#CO₂ Pistol

[bikerboyfriend]

he got no idea how tht car works

[dontmeantobepoliticalbut]

Alabamians woke up Sunday with the right to carry a gun without a license.

The change, implemented by a state law passed last year, marked a major milestone: half of America’s 50 states now allow people to carry handguns without first seeking a permit.

Thirteen years ago, only two states — Vermont and Alaska — allowed its residents the unfettered right to carry a gun, relying on the Constitution’s Second Amendment as a blanket permit for all.

Since 2010, however, nearly two dozen states have followed suit, with 11 of them passing permitless carry laws in the last three years alone.

The growing movement has chalked up wins in state legislatures with remarkable speed, drawing cheers from gun rights advocates while raising fears among reformers that the changes will lead to more guns in the street — and likely more violence.

“If you are a law-abiding citizen, you should fully be able to exercise all of your constitutional rights,” said Andi Turner, legislative director for the Texas Rifle Association. “Half the states of the union are now recognizing it.”

Permit systems generally require applicants to demonstrate safe gun handling, as well as show knowledge of often-complicated gun laws and the use of lethal force.

“We’ve seen in the past decade a very concerted effort by the corporate gun lobby, especially the NRA,” said Nick Wilson, a gun violence researcher at the Center for American Progress. It has been a very successful campaign for the gun lobby. It helps their bottom line… But it’s very concerning to anyone worried about public safety.

The state legal changes have dovetailed with two other trends that auger well for gun advocates. First, the COVID-19 pandemic unleashed an unprecedented surge in sales. And second, people of color and women made up a larger share of the buyers, diversifying a gun-buying public that has traditionally skewed male, white and conservative.

Gun violence has also spiked since the pandemic began, with firearm deaths jumping 20% from 2019 to 2021, according to a recent study published by JAMA Network Open.

With big-ticket gun reforms like the Assault Weapons Ban or universal background checks stalled in Congress, the spate of state laws marks a defeat for the reform movement, which views the trend as a public security threat.

Sociological studies tend to show that increases in gun ownership generally track with increases in violence.

“It’s no coincidence that in states with very permissive approaches to guns in public, you have higher rates of gun death,” said Adam Skaggs, chief counsel for the Giffords Law Center, a nonpartisan reform group.

Over the last five years, researchers have increasingly shown that loosening restrictions on carrying handguns is also associated with problems like increased gun theft and road rage incidents, according to Stanford Law professor John Donohue.

Letting more people carry guns also impedes police work, Donohue said – partly from upticks in their caseloads of gun thefts and accidental shootings and partly because ramping up the risk of getting shot reduces police efficiency.

“One of the unintended consequences of putting more guns on the street is degrading police performance,” Donohue said. “You see clearance rates for all crimes drop when states move in the direction of letting more people carry guns.”

Tallying the number of states with permitless carry laws can exaggerate their reach, Skaggs noted. They tend to be small states with rural populations, while larger, more urban states like California and New York tend to favor a more restrictive approach toward firearms.

Just over one-third of Americans live in the 25 states embracing permitless carry.

And in the same way that gun rights groups have made speedy progress with permitless carry laws in red states, liberal-dominated legislatures have pushed opposing measures.

New York tightened its gun restrictions after last year’s mass shooting in Buffalo. Delaware enacted a state-level Assault Weapons Ban last year. A ballot measure passed last year by Oregon voters requires a permit for all gun purchases and restricts magazines that hold more than 10 rounds, though the law is tied up in the courts.

But the conservative-stacked Supreme Court’s landmark decision in the New York State Rifle and Pistol Co. v. Bruen case last year has also made it harder for state legislatures to keep people from carrying handguns. The ruling struck down a New York law that required applicants for concealed handgun licenses to demonstrate a specific need for carrying a weapon.

The ruling stopped short of scrapping permits for carrying handguns altogether, however.

“The opinion made very clear that there’s nothing in the Constitution that requires permitless carry,” Skaggs said. “Constitutional carry may sound good with its alliteration and the way it rolls off the tongue, but it’s fundamentally untrue and misleading. Guns in public have always been significantly regulated.”

Still, the Bruen decision could have major impacts on state-level gun debates, according to Mark Oliva, spokesman for the National Shooting Sports Foundation, the firearm industry trade group.

“Left-leaning and right-leaning states will probably become more polarized,” Oliva said. “And you’re going to keep seeing them go to the courts and say, ‘what’s the truth here?’ And if the truth follows what came out of Bruen, they’re going to find assault weapons bans are unconstitutional, magazine restrictions are unconstitutional, age restrictions and background checks for ammunition purchases are unconstitutional.”

States with permitless carry could become the majority before the year’s end.

Virginia Delegate Marie March (R) pre-filed a constitutional carry bill in November for this year’s legislative session. However, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis wants the issue prioritized when Florida lawmakers reconvene in April.

In Nebraska, a permitless carry bill failed to break the threshold for overcoming a filibuster in the state Senate last year by two votes. Nebraska Gov. Pete Ricketts (R) plans to try again this year.

[brokehorrorfan]

God save the scream queen with Creepy Co.’s Halloween crewneck sweatshirt. The Sex Pistols parody design by Heng Leng is available for one week only. Priced at $65, it will ship around May 6.

[funfettiheart]

As a fan of fun action films I got recommended Bullet Train a LOT and I finally watched it...

The only time I laughed was when the girl got isekai'd by that truck 😭

[gorgynei]

how im picturing charlie's handgun

[fromthedust]

BUCK ROGERS U-235 ATOMIC PISTOL 

WHAT HAPPENS WHEN BUCK ROGERS USES HIS ATOMIC PISTOL Sight carefully through Atomic Beam Director with right eye, allowing for barometric pressure. Squeeze the Neutron Blast Initiator.  This liberates a small stream of neutrons from the Uranium Concentrating Magazine. This discharge is indicated by a brilliant flash from the Fission Rate Indicator, and is controlled by the Fission Control Governor. The released stream of neutrons enters the Atomic Power Release Chamber where it bombards the atoms of a secret element, resulting in  a controlled chain reaction and a release of atomic energy.  This energy flashes out through the Converging Target Focuscope as an invisible and extremely radioactive ray which destroys all evil matter in its path and range. The Muzzle Blast Deflector prevents any stray energy from shooting back towards the Atomic Pistol user. The Recoil Absorber absorbs all the "Kick" resulting from release of tremendous energy developed by Atomic Pistol. The loud report is caused by the high velocity rush of air filling the vacuum created by the blast of atomic energy which destroys all air in its path.

[historyofguns]

The article by Justin Opinion on The Armory Life provides a comprehensive overview of Vortex Optics' Defender series of red dot sights, including the Defender-CCW, Defender-ST, and Defender-XL models. Known for producing high-quality optics, Vortex has established a reputation in the sporting community. The Defender series offers ergonomic design features such as soft-touch buttons for adjusting the reticle size and textured rubber for grip. Each model varies in size and slight specifications but shares common traits like durability, waterproofing, and parallax-free optics. Opinion highlights the practical benefits at the shooting range, especially when mounted on the Springfield Armory Echelon with its adaptable Variable Interface System. The article emphasizes the precision and user-friendly features of the Defenders, noting their consistent performance and ease of brightness adjustment. Overall, the series includes different sizes to suit various applications, catering to concealed carry, general use, and competitive shooting needs.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

The CFPB is genuinely making America better, and they're going HARD

On June 20, I'm keynoting the LOCUS AWARDS in OAKLAND.

Let's take a sec here and notice something genuinely great happening in the US government: the Consumer Finance Protection Bureau's stunning, unbroken streak of major, muscular victories over the forces of corporate corruption, with the backing of the Supreme Court (yes, that Supreme Court), and which is only speeding up!

A little background. The CFPB was created in 2010. It was Elizabeth Warren's brainchild, an institution that was supposed to regulate finance from the perspective of the American public, not the American finance sector. Rather than fighting to "stabilize" the financial sector (the mission that led to Obama taking his advisor Timothy Geithner's advice to permit the foreclosure crisis to continue in order to "foam the runways" for the banks), the Bureau would fight to defend us from bankers.

The CFPB got off to a rocky start, with challenges to the unique system of long-term leadership appointments meant to depoliticize the office, as well as the sudden resignation of its inaugural boss, who broke his promise to see his term through in order to launch an unsuccessful bid for political office.

But after the 2020 election, the Bureau came into its own, when Biden poached Rohit Chopra from the FTC and put him in charge. Chopra went on a tear, taking on landlords who violated the covid eviction moratorium:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/20/euthanize-rentier-enablers/#cfpb

Then banning payday lenders' scummiest tactics:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/01/29/planned-obsolescence/#academic-fraud

Then striking at one of fintech's most predatory grifts, the "earned wage access" hustle:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/05/01/usury/#tech-exceptionalism

Then closing the loophole that let credit reporting bureaus (like Equifax, who doxed every single American in a spectacular 2019 breach) avoid regulation by creating data brokerage divisions and claiming they weren't part of the regulated activity of credit reporting:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does

Chopra went on to promise to ban data-brokers altogether:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/13/goulash/#material-misstatement

Then he banned comparison shopping sites where you go to find the best bank accounts and credit cards from accepting bribes and putting more expensive options at the top of the list. Instead, he's requiring banks to send the CFPB regular, accurate lists of all their charges, and standing up a federal operated comparison shopping site that gives only accurate and honest rankings. Finally, he's made an interoperability rule requiring banks to let you transfer to another institution with one click, just like you change phone carriers. That means you can search an honest site to find the best deal on your banking, and then, with a single click, transfer your accounts, your account history, your payees, and all your other banking data to that new bank:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/let-my-dollars-go/#personal-financial-data-rights

Somewhere in there, big business got scared. They cooked up a legal theory declaring the CFPB's funding mechanism to be unconstitutional and got the case fast-tracked to the Supreme Court, in a bid to put Chopra and the CFPB permanently out of business. Instead, the Supremes – these Supremes! – upheld the CFPB's funding mechanism in a 7-2 ruling:

https://www.scotusblog.com/2024/05/supreme-court-lets-cfpb-funding-stand/

That ruling was a starter pistol for Chopra and the Bureau. Maybe it seemed like they were taking big swings before, but it turns out all that was just a warmup. Last week on The American Prospect, Robert Kuttner rounded up all the stuff the Bureau is kicking off:

https://prospect.org/blogs-and-newsletters/tap/2024-06-07-window-on-corporate-deceptions/

First: regulating Buy Now, Pay Later companies (think: Klarna) as credit-card companies, with all the requirements for disclosure and interest rate caps dictated by the Truth In Lending Act:

https://www.skadden.com/insights/publications/2024/06/cfpb-applies-credit-card-rules

Next: creating a registry of habitual corporate criminals. This rogues gallery will make it harder for other agencies – like the DOJ – and state Attorneys General to offer bullshit "delayed prosecution agreements" to companies that compulsively rip us off:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/cfpb-creates-registry-to-detect-corporate-repeat-offenders/

Then there's the rule against "fine print deception" – which is when the fine print in a contract lies to you about your rights, like when a mortgage lender forces you waive a right you can't actually waive, or car lenders that make you waive your bankruptcy rights, which, again, you can't waive:

https://www.consumerfinance.gov/about-us/newsroom/cfpb-warns-against-deception-in-contract-fine-print/

As Kuttner writes, the common thread running through all these orders is that they ban deceptive practices – they make it illegal for companies to steal from us by lying to us. Especially in these dying days of class action suits – rapidly becoming obsolete thanks to "mandatory arbitration waivers" that make you sign away your right to join a class action – agencies like the CFPB are our only hope of punishing companies that lie to us to steal from us.

There's a lot of bad stuff going on in the world right now, and much of it – including an active genocide – is coming from the Biden White House.

But there are people in the Biden Administration who care about the American people and who are effective and committed fighters who have our back. What's more, they're winning. That doesn't make all the bad news go away, but sometimes it feels good to take a moment and take the W.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

[rainrot4me]

Let Me Hear You

Summary: Walking the same path every day while listening to music is your routine. Humming along, Masky makes it his routine to follow you. Until you wander somewhere you shouldn’t…

Characters: Masky x Female Reader

SMUT WARNING MINORS DNI

TW: Stalking, following, non-con, fingering, forceful, vaginal, fucking against a tree, Masky's nasty, taking advantage, uncontrollable, struggling, you don't give consent/Masky just takes what he wants, choking

Words: 4.2k

You walked this path every day. 

After every shift of work, every weekend, rain or shine you would slip your shoes on and take that dirt path through the woods. The path used to be an old horse trail used by the previous owners of the land, the dirt dry and matted down for miles. The forest surrounding the path was dense, sunlight rarely slipping through the leaves overhead and giving the lush area a nice, shaded feel. The area was thriving, nature untouched besides your constant walks, but you never dared press off the path out of fear of getting lost. Although the dirt made a giant winding loop back to your home, what lay in the middle made you too nervous to find out. 

You could usually complete your walk in under two hours, making your way back to the treeline connected to your backyard and safely back into your house. It was routine, so of course, when you got home from work well past nine PM, you slipped out of your uniform and into athletic clothes and a hoodie. Sliding your screen door open, you flicked your flashlight on, the moon hiding behind dense clouds and offering little light. But this was your comfort, if you didn’t have anything else, at least you would have these two hours to debrief and get at least some exercise in. Despite the cool summer air, you pressed through your ward and to the well-worn path you knew, disappearing into the trees.

What you didn’t know, or rather, what Masky didn’t want you to know, was that this path was also his daily routine. Not for walking, persay, but more for observation. His routine was to hang at the edge of that treeline whenever he wasn’t busy, waiting for your car to sling into your driveway and for you to come strolling out that screen door. You were oblivious to his presence, sauntering on that path as he quietly shifted behind the trees to watch you unwind the further you walked. In a way, it was his way of unwinding, giving himself something to focus on besides the constant pounding in his head. 

Now, he hadn’t sought you out through choice. It was a sort of coincidence that he began to watch you. 

Before you lived in that house, the previous owners were old, rarely trailing past the range of farmland and into the trees. So it made it simple. That widespread land in the center of the round path was a popular spot for the various members of Slender’s band of misfits to visit, hauling whatever recent kill they had made and burying them randomly, difficult to find. Seeing as it was land connected to the house, cops couldn’t just stroll through without some type of warrant, so it made it all the easier just to dump the bodies there and forget about them.

Until you moved in, curious little mind pulling you to the trees and investigating the trail. Masky was there that day, burying some boy, or what was left of him, just out of sight. He didn’t even realize you were there until your foot crunched on a branch, sending him grabbing for his pistol and aiming it through branches straight to your head. You had no clue, headphones lodged in your ears and playing some old songs, leaving you completely vulnerable. Masky was going to shoot, irritation guiding his movements at the thought of being seen. Until you started humming, tune familiar to some Fleetwood Mac song that stirred in the man’s brain, tugging at some long-forgotten memories that he knew were Tim’s. But instead of becoming angry, it was like his body was relaxing, gun slipping back into his jacket pocket and eyes trained sternly on you as you continued walking. 

It was laughable how unaware you were, even still as Masky followed that familiar path, watching you the same way he always had. He chalked it up to being a precautionary measure, watching to make sure you didn’t move further off the path than he wanted you to. But in reality, in the depths of his mind that he wouldn’t tell anyone, he just wanted to hear your voice. 

So, nudging your wired headphones into your ears, you shoved your phone into your pocket, shining your flashlight on the ground below as you walked. You kept the volume low, still able to hear your feet crunch on the weeds as you hummed lowly, swaying the light back and forth. Masky was to your right, hidden in the shadows of the branches as he walked in time with you, straining his ears to relish in your sweet voice. It was his guilty pleasure, getting to hear new and old songs that otherwise he wouldn’t. He recognized it as Name by Goo Goo Dolls, an older song he occasionally heard in bars and stores he passed. Tim was already stirring, pressing against the edges of his consciousness and skewing his thoughts, making the man reach for his cigarettes, popping one into his mouth and flicking the lighter. Masky had to put distance between you two now, wary of the smell of smoke alerting you, giving himself about fifteen yards of space but still keeping time with you.

You slipped your hair behind your ear, hands shoved into your hoodie pockets as you walked. The air was rather cool for a summer night, the clouds overhead making you wonder if there would be a storm tonight. Slipping your phone from your pocket, you flipped to a weather app, scrolling through and surprised by the pop-up showers happening within the hour. You'd have to speed up if you wanted to return home without getting soaked. 

So, shoving your phone back into your pocket, you held your flashlight tight, putting a little pep in your step. Masky was caught off guard, pushing his cigarette box back into his jacket and matching your pace, confused as to why you were hurrying now. He sucked the smoke into his lungs, the pounding in his head sizzling out. You had stopped humming, which irritated him, but he followed in the hopes that you would start again.

Minutes had passed and you recognized the path to be at about the halfway mark. You had an hour left, but the heavy clouds in the sky were already pushing down, thunder rumbling somewhere in the distance. Shit. You wouldn’t make it back in time. Stopping, you had to think, to weigh your options of running the rest of the way or cutting through. You had never been off the path, the entire unknown distance in between making you uneasy. But what could be in there that wasn’t just more trees? This land had been lived on and used, so you had nothing to be afraid of except the possibility of running into a deer. Taking a breath, you held your flashlight up, stepping off the dirt path and into the thick brush of the woods between. 

Masky immediately tensed, heart thumping as he saw you turn off the path and past the trees in the direction of your house. You were gonna cut through. The man had realized your hurry, the rolling storm clouds above telling him it wouldn’t be long until you were both soaked. But he never expected you to take a shortcut, pressing into the dark shadows of the trees and unfamiliar territory. This was bad. It wouldn’t be if he knew you would just pass through, mosy on to your home and out of the rain, but Masky knew better. You see, using that plot of land as a screwed-up burial plot was way too easy and convenient, and it led some creeps to become lazy. Toby was the worst, leaving chopped-up pieces of arms and torsos scattered against the earth, letting nature and curious animals take care of the rest. But that method left evidence, bones and rotted flesh scattered everywhere and easily noticeable. You would see them and become scared, calling the stupid cops and busting them all. He had to deter you. 

Hiking your legs over tall bushes and weeds, you push deeper in, trying your best to keep straight and search for your porch light. The wind was already blowing, leaves upturned and shaking against the breeze. Keeping your eyes trained on the ground, you began to hum again, Leave Out All the Rest by Linkin Park thumping in your eyes, keeping you distracted against the pants you were heaving. Your leisure walk had turned rough, getting more exercise in than you intended. Meanwhile, Masky was gritting his teeth, shoving through the trees as he pressed in front of you, wracking his brain for some way to throw you back onto the path. You were quick, Masky having to work to stay ahead of you and make sure you didn’t run into anything unsightly. 

Your humming was throwing him off, cigarette pressed tight between his lips as he tried to focus more on you instead of your pretty voice. The pre-storm breeze was picking up now, tall grass whipping against his legs and tangling themselves around his boots. Looking forward, he could see fresh dirt dug out into a pit, one of Toby’s lazy mishaps again. Masky didn’t have a choice, he’d have to confront you if he was gonna get you out of here. Swearing, he crossed your path, yards in front of you and shoved off his mask.

You smelled the smoke before you saw him, his lit cigarette wafting in your direction as the breeze blew. You looked up, flashlight shining ahead and barely catching the man mixed in with all the trees. Heart dropping, you stopped, music still pumping in your ears as you stared at the man across from you. In all of your time here, you had never seen a person in these woods. Especially during the night right before a storm. This was bad. Your breath was shaky, catching up from your quick movements but not getting a chance to settle as you began to panic. You didn’t have a weapon, you never needed one, that was a sore mistake now. The man didn’t move, just standing and watching, his build taller and larger than yours, able to easily overpower you. 

Moving slowly, you plucked the headphones from your ears, taking a step back as you shook. “Uhm… Hello..?” You called, voice shaky as the breeze whipped your hair in your face. The man had his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, puffing his cigarette in the breeze and making your nose furl, the scent sour. “Pretty late, huh?” His voice was rough, low and scratchy as he talked, plucking the cigarette from his mouth. You stepped back, nerves begging you to run but deciding it would probably be worse if you did. “Hah, uh, yeah. Just out for a- uhm, a walk. Cutting through so I don’t get rained on…” You laughed awkwardly, fidgeting the flashlight between your hands as you continued to step back slowly, trying not to draw his attention.

“Well, you outta be careful. Buncha fox traps out here. Could take your foot clean off.” He called, taking a step towards you and making your stomach turn, palms beginning to sweat. He flicked the cigarette between his fingers, ashes falling before he put it back in his mouth, puffing smoke. You glanced around the ground, feet suddenly nervous as you shuffled under yourself, hugging yourself tight. “O- Oh really? Didn’t know about that… uh, I’ll be careful. Just gotta make it home before it rains.” You went to turn, pushing for another path away from this strange dude. You noticed he didn’t have any form of light, standing in the darkness as he began to step towards you, panic surging. Stumbling back, you gripped your flashlight, willing yourself to hit him if it came down to it.

But instead, the man stopped in front of you, tossing his cigarette to the ground and stomping it, glancing at you. “Trust me. It’d be better if you just take the path. I can walk with you, make sure you don’t get rained on too bad.” He was pushing, pressing beside you and guiding you back towards the path, not giving you any choice but to follow beside him as he pressed his hand on your back. The rain had already begun to sprinkle through the leaves, cool mist running across the ground as you held your flashlight close, wary of the man as you walked next to him.

Finally seeing the dirt path again, his hand pushed you to follow it again, the familiar crunch of weeds comforting you against the panic you felt internally. The man’s hand never left your back, keeping you next to him as he walked quickly, moreso forcing you to go this way than advising you. You wanted to run, to throw the flashlight at him and get home but he was stern, the brunt look on his face stunning you. So you just kept walking.

Masky had no clue what he was doing. He only meant to scare you, push you in the opposite direction and disappear again. But when you didn’t run, just kept watching, he had no choice but to speak up. He opted to take the mask off, giving you good reason to leave but not scaring you so much you wouldn’t come back. He still wanted you to feel comfortable here, just not off that path. Obviously, that didn’t work. If your survival instincts wouldn’t help you, he would. 

Minutes passed in tense silence, flecks of water sprinkling onto your face and wetting your hair. His hand still pressed, your shoulders tense as you flicked nervously between the path and his face, the unwavering look making you uneasy. “So, uhm. Why’re you out here?” You shook out, filling the cold air as you felt his fingers tense, eyeing you slightly. He was quiet for a second, almost like he was contemplating. “Cleanin' up. Got some hunting equipment back there. Had to get it stable before the storm.” He looked away, continuing on.

Settling in, you let him guide you, figuring that if he tried anything, you would be close enough to neighbors to scream. If he was going to do anything, he would have done it where no one could hear. Either way, you knew after tonight you wouldn’t be walking back in these woods without a knife. The rain was coming down harder now, thick droplets landing on your cheeks and blurring your vision. Your hair was soaked, clothes sticking to your body as you walked, and chills running over you. “Almost there.” The man grunted, tugging at his jacket and pulling it closer to his chest, raindrops running down his face. Nodding, you hummed, slicking your hair back off of your face.

This walk was weird without music, and your routine became skewed. So you decided to hum, picking up where you left off of the Linkin Park song and hitting the notes softly. The man’s hand instantly tensed, fingers curling into your hoodie and catching you off guard, stunting your voice. “Sorry.” You mumbled, sniffling as your nose became stuffy against the cold. He huffed, flattening his hand out again. “It’s fine. Keep singing.” He huffed, gripping the back of your hoodie. Uncomfortable, you began to hum again, pressing the notes quietly as you walked. The man held your top tight, taking deep breaths as he listened to you, teeth gritted. 

Internally, Masky was fighting himself, using all of his willpower not to drag you back to your house and force better noises out. Maybe it was his deprivation, the loneliness from all this time, but he couldn’t stand how nice you sounded next to him. It was always from a distance, but right now, pressed by his side, it was like you were beckoning him. Like some fucked up siren. He huffed a breath, begging himself just to keep walking, just get you home. But as you hit a high note, throat straining against the sound, Masky's breath hitched, fist gripping onto your back. 

You paused, humming stiffled in your throat as you looked at him, feet planting beside his as you stopped. “Are you… alright?” You asked nervously, gripping his jacket sleeve and gazing into his stern face, eyes dark as they looked back at you. “[Y/N]...” 

“How do you…” You gasped, pulling back against his fist wrapped against the back of your hoodie. “You’re a real tease, you know that?” The man huffed, gripping your shoulders and shoving you backwards against a nearby tree, shoulder blades shoving into the bark as rain pelted down your cheeks. You shook your head, panic rising in your chest as you pushed back against his arms, his fingers gripping your shoulders tightly. “I don’t… What?” You huffed, tears pricking in your eyes as he grits his teeth, eyes roaming your body under him quickly.

“Of course you don’t. Coming out here every day just to tease. Practically begging me.” The man spat, pressing a knee between your legs and shoving your hips down, forcing a whine out of your throat. You had no clue what was happening, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket as your hips forcefully ground down against his jeans. “Please… I don’t know what you want. If it’s money-” The man gripped your throat, pressing whines and gasps past your lips and holding you flush against the large tree behind you. “Can’t you see? I don’t want your fucking money, hun.” He grunted, pressing his body close and shoving his clothed bulge against your hip, gripping your hips tightly. 

You were still clueless, adrenaline pumping and kicking your brain into survival mode, too busy wondering if you would survive to realize the man’s intentions. Grunting, he gripped your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. “Listen to me very closely, [Y/N].” He spat, grinding his bulge against your hip, moving your hips along with his against his knee, making your eyes shoot down, cheeks growing hot. “I just wanna hear that voice. You can’t imagine how many days I listened to you humming and wanted to turn them into moans. You’re just so… addicting.” 

You couldn’t comprehend what you were hearing, your mind too muddled with the feeling of your clothed cunt throbbing against the man’s leg, his hands rough against your hips. “I don’t understand…” You grunted, pushing back against his shoulders as he leaned in, pressing his lips close to your ears.

“I need to fuck you, hun.” He mumbled, pressing a kiss against your ear as you gasped, flinching against him. Shoving a hand up your shirt, he pushed the cloth up, rubbing his rain-soaked hands against your warm skin. You didn’t know what to think, didn’t even know what to do. This guy overpowered you by a long shot, but as he pressed his hand into your shorts, you couldn’t hold back the whine that sounded. 

“Yeah, yeah, noises just like that, hun.” He smiled, pushing your shorts down to your thighs and groaning at the sight of your panties. Your clothes were soaked now, pressing uncomfortably against your skin as he pressed a finger against your clothed cunt, pushing his thumb between your folds and onto your clit. You gasped, gripping his arm tight as he watched, your eyes trained on his face and hand as they moved. “I don’t-”

“Just don’t hold back that voice, mkay? Let me hear you…” He sighed, shoving your panties down before you could stop him, rubbing his thick fingers between your folds. Slick collected against the digits, your body betraying your racing mind as you decided to give up, fighting obviously useless. 

Masky was electric, fingers moving faster than his mind could cooperate as he pressed against your clit, causing your body to stutter under him. Even if you didn’t know him, he knew you, and he knew that this was what you needed. Rain ran down his face, he rubbed his fingers against your cunt, pressing in and stretching. You couldn’t handle it, mind racing as he slowly fucked you open, body unsure of what it was even supposed to be doing. He shoved deeper, curling up into you until you were moaning out, fingers digging in. You gripped and held his forearm, too sensitive to take it as you spasm against his fingers, words getting caught in your throat. Masky relished in the way you gasped every time his palm hit your clit, fingers pumping up until you were gushing against him, arousal building. With every unforgiving pump of his fingers, you were losing your restraint, mind muddled under his grunts and thick fingers. 

“Can barely hold back, yeah? Go ahead, be as loud as you need to.” You were biting your lip, eyes screwed shut as you fought off your orgasm, refusing to give in to this eager man. Until he leaned in, licking against your neck and pressing his wet hair against your cheek. You shuddered, losing your resolve until you were clenching around his fingers, his palm shoved against your clit and rubbing your orgasm out, chuckling as you cried out, your resistance completely gone. 

He didn’t give you a moment, shoving your panties down to your knees and leaning up, unzipping his jeans. Stuttering, you whined, watching as his length sprung free and pressed against your abdomen. “What are you…” You gasped, vision blurry and goosebumps running against the throbbing still in your cunt. “I already told you, hun.” He hissed, pumping his cock with his wet hand before he was pulling your hips close, feet still planted but knees buckled. He pushed his cock down, pressing the tip against your lips, pushing forward until your lips were wrapping around him, clit spasming. You whined, the man angling your hips until your entrance pressed against the tip, your hands gripping his shoulders tight as he pulled you to him, pressing inside.

You gasped, his thick cock stretching you until you were gritting your teeth, his head nudging against your soft walls. “Don’t hold back, now…” He gasped, chuckling as he began to grind your hips down onto his length, your folds pressed against him with every deep thrust. You couldn’t handle it, stomach tightening with every tug and pushing gasps through your lips. No matter how badly you tried to keep quiet, you just couldn’t, the sensitivity dragging noises from you. He was ecstatic, every moan matching yours as he thrust faster, nails digging into your hips. He stared you in the eyes, dark gaze staring through you as you stared back, jaw hanging open. 

As if by instinct, fingers pressed into your mouth, shoving down into your throat until you were gagging, throat constricting around the digits. He was moaning, your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers as you sucked, your head becoming light due to the lack of oxygen. He would pull back slightly, giving you a moment before shoving his fingers back in, spit building against your lips. You couldn’t handle it, couldn’t comprehend anything but the intense pleasure of his thrusts, fingers muddling your mind. 

Before you knew it, you were clenching around his cock, clit straining against the pressure until you were crying out, choking on his fingers pressed knuckle-deep into your throat. “Fuck, hun…” He groaned, bottoming out against you and gripping your hips tight, relishing in the way your throat squeezed in time with your cunt. You were whining and grunting against him, eyes rolling back until you were coughing, cunt throbbing as spit ran down your chin.

Ripping his fingers from your mouth quickly, he slid your cunt off of his cock, throbbing hard as he fisted himself quickly, pressing the head against your abdomen. You gasped, heaving for breath as you watched, eyes heavy and face soaked with rain. He came against your skin, seed shooting against your stomach as he was rubbing the tip against you, cursing as he stared into your eyes. It was all too much, knees buckling against him as he gripped your waist tight, shoving your hoodie down and pulling your shorts up, your wetness soaking into the fabric. Your eyes lulled closed as he threw you over his shoulder, legs gripped tight as he began to walk through the trees, abandoning the path completely. But you were too delusional to think, mind too frayed to fight against him.

-

When you woke, you were in your bed, clothes still damp and hair still tangled. Cursing, you sat up, cunt sore as thunder roared outside, the hint of sunrise peeking against the trees. You tried to wrack your brain, tried to comprehend what had happened. But when you moved, feeling the crusted semen against your stomach, you decided a shower was the better option.

You still walked that path, just more cautiously now, carrying a knife in your hoodie every time. Cautious, you always made sure to stick to the path, unsure if the ‘fox traps’ existed or not, but not wanting to tempt it. 

You still had your headphones lodged in your ears, keeping the volume at a good level as you walked, making sure to hum just a little louder. Occasionally, catching a whiff of smoke.

This was an anonymous request!

Comments and reblogs are appreciated! 𐚁₊⊹

[sundrop-writes]

The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader

Summary:

While undercover inside the Separatarian Sect, you and Spencer realize something important: you can’t live without each other.

Spencer Reid x BAU!Fem!Reader. Co-Workers to Lovers. Fake Dating. Hurt and Comfort. Set during Season 4, Episode 3.

Word Count: 8,200

Criminal Minds Masterlist | AO3 Link

THIS IS A RE-POST. This is a fic from my old blog (a blog that was shadowbanned, forcing me to move). This fic is not stolen, it is completely mine, and I am just re-posting it to help people find my new blog, and to make my masterlist complete when I post new fics for this fandom.

Detailed warnings and author’s notes below the cut.

Warnings: Lots of spoilers for the canon episode - so if you haven’t watched Season 4 of Criminal Minds yet, steer clear of this fic for now (especially because watching the episode provides some context for this fic/makes things make more sense); the reader uses she/her pronouns and has the ability to get pregnant (she is not pregnant during the fic and there’s no smut, but due to discussions in the fic, it’s not unreasonable that she could get pregnant); fake dating in the form of a fake marriage - the reader and Spencer pretend to be married under the Christian religion to ‘appeal’ to Cyrus; because of the fake marriage, Spencer uses the term 'my wife’ to refer to the reader; lots of mentions of religion (Christianity), religious extremism, mentions of pedophilia/child brides (in line with the canon episode); mentions of systemic sexism and gender roles enforced by cultures of organised religion and religious extremism; use of y/n and l/n (in this case meaning 'your last name’); the reader pretends to follow the Christian religion while undercover but I never stated if she believes in a less extreme version of these things or not (the reader’s true religious beliefs are never stated); protective!Spencer, possessive!Spencer; mentions of Spencer being taller than the reader (which, again, I think he would be taller than most people) - the reader’s body/body type is not described in any other way; mentions of guns and gun violence (not described in deep detail) - in line with the canon episode; the reader and Spencer fear for their lives; dangerous/live-threatening situations; the reader and Spencer are threatened with a gun; Cyrus is just generally creepy and sexist toward the reader; Spencer is pistol-whipped and the reader is threatened with sexual assault (it does not happen, Spencer protects her); mentions of pregnancy/the reader being pregnant (she is not pregnant during the course of the fic); mentions of the reader being a mother/having kids (Spencer makes up fake kids to sell their fake marriage story); the reader realizes she might actually want to be a mother because of Spencer’s fake kids story; mentions of an explosion (as in the canon); love confessions; angst with a happy ending. Hopefully that is everything.

A/N: The title for this fic comes from a Fall Out Boy song of the same name. The theme/lyrics of the song don’t really fit the fic, but I love the way that this title fits - how everyone in this fic is lying in some way but Spencer is someone with good intentions while lying. Making him the Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes. I love how it fits. I wrote this while suffering with heat exhaustion so idk if it’s good or even makes sense. I rewatched the canon episode and it doesn’t 100% align with what happened in the episode in terms of the timeline and stuff, and I am too tired to rewrite the whole fic to make it align with the episode. So uh - alternative canon? But I really love the basic concepts and I do really love how it turned out. I hope you guys like it too!

...

You thought it would be an easy day. 

Maybe that was foolish on your part. So far, you hadn’t seen a single ‘easy’ day while working with the BAU. Between chasing down scumbags and then reliving every single gory detail while doing the paperwork - none of it was ‘easy’. It was worthy, accomplished work - making the world a safer place to live in. (At least that’s what you told yourself.) But it was never easy. 

There was always someone who made the job easier. Someone who made you smile every single day - especially on days when you didn’t think you were even capable of feeling a tiny shred of joy. Someone who made you feel safe, who you always felt had your back no matter what. So you were glad that he was by your side today, along for the ride. 

“Tell us about Cyrus.” Reid prompted. 

He looked to the woman driving, your new companion for the day - Nancy Lunde, someone who worked with the state department and had set up the interviews with the children at the Separatarian Sect. 

“Benjamin Cyrus. No criminal record. In fact, there’s no record of the guy at all.” Nancy explained. 

“That’s odd.” You commented. “Usually someone being accused of something like this would have some past offenses. Especially because it would give him a reason to move into isolation to continue the criminal pattern of behavior.” 

“Well, I couldn’t find anything on him.” Nancy shrugged. 

“What about the 9-1-1 call?” You asked. 

“A fifteen year old girl called in saying that a man was ‘laying with her’ and claimed it as ‘God’s will’. I believe the ‘he’ referred to is Cyrus.” Nancy explained. “The age fits with Jessica Evanson, but I’ve managed to negotiate interviews with all the children, just to be sure. It wasn’t easy.” 

“They’re incredibly weary of outsiders.” You commented. “Our boss warned you not to identify us as FBI, right?” 

Nancy nodded. “I got you some spare credentials, just in case.” 

She took one of her hands off the wheel and reached into her pocket.

“You’re going to be using your real names. You’re going in as Child Victim Interview Experts working with Child Protective Services. No association with the FBI.” Nancy explained, handing Reid your fake credentials. 

He nodded, inspecting the IDs before handing you yours where you were sitting in the backseat. 

“Oh, before I forget.” You noted, reaching into the pocket of your cardigan. “The rings.” 

You pulled out a small plastic bag that Hotch had given to you before you left. It was a bag containing a fake diamond ring in your size and a fake golden ‘wedding’ band for Spencer. 

Reid reached over the seat to grab his ring from you, and Nancy gave the two of you an odd look. 

“Rings?” She questioned. 

“Fake wedding bands.” You explained. 

“It was our Unit Chief’s idea.” Reid added on. “He believes that presenting us as a ‘godly’ married couple to Cyrus will make him more likely to open up to us. He’s less likely to see us as hostile outsiders if he believes that we share a similar system of beliefs.” 

“It could also have a calming effect on the teenagers we have to interview or the kids there who have had more time to go through indoctrination at the Sect.” You continued to explain. “Even if their parents are hesitant to let the kids speak with us, they may be more willing to have their child speak with us or even leave them alone with us if they believe that we’re fellow Christians, rather than hostile atheists there to poison their children’s minds.” 

Reid nodded at you through the rearview mirror. 

“Make sure you put on the left hand.” He told you. “That’s the position for marriage.” 

You nodded at this. 

You placed the ring in the appropriate position, and you couldn’t help but to take a moment and stare at it. It was jarring to have a wedding ring on - especially with the thought that it represented you being married to Spencer. But you supposed, of all the people to call your husband, he would be one of the best. He was honest, intelligent, kind, and… if you were pressed, you would definitely say he was handsome. 

But you couldn’t get too caught up thinking about all of that. Because it wasn’t real. It was a false projection you were wearing for the benefit of a self inflated sociopath. 

Spencer liked the feeling of the ring. He didn’t take too long to stare at it after he had put it on, because he knew his mind would wander if he did. When Hotch had first proposed the idea of the two of you pretending to be married, Spencer had almost tripped over himself to oppose it - mostly because he didn’t think that he would be able to handle simply pretending to be your husband for the day. It was just too cruel. 

Having something he wanted so badly dangled right in front of him and knowing that it was all just a farce - it bothered him, but he delighted in the play nonetheless. 

When he caught the fake gold glinting in the light, Spencer had to remind himself that it was fake - that you would just be playing his wife for the day. He had to push back any internal glee that he felt at the idea that he got to be ‘taken’ by you while wearing that ring. It wasn’t real. It was just for the day. 

“Isn’t that deceptive?” Nancy asked. “Won’t Cyrus be even more angry if he finds out that it’s not true?” 

“He won’t find out.” You replied confidently. “And besides, we use deception in interrogations all the time. It’s a very basic tactic: align yourself with the suspect. Make them think you share the same beliefs, that you’re on their side.” 

Reid grinned at this. He always loved it when you spoke so confidently. 

… 

“We’re looking for Mr. Benjamin Cyrus.” Nancy announced as the three of you got out of the car. 

“Then you’ve found him.” Cyrus announced confidently. 

He was pretty much what you had expected him to be - dressed informally, slouched over, faking meekness, holding a bible near his chest as though it were a shield. He had planted himself there purposefully, wanting to be the first person to interact with the outsiders as three of you came into the Ranch. 

You hovered back near Spencer, letting Nancy make the first introduction. 

“I’m Nancy Lunde.” She said, giving a small nod toward the man. “We spoke on the phone regarding the allegation.” 

“‘Savages they call us, because our manners differ from theirs.’” Cyrus rhymed off a quote, obviously positioning himself and his group as martyrs being attacked for having ‘different ways’ that the world simply didn’t understand. 

“We didn’t come here to hear you cite scripture, Mr. Cyrus.” Nancy reminded him, hoping to keep the religious zealot on track. 

“Actually, it’s Benjamin Franklin.” Reid corrected her, talking about the quote. 

That did surprise you, but you didn’t find it surprising that Reid knew this fact right off the top of his head. It was just one of the many amazing things about him - his perfect memory and his ability to use it. 

Of course, him saying this immediately drew Cyrus’ attention toward the two of you. So Spencer stepped up to introduce you. 

“Hello, I’m Spencer Reid, and this is my wife, Y/N L/N.” He said motioning toward himself and then to you as he introduced the two of you. Hearing him refer to you as his wife - you hated to say it, but it caused a jolt through your system. Almost as if you had been waiting forever to hear him say those words and hadn’t even known it yourself. “We’re Child Victim Interview Experts, here on behalf of Child Protective Services.” 

Of course, you couldn’t get too caught up in deciphering how those words made you feel, because you had to focus on the task at hand. The job that you were here to do. 

“How far from God’s word must we have strayed for there to be a need to invent a job called ‘Child Victim Interview Expert’.” Cyrus said, his tone even, quiet. 

You knew that covertly, it was his way of saying that the two of you didn’t belong there, because he ran the Ranch with God’s word, so nobody had actually been harmed (in his opinion). He believed that he had done nothing wrong. Obviously, he thought your time and resources were better spent with ‘actual’ victims who didn’t have his power wielded over their lives. 

“I can assure you, Mr. Cyrus, we try to bring God into our work.” You told him, trying to appeal to him. “The children we visit usually need prayer and God’s light the most.” 

Spencer gave you a sideways glance, clearly holding back a grin at how thick you were pouring it on - how much intense, feigned passion you said these words with. 

“Well, I can assure you that a lack of prayer and God’s light is certainly not an issue for the children here.” Cyrus said, giving you a clever little grin. He thought that you would simply interview the children, praise him for what a good job he had done, and then leave. “You can go and see the children whenever you like. They are up at the school, as I indicated in our phone call.” 

Nancy walked toward the school, and you paused before you followed. 

Before you walked off, you looked to Spencer. In a completely silent conversation that only worked so well because the two of you had been in so many tense situations before, thinking around UnSubs and planning miles around them before they could even know it, he gave you a small nod and you instantly knew what it meant. He had established a small bit of trust with Cyrus, so he would stick back and see what else he could get out of the man. 

You nodded back, and then - completely surprising yourself, you leaned in and kissed Spencer on the cheek. You were just playing the part, you told yourself. It’s not that it felt entirely instinctive to say goodbye to him with some kind of affection, like the many hugs you had given him before. It’s not that you felt so entirely scrutinized with Cryus’ piercing eyes on you, and you needed the anchor of Spencer’s touch. 

You were just playing the part. 

Spencer tried not to get caught on being kissed on the cheek like he was some blushing virgin, and instead, focused his attention back on Cyrus instead of watching you walk away. (Even though every single one of his instincts told him that he needed to keep a more careful eye on you because you both had to leave your guns in the car.) 

He took a step closer to where Cyrus was leaning on the concrete, and easily picked a topic of conversation. 

“Solar panels.” Reid said, motioning to the large devices sitting behind Cyrus on the grass. 

“Yes.” Cyrus nodded. “We’re completely self-sufficient here. Food, electricity, water. Benjamin Franklin said ‘God helps those who help themselves’.” He explained. “You look surprised.” 

“No, uh, impressed, actually.” Reid easily lied, trying to appeal to his ego. 

“Thank you.” Cyrus said. “Most men wouldn’t admit that.” 

“Well, I suppose that I’m not like most men.” Reid shrugged in return. 

“How long have you been married?” Cyrus asked, motioning toward Reid’s ‘wedding ring’. 

Reid panicked slightly, knowing that the two of you likely should have coordinated this story during the plane ride to Colorado so that your answers to these simple questions wouldn’t be different. But he just made up an answer and hoped that nobody else would ask you the same question and find out the deception. 

“Three years.” He said. “I’ve been very blessed.” 

He used the language purposefully, knowing that the simple phrase could get him on Cyrus’ good side. That, and he hoped it would draw the attention away from any possible signs of his blatant lie. 

“Your wife is very beautiful.” Cyrus commented. 

He gave a wicked smirk as he said this. It was a simple, fairly ‘innocent’ comment, but it was immediately off-putting to Spencer. It took everything in his body not to glare daggers at Cyrus or throw out some protective comment in return. He could only imagine what was going through Cyrus’ mind as he thought about you, and he hated even imagining it. 

Reid knew that it was a basic logical good, the instinct to protect you because you were his partner on this case and he was supposed to have your back. But it was also something more. Something in every fiber of his being that screamed you were his and no man should ever be thinking of you that way except for him. 

“Has it been a godly union?” 

He was lucky when Cyrus spoke again and distracted him from his mounting rage. 

“We try to be as godly as we can be.” Spencer took the simple, diplomatic answer. 

“Your wife didn’t take your last name.” Cyrus pointed out. 

Nancy had used your name on your false credentials because Hotch had only come up with the fake marriage idea the day before. There hadn’t been time to inform her about it and have ‘Reid’ put on your ID as your ‘married’ name. So he had introduced you by your name to keep everything consistent with the reuse. 

It did make Spencer wonder if you would keep your last name if the two of you ever did get married. It made him almost dizzy, thinking about you as ‘Mrs Reid’. Thinking about your kids having his name. Or your name, if that’s what you wanted. 

But naturally, he pushed past all those thoughts and formed an excuse. 

“Typically, married women aren’t very well perceived in our line of work.” He quickly excused. “She doesn’t even get to wear her ring that often. She couldn’t change her name on paperwork at our office because a working married woman… it’s heavily frowned upon.” 

“Well, I’d have to agree.” Cyrus grunted. “A woman shouldn’t be out working. A woman should be at home raising a family.” 

“I - I suppose you’re right.” Reid agreed through gritted teeth. 

He walked away toward the school before he got too angry again. 

… 

A few hours later, everything had gone to hell. 

Some authority - the police, the military, you didn’t even know - had charged into the Ranch shooting. In response, Cyrus and his followers had come into the school toting large semi-automatics asking you and Spencer if you knew about a raid. 

You didn’t. You wish you had known about a raid. You would have warned Hotch and gotten them to call it off. You certainly would not have been there while it was happening. 

When they had pointed those guns in your face and forced you into the tunnels - it wasn’t very difficult to pretend to be Spencer’s wife then. Cowering in the bunker, confused and scared, you flung your arms around his waist almost instinctively, and he buried his nose in the top of your hair as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders like a shield, promising you that everything was going to be okay. 

Whispered to you like that, coming from him - it was almost easier to believe. Even with the chaos going on around you and the fear pumping through you in response. 

Nancy had run off trying to get them to surrender and did not come back. You had a feeling that you knew what that meant. 

And now, with the kids from the school ‘evacuated’ into the church, you were being held in the cellar at gunpoint. They had forcefully separated you and Spencer, making you sit in chairs at opposite sides of the room.

Spencer was fidgeting. His eyes kept flickering from the door, to you, to the man standing beside you holding the very large gun. 

You knew that you had ugly tear tracks down your face, and oddly enough - you wanted nothing more than to be back in his arms. As you were forced to sit there, just a few feet across the room away from him - you ached for it. 

There was a very large possibility that you were going to die today. And you selfishly needed the comfort of being in the arms of someone familiar - someone safe. Someone you knew would never hurt you. Someone who had made you laugh with dumb science jokes and puns for the last five years that you had worked together with him. 

When Cyrus charged back into the room with two men flanking his sides, you and Spencer stiffened up once again. 

“God will forgive me for what I’m about to do.” Cyrus announced to the room, presenting a handgun from his belt. 

Your insides quaked, and Spencer’s eyes grew wide. 

You couldn’t contain the fearful whimper that erupted from the back of your throat when he raised that gun and placed it near the middle of Spencer’s forehead. You clasped a hand tightly over your mouth to keep yourself from crying out in protest, knowing that would only make things worse. 

“Which one of you is the FBI Agent?” Cyrus asked firmly. 

Which ‘one’? 

So he knew that you were undercover, that you had lied about your job titles - but he thought that only one of you had done so. Where the hell was he getting his information? 

“I - I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Spencer told him quietly, looking him in the eye the entire time. 

You hoped that his stutter could be passed off as nervousness from the gun being pointed in his face, and wouldn’t be pointed to as deception. 

“Which one of you is it?” Cyrus pressed. 

“We are not FBI Agents.” Spencer said, more confidently this time. “We are Child Victim Interview Experts. We were only sent here to ensure the wellbeing of the children. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Well, that last part wasn’t a lie. 

“You’re lying.” Cyrus told him, entirely confident in this. “God expells those who lie, devils in sheep’s clothing.” 

There was a tense moment, and then Cyrus cocked the gun. 

Spencer didn’t flinch. You resisted the urge to scream. 

“Proverbs 12:22 says: ‘The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in those who tell the truth.’” Cyrus said, actually citing scripture this time. 

He was giving Spencer one last chance to tell the truth. As if using the bible verse to say that his punishment would be lesser if he simply told the truth now. 

Spencer didn’t take the bait. 

“I’m not lying.” Spencer said firmly. “What? You think I wouldn’t know if - if my wife was an FBI Agent? This is the woman I wake up next to every single morning, the woman I go to sleep next to every single night, we work together every single day, we-” 

Cyrus interrupted Spencer’s ranting with a sharp hit to the face, pistol whipping him across the cheek. 

This caused Spencer to go flying off the chair, and you couldn’t help when you let out a wounded cry. It took everything in you not to jump out of your own chair and rush to Spencer where he had collapsed onto the ground, clutching his cheek. 

“Someone is going to tell me the truth.” Cyrus said gruffly. 

“It must have been Nancy!” You said, the idea finally popping into your head. 

You seemed to be more clever with the pressure of Spencer’s life being threatened. Cyrus stared you down, turning his attention fully toward you now. You caught Spencer’s eye for a moment and he gave you a small nod - as if to say ‘yes, keep going with that’. 

“The woman we came in with! Nancy!” You reasoned, continuing to point the finger at the woman you had to assume was dead. “We - we just met her today. Our boss introduced us to her, but we had never met before that. If she was FBI, we had no clue. We swear.” 

Cyrus turned to you then, and tightly pressed the barrel of his gun into your forehead. You could feel the imprint of it so tight in your skin that it hurt, and you could only lean away so far before threatening to knock the chair backwards. 

“It’s very convenient to pin this crime on someone who isn’t here.” He grunted at you. 

“It’s the truth.” You sniffled out quietly. 

“Hmm.” Cyrus hummed thoughtfully, and then, much to your surprise, he removed the gun barrel from your forehead. 

You barely had a moment to breathe in relief before he began skimming the gun down your neck, touching the metal whisper-gentle across your bare skin - clearly taunting you. It was something that made your whole body stiff with alarm, and caused Spencer’s eyes to go wide once again.

“Perhaps I should strip you naked to ensure that you’re not wearing a wire.” Cyrus said, teasing the gun along the buttons at the front of your cardigan. 

You held back a sob at the thought of it - at the idea that he could make you do almost anything for the fear of you being shot. Truthfully, you were more afraid of what he might do to Spencer if you didn’t comply, but it was all the same in your mind now. His life was just as valuable as yours, and you would do whatever it took to protect him.

Before Cyrus could take these threats any further, a heroic voice intervened. 

“That’s enough!” Spencer yelled. 

He gathered himself off the floor and oddly enough, none of the men moved to stop him as he came to stand beside Cyrus. Perhaps they didn’t see him as a threat. Perhaps it was because Cyrus didn’t bark any orders at them to stop him. He was entirely unflinching, keeping his focus on you and keeping his gun held between your breasts as Spencer crowded into his personal space, trying to press himself between you and the awful man. 

“We’ve told you everything that we know.” Spencer told him lowly, his voice heaving with well controlled anger. It was something that you had rarely ever heard from him. 

Cyrus kept his eyes locked on you, so Spencer continued. 

“We don’t know anything about the FBI - we have a simple job advocating for children who have been abused. That is it. We came here to investigate a most likely false claim against someone in your community and we truly didn’t mean to get caught up in all of this.” He said firmly, clearly trying to appeal to Cyrus. “So I suggest you get that gun away from my wife before you and I truly have a problem.” 

Spencer’s voice was dark, so thick with rage. More pent up rage than you had ever heard from him when he was talking to any suspect, people who had done the worst of the worst. Something about Cyrus threatening you had truly boiled his insides. 

The way he said the words ‘my wife’ - growling it out like he was a feral animal and this threat to you had activated every single one of his protective instincts. Hearing it made something inside of you yearn for him on such a deep level that you didn’t know was possible. You wanted to feel that kind of protection cast over you every single day. It made you feel invincible, having Spencer watch over you like that. 

Cyrus lowered the gun then, and Spencer grabbed your arm as you dissolved into hysterical tears. Instinctively, he lifted you up into his arms. You thought that you heard Cyrus mumble out ‘my apologies’ as he left the room - but he was barely on your radar. Your entire world became narrowed down to nothing but Spencer, your safety net as he built a wall of protection around you. 

He used his height to block you from seeing anything but him, letting you push your face into his chest as you cried. He wrapped you in his arms once again, letting you feel truly safe for a few moments as you sobbed into the fabric of his sweater. Your arms clutched desperately at his waist, needing to keep a hold on him - needing to ensure that he didn’t leave you. 

“Hey, shh. Shh. It’s okay.” He said, leaving gentle kisses on the top of your forehead and your hair, rubbing across your back with one hand, comforting you in the only way he could in those moments. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Of course, he wanted to break down too. But he had to be strong for you. 

“Spencer,” You called his name in an utterly wounded voice, pulling away from his chest to look up at him. 

When you saw his injury up close - a sharp, purple-red bruise that was blooming across his cheek, it looked so utterly painful. Your insides ached at the thought that he had taken a blow for you. You hated to imagine what more they could have done to him if they had not believed your lies. 

You instinctively reached a hand up to touch it and he caught your fingers halfway, instead, gently grasping your hand and laying it on his chest. The intimacy felt so oddly rehearsed - so worn in, so ‘normal’. It felt like you had been married to Spencer for years. Like it wasn’t a play at all. 

Your two souls had been calling out to each other for years, just waiting for the dam to break. But you couldn’t quite put it into words - not like that. 

“It’s okay.” He said quietly, knowing you were horrified by the injury. 

He was so gentle, so comforting, so calm. Everything the men pointing guns at you were not. Unlike Cyrus - Spencer Reid was a true blessing from God. 

You couldn’t hold yourself back then. 

You surged up and kissed him, fully embracing his mouth with yours in a kiss. Though it was so sudden, it was something he easily returned. The kiss so full of urgency, so needy, so passionate. Like he was trying to tell you that it was okay, that he would protect you no matter what. 

He would protect you because you belonged to him. 

In those moments, the two of you were basically alone. One of Cryus’ men was guarding the door, watching on boredly. But Cyrus was off in the church, funneling people in to prepare for his ‘loyalty’ test. It didn’t matter if he saw you kissing or not - it wouldn’t have sold the reuse of you being married any better. 

This was just for the two of you. This was comfort. 

When you pulled back from the kiss, Spencer looked stunned, almost as if he couldn’t believe what had happened. You didn’t give him time to question it. 

“Thank you.” You said quietly. 

It was twofold:

Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for giving me comfort. 

Spencer didn’t have too much time to marinate in the meaning of the kiss before Cyrus’ men came back and fetched the two of you, wanting you to observe the loyalty test. 

… 

After the mock poisoning (which Spencer figured out rather quickly, making you admire his cleverness once again), Cyrus kept you and Spencer in the church with a few of his closest, most loyal followers while all of the low level followers dispersed back to their homes. 

You and Spencer were lingering in the back quietly while Cyrus was on the other end of the room, talking to his men about how to proceed. The plans for their ‘final stand’. 

“We need to get some kind of signal to the others.” Spencer whispered quietly. “Maybe they’ll take pity on you and let you go if-” He swallowed sharply, cutting himself off abruptly. Oddly enough, he didn’t want to voice whatever was on his mind. 

“If what?” You probed. You wondered what the hell you could possibly be thinking. 

“If we tell them that you’re pregnant.” He said, whispering so lowly that you almost didn’t catch the words. 

You rolled your eyes sharply at this. 

You had gotten married and had kids all in one day. What a miracle. 

(In those moments, clouded by fear, you couldn’t see it for what it truly was - Spencer blatantly revealing his unconscious desires to have a baby with you.) 

“We could convince them to release you. As a show of good faith. A pregnancy would be good leverage in that. You know how religious people are about fetuses-” Spencer reasoned. 

“Yeah, and what if they give me a test?” You probed, punching a large hole in his logic. “We don’t know what kind of infirmary they have here. They obviously believe in modern technology. What if they want to give me an ultrasound to check on the fetus after the stress of the day? To prove that they did no harm to the precious unborn child,” 

Spencer was easily caught on this point. If they examined you and found that you weren’t pregnant, all the lies would fall apart. 

“Well… what if we tell them that you have a baby at home that you need to get back to?” Spencer reasoned, jumping to the next logical conclusion in his mind. “It’ll likely garner the same level of pity.” 

“Your imaginary sperm is powerful, isn’t it?” You whispered back sharply. Spencer rolled his eyes this time. But he didn’t redact the plan as unreasonable, so you continued on. “Okay, what do I even do when I get out there? I’m not gonna be of any use to the tactical team. We don’t know what Cyrus’ final play is yet.” 

Truthfully, you couldn’t bear to be separated from Spencer. Knowing that he was inside, potentially being beaten up more, potentially being shot and bleeding out from a wound without you knowing - it would kill you with stress. You need to be by his side. You needed to know that he was okay. 

“Has God blessed your union with any children?” Cyrus appeared behind you suddenly. 

You wondered if he had heard you say the word ‘pregnancy’ or if this was just a random topic that had come up in his mind. 

His sudden appearance behind you caused you to whip around and crowd into the comfort of Spencer’s arms again because you were frightened. Naturally, Spencer wrapped his sheltering touch around your shoulders. Your back was gently pressed into Spencer’s front, his arm shielding you protectively as it was wrapped around your chest, holding you with his hand on one of your shoulders, unconsciously stroking his thumb across the fabric of your cardigan. The position had you both facing Cyrus, watching the fan in an offensive way. 

And of course, Spencer didn’t miss a beat. 

“Yes.” Spencer answered easily. “We have two kids at home. A boy and a girl. Iris and Hugo. Iris is almost three years old and Hugo is eleven months. His first birthday is coming up in June.” 

You knew that Spencer could be very good at talking off a suspect’s ear under pressure, but when you heard him rattle off these ‘facts’ so easily, it hit you. 

This wasn’t simply statistics or physiological knowledge - this was a very elaborate backstory for your supposedly real marriage. Perhaps he had thought about all of it on the car ride up (which was odd not to share it with you, in case Cyrus asked you a similar question and your answer didn’t match up with Spencer’s). 

But if you weren’t mistaken, this wasn’t simply a backstory for your fake marriage during the undercover mission. This was a fantasy of his. Those were names he had lovingly chosen for your imaginary children - kids he had dreamed up in his head and wanted to be real. 

Your heart ached at the thought of it. You found yourself missing a set of children that weren’t even real. (And distantly, wanting to jump his bones to make it a reality.)

“Tell me, Mr. Reid, would you find it so shameful for your daughter to marry young?” Cyrus asked. 

You found it odd to hear Cyrus call Spencer ‘Mr. Reid’, but you realized that he hadn’t introduced himself as ‘Doctor’ in this setting. You held your tongue when you felt the need to correct him as you had so many other people, wanting Spencer to receive his proper title. 

Your mind almost couldn’t focus on the question that Cyrus had asked. Of course, he was trying to get Spencer to stroke his ego once again. Basically admitting that the whole reason the two of you had come here was true - he was being vastly inappropriate with a young member of the church, and getting away with it. And he saw nothing wrong with it. 

And he was trying to get an outsider to admit that he saw nothing wrong with it too. 

When there was a moment of silence - Reid obviously torn on how to answer the question, Cyrus continued. 

“Is there really something so wrong with a blooming young woman marrying a man who will protect her under God’s laws?” He probed, his voice so entirely confident. Clearly confident that he was right. 

“Well, I’m not sure if I would let my daughter get married so young.” Reid said, finally speaking up. “I just know that I would want her to marry a man that would protect her, and be the best possible fit for her. Someone who would cherish her and be good to her no matter what.” 

His answer made you swoon. You reached up and gently gripped his forearm in response, giving a light squeeze to show your approval. He leaned in and kissed the back of your head - dizzyingly, you were imagining him walking your imaginary daughter down the aisle before you had even gotten married yourself. 

Maybe it was being so close to death, being threatened in such dangerous territory that was causing your life to accelerate at light speed in your mind. If you were going to lose everything, you might as well enjoy the escapism of a fake life with a beautiful man in your mind instead of being stuck on the heart pounding terror of being held hostage, right? 

Surprisingly, his words drew a smile from Cyrus. 

“You’re a protective father, aren’t you?” Cyrus asked. 

“Of course.” Reid confirmed. 

“I can always admire that in a man.” Cyrus nodded. “A man should always pride himself on protecting his family.” 

There was another moment of pause, and you were hoping that the topic had been dropped completely. 

“Do you have a picture of your children with you?” Cyrus asked. 

You wondered if - in a different version of reality, where you and Spencer really were married, where Hugo and Iris really did exist - if you had a picture of them in your pocket, would Cyrus only be asking this so he could use the picture to taunt the two of you? What other purpose would he have for knowing what your children looked like? 

“Unfortunately, no.” You answered. “I keep my family pictures on my desk. In my office. We - we’ve just been praying to get back to them safely.” 

Cyrus seemed perturbed at you mentioning that you had an office. Something dark flickered over his features for a moment and then disappeared. 

“Well… if it is right, God will grant you that safe passage.” Cyrus said. 

Just when you truly thought the conversation was done, he said something to you that entirely grinded under your skin. 

“I find it entirely odd that a mother of two young children spends her days working a job where she takes care of other people’s children, rather than staying at home with her own youngins where she belongs.” 

He said, using that same entirely confident, righteous tone that he always did. Even though you were not really a working mother, you had a hard time not boiling with anger at the sexism ripe in his statement. 

“How much must you be missing of your sweet angels lives to instead partake in the horrors of devils you shouldn’t have to witness.” 

Of course. 

You had a hard time not rolling your eyes at this or saying something harsh that would set him off. Instead, you reached up to Spencer’s arm around your shoulder, squeezing his fingers, trying to keep your patience.

“I’ll have you know that Y/N is an amazing mother.” Spencer piped up, knowing that Cyrus respected him enough as a man that he wouldn’t beat him simply for speaking up. “Her nurturing and caring makes her infinitely better at her job.” 

Again, you knew that there was so much personal truth in Spencer’s words. He thought that you would make an amazing mother to his children - at least theoretically. He was entirely firm in that conviction. And he thought that your natural caring made you amazing at the job you did as a Profiler. He knew this from the quality of work he witnessed you doing every single day. 

You didn’t know it - but it was just one of the many things that had caused him to fall in love with you. 

Oddly enough, Cyrus’ words prodded at something deep inside of you. It made you imagine a life for yourself where you weren’t spending your days witnessing horrors from unspeakable devils - but instead, at home, looking out for Spencer’s imaginary children. 

You would have said it was the fear of the day, clouding your mind. But maybe it was the clarity of being so close to death that made you realize what - and who - you truly wanted out of life. 

… 

Hours later, after some of the hostages had been released (the ‘non-believers’ who had failed the loyalty test), Cyrus had requested that some food be sent up. Spencer gave you a sharp look when he saw the message written on one of the takeout lids. 

The team would be storming in to end the hold-out at 3am. You had to somehow ensure the safety of the hostages by then. 

Obviously, the fake pregnancy idea was still warping through Spencer’s mind, but you had come up with some much better. 

“Cyrus,” You called out his name gently, getting his attention. “You said that you have a nursery here?” 

It had come up, during his long winded bragging about how perfect the Ranch was. Something about how mothers didn’t have to raise their children alone. The children were raised as more of a ‘group effort’ and women took ‘shifts’ in the nursery, allowing the women to rest or get chores done in the interim. 

“Yes, we do.” He nodded. 

Spencer stared at you with his jaw set, wondering what you were doing but not daring to speak. 

“I - I’ve been missing my children dearly. I was wondering if I could go to your nursery and see if they need any help? It would do my soul good to be around young ones right now. After all the commotion of these days.” You spoke meekly, trying to play the part of the shaken up, dainty woman well. 

Which was too difficult, seeing as you were playing up the fear you had already experienced. 

He grinned. It was a rather menacing smile, and you tried your hardest not to show any further fear, or disgust. 

“That sounds like a splendid idea.” He nodded. “Christopher, why don’t you escort her down to the nursery and then come back? We need you here for our final preparations.” 

You were finally falling to those gender roles that he had been pushing on you since you had arrived. He didn’t suspect a thing. He simply thought that you were a God fearing woman falling to your natural womanly instincts, needing to care for children lest your womb shrivel up and you die. 

Spencer rose from his seat and Cyrus stopped him. 

“Just your wife.” He said, putting a hand in front of Spencer’s chest to stop him. “There are still some things you and I need to discuss. Man to man.” 

You went over to Spencer and didn’t hesitate to plant a kiss firmly on his mouth, which he returned with vigor. This one lasted only a moment - it was something precious for the two of you. You didn’t need to put on some pointed show for the men in the room. 

“It’s okay.” You told Spencer quietly, brushing your fingers gently over his uninjured cheek. 

You could tell that he was dying to ask you what your plan was. But he kept the words trapped in his throat, unable to speak in front of the many temperamental villains lurking about. 

“Come on.” Christopher grunted. 

Spencer gave you a longing look as you left. He didn’t want to think it, but as he watched your figure retreat out the door, he feared that it would be the last time he ever saw you. 

… 

Your plan worked flawlessly. 

Getting to the nursery meant that you had unsupervised access to the women and children, especially away from Cyrus’ prying ears. Because you were a ‘delicate’ woman, nobody suspected you of having ulterior motives. You easily found a crack in Kathy, Jessica’s mother. You spotted her as the one who had made the original 9-1-1 call, wanting to get her daughter away from Cyrus. You convinced her to help you get everyone out, and you felt intense relief when you were met with a familiar face in the cellar as everyone escaped through the tunnels. 

“Where’s Reid?” Morgan easily asked you, glancing behind your shoulder as if waiting for him to appear. 

“He’s still up at the church.” You told him. “I had to separate off to help get the women and children out-” 

“Go on, we have to get you out!” Morgan urged, trying to gently usher you along. 

“We have to go get Reid!” You argued, trying to turn around. 

“Go, go on, I’ll go get Reid!” He told you. 

You were about to argue back, but you were cut off by a scuffle behind you. 

Jessica was yelling about Cyrus - how her mother had betrayed her, tricked her. 

Morgan pushed Kathy toward you and ran off screaming for Jessica. You took Kathy’s arm, gently convincing her that everything was going to be okay as you guided her the rest of the way out. You had to focus on this, convincing yourself that everything was going to be okay. You had to tell yourself that Derek was going to get Spencer out - that they were both going to be okay. 

When you got outside, you were hyper focused on marching away, taking a path away from the church as directed by the officers in charge. You froze in your tracks when you heard it - an earth shattering boom. The ground beneath your feet shook. You felt a puff of hot air swell to touch your back. 

You let go of Kathy’s arm and whipped around, and you couldn’t even pay attention to where she went. You almost thought you heard her weeping, but your mind couldn’t process it as your eyes were glossed in bright orange flame. 

It was the church. 

“Spencer?” You gasped quietly. “Spencer!” 

You couldn’t help it, but you began to run toward it. Your feet carried you faster than you could think, and before you got more than a few feet across the ground, you felt a sharp grip on your upper arm. 

“L/N!” 

Hotch’s voice, sounding far too distant for the position he held right behind you, viciously gripping onto you as you fought against him, trying to get toward the fire - trying to get to Spencer. 

“Hey! Hey! Stop it!” Hotch tried to order you around, tried to get you to stand down. 

He got a hand around your waist, and you continued to kick like a wild horse, fighting against his grip as hot tears poured down your face. 

“He’s in there!” You sobbed. “Spencer is still in there.” 

“Calm. Down.” Hotch ordered sharply. 

You collapsed back into him sobbing, all of the fight leaving your muscles at once. You couldn’t fake the reality in front of you. 

“You running in there and getting hurt isn’t going to change anything.” Hotch told you quietly, a somehow distant murmur into your ear. 

Through the blur of your tears and the sharp orange glow, you saw the shape of two bodies. You heard coughing as someone emerged from the blast, hobbling down the stairs at the front of the church. You forced your eyes open wider, trying to see who it was, and then: 

“Y/N!” Spencer called out your name gruffly through the smoke he had inhaled, and you easily shucked off Hotch’s grip to race up the stairs to get to him. 

He was leaning on Morgan for support and you were worried that he was hurt. But the moment you were close enough, he tore himself away from Morgan and the two of you met in the middle. In a pattern that was easily developing, you fell into the safety of his arms, holding him tight enough to bruise him - never wanting to let go. 

“You’re so stupid, you’re so stupid! Why would you do that to me?” 

You sobbed out, gripping both sides of his face, staring into his eyes, needing the recognition that he was right there, right in front of you. 

He stared back with glassiness - intense fear, adrenaline, and something small that told you he was thankful for you, and needed you now more than ever. 

Of course, your words were simple anger at the situation, not at Spencer himself. The terror of thinking that he was dead still pumping through your veins, causing you to shake. 

“I know.” He said quietly. “I love you.” 

His voice wrapped around the words so tenderly - it was the most sincere declaration you had ever heard from him. As if to say ‘I know how much that scared you. I know what this ordeal has done to us and I only meant it more because of how scared I am’. 

“I love you too.” The words flew from your lips so naturally it hurt. You took a moment to recover, entirely shocked by your own lips. And then, you only found the need to say it growing more inside of you. “Spencer, I love you.” 

You pulled him toward you with the grip you had on his face, and he easily met you in one of the most earth shattering kisses you had ever experienced. 

It was no longer a show, it was no longer about displaying the fake marriage for someone else’s benefit - if it had ever been about that in the first place. It was about the two of you. It was about feeling that comfort, that safety. It was about the fact that your two souls were drawn together since the day you had met. The fact that you had always felt safe with each other. You had always been the other person’s shelter from the storm. 

And you poured every ounce of those feelings into that kiss. 

You combed your fingers through Spencer’s hair, taking a harsh grip on the back of it, holding him there so he couldn’t pull away from your lips. He wrapped his arms around your waist, fisting the back of your sweater. Both of you entirely refused to come up for oxygen, not even caring who saw the epically passionate, public display of your love for each other. 

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan and Hotch exchanged a look with raised brows as it happened. You and Spencer didn’t care. You were barely perceiving the world around you as the two of you kissed. 

“You know if you’re not careful, people are actually gonna think you two are married.” Morgan said, being his usual sarcastic self. 

Rather than pulling away from Spencer’s lips to sass him back - you simply flipped Derek off over Spencer’s shoulder. 

On the ride home, JJ handed Derek five dollars. He had the over/under that the two of you would get together before the end of the year. JJ said that it wouldn’t happen for another five years, at least. Derek handed the fiver to Emily when she reminded him that the ‘fake marriage’ bit had actually been her idea. 

When Emily and JJ relayed the story to Penelope, she squealed so loudly into the phone that JJ dropped it. 

Hotch pulled you aside later and warned you that the fake rings were just cheap costume jewelry that Garcia had gotten and they would tarnish soon if you kept wearing them. He also recommended that you and Spencer put in the paperwork with HR if you were ‘serious’ about the relationship. You knew that it was him wishing the two of you his best. 

A few days later when you came into work and found the HR request for an update of relationship status sitting on your desk, already signed by Spencer, you couldn’t help but to smile.

...

A/N: This is a oneshot, so there will not be a continuation or a sequel to it. If you are going to comment, please comment about the body of work that I have written, rather than asking me to write 'more'. If you want to see more things that I have written about Spencer, feel free to check out my Criminal Minds Masterlist.

[shotmrmiller]

The cool air that sweeps over your skin once you board the train feels like a gentle splash of water on a sweltering summer day. The sudden temperature change sends a shiver down your sweat-slick back, the hair on your arms standing on end in sharp relief. You press a hand to your chest, feeling the drumming of your heart against it.

You almost hadn't made it.

Everything had gone awry from the moment your alarm went off. First, you'd snoozed the clock. Half an hour later, your eyes snapped open, the horizon that'd just started to blush with the first hint of dawn giving way to a vibrant, limpid morning blue.

Shit.

You had called a cab while you were hastily getting ready, brushing your teeth, washing your face, only for it to arrive within 5 minutes. Five.

With the honking outside, you quickly threw on the first piece of clothing you found.

As you sat in the car, deliberately ignoring the driver's heated glare through the rearview mirror, you'd patted down your crinkled dress before crossing your legs, and realized—

You've got no knickers on. Double shit.

Whatever. It'll be fine. You were taking an overnight train across the country and even got yourself a private little room to sleep in. All would be well. But you had to get there first and boarding would start in 15 minutes.

Navigating through the aimless crowd of people had been excruciating. Children weaving in and out coupled with elderly folk stopping to chat up their friends with zero regard for foot traffic. Agony.

(You're fully aware that no one is at fault here but yourself.)

Almost hadn't made it but almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

Your heartbeat's still pounding in your ears as you walk down the narrow aisle, arms burning with the weight of your luggage bag and the tote slung around your shoulder. The thought of settling into your cabin and finally taking a breather propels you forward, albeit sluggishly.

The metronomic clatter of the wheels on the tracks smothers that burning sense of urgency you've felt since you woke. Weariness seeps into your bones once your cabin door comes into view. There's no other thought in your head apart from putting your stuff away and getting off your feet as you fumble for the handle.

In your fatigued haze, you hadn't noticed someone already inside. The world, once fuzzy around the edges, sharpens to cutting clarity in your shock. He's a big man. Very big. He looks like he's been carved out of oak— broad and solid. His shoulders are wide, stretching the seams of his shirt. His thick arms are draped along the backrest of the seat. The breadth of his chest— should, probably does— defies anatomy.

He's got legs like tree trunks. And they're sprawled outward, taking up a lot, if not most of the room. There's a bag resting against your seat even though the overhead space is empty. A bulky, grey jacket lays about.

You're tired, not blind. This is definitely the cabin you paid for with your measly income. But you're scared witless at the mere thought of trying to kick him out. He'll eat you. Gnaw your bones with his molars to dust for the offense.

You tug on the ends of the knot that is lodged in your throat, hoping to get some words out, but it only seems to tighten. The man's keen eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. Heavy with a weight that presses down on your back, your shoulders. Even the air itself.

The gentle click of the sliding door shutting behind you has your heart trying to crawl out of your mouth. (Possibly your arse, too, but you're not sure of anything right now, other than you're about to burst into tears because his gaze followed the motions of you shakily hoisting your bag up higher on your shoulder.)

His voice is a deep rumble— rich and resounding. You swear you could feel the air vibrate as he spoke.

"Sit down 'fore ya hurt yourself." It startles you into action, like a starter's pistol before a swim race. Quickly rising to the tips of your toes, you put your luggage bag away, giving it a couple of smacks to push it all the way back.

You mumble out a garbled 'scuse me as you traipse past his outstretched legs, carefully stepping over them, only to brush against his knee. You flinch, he doesn't.

"Sorry." Heat blooms beneath your cheeks. Embarrassing. You shove your tote into a little corner, its humble size dwarfed by his frame. With trembling fingers, you pull the back of your—very thin, now that you think about it— dress down, trying to compose yourself, before taking a seat.

Directly in front of him.

And he's still staring. Vaguely, you wonder if he can see your fluttering pulse beneath the delicate skin of your neck.

There's a lot of people on the train. That unbearably long line you had to stand in to board it was the proof. Yet it's unnervingly silent. Not one distant tinkle of laughter. No gentle hum of murmured conversation. Clinking of spoons against coffee cups.

Just a sharp, high-pitched whistle of the wind outside the window. Even he isn't making a sound. No rustling of clothes, no shifting around. Motionless.

You nervously grab at the skirt of your dress, clammy fingers curling, fabric bunching within your tightened fist, white staining your knuckles. The hem of your dress is frayed, like your nerves at this moment.

Oh no.

You flash your eyes to the guy's face but he's no longer paying attention to you. He's now looking straight at the apex of your legs. Your very naked apex. Amusement dances across his rugged features. His ash-blonde eyebrows quirking slightly, corner of his thin-lipped mouth curling.

The room tilts slightly, a dizzying sensation that leaves you momentarily unbalanced. Mortification pricks at your nerves, gathers in the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill. An ear-grating squeak escapes past your clenched teeth as you jerkily tug down the skirt, the hem settling against your shins.

A tiny hiccup punctuates the moment.

His mud-caked boot taps the outside of your foot, demanding your attention. "Now, now. Nothin' to be ashamed of, birdy," he grunts. Then, with casual ease, he slides it in between yours, this time nudging the inside of them.

A recognizable gesture.

Open up.

(there's no getting a staff member to remove him. they're all half his size. and can he at least shut the blinds on the window????)

[weathertheraine]

Pirate AU!! Thank you @stringofturtles for watching OFMD S1 with me and re-igniting my Pirate Emotions so I had the motivation to finish this. The first sketches have been sitting in my files for months so please forgive the fact that they look different skdfjh.

More fleshed out AU details under the cut !! :D

- The kids are a little older than canon - the third years in their early 20s - but the story still starts with the second and third years as an established crew who then pick up the first years and the coaches.

- Daichi as a Captain is of course very much like he is in canon. He works very hard to take care of his crew and takes on a huge responsibility for providing for them (as well as making sure they don’t die in idiotic ways). Suga is First Mate so it’s his job to make sure DAICHI is okay and not worrying himself to death. He also has a good handle on morale/the emotional state of the crew.

- Asahi is the first line of offence when dealing with other ships. He doesn’t like actually hurting people, but he’s good at breaking ranks and barrelling through defences to get hold of whatever Karasuno needs. He was ‘off the team’ and out of commission for a little while after he lost his hand (not seeing combat while he was in recovery, and needing to build up his courage again). Noya played a huge part in helping him back onto his feet, and has been kind of protective ever since.

- Noya’s job is to make sure the ship isn’t boarded, so he very rarely leaves it.

- Ennoshita and Kiyoko work together as navigators and managing the little money the crew has. Ennoshita is the only crew member in the beginning who can kind-of read (Kiyoko can only read a little), and they work a lot with maps and planning out journeys.

- Tanaka is great at intimidating opponents. His eyepatch is totally for show - he thinks it makes him look cooler and scarier. His parrot doesn’t often co-operate with him.

- Narita and Kinoshita take care of maintenance and supplies and making sure there isn’t gunpowder anywhere there shouldn’t be, as well as things like fraying rigging and rotting boards/canons secure and the like. Of course, things like that are everyone’s responsibility, but these two consider is theirs particularly. It’s thankless work but the boat would definitely have burned down by now if not for them.

- Enter the first years!

- Kageyama is a prodigy swordsman with a huge reputation as a lethal pirate, although most people who spread those rumours don’t realise he’s as young as he is. He was marooned by his previous crew for being a controlling Captain (who should never have been captain in the first place, having only his fighting talent as the real reason).

- Hinata recently ran away from home to “become a pirate” without much of an idea what that actually entailed, and ran into Kageyama without knowing his reputation. All he knew was that this guy was incredible fighter, and he demanded that he teach him to fight! He now won’t leave him alone.

- Tsukishima ran away as a very young child in an attempt to find Akiteru, whose sailing ship was attacked and lost at sea. He fell in with pirates along with Yamaguchi (who was picked up after surviving a shipwreck), and the pair ended up sticking together as they bounced from ship to ship, ready to run whenever it seemed like tensions were getting high. They (read: tsukki) are going to need to break this habit, if they’re going to be a real part of this new crew.

- Tsukishima and Yamaguchi can’t sleep if they’re not in the same hammock. Embarrassing. The reason Yamaguchi was so tiny as a little kid is that he didn’t get enough food. Tsukishima still tries to sneak him extra (and gets in trouble with Daichi).

- Tadashi ends up as a sharpshooter, one of the few kids who’s confident using a pistol

- Hinata and Kageyama spar together all the time. It’s GOING to end in a make-out the first time Hinata successfully beats him.

- Neither of them have noticed that Tanaka’s eyepatch switches sides.

- Yachi is picked up when the crew stop in a bar in her town. She’s a better-off girl, about to be talked into an politically advantageous marriage, and desperately wants to get out of her situation. “Running away with pirates” was admittedly pretty drastic, but anything sounds like a good idea when Hinata suggests it so sincerely!!

- Ukai is a washed up older pirate, without a crew. Takeda is a very unlucky literature teacher who just happened to be on a sea voyage. They both ended up taken as hostages by the same (meaner) pirate crew, who were then stolen by the Karasuno kids. Although, it’s kind of unclear at this point whether they’re actually prisoners… They’re being treated very nicely (especially Sensei) and are in danger of getting attached…

[heartfullofleeches]

Clown Reader reminiscing on days of old enjoying the wonders of trick or treating and their yans helping quench that thirst of nostalgia-

[Clown Reader passes out candy to kids during a Halloween event hosted by the studio. They smile, watching the kids trading and enjoying their treats together.]

Clown Reader: sighs I miss when I was little enough to trick or treat- It's nice to be able to buy my own now, but it's just more fun to wonder around the neighborhood and gets to see all the spooky sights. Ah, well - at least I get to dress up everyday.

Bodyguard Yan, pulling out their phone: Hey,-

Co-star Yan, pulling up with a sack of reader's favorite candies and their phone on their ear: Already ahead of you.

-

[The murder Clown gang pulls up to a person's house pushing clown reader in a wheelbarrow full of candy]

Clown Reader: Trick or Treat!

Home Owner: Aren't you a little too old for-

[The Clown Yans slowly raise their weapons - one pointing a pistol directly at the person's forehead]

Home Owner: Just take the whole bowl

Murder Clown: And your wallet

Home Owner: and my wallet....

Murder Clown: Who wants pizza?!

Clown Reader: I do!

-

[Clown Reader knocks on someones door]

Clown Reader: Trick or Treat!

[A bloody Slasher Yan opens the door and stares down at the clown. They pick up the bowl by the door and pour the entire thing in their bag, stroking their head fondly and leaving red streaks in their hair]

Clown Reader: Thank you! Love your costume - are you and the house next door matching?

Victim: please.... help...

[Slasher Yan slams the door shut]

-

[Clown Reader shows lab monster Yan pictures from Halloween as a kid]

Clown Reader: And this year my parents let me do my makeup by myself. I was a cute kid, huh - Kev?

[The lab monster holds the pictures like the precious treasures they are - mocking the scientists outside the glass room by waving them in their direction]

Yan Scientist: Why haven't we killed that thing by now... Fans would give their life savings for just one of those pictures.

Scientist Two: Weird way to describe yourself-

[sharksnshakes]

Night Out - Tim Drake

image source: batboyblog on tumblr

When out at a dive bar with your friends, you step outside for a breath of fresh air and run into the Red Robin. For some reason, he seems... familiar?

AN; writers block is brutal and disgusting and horrible. also. i am suffering from batfamily brainrot so expect more of this (part two can be found here!)

Wordcount; 787

TW; some cursing, mentions of drinking

It's a damp spring night when you meet the Red Robin. You're out with your friends at some college dive bar on the East Side. The area's a far cry from Gotham U's campus, but with free entry and cheap drinks, it's worth the elevated risk of mugging.

"Besides," one of your friends had declared on the way to the bar, "It just means we're more likely to see Nightwing's hot ass."

You're pretty sure the dark-haired vigilante operates exclusively in Bludhaven these days, but you're not a party pooper.

The music was good, the crowd was fun, but a small room of drunk co-eds had a way of heating up quicker than Firefly's flamethrower, and so you'd retreated out the side door for a breath of fresh air. You weren't stupid; you'd taken your small can of mace with you. This was Gotham, after all.

The alleyway was blissfully empty, save for a dumpster--quite the relief, seeing as the last time you'd been here, you'd stumbled upon a couple deep in the throes of a heated make out session. Taking a breath, you leaned up against the cool bricks in the alleyway and let yourself decompress.

"There's definitely better places to hang out around here than dark alleys," a voice says from somewhere behind you.

Living in the city has taught you many things. Most importantly, how to turn off potential predators by acting downright crazier than they do.

You spin on your heel and hold the mace like it's a pistol, coming face-to-face with none other than--

"Holy shit, you're Robin," you gasp, eyes widening.

Thank god you didn't actually mace him.

"That I am," he says, warily eyeing the can in your hand.

"Like... the Red Robin," you continue. You're blinking at him, openly gaping, and it occurs to you that you should probably stop pointing the can at his eyes. You stow the makeshift weapon in your back pocket. "I'm so sorry! I thought you were a mugger or something!"

"Hey, it's fine," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "If it's any consolation, you definitely would've scared the shit out of a mugger."

You laugh, but it's mostly in disbelief. Red Robin is standing mere feet away from you, domino mask and yellow cloak and green pants and all, and you're suddenly very thankful you'd gotten dressed up to go out tonight. For a split second, you swear you see him give you a quick once over. But no, there's no way Robin's checking you out.

He glances around the alleyway for a moment, almost awkwardly, before speaking again. "...Any reason you're out here?"

"I'm out with my friends," you say, motioning to the building behind you, where the bar's logo is printed in peeling white vinyl. "Needed some air. Somehow, smoke and asthma don't make a good combination," you joke.

"Can't imagine why," he grins, and holy shit Red Robin thinks you're funny.

"You got any fun, exciting plans tonight?"

He hesitates.

"Wait, you don't have to answer. I know, top secret Batman stuff--"

"Nah, not that secret." It's dark in the alleyway so maybe you're not seeing things right, but you swear you can see a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "Just patrolling. Y'know. Keeping an eye out for muggers and mace-wielding asthmatics."

You laugh. "Sounds boring."

"Definitely could use a drink." He glances at the side door with an unreadable expression.

"Rough start to the night?"

"You could say that."

A brief silence stretches between the two of you. Traffic and the faint pounding of the bar's music fill the space, and for some reason, despite never having met Robin and likely never meeting him again, it feels... almost familiar.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one stuck at work tonight. One of my best friends, Tim, had to bail last minute since he's got an exam to study for. So, like, you're not suffering alone!" you add, thinking back to the guy you've kind of been maybe having romantic feelings for lately.

Robin chokes.

"Shit, you okay? Need me to, like, slap you on the back or something?"

"Nope," he says, voice raspy.

"You're sure?"

"Positive." He gives you an awkward thumbs-up.

"I should probably let you get back to work, then," you sigh, turning back to the side door and grasping the handle. "And I should get back in there. Don't need my friends worried about me."

When you turn back around, it's just you and the dumpster.

"Fuckin' impressive," you mutter to nobody but yourself. "See ya, Robin."

You step back inside. The door closes behind you and... fuck.

You forgot to ask for a picture.

[princessbrunette]

Foaming at the mouth for jealous controlling “Where do you think you’re going dressed like that” Rafe but something about “Wear whatever you want I can fight (and im strapped)” Rafe… 🥵

ok esp for girly reader who lives and breathes mini skirts and tiny tops (def not self serving… not at all…)

because you really expect rafe to be the first type. and to a degree, he is— if you’re going out alone that is. usually, you bow your head to it, because really — you tell yourself — he’s just concerned about your safety. there are some real creeps out there, and going out alone in a mini skirt is a sure recipe for disaster, right?

he’s bringing you to a party on the beach. you didn’t usually go partying with rafe, and he liked it that way — because that’s where he did the most business, cashing out on rich coke heads. you knew he wouldn’t be selling at a beach party, purely because anyone stupid enough to try and snort anything would end up ingesting a fuck-tonne of sand, and it’s just not the kinda complaint he’s in the mood to hear. you actually just get to hang out with him and his friends, and this excites you.

you test the waters, stepping out of your room when he waits in the living room leant against the shelf scrolling on his phone. you know it’s likely he’ll turn you right back around and send you changing due to the little pink co-ord clinging to your every curve. it’s cupping your tits and hugging your waist and leaving all but nothing to the imagination, but it’s been a while since you’ve worn something fun like that — so you try your luck anyway.

“m’ready!” you grin, sticking your arms out by your side all cute. he looks up from his phone, eyes all wide and vacant for a second, lips pouted in thought and briefly drops his eyes up and down your body.

“yeah, looks good kid.” he drawls, flipping his phone deftly between his fingers and stuffing it into his pocket. his eyes linger around your tits again before meeting your eye, walking towards you with a happy and simple smile, one that says ‘can we go now?’

your brows raise and you look down at yourself in surprise. “i’m surprised. you’re letting me wear this out?” you gaze up at him, lips twitching up. you think he’s making an active decision to be less controlling for a moment. he shrugs lazily, eyes flickering around the room as if to say ‘so?’ and with that he lifts the end of his button-up, revealing a glock tucked into his waistband.

oh.

“yeah i don’t think anyone’s gonna have the nerve to step out of line, a’ight? ‘look after my girl.” he steps closer to you, hand coming up to scratch affectionately behind your ears like you’re a dog. you don’t mind.

you stare up at him, all doe eyed and shocked. he thinks it’s adorable honestly, all scared over a little pistol. hell, you’d probably never even seen one in real life before, let alone this close.

“rafe…” you start unsurely, breathily, but he cuts you off, hand caressing your cheek, tilting his head down and raising his eyebrows.

“hey. you wear what you want with me, yeah? m’protected. strapped. it’s okay.” he enunciates, and well— you’re not really in the place to argue. you nod, still wide eyed and he gives your cheek an affectionate tap, squinting his eyes with a satisfied smile.

as imagined, rafes temper rears it’s ugly head one beer down, catching a poor boy a year or two his junior, eyes fixated on the way your ass was moving when you walked along the sand, unbeknownst to wandering eyes. of course, the boy ended up backed up against the pier with the cool end of the gun pressed into his jaw, terrified whimpers ripped from his throat.

“wanna look at my girl, huh? think i’m gonna let that shit run?” rafe is gripping the smaller boy by the collar, teeth grit, animalistic. your breath hitches, you think he may actually shoot this kid.

“rafe…” you call out urgently, not wanting to get too close.

“no! i—” the boy tries to argue, and you really feel for him, because rafe only presses the gun harder against his chin.

“no? better keep your eyes to yourself or i’m gonna be the last thing you fuckin’ see is that understood? is that understood asshole?” he grits out, eyes wet and watery from adrenaline.

“rafe! stop!” you call out, brows furrowed and tears brimming. he sighs, finally hearing you and steps back, not taking his eyes off the mortified boy infront of him. he stares until the kid grows the balls to run off, tripping and kicking up sand as he disappears to the other side of the pier where the rest of the party goers were. it’s only then he looks back at you.

“shit.” he sighs out, shaking his head, shaking himself off completely as he stares out at the moons reflection on the ocean.

you hug yourself, watching him mellow out a little. he tucks the glock back into his waistband, yanking his shirt out again to cover it.

“you’re not bringing that thing out again.” you accuse, pointing to his gun shape tucked into his pants. he blows you off, lifting a hand and walking the other way before turning back suddenly.

“i have to protect you, you understand? if i can’t bring this out with me you— you can’t bring that.” he lifts an arm, gesturing to your lower body. you stare at him in confusion before looking down. your… ass? was he talking about your ass?

“how am i supposed to leave my ass at home, rafe?” you argue, and as soon as the words leave your mouth— you can’t help but let out a giggle. you’re mad at him, yes — but the demand was funny, you couldn’t deny.

you think he’s gonna get mad, maybe wipe the smile off your face, but his sigh turns into a giggle too, looking away from you. the irritation from his face melts into something more boyish and young, his tongue sticking out between his teeth as he lets out a low chuckle. this only makes you chortle more, and he shakes his head, trying to hide his amusement as he waddles toward you on the uneven sand, holding out his arm and reaching you, bringing you beneath it into his side.

“alright, come on trouble.” he smirks, leading you back to the party. “y’still in a partying mood?”