#also a white one with a blood splatter beading bc I do want to make a cut in half gojo cosplay at some point in my life fhdjf

[nyan-bynary]

As soon as I have time I'm busting out the sowing machine and making the toji/gojo pants in like 4 colors that shit looks so nice

[charnelhouse]

Also am I crazy or was Rick giving off lowkey flirt vibes when he was shirtless in that tent laughing and chatting when the squad came to rescue him. A girl could get jealous walking into that with that kind of energy he was giving while they were out mercing dudes thinking they had to save his ass.

A/N: Rick Flag x F!Reader. I didn't intend to have smut in this and then I wrote them fucking bc I have no self control. Semi-public sex. Sex against a tree. Angst. Self-loathing (ish). PTSD vibes. Mild The Suicide Squad spoilers.

Fuck.

It rolls sharp through his head the second he sees you. Fuck for a lot of reasons.

First and foremost - why the fuck are you here in a war-ravaged danger zone that nearly shredded him?

Second - fuck Amanda Waller because she definitely had her greasy fingers in this - use Rick’s heart one more time in order to get him in line.

Third - your expression looks fucking pissed.

“What are you guys doing here?” he blurts out before you inexplicably turn heel and march out of the tent.

“We - uh - we came to rescue you?” DuBois offers and it all falls into place. He reads the situation in an instant - years of training and his ugly knowledge of Waller.

She probably scared the shit out of you - told you he was imprisoned or tortured or dead.

He’s guessing you dragged yourself through the jungle to get to him. You must have fought too - judging by the blood that had been splattered across your face.

Rick bites the inside of his mouth - anchoring himself with that tiny nudge of pain.

You had found him laughing and drinking coffee and very much alive.

“Fuck,” he growls before running after you.

***

You’ve been through shit - you’re physically hard and thoroughly guarded. A gunshot - a knife wound - a snapped bone doesn’t bother you. You shrug it off - wiping blood from your neck or brow and pressing forward. Onward. Not even a misstep.

I’ve had worse. I’ve had it really bad. Doesn’t matter, right? My past is old news, Flag.

But - you’re also fragile in other ways and Rick sometimes has to handle you like he’s handling a bomb. The button blinking red and bright and ready and usually, he can defuse it, but there are also the moments that he can’t. There are moments that you go far away - your eyes smothered with some memory or sensation from your time being one of Gotham’s broken things. He can do his best - he can cradle your face and even crush your cheeks between his hands until your features squish, but you don’t answer him. You go lights out and it’s like you’re possessed by all of your old ghosts. Your lipstick like a smear of viscera across your pretty chin and your knuckles curl into claws and you either go full haywire slaughtering whoever is unlucky enough to be in your path or you just go sit in a corner and stare out at nothing and Rick thinks that the latter is worse.

This is different though - you’re just pissed and he can guess why. You don’t like feeling things - you don’t like being concerned or frightened and you had said it yourself - days ago: the only thing that scares me is losing you.

Really?

Don’t fucking smile like that. It’s already embarrassing enough.

“Baby,” he calls after you. “Hey - C’mon. Just stop.”

You’re on one though and you keep moving. Your boots are squelching through sodden mud. Your shoulders are beaded in sweat and marred by scrapes. Your hips swinging in those leather pants that are absolutely not warfare appropriate, but it’s not like he can tell you off because they just make him want to fuck the shit out of you.

He finally snatches your wrist, whirling you around and hauling you right up against the grey-white trunk of a palm. Your chest is heaving - your eyes shiny as you glare up at him. He’s got you pinned - his thigh cocked between yours and he’s still shirtless and - well there’s really one particular way he can deal with your anger.

“Flag,” you hiss - thick with frustration and emotion. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Flag.”

He pushes his leg into you - bringing his thigh up against that hot space where your cunt lies behind your pants. He drops his head - nosing at your cheek - inhaling the salty catch of your sweat. Sometimes this works - sometimes shoving affection at you makes you go all lax and loose because you don’t know how to deal with it. You’ve known nothing about real intimacy - real touch or love and yeah - he’ll admit it - he loves you - he is in love with your crazy ass head and your bizarre behavior and your ability to snap a guy’s neck with your bare hands.

There had been June, but that had been different. A strange sense of protectiveness that he had thought meant more than it did and really he hadn’t understood the real thing. He hadn’t understood until Waller had forced you on his team - kicking and screaming and so fucking out of it and it had taken a day for him to realize that he wanted you - a week to realize that it went beyond that.

God - he was fucking easy. He was so easy and he was so willing to care for you when it counted.

I'm so fucked up, Rick. I've - I've done really really bad things.

I know.

Don't waste your time.

It's my decision.

It's not going to be nice - easy. None of that. My head is on all twisted. I don’t…I’m not good.

You're worth it.

He lifts his thigh higher - grinding up just a bit - and something soft and ragged spills out of you - your fingers fly to his shoulders - thumbs digging into his flesh. He presses his mouth to your jaw before he slides it gently over yours - his tongue teasing the seam of your lips.

“Came to rescue me, huh?”

You flinch. Shit. Wrong move.

You go cold and turn your face away from him. “Don’t do that,” he coaxes. “Please.”

“I thought you were dead,” you exhale - blinking rapidly as you sniff a few times. Fuck if you start crying he’ll be done.

“Well - I’m not.”

“Obviously.”

He grips your chin and forces your gaze back to his. “What’s wrong?”

He knows though. He knows you better than you know yourself.

“I don’t like - I didn’t like it,” Your body shudders and he holds you tighter to him. “Waller said you were - you were being tortured or something - maybe dead - and I couldn’t - fuck - it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” You scrub a hand over your face - smearing lipstick and dried blood and fallen eyeliner. A near-garish clown mask - a blurred-edged replica of Harley. “Then I saw you and you were safe and I realized how scared I was and how much it fucking sucks to feel that, but how you were also okay and - I don’t know - it was just a lot.”

“I’m still grateful you came.” He wouldn’t bring up the murdered rebels. He could place that shit on Peacemaker.

He’s also not entirely sure you’d care.

You weren’t evil, but you also weren’t all that kind or empathetic. If someone - namely Waller or even himself - tells you to shoot someone, you do it. Not a question. Just orders.

You relax slightly. “I’m trying, Flag. I’m really trying to - to be this person for you and it’s really shitty sometimes.”

You seem lost - almost child-like as your forehead wrinkles. It’s endearing - you navigating these emotions - these alien feelings. He frowns, before palming your cheek.

“You don’t have to. I don’t need you to be anything for me. I fell for you, yeah? The girl who beheaded that mobster with dental floss.”

Your mouth quirks.

“She’s not great at…” You gesture between them. “…this.”

“What’s this?”

You roll your eyes. “This relationship.”

“We’re in a relationship?”

Your lips part - your expression twisting into something utterly offended. You smack him hard across the chest and he tries to ignore the fact that it makes his cock twitch.

“I’m kidding,” he laughs.

“Jerk,” you reply, but you’ve gone sweeter - less shadowed and less withered with the tangle of your old hurts.

There’s silence. The muddled rustle of foliage- the salt-tang of the ocean from the west - the breeze that slices through all the dense humidity. He stares at you and you meet it in kind. It’s packed with unsaid things. Intense. Too much. He’s so fucked.

You glance down between them - suddenly aware of their positioning. You roll your hips against his pelvis and he jerks - sliding his hands to your ass. “We could...” you trail off.

“We could...,” he parrots because he’s irresponsible and he’s forgotten himself and he really doesn’t give a shit about Waller and her goals. He could take ten minutes - fifteen. It gets all fuzzy when it comes to you.

“Real fast,” you tease as he flicks the button on those ridiculously tight pants. He turns you around - burying you into the tree trunk - his jaw grazing your temple as he slips his fingers past your underwear and curls them inside you.

Wet. Soaked. Fever-hot.

Your walls clench around his knuckles and he groans. He’s using his other hand to stroke himself off - guiding his cock beneath your ass as he pushes and presses and dips his hips in order to sink inside the perfect ache of your pussy. You reach behind you to fist at his hair and it’s all a bit awkward as he tries to curve himself around you due to his height. He bites your throat and makes you writhe and shudder and he traces the seam of your sex before thumbing at your clit and it’s easy - it’s quick and he’s good at fucking you because it’s all he ever thinks about - strategizes and dreams of. He’d been thinking about it right before they dropped from the helicopter to the shore - can’t wait to be back - slipping my tongue into her - making her cry with pleasure and shake with torn relief and flip her around and drive himself deep until all she knows is him and then the ocean had slammed up into his face and the world had burst into flames but still - in the back of his head - he’d thought about it.

“Rick,” you gasp as his hips snap against the curve of your ass - as his cock punches up against the most nerve-threaded patch of tissue inside your cunt. His chest is flush to your back and his nipples graze across the leather of your top and you claw at his scalp and spasm around him as he thrusts into you over and over again. “Fuck,” you sob as he plucks your clit roughly enough that it makes you cum - pussy fully constricting around his length and shoving him right off his own climb, forcing him to fill you up with threads of built-up spend.

You whimper again - shaking like something vulnerable and meek as pleasure douses your system. Less guarded. Soft. Your grip on him is desperate.

He could say a lot of things - he could tell you he loves you.

He doesn’t. He just wraps his arms around your waist as you rest your cheek against the bark of the palm tree. He peppers kisses to your shoulder - nuzzling into your warm skin - covering the bruises and scrapes you'd taken for him. The others will come soon - looking for them. Rick wishes it could wait.

[retroreaderr]

Silver Lights [Sherlock/Reader]

Okay so this was reaaaaally heavily inspired by Hotline Miami bc I forgot how much I loved that game. I love Jacket’s character so much, I thought it’d be interesting for reader to have a similar one. So here, have a murderous Mute!Reader. ~ 🕷️💋

‘Need you down at the station ASAP. -GL’ ‘I thought I told you already, if he has a purple mop, you can arrest him. Check the underwear drawer, the gun’s in there. -SH’ ‘We already took care of that. New case, very peculiar circumstances. Need you here for help. Please come. -GL’ ‘Be there in twenty. -SH’

Sherlock grabbed his coat, throwing it on as he hurried out of the flat and into the street below, where he eagerly hailed a taxi. New cases were always amusing. Arriving at Scotland Yard, he made his way to Lestrade’s office, where the older man sat waiting, sifting through various objects sprawled across his desk.

“New case?”

Lestrade jumped at Sherlock’s voice, “Yes. Multiple homicides. Horribly bloody. Might as well call it a massacre.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You should’ve seen it. The newer guys, they won’t sleep for a week, at least.”

“That bad?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade picked up one of the objects - a Walkman - and inspected the outside before opening it and pulling out a cassette. He noted the piece of Scotch tape at the top with chicken-scratch writing scrawled across it. He took a moment to read it.

“Richard’s Mix?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and Lestrade looked up at him before tossing over the small plastic object. The detective eagerly examined it closely, first looking at the handwriting, “Right handed. Possibly done in a hurry, or maybe he was just nervous,” and then at it as a whole, “Can’t be more than a few years old.”

He approached the desk where the Walkman sat and set the tape down, instead picking up the player, “Pristine condition,” he glanced at the other objects: a set of earbuds, a bloodied pocketknife, a few pieces of children’s bubblegum, and a balled up piece of paper - which upon further inspection had an address hastily scribbled onto it with neon ink and in the same handwriting that he had seen on the cassette tape - along with a few other normal looking-belongings.

“Seems like someone wants to go retro.”

“What?”

Sherlock gestured to the objects on the desk, “It all just screams America in the eighties, doesn’t it?”

He then looked back towards Lestrade, “This is all evidence?”

“Personal belongings confiscated off of her at the scene of the crime.”

“Her?”

“Yes. That’s why I called you down here - I need you to interrogate a suspect for me.”

“You said this was a mass murder?”

Lestrade nodded, “At least twenty dead.”

“And your suspect is a single person?”

“Found her sitting in her car outside the scene. She seemed,” he struggled for the right word, “Lost…She’s in the interview room now, c’mon.”

They started to make their way down the hall.

“Well if she’s already being handled, why are you wasting my time?”

“She’s been there six hours.”

“And?”

“And she hasn’t said a word.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, “Interesting.”

“Figured you’d like it,” Lestrade stopped in front of a metal door.

“If you can get anything out of her it would help us a lot.”

Sherlock met Lestrade’s eyes one last time with a questioning look before pulling open the door and entering the dimly-lit room.

“Evening,” his voice echoed slightly against the bare walls. He took a seat in the empty chair and folded his hands.

He took a closer look at you - the sleeves of your letterman jacket were pulled back to your elbows revealing your arms which, upon closer inspection, were caked in deep red splatters and the occasional brown spot of long-dried blood. The rest of your coat wasn’t in a much better condition, the lighter areas of beige were dirtied and just as soaked in gore as your arms, and the darker brown areas were dotted with specks of grime. One of your legs jutted out from under the table in a very relaxed way, though the jeans you wore were torn, exposing the skin they so tightly clung to. The canvas sneakers you adorned were in poor condition, yellowed and muddy from frequent overuse and rare cleaning. The most jarring part about you, he figured, was how nonchalantly you sat, tapping your fingers in a steady beat against the table.

“Seems like you had quite the affray.”

You raised your head to acknowledge his presence for the first time. Dark circles surrounded your eyes, and a bead of crimson dripped from your nose. It seemed the blood was your own, finally. Various small cuts and bruises littered your exposed skin, though most were at least healing - Sherlock noted this mentally, ‘Frequently fights. Most likely not her first time killing.’

Your steady breathing was the only audible noise for what seemed like hours. The dark haired man quietly sat across from you, simply observing your person.

You said nothing.

“What is your name?”

You blinked, but still remained silent.

“How many did you kill tonight?”

You stared at him, expression unchanging.

“Cat got your tongue?”

You smirked, giving Sherlock a dark look. Your whole demeanor was intimidating to most, however this man seemed interested - excited, even.

“Did someone put you up to it?” Your eyes darted down to your lap, and Sherlock took this as a confession. You didn’t look back up, and he soon realized you were staring at something. He slowly got up and rounded the table, seeing a flash of white in your lap. His brows furrowed together.

He pulled the rubber mask from you, taking time to look at it. It was a cheap looking-thing, fashioned to look like a rooster, though its unsettling features made it look straight​ out of a horror movie.

“Yours, I’m guessing?”

You met his eyes, tilting your head slightly, gaze still emotionless. He placed the mask down on the table near your cuffed hands before returning to his seat.

“Why did you kill them?”

You tilted your head the other way, a signal of confusion, though your expression was unchanging.

“You mean you didn’t kill them? Is that what you’re saying?”

You used what little mobility your hands possessed to push the mask towards him. He picked it up again, looking at it, then towards you. He held it up to his face, seemingly as if it was a puppet. He thought back to your belongings Lestrade had impounded.

“Is this Richard?” he asked, still staring at the mask. He took your silence and stillness as a yes.

“Richard did it, then?”

You leaned back in your chair, returning to a comfortable position.

Alright, he’d play your little game.

“Who made Richard do it?” his voice was quiet and curious. He finally set down the disguise.

“Was someone paying him?” You pulled your chair closer to the table and leaned in towards the consulting detective.

“Who was it? Who’s paying you?” his gaze hardened into a glare.

You sat completely still.

“You don’t know who it is, do you?”

You blinked.

“This wasn’t your first time. Someone’s been paying you to kill. You don’t know who. You don’t question it, do you?” He had given up on trying to obtain any sort of speech from you, “You just want the money. How do you know where to go? How do you know who to kill?” he turned his head away as he asked the last two, moreso asking himself than questioning you.

“You’ve never met him, the one paying you,” he shook his head slightly, “No, never met anyone in person. They’re slipping your checks under the door and just telling you where to go -” he thought of your writing on the balled up paper - “You take down the information yourself. You don’t meet face to face. Why would you need to write it down? They’re calling you, aren’t they?”

He got up and exited the room, running back to Lestrade’s office.

“Did she have a mobile on her?”

He sifted through the objects on the desk before pulling out a small black burner phone. Smirking to himself, he returned to the interview room.

He flipped the phone open and scrolled through the recent calls - there were only a few, you had recently cleared them, for obvious reasons. The few that were left were from unknown numbers - all blocked IDs. It was no problem - he dialed voicemail.

“Please enter your passcode.”

Sherlock sighed, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Either require low effort on both our parts. You can choose.”

Sherlock looked up at you, searching for any sort of answer.

After receiving none, he shrugged, “Hard way, then? Poor thing about these old phones is that they’re so terribly easy to get into.” He tapped a few buttons and you could only sit and listen as he attempted to reset your code.

He scrolled through your voice messages - there were about twelve in total.

“You’d delete your call history but not the real evidence? Silly, silly girl,” he shook his head as he hit play on the newest one before turning the volume as high as he could and setting the phone on the table. He then leaned back and crossed his arms triumphantly.

A deep distorted voice rang out, “Hello, this is ‘Thomas’ from the methadone clinic. We’ve scheduled a short meeting for you tonight. We’re at 105 Northwest 184th Street. And don’t worry…We know discretion is of importance to our clients.” There was the sound of a phone hitting the receiver, and the message ended. Silence returned to the room.

“These place you at the scene of not only this crime but also at least eleven other recent murders. This,” he held up the phone, “Was your worst mistake. But then again, we all make mistakes, don’t we?”

You looked up towards the man, raising your eyebrows. Your lifeless expression was starting to irk him, and he almost stopped himself from clearing the mailbox out. But he didn’t.

Why the hell was he helping you?

“Do you like hurting other people?”

You stared at him, and he stared back for what seemed like hours.

He then smiled, “Of course you don’t. That’s why you get 'Richard’ to do it, isn’t it?”

Another bout of silence.

“Your speechlessness won’t get you very far in court.” With that he got up and exited the room, leaving you alone with the mask and phone.

A few minutes passed there was a slight buzzing, and the screen of the phone lit up. You managed to stretch far enough to grab it.

1 New Message.

You hit the send button, opening it.

'I like you. Let’s get coffee. -SH’

Sherlock passed Lestrade on his way out.

“Wait, wait! Sherlock!”

He stopped in his tracks and sighed, “Yes, George?”

“It’s Greg.”

“Whatever.”

“Did you get anything out of her? Did she confess?”

“It wasn’t her,” Sherlock lied.

“What do you mean, ‘it wasn’t her?’ We found her at the scene covered in blood! And in a -”

“She was caught in the crossfire but didn’t die. It was pure luck. She tried to escape, but you showed up before she could get to safety. You said you found her in a dazed state, did you not?”

“Well yes, but -”

“She was in shock. She refuses to speak because she’s frightened.”

“Didn’t seem very scared when I went in there earlier.”

“Some people learn to hide their fears better than others. Now are you going to stand here and argue with me or are you going to take my advice and shut up like you always do?”

“Explain the mask. Then you can go.”

“Killer probably planted it on her before he left in a rather poor attempt to frame her. Probably panicked, and threw it onto her while she was still out of it when he heard the cops coming. Good day, Grant,” he brushed past the chief and exited the building.

Lestrade wasn’t able to see Sherlock’s devilish smile as he walked away, he was too busy trying to fathom what Sherlock had just said.

He always was very good at lying.