated tears. 

It’s when you’re somewhere between your third or fourth climax, or while you’re still experiencing your third, that Helmet Head roars and slams into you so hard that he pins your hips down into the ground. His body goes rigid, his panting just as loud as yours, and you let out a pathetic little sob of relief that the pleasure has come to an end. That’s when you feel him swell inside you, and warm floods your insides and spills out at the edges. You whine and try to move away, but his weight is holding you in place against the floor, forcing you to take every drop he has to give you. 

It feels like an eternity before the heavy weight of his imposing figure finally lifts. You’re so exhausted and your throat is so raw that you hardly have the strength or voice to whine when he finally pulls out. You weakly reach down between your legs, feeling his seed pour out of your stretched hole.

Despite the ringing and pounding in your ears, and the dizzying pleasure clouding your mind, you’re just cognizant enough to hear the outside world. At first, you think the sound is just the ringing of your ears, until it starts to get louder. It’s an awful, wailing noise, and it takes you a moment to realize you know what that sound is. It’s a siren, it’s the siren, the siren that goes off when everything is either about to go to shit, or it’s about to be less shit.

You heard Helmet Head groaning again, and you just barely have the strength to roll over and look. You watch as he gets to his feet, adjusting the straps on his smock. He reaches over and wraps his gloved hand around the handle of his weapon. Effortlessly, he yanks it free, and for a second you wonder if he’s going to impale you right here.

Instead, you watch as he completely turns around and heads for the door, dragging his weapon behind him. He turns in the direction of the building’s exit, and soon disappears from view. You can still hear the screeches of metal on tile echo down the hall, slowly growing quieter before disappearing altogether.

You lay back on the floor, your head flopping to the side. You find yourself peering under one of the medicine cabinets, when you notice something odd. There’s something underneath it. With little strength and aching legs, you manage to crawl over to the cabinet, You slide your hand underneath and are just barely able to reach the strange item.

You pull it out, and your eyes widen. It’s a full, albeit small, box of revolver ammunition. You feel a smile curl onto your lips, and let out an exhausted laugh. Looks like you’re not dying that soon.

Maybe you’ll live long enough to see him again.

[soldiersareyourprotectors]

Jake had been lifting weights alone in the gym late at night, savoring the quiet and solitude. The clang of metal and the rhythmic grunts of his exertion filled the space.

Each rep pushed his muscles to their limits, his veins bulging under his skin. The sweat dripped from his brow, soaking his tank top.

The gym was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the rhythmic clink of weights and Jake's steady breathing. The fluorescent lights flickered occasionally, casting shadows that danced across the room. As Jake finished his last set, he exhaled deeply, feeling a satisfying burn in his muscles. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm and made his way to the locker room.

Inside, the locker room was dimly lit, and the silence was almost oppressive. Jake opened his locker, pulled out a fresh towel, and began to strip off his drenched workout clothes. Just as he reached for his clean shirt, a voice pierced the quiet.

"Incredible physique you've got there."

Jake jumped, his heart pounding as he turned to see the lanky figure of the gym's janitor standing uncomfortably close. The janitor was a wiry, pallid man with sunken eyes that seemed to bore into Jake. He wore a faded uniform and clutched a mop in his skeletal hands.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," the janitor said, a creepy smile spreading across his face. "I've been observing you for months now. Your dedication is... admirable."

Jake's skin prickled with unease. He forced a smile and nodded. "Thanks, man. Just trying to stay in shape."

The janitor took a step closer, his eyes never leaving Jake's. "You do more than that.

You become perfection."

Before Jake could respond, he felt a sudden, sharp prick in his neck. His vision blurred, and he staggered, his body betraying him as he collapsed to the cold tile floor. The world around him faded to black.

When Jake awoke, he couldn't move. He could only watch in horror as the janitor loomed over him, stripping off his uniform to reveal a sickly, frail frame. The janitor's grin widened as he lifted Jake's skin, now hollow and limp like a discarded costume.

"You see," the janitor whispered, "I've always wanted to be perfect."

With a sense of grim determination, the janitor lifted Jake's skin from the ground.

It hung limply, like a grotesque costume. The janitor's eyes gleamed with a sick excitement as he stepped into Jake's legs, one at a time, pulling the skin up over his own.

As the janitor slipped his bony feet into Jake's muscular legs, the transformation began. The janitor's scrawny calves and thighs filled out, muscles rippling and expanding to match Jake's powerful build. The janitor adjusted the skin, pulling it up over his own narrow hips and emaciated torso. With each tug, the janitor's frail body reshaped itself, bones cracking and shifting to fit the new form.

Next, the janitor slid his arms into Jake's muscular ones, feeling the strength and power coursing through them. He flexed his new fingers, marveling at the size and definition of the biceps and triceps. The janitor then pulled the skin up over his chest and shoulders, his once narrow frame now broad and imposing.

Finally, the janitor reached for Jake's head, lifting it like a hood. He slipped his own head inside, feeling the skin stretch and mold to his features. As the janitor adjusted the face, his own gaunt visage disappeared, replaced by Jake's chiseled jawline and handsome features.

Standing before the mirror, the janitor-now-Jake marveled at his reflection. The transformation was complete. He was no longer the creepy janitor. He was Jake, the epitome of physical perfection. He flexed, watching the muscles ripple beneath the skin, and a dark, satisfied chuckle escaped his lips.

The janitor inhaled deeply, savoring the scent of Jake's sweat that clung to the discarded clothes on the floor. He dressed himself in Jake's sweaty tank top and shorts, feeling the fabric cling to his new body. He laced up Jake's sneakers, relishing the fit and the power he now felt.

With one last look in the mirror, the janitor-now-Jake smiled, confident in his new identity.

[donatellawritings]

smoothing your clammy palms over the curve-hugging fabric of your fitted grey slacks, your quickly redirect your wild strand of hair to the curve behind the shell of your ear, forcing a satisfied smile in the mirror as you frustratedly roll your eyes at the sliver of skin that continued to peek through, courtesy of your one-size too small button up blouse. forcefully tugging down on the hem of your wrinkle-free top, you let out a small huff as you carefully scrape your slightly smudged lipstick off of the outer border of your swollen and meticulously lined lips with the sharp tip of your nail.

taking one last glance over yourself in the crystal clear bathroom mirror, your took a short breath as you reached into your thrifted coach bag, your manila folder grasped firmly in your press-on nail-clad hand as you exited the marble interior of the bathroom.

your slightly worn black kitten heels clicked rhythmically against the tiled flooring of the office lobby as you sauntered over to the receptionist, a nerve and anxiety laced smile now playing on your full lips as she brings her eyes to meet yours, “good afternoon, is there anything that i could assist you with?” she questions politely, donning a robotic, yet somewhat warm grin.

“hi, um, i’m here for an interview with mr. cameron,” you stammer, adjusting your bayonetta glasses to sit comfortably on the bridge of your nose as you nervously tap your nails against the marble countertop, “it was scheduled for two o’clock,” you add, your tapping coming to a slow silence as you quickly grew hyper-aware of yourself at the sight of the receptionist taking a quick, yet elongated glance at your pushed-up breasts that threatened to burst through minuscule buttons of your blouse.

you needed to make a good impression. securing an assistant position at the likeness of cameron developments would do wonders for your resume, as well as significantly increase your finances — especially considering your status as a wet-behind-the-ears and pathetically green young woman who was scarily fresh of out college.

“okay, you will be meeting with mr. cameron on the top floor of the building, you can use the elevator and it’ll be the first door that you see,” the receptionist instructs, maintaining her courteous smile and light cadence as she motions towards the steel elevator doors that stand closed, a few feet away from her freshly polished desk.

with a nod of understanding, you step away from the desk, “thank you!” you spoke softly, pushing your nail into the button, causing it to glow a muted red as the elevator doors soon opened, inviting you to step inside of the warmly lit and mirror-encased interior.

jamming your fingernail into the highest floor, you couldn’t help but watch yourself from every angle, drumming your fingernails against your folder, pulling on the belt loops of your tight slacks, adjusting the waist band to sit a bit higher on your short frame. with each ding indicating the increasing height of the elevator, you grew more and more anxious, letting out a withheld breath once you reached the top floor of the building, “relajate,” you cooed to yourself as you stepped out of the elevator.

approaching the tall door, you took a quick peek through the windows that allowed full vision into the pristine office, watching as a man, who appeared to be no older than mid to late 20s spoke on the phone, his free hand gesturing wildly as he paced around the office. hiding behind the frosty glass of the door, you softly brought your knuckles to knock against the door, taking a step away from the door as you took a breath, silently praying that your cheap lipstick stayed within the lines of your lipliner.

swallowing down the lump of nerves that formed in the back of your throat, you subconsciously dug your nails into the hard folder as the door soundlessly swung open, revealing the staggering height of the man who towered, at least one foot above you, his bright blue eyes stoic as he squared his shoulders, his tailored blazer hugging his frame just right.

“s’a pleasure to finally meet with you, please come in,” he huffs out, standing to the side with his ring and watch clad hands crossed over his front as you offer him a kind smile.

“thank you,” you mutter, your dolly eyes widening at the obsessively neat and pristinely kept environment of the office.

each bookcase was lined meticulously with books and encyclopedias varying in different editions, priceless pieces of art hanging from the sparkling tiled wall panels, and three ceiling-to-floor windows that overlooked kildare island, showcasing a picturesque view of the river that glinted against the shining sun.

the sound of the door softly clicking to a close broke you from your entranced gaze as you turned your head to see the slightly older man motioning towards his mahogany wood desk with a knowing smirk on his structured face, “it’s a breathtaking view, isn’t it?” he comments, earning a breathy chuckle from you as you take a seat in the leather chair, directly across from his much larger seat.

“it’s beautiful,” you comment lowly, stealing a quick glance at how his muscles flexed against his button-up shirt as he removed his blazer, slightly rolling up the cuffs of his shirt to rest on his defined forearms, “um, here is my resume, cover letter, as well as letters of recommendations from my professors,” you lightly clear your throat, extending your delicate hand to present the man with your neatly organized folder.

accepting the folder from your grasp, the older man skims his ring-clad finger over the contents of your resume, before letting out a sharp exhale as he visibly relaxes into his seat. you couldn’t help but let your overwhelming nerves get the best of you as you licked over your suddenly dry lips, scratching the tip of your nail against the stitching of your slacks.

rubbing the pad of his index finger over his lips, the eldest cameron lazily flips through the rest of your documents, before returning his eyes to you, catching the way you were biting the skin on the inside of your cheek as your knee lightly bounced.

“before we go any further, i just want to make that y’understand how demanding the position is,” he begins, his voice sultry and thick, as he watched your throat bob with an anxious swallow, “from monday to friday, and sometimes including weekends — i need you to be entirely devoted to every intricacy that goes on in my day to day, whether it be accompanying me to a meeting or answering the phone, i require your full and undivided commitment,” he continues, his legs spread deliciously as he straightens his posture, keeping his hands enclosed over his crotch.

parting your lips to speak, you’re quickly cut off by the man seated before you, “is this a commitment that you’re ready to make? you’re young and i understand if this is … too much to handle,” he feigns concern, internally pleased with himself as your skittish demeanor is quickly replaced with a slightly offended raise of your thinly threaded eyebrows.

“i can assure you, mr. cameron — i’m more than capable of handling this position … efficiently,” you sealed with a smile.

mr. cameron? rafe could get used to hearing you follow his each and every command while maintaining a respectable cadence — it got him off, and you didn’t even realize it.

drumming the tips of his fingers against the hardwood desk, feigning contemplation, rafe tongues the inside of his cheek, “my receptionist will set you up with a new cellphone — that’ll be for you to use, solely for contacting me, and i will have a driver picking you up and returning you home, every day,” rafe stands from his leather swivel chair, keeping his eyes trained on your nervous gaze as he watches you shift in your seat.

a younger girl like you needed to be trained, conditioned to suit a man like rafe cameron — and he’d be happy to do that for you.

“i will personally see that you have any and all necessities needed to keep you up to my standards — and they will be delivered to your home, however …” rafe stops at your side, crouching down to meet your eyeline, a knowing smirk tugging on his lips as he examines the way your fingernails have torn into the threads of your cheap slacks, “we are going to work on those little … quirks of yours, gotta make sure that you are walking with y’chin up high, hm?” he tuts, lightly nudging your busy fingers with his firm knuckle, before lifting your chin.

wordlessly, you nod, splaying your fingers flat against your thigh as your new boss expands his smirk into a stretched-out grin, “perfect — y’start tomorrow,” he breathes out, raising himself to stand tall as he shakes out his long a toned arms, before craning his neck with a crack.

[leighsartworks216]

Broken Glass

Zayne x gn!Reader

Inspired by real life events I would have *loved* to have a Zayne here for

Warning: blood, injury, feet, guilt, self-deprecation, insecurity, swearing, kissing, established relationship

Word Count: 1,252

Main Masterlist

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

A loud crash has Zayne on his feet in a heartbeat. He runs to the kitchen, standing in the doorway to assess what happened. Glass fragments - big, small, and smaller - litter the floor in a staggering display to your mistake. You’re at the center of the mess, crouched down to carefully pick up the larger shards. Barefoot.

“Be careful. Stay right there.” He disappears from the door to grab his shoes.

God, you feel awful. There’s something so entirely horrendous about breaking a glass object like this. It’s not easy to clean up, for one. You’d have to check under the cabinets and counters to make sure you got all the big pieces, and then sweep the smaller pieces up with a broom, and then vacuum thoroughly to make sure you got it all. And secondly, you never get all the pieces, no matter how thorough you are. Which means the hazard lingers for a while after. It’s a small mistake that has lasting consequences that all add up to make you feel like shit right now.

Sharp, shimmering edges of glass rest against your skin, threatening to dig in if you’re the slightest bit too careless. It glistens across the floor like a stunning array of gems on white tile, catching the glow of the overhead light and refracting it back to you. Zayne’s work shoes crunch over the fragments like thin ice as he carefully makes his way to you. His hands support you by your elbows as you stand. He transfers your small collection to his hands and goes to throw them away. Next to the trash can is a broom and dustpan.

You’re not really sure when it happened. Somehow, between the few seconds it took for Zayne to cross the kitchen and throw the chunks away, and him returning with the broom in hand, you cut yourself. You don’t feel the sting, but you do see the blood on the floor. Zayne quickly props the broom against the counter and sweeps you into his arms, carrying you all the way to the bathroom. He sets you on the countertop and sits on the lid of the toilet to check your feet, which, sure enough, are bleeding.

“Did you step in the glass?” His voice is sharp, straight to the point. He gently dabs a wad of tissue over the cut on your big toe that just seems to keep welling up with more blood, growing into a dark red bead that gets soaked up just before it gets the chance to succumb to gravity. You hiss when something sharp pokes into you at the site. “You have a piece of glass in your foot. Be still.”

“I must have, but I don’t know when…” you answer the mostly-redundant question. Your stomach sinks deeper and deeper with every second. If you didn’t feel like shit before, you definitely do now. You hiss again as he uses his thumb, wrapped in tissue, to pry out the small piece of glass. He wraps it in the spent tissue and grabs a fresh wad to hold tightly to the cut.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

He keeps a hold on your one foot while lifting your other one by the ankle to see the bottom. There’s a trail of blood sliding down to your heel from the middle of your foot. He sighs softly, taking in the damage.

“I’m sorry,” you meekly apologize.

He lifts the tissue away to check the bleeding. It’s slowed considerably, allowing him to focus on the other injury you’ve sustained.

You love Zayne, with every ounce your afflicted heart can give, but when he’s this quiet, snapping into his doctor mode, you can’t help but feel like you’ve royally fucked up. “I can put on some shoes and help you pick up the pieces,” you offer.

He shakes his head slightly, gently feeling for any embedded glass in your skin. He, thankfully, doesn’t find any. “I can take care of it,” he dismisses.

And your stomach hits rock bottom with a quiet fwump, weighed down by the guilt of your stupid accident.

Needing to find something to do to distract yourself, you turn your upper body to open th medicine cabinet and retrieve the box of bandaids on the bottom shelf. They’re covered in fun designs and colors, but they don’t bring the same joy right now as they normally would when you use one to cover up a paper cut. You pick out a few of the bigger ones, unsure what shapes he’d need.

He takes a long, fat one and removes the paper tabs, wrapping it securely around your toe. He rests that foot on his thigh as he turns to the other one. He takes a square bandage this time, and sticks it to the bottom of your foot.

“I’m sorry,” you say again.

His hands rest on the back of your ankles, keeping your feet on his thighs as he looks up at you. “You’ve already apologized.”

“I know, I just… Are you mad at me?”

“For breaking a glass?”

“For getting hurt.”

His thumbs rub mindlessly over the lateral malleolus of your ankles. “No, I’m not angry,” he says softly. “I was worried. If the glass went deeper into your skin, you’d need to go to the hospital to have it removed. There wouldn’t be anything I could do for it here.”

You stare at the box of bandaids in your lap, putting away the ones he didn’t end up using. One of his hands slides up your calf to rest just under the crook of your knee. Soft lips press against your knee.

“Look at me, my love.”

You hesitantly meet his eyes.

He offers you a soft smile. Dr. Zayne has been replaced once more by boyfriend Zayne. “I forgive you for breaking the glass, and for getting hurt. I only ask that you be more careful next time you break something.” He squeezes the meat of your calf affectionately, massaging the strong muscles underneath as he presses another sweet kiss to your leg. His other hand massages your ankle, tracing shapes up and down your Achilles tendon.

You set the box aside. The tension in your chest eases up as you run a hand through his hair. Getting so upset over this is so stupid, you know that. There’s just something so demeaning about breaking not just a drinking glass, but something of his. He looks up at you with something that kills the apology bubbling up your throat. You brush his bangs out of his eyes and say instead, “I’ll be more careful next time.”

“I know you will.”

He presses a final kiss to your other knee before slipping your feet from his lap. He stands and throws away the bloody tissues in the small trash can. You wrap your arms around his neck as he picks you up, holding on as he carries you to the living room couch. “Stay here. I’ll clean up.”

You grab his sleeve, stopping him before he can get far. You pull him until he’s leaning over you, with one hand supporting himself against the back of the couch and a raised eyebrow that silently asks what you’re doing. You lean up to kiss him softly, trying to pour all your gratitude and love for him into the kiss. “Thank you,” you murmur when you pull away. “I love you.”

He smiles and kisses your forehead. “I love you, too.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @cheesemachine44

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wicked Games 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, cheating, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: you had a one night stand. Or did you?

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The glut of tears drains you until you’re forced to sleep. You do so heavily. Your head thrums even through your unconscious and you wake up in no better condition than you dozed off. 

You stay as you are, curled up on one side, and arm clutched the edge of the bed, refusing to acknowledge him. That won’t last. You look around the room that takes you back to that first morning after. A similar disorienting waves washes over you. 

You feel the change. Maybe now that you know the reason why, the symptoms only seem more intense. Your stomach is hollow but uneasy and you’re achy to the bones. And the fatigue. You can’t shake it. You feel like you could sleep for days and still be tired. 

Cautiously, you roll onto your back. You’re alone. He’s not in the bed but he’s there. The muffled clink of dishes assures you of that. You flinch as your heart gives a start. 

You sit up but refuse to get up. Standing up and walking out that door means this is real. It means you have to accept that it is and you’re not stupid enough to believe that won’t happen. You just need this moment to think. 

Barrett is dead. Your old life is over. Your job, your apartment, even your old body. Steve laid it all out. You’re going to quit or he’s going to get you fired. You’re going to have his baby or he’ll... you don’t know? Would he do the same thing he did to your husband? If you don’t have a reason for him to keep you alive, are you just expendable? 

You should be braver. You shouldn’t care. The grief is so gray but gripping that you should want it to be over. Who cares, I’d rather die than live like this. But that’s not true. The thought of death makes you nauseous. Or is that the baby? 

You lurch up to your feet and cup your hand over your mouth as you stagger around. You blink and find your way to the ensuite bathroom. You curl over the toilet and hurl into the bowl. You grip the edge of the counter and the seat as your body racks violently. 

Your stomach keeps squeezing even as there’s nothing left. Your bones feel like they could snap and your throat burns with acid. You collapse to your knees and hug the porcelain. Every now and them, you wretch but can’t even spit up bile. 

Exhausted and panting, you reach to flush, but stay hovering over the toilet water. This is horrible. Like any woman, you’ve heard of the horrors of morning sickness but this seems so much worse. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s shadow appears in the doorway. You sigh and turn your head to see him. He marches across the tile and comes to bend over you. You flinch as he rubs your back. “You okay? Rough morning , huh?” 

You grumble. That’s all you can do. Worse than being in this place that isn’t your own, your body doesn’t feel like yours. It’s as if every part of you is revolting. 

“Here,” he hooks his arm around you and stands you up. 

Your legs are weak as you lean on him. He flips down the toilet lid and sits you on it. You groan and hug your stomach. He draws away to open the cabinet behind the mirror. He takes out a packaged toothbrush and unwraps it. He puts toothpaste on the bristles and hands it to you. You accept it as he fills a white plastic cup with water and slides it across the counter. 

You scrape out the taste of vomit and brush your teeth until your headache is a siren. You stand to rinse and he takes the brush back, placing it in the holder next to his. He coos as he touches your hip and urges you out of the bathroom ahead of him. 

“Come on, I got everything ready for you,” he declares proudly. 

You bristle in wait of the true him. Those tones he growled through last night. That dangerous timbre you can’t argue with. This feels like a facade. Too soft, to nice. He’s playing out some script and you never got a copy. 

The couch has extra pillows and the coffee table has a small lap desk stood on it, a bowl of oat meals and a cup of layered yogurt and fruit, alongside a tall glass of a vibrant smoothie. He points you to sit and you do so only to make your body stop screaming. 

As you get settled, he moves the lap desk over you. 

“At least you’re small enough to use this still,” he chuckles as he stands back. “Oats with cinnamon and blueberries, yogurt with strawberry and chia seed, and a smoothie with lots of extra vitamins. Oh--” he storms away, leaving your speechless. Well, what can you say? 

“Supplements,” he sweeps back in. “The iron won’t help your stomach but the B-6 should. You can try ginger with tea if you still feel off. We’ll hold off asking the doc for medicine but we’ll make sure he gives you the once over.” 

“I already went to a doctor--” 

“My doctor,” he insists as he sets down the little tray of vitamins. “He knows what to watch for.” 

“What to watch for? What--” You wince as your hips pang and your stomach churns again. You tuck your hand down over your middle and force out a breath. 

“Well, I have enhanced biology. When they created the serum, we were at war. They never tested it on pregnant women,” Steve explains. 

“Huh? Serum?” You stammer. 

“The fetus.” He sits lightly beside you and reaches to rub your shoulder. “They assume there would be some effect.” 

“They assume?” You shake your head. 

“Don’t worry, you only have to deal with Bruce. He’s a good guy.” Steve explains. 

You look down at the food. Your nausea blows away like shifting winds and a storm of hunger rises in you. It’s so overwhelming you have the urge to grab the bowl of oatmeal and gulp it down from the brim. Instead, you take the spoon and raise it shakily. 

“We’re gonna do this together,” he coaxes as he caresses your arm. “Sweetheart, I couldn’t ask for anyone stronger to carry my child.” 

That should make you sick but the hunger is too much to ignore. He keeps touching you as you eat. You're so intoxicated by each bite, you hardly notice. More, more, more. Your stomach mulches greedily with each swallow as the world narrows simply to the smell of cinnamon and tartness of blueberries. 

[alicenthighstower]

TILE TRANSITION TUTORIAL

a couple of people have asked me for a tutorial on how I did the penultimate gif in this set, so here goes! this is my first tutorial, so please feel free to reach out with further questions if anything's unclear.

note: this tutorial assumes you know the basics of gifmaking, can create the base gifs, and are familiar with timeline mode.

STEP ONE: create the base gifs! I'd recommend staying between 25-40 frames for each gif, since the transitions we'll use later tend to increase gif sizes. these are the ones I'll be using for this tutorial:

STEP TWO: create the guide layouts for both base gifs. for this panel, I chose a 4x4 grid — I would recommend keeping the number of "tiles" low because it can get tedious, but have a minimum of 9 (3x3 grid).

now your canvas should look like this:

STEP THREE: create the tiles. this is where the going gets rough; there might be easier ways to do this that I couldn't think of 😭 if there are any please send me an ask!

essentially, in this step we'll cut up the base gifs into smaller squares so that each tile can be manipulated separately when we put both gifs together. to do this, first create a square using the rectangle tool and the guides. then duplicate the base gif, move it above the square, apply a clipping mask, and then convert the clipped gif and square (selected in the image below) into one smart object.

ALTERNATELY: you could duplicate the original base gif and use layer masks to isolate tiles. create a layer mask for the duplicated gif layer and, with the layer mask selected, drag your mouse over a square (using the guide layout) and press delete. then press ctrl/cmd + i to invert the layer mask so that the gif only shows in the square of your choosing.

now repeat until you've got the entire gif in tiles, and do the same for the other gif!

since the transition effect is achieved by staggering the crossfades for each tile of the final gif, you can cheat by having multiple tiles "flip" at a time, ideally no more than four. this means you need to cut the base gif up into fewer pieces. to do this, simply draw multiple squares instead of one and then merge the shapes, before duplicating and clipping the gif onto them.

if you do this, it's essential to remember that you have to divide both gifs up in the exact same way. each piece of the b/w gif has to correspond to a piece of the purple gif!

this is what the layers look like for each gif once I'm done:

I have them lettered so that it'll be easier to match them up in the next step.

STEP FOUR: this is the complicated bit that took me two days to figure out. I'll do my best to explain but don't hesitate to reach out if something isn't clear!

to begin, open up a new psd and import both base gifs into it. (remember to click "create video timeline" and ensure that your gifs are all in order before proceeding.)

now, the trickiest part about this transition is ensuring that all the little tiles sync up so that the larger gif is coherent. so first we'll create some markers (just empty layers) to ensure that everything lines up as it should. — marker 1: at about halfway through the first gif (b/w in this case) — marker 2: at about a quarter of the gif length — marker 3: close to the end of the gifs

at this point we're ready to start bringing in the tiles. I'm going to delete the base gifs from this new psd just to keep things cleaner!

first thing to do is import my b/w tile. move the timeline slider over to marker 1 and split the first gif. (if it helps, rename the split gifs and add (start) and (end) to the two halves.) then, move the (end) half to the beginning of the timeline, and the (start) half to line up with marker 3.

the purple tile is easier to manage. simply import it into the psd and line it up with marker 2.

your timeline should now look like this:

notice the overlap between the gifs at their beginnings and ends — this is where you'll be able to cascade the tiles flipping, so it helps to have a significant amount of overlap.

crop the three gifs for this tile as you see fit! since this is the first tile I want to flip from b/w to purple, I'll crop gif 1a (end) all the way to the current position of the timeline slider (red line with blue tip) and leave the beginning of gif 2a uncropped. for the flip from purple to b/w, I'll crop both gifs a bit.

once that's done, drag all three gifs onto the same level in timeline so they form a video group. your timeline should look something like this:

now you just repeat the process for all the other tiles! as long as you made sure that all the tiles in one gif correspond with tiles in the other gif in step three, this should be a fairly painless process. make sure to crop the starts/ends of the gifs separately so that they don't all flip together.

this is what my layers look once I've done all the tiles:

and the gif!

STEP FIVE: transitions! click on the half-white square (top right of the left column in the timeline, beside the scissors) and select the crossfade transition, then drag it between two gifs in a video group. it should create a two-triangle symbol and shorten the overall length of the video group.

apply the transition to all the tile flips, ensuring that the duration of all transitions is constant. this can sometimes be tricky because ps likes to change the duration of each transition, so right click on the transition symbol and manually change all your transition durations to be the same.

your layers should now look something like this:

STEP SIX: draw the grid. bring back the guide layout from step two and using the line tool (I like 2px thickness), trace the grid. adjust opacity as you see fit (50-80% is usually a good idea), so that the canvas looks like this:

STEP SEVEN: export and celebrate! you're done!

I hope this tutorial made sense and was easy to follow, and happy giffing! my inbox is always open for any questions <3

[wildechildwrites]

Attitude Adjustment

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Light angst, violence

No use of Y/N

Summary: Ghost beats the shit out of you no I will not elaborate

A:N: Ghost's hands are rated E for everyone

AO3 Link: Attitude Adjustment

You're sitting in furious silence during the mission debrief, Gaz and Soap shooting you sympathetic glances that you pointedly ignore, Price's anger filling the room like natural gas, smothering you. Ghost leans against a wall, shadowed and silent. 

Price finally dismisses everyone else with a bark, and you’re left alone with your fuming captain and his silent lieutenant, haunting your peripheral. 

“You ignored a direct order.” Price’s voice is gruff, leaving no room for argument. You know you should apologize, but you can’t stomach it. Not when you saved his goddamn life.

“You think I was just going to let them kill you?” You ask, indignant. Price glares at you.

“I think, corporal, that you ignored a direct order from your commanding officer.” Price’s tone is sharp and dismissive. 

"You put yourself and the rest of your team in danger. You could've been killed. You almost were."

“But sir–” You object, still trying to justify yourself. If he would just listen– Price shoots up from his desk, stabbing a finger towards the door. 

“Don't fucking argue with me," He growls, chest heaving. "Get out."

You stand, stunned, feeling your traitorous tear ducts begin to sting. Ghost has offered nothing, and you catch his cold gaze before spinning around and storming out, slamming the door behind you. 

You knew you were out of line, had vaulted out of order the moment you ignored Price, the moment you ignored every instinct the military had beaten into you, but it wasn't fair. He would’ve pulled the same stupid bullshit if the situation was reversed. You scrub angrily at your eyes, potent rage bubbling in your chest. He was singling you out on purpose, angry at you for something he would’ve excused had it been anyone else. You turn a corner, stomping down the hallway. 

Soap is lingering near your room, acting far too interested in the leaky ceiling tiles. He spins around to face you when he hears your footsteps, opening his mouth to say something, but you cut him off before he can speak.

"Just don’t Johnny.” You snarl, aiming for a biting tone. It comes out as a plea, and the Scotsman gives you a pitying look that just stokes the rage curling in your chest. He steps in front of you, trying to slow your momentum, and you purposefully slam your shoulder into him, ignoring him as he calls after you.

You make a beeline for the gym, heading for a punching bag. Your fingers are numb, and you can’t stop shaking, so you throw yourself at the bag, hurling punch after punch. 

“Price ripped into you good.” Ghost calls out from behind you. You jump, throwing him a sour look over your shoulder in response. You hadn’t heard him come in, unsure of how long he’s been standing there.

“You ripped into him right back.” He observes. His gaze is cold, prickling along your spine. You bite your tongue, landing a hard kick on the bag. 

“Heard you also barked at Johnny.” He adds, as if an afterthought, his tone deceptively casual. You know then that you’re in real trouble. You’d been a bitch to Mactavish, and now Ghost was here to defend his honor. You roll your eyes, giving yourself that small amount of defiance before turning to face him. 

He’s wrapping his hands, standing on the sparring mat closest to you. He cocks his head, eyes flat and expressionless, but the challenge is clear. You're angry enough to take the bait, abandoning your punching bag. 

Ghost wordlessly gets into a fighting stance. You mirror him, waiting for the lecture, and the first blow almost knocks you on your ass.

You’ve sparred with Ghost before, but you don't think he's ever hit you that hard. It's staggering, and you double over slightly. Simon doesn’t give you a second to recuperate, throwing another punch. You barely dodge it, sliding under his arm, aiming for his ribs. You’re sloppy, and he blocks you, adding a shove to throw you off balance. It’s a dirty move, one that pisses you off even more, and you’re back on the defensive, protecting yourself as Simon throws another punch, harder than the first. You block it with more success, then move closer, aiming low. He blocks you again. 

You’re panting, already exhausted from the mission, heat in your cheeks, anger building. Ghost has the advantage, twice your size and fucking mean, and you’re just trying to defend yourself. That’s all you’ve been doing all fucking day, defending yourself from your own goddamn team. 

You kick him hard in the stomach. Ghost seems unaffected, those cold eyes unreadable. You throw another punch, putting all your weight into it, and he grabs your arm, using your momentum against you, flipping you over his shoulder. You slam onto your back on the mat. 

“What the fuck Si-” you snap, and he kicks you in the ribs. You scramble backwards, trying to regain your footing as he advances on you. 

“Price is too relieved that you’re still alive to give you a proper punishment for insubordination.” He says. "I have no such scruples." 

Ghost’s blank expression doesn’t change, not even when he slams his boot into your shoulder, sending you tumbling onto your back again. You glare up at him, your chest heaving.

“Fuck you.” You spit.

“You need to remember who your superiors are,” Ghost continues evenly, ignoring you. 

You go to stand, and he knocks you over once again. You practically snarl at him, shooting out and grabbing his leg. Using his body weight against him, you bring him crashing down onto the floor next to you, then slam your knee into his stomach, knocking the air out of him. Your victory is cut short when Ghost grabs you and flips the two of you over, pinning you to the floor with his body weight. 

“You scared all of us,” he says. His eyes are still flat and cold. “Pull something like that again, I’ll pop your shoulder out of socket.”

You grapple against him, cursing, but he just tightens his grip, pinning your arms. It hurts, your shoulders and ribs screaming, the air being crushed out of your lungs by the weight of the giant man on top of you, but you keep fighting him.

“Get off,” you rasp. Ghost leans down, his face inches from yours.

“Are you done being a brat?” He asks lowly. You manage to twist one of your hands enough to dig your fingernails into his stomach. In response, Ghost grabs your wrist, pulling your arm behind you with enough force to wrench your shoulder. You’re completely immobilized.

It’s all too much. The exhaustion and pain, the anxiety of the mission, the humiliation of being reprimanded, the indignant rage that’s been bubbling inside of you. Everything comes crashing down, tears you’ve been fighting all day suddenly pouring out. You let out an involuntary sob, and Simon lets up, just enough to allow you to breathe, keeping you pinned beneath him as your tears build up steam.

“There’s our girl,” he says, his gravelly voice uncharacteristically soft, almost frayed. It only makes you cry harder, keening wails muffled by the large man on top of you.You're confused at the sudden switch, overwhelmed and disoriented. He rubs comforting circles into your wrist, and you’re falling apart, coming unspooled.

You sob until you run out of tears, your cries trailing off into sniffling, and only then does Ghost let you up. The anxiety and anger is gone, leaving tender exhaustion, the soreness from the fight a tangible sensation, grounding you. 

“I think a hot shower is in order, corporal” Ghost says gently, helping you to your feet. You’re wobbly, trailing after him on unsteady legs as he leads you to the locker room.

He leaves you to it, disappearing back into the gym, and you strip, letting the warm water wash off the rest of the day, standing under the stream until your eyes are drooping. 

To your surprise, Ghost is waiting for you when you get out, eyes closed, head resting against the wall. He looks tired, his dark circles a bruised shade of purple, showing through the half smeared off black paint. He opens his eyes, expression unreadable, and you sit down next to him.

“Apologize to Soap, will ya? He’s gutted. Sensitive, that one,” Ghost grumbles, rolling his eyes, but there’s real warmth behind the gruff, dismissive tone of voice. “And the next time you want a lashing, come straight to me instead of stomping about.” 

Heat rises unexpectedly to your face, and you open your mouth to protest. 

Simon holds up a finger, silencing you before you can say anything. 

“Don’t fight me on it, we both know that’s what you needed. Price would've gladly taken you over his knee, but I figured you’d bite our heads clean off at the suggestion."

Your brain short circuits, your mouth opening and closing wordlessly as you stare at Ghost. He holds your gaze unflinchingly.

“I should, um,” you stutter, stumbling to your feet, “I should go find Soap.” 

You practically run to the doors, and you swear as you step into the hallway you hear quiet laughter, echoing behind you.

[elfwitchtrickster]

A fool with a bullet wound - Loki fluff oneshot

Summary: there's an invasion at the compound and Y/N runs out into the middle of the fight. When she sees a gunmen aim at Loki she has to make a split second decision

Y/N rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and she blindly pushed herself up off her pillow. She heard thuds and bangs but they seemed somewhat far away. In her disoriented state she sat up looking around to see what was causing the noise when suddenly the alarm blared, the awful sound blaring in her ears. Now wide awake Y/N climbed out of bed, ignoring the coldness of the floor on her feet. The thuds and bangs were much louder now, coupled with panicked yells and FRIDAY's unintelligible warnings.

She had no idea what to do so Y/N did the safest thing possible and crawled under her bed. Barely breathing, she lay there on the ice cold tiles listening to the deafening sounds. She closed her eyes and tried to think of something else but with each bang and each thud she was abruptly jerked back to reality.

After a minute things grew quieter, Y/N peeked out from under bed hoping that the fight had subsided. Unfortunately she was all too wrong as just then the hinges flew off her door as a large explosion shook her room. The bed was blown off its base, crashing into the wall on the side of the room. She flinched covering her head with her hands, involuntarily curling up.

A large, angry looking man strode into the room and his eyes fell upon Y/N. She shoved down her panic upon seeing the terrifying man and forced herself to her feet. The man advanced upon her reaching out his hands to maim or grab her but there was no way Y/N would let that happen without a fight. She dodged the man's grasp and lunged for the exit, he was hot on her heels as she skidded through the compounds corridors. She almost tripped running down the stairs and she ran into total chaos.

There was rubble and dust scattered everywhere, the yells and thuds were heard much clearer now. Y/N could make out the figures of people fighting but it was too dark and dusty to see exactly who each dark body was. She weaved through the broken furniture trying to find some form of escape when she recognised a family god, with his dagger at an enemies throat.

Loki panted heavily as he sliced his dagger across the throat of yet another enemy, tossing them to the side. Yet with each defeat he was met with another opponent and he was getting frustrated. He blocked a punch to his stomach and was about to send his foe flying when a small mass hit his side.

Y/N was still wading her way through the broken glass and objects trying to find an exit when she noticed Loki fighting not one but two men simultaneously. She saw a third making his way toward him and she was about to call out to the god of mischief before an enemy raised a gun and aimed at Loki's jet black hair. Y/N reacted before she could think, she ran towards Loki as fast as her feet would carry her. The trigger was pulled and the gun's sound echoed in Y/N's ears. She rammed into Loki's side knocking him out of harm's way.

"What on Asgard are you doing you pathetic morta-" Loki trailed off when he saw a patch of blood growing in Y/N's abdomen. She pressed a hand to where the bullet had hit her and looked up at Loki with petrified eyes. Before he could reprimand her he blocked another blow from the cloaked intruders.

He stood up and with a swift kick to the head he knocked his foe out and soon after placed the second in a headlock. As the man grew limp in Loki's arms and slowly fell to the floor he dusted off his hands and ran to where Y/N lay. "What were you thinking you fool?” he said examining her wound. She tried to reply but only a staggered sigh came out. "We can't stay here" he said gathering Y/N into his arms. He picked her up with ease and surveyed the scene around him. He sped through the ruined living room using his magic to remove anyone that stood in his way.

As they moved through the battle Y/N's eyes began to close. When Loki noticed he shook her shoulders "No, no Y/N stay awake, you've gotta stay awake for me okay" he said, anxiety filling his chest as he tried to find a safe place for her. She mumbled some sort of agreement and her vision grew darker. Her limbs felt heavy as each blink got longer until finally she was engulfed in darkness.

When Y/N awoke she was nearly blinded by a beaming white light. A repetitive beeping made her aware of her throbbing head and aching all across her body. She groaned as she tried to sit up but was immediately stopped by a piercing pain in her abdomen. "Stay down, it'll be less painful for you" a voice said and she felt a hand on her shoulder gently pushing her into the bed. As her eyes adjusted to the light she saw none other than the god of mischief. Although the Loki in front of her had considerably messier hair and dark bags under his eyes that she had never seen before.

"You're an idiot you know that" he said settling back into his chair. "I believe the words you're looking for are thank you" she managed to speak as she carefully adjusted her position. "Why would I thank you for putting your life in danger?" he retorted. "Because I was saving your life jackass" she yelled, wincing at the unpleasant sensation it caused in her lower stomach. Loki's eyes softened "Thank you for your courageous act" he said quietly. "You're welcome" she smiled.

Loki's leg shook with anticipation as he wrestled with whether or not to ask the burning question in his mind. "Why did you do it?" He asked looking at her in confusion. "Because I didn't want you to get hurt" she said, as if it was as simple as the sky being blue. "You're a nice friend Loki and I didn't want you to get injured or worse" she said. Loki's eyes watered at her answer. "It was not worth your life my love" Y/N blushed at his words. "I too would be very upset if that bullet would had been more fatal" he said avoiding her eyes.

Her cheeks grew even redder as she smirked at the trickster. "What are you trying to say?" She asked teasingly. Loki sighed deeply at the look on her face "I am trying to say I care about you a great deal and although you are a reckless idiot, in light of recent events I would like to spend our time together as more than companions" he said awaiting her response. Y/N giggled. "I like you too Loki" the god let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. She reached her arms out to him and Loki quickly embraced her in a hug. "I love you, you fool" he murmured placing a kiss on the top of her head.