#hip holster for the gun

[spaces0ngs]

THINGS IRIS ALWAYS CARRIES WITH THEM:

their modified revolver ( bigger barrel, specially fashioned grip )

cigarettes

alcohol flask

aya's gun ( similar to iris' but with a closed, much larger cylinder )

an old photograph of them and the trio ( faded at the edges, in a pocket sewn close to their breast, iris is in the middle with the girls hugging them while tommy stands behind with arms around all their shoulders )

6' strap

spare change of clothes ( usually a flannel )

loose change

gauze and bandages ( they always run out )

guilt

[killaura]

we had prop guns on set today and I can’t even lie the shoulder holster is such a hot vibe

[beansnpeets]

Did I not post this morning about our run? I took both the dogs this morning and Oscar is such a good puller. I normally just take Sprocket because if there is a loose dog she's not gonna flip shit like he will. Figured I'd try taking them both and they had such a good time. Oscar loves to pull. Little rez dog really was made for it. Very excited to try with skis next year.

[historyofguns]

In his review for The Armory Life, Dr. Will Dabbs evaluates two holsters from 1791 Gunleather: the M1916 G.I. Hip Holster and the M3 Tanker Holster. Both holsters, made from premium American steerhide, are praised for their craftsmanship and durability, surpassing the quality of original G.I. issued gear. Dabbs shares a personal anecdote about his wife's grandfather, a World War II veteran, who fashioned a Plexiglas grip from a German plane and carried his M1911 in a leather M3 Tanker holster throughout the war. Dabbs compares modern Kydex holsters to the more artisanal approach of 1791 Gunleather, underscoring the emotional and historical significance of leather holsters. Both reviewed holsters are designed to fit full-size 5" 1911 pistols and are available for $99.99 each through the Springfield Armory webstore.

[orangetintedglasses]

... s-stupid... heart, doing weird flippy things in his chest because Wolfwood smiled at him like that sTOP IT, HE'S STILL INJURED. HE IS COVERED IN HIS OWN BLOOD--

Aside from the serum being... well, cold, it worked the same as what Wolfwood was used to. It wasn't faster, or slower, or full of toxins... the steam that would sear the wounds closed smelled the exact same as well, filling the room with a chemically sweet scent that made Vash wrinkle his nose. He was a little curious about it, too, though... he'd never seen those things in refrigeration before...

One of the computers blinked awake in his peripheral vision; it seemed to have an answer for them in the form of a security alert. Vash approached the computer and squinted at the message, mouth twisted in a bit of a curious line. The message was written in aggressive red and white text... it was even bolded. Scary.

WARNING: (M)SERUM storage breach. Please check (M)SERUM storage.

But it was gone nearly as quick as it came-- in the time that Vash needed to read it out loud --and replaced with a familiar pop up.

> Ignore that! > No one's authorized to take those ones technically but you're fine!

... Vash returned with one word, his fingers almost hesitantly sliding over the keys.

< Why?

> They're just M reserve! > But we don't have the tech to reproduce it here, so feel free to take it! > You can take all of it if you want, there should be 20? > 19 I guess now!

"These fuckers need to be refrigerated?!"

Wolfwood spots the vials immediately when the door shuts and huffs with an almost exasperated tone. If they need to be refrigerated, they picked the wrong guy to keep the damn things strapped to. He's a goddamn furnace.

Still clutching his bleeding side, he approaches the fridge with curiosity. This is an armory... but there's a chance that there's something weird about these vials compared to his own. Why would they have these here? Were they prototypes? Are there test subjects here? Are these more advanced than his? Are they worse?

Well, there's only one way to find out.

With a reassuring glance back towards Vash, he gives him a smile before turning to the fridge, opening it, snatching one of the vials from the full shelf, and cracking it open with his teeth to drink the healing serum within.

[frownyalfred]

a detail I think fic writers overlook sometimes: when you put weight (a belt, a gun holster, a sword, etc) on the hips, especially lopsided weight, it completely changes the way someone walks and even shifts their center of gravity.

that’s a long way of saying, do you think Bruce’s belt helps him with his secret identity? because he’s walking around with like 20 extra pounds of equipment as Batman, so Bruce Wayne, in contrast, walks lighter and with more sway in his hips?

does Jason have to readjust his stance walking around as a civilian because he’s unconsciously trying to accommodate for a holstered gun on one thigh? or holsters on both hips?

[bi-writes]

Could you do one of Simon forgetting to bring his lunch and so his wife brings it except she turns up in a cute sundress??

mail-order bride (18+)

"simon...simon riley?" you ask.

the officer raises a brow, looking down at your ID and then back at your face. he frowns a little, scratching the back of his neck.

"he's a lieutenant," you add, biting your lip. "uhm...and he works with...with john."

"john?"

you suck in a shaky breath, biting your lip nervously.

"captain john price?"

the officer just glares at you a little before picking up his radio.

"yes, ma'am. wait here."

he turns his back to you, walking a little ways away, and you hear him speak into the radio lowly.

"...got a civilian here asking for lieutenant riley..."

"...negative, sir..."

"...oh. affirmative, sir. right away."

the officer comes back, giving you your ID back. he looks sheepish now all of the sudden, and he smiles at you, which unnerves you almost.

"u-uh, so sorry ma'am. you can park near the main office, right that way," he points to a building far to the left, "i'll have someone come meet you there to take you inside. again, apologies...we're going to put you on a list, mrs. riley."

you frown a little, shrugging. you're not upset. it's a miltiary base, for christ's sake, and you've never been here; of course they would be apprehensive about letting you in. but the private looks terrified out of his mind, so you just smile a little and make your way towards the parking spot he pointed out.

when you get out of the car, you push the door closed with your hip, picking up the bag in the passenger seat. there's a woman standing by the door, smiling and waving at you. she looks very smart, in a nice pantsuit. you smooth your dress down, smiling back at her, and you swing your purse over your shoulder before making your way to her.

"hello, mrs. riley. the lieutenant's wife, i hear?" she asks. you nod and shake her hand.

"y-yes...he...he said he was just doing administrative stuff today, but he forgot some things so...i just wanted to do something nice--"

"right!" she nods her head towards the door. "i can escort you to his office. uhm...i believe he's debriefing with captain price this afternoon, but i'm sure he can make some time." she winks at you when she says that, and you bite back a shy smile.

she takes a seat at her desk, picking up the phone. she yaps for a few minutes, and you take a seat in an empty chair, smoothing your skirt out. your wearing one of simon's favorites, the cherry-printed mini dress he loves so much, but you realize maybe he might not be the only one. there's a myriad of privates and soldiers that walk past you, and you hear some whistles by some of the bolder ones. you suddenly feel very self conscious, tucking your legs underneath yourself. you're wearing white strapped wedges, your hair styled nicely with a bow to match the dress, but now you feel silly, stupid.

why would you go to a military base dressed like a fucking pin-up girl?

"wot are you doin' 'ere?" a rough voice demands.

mmm. that's why.

you look up from your chair, smiling wide when you see him. simon stands with his arms crossed over his tact vest, tilting his head to the side as he glares at you from under his skull mask. you've never seen him strapped before, though. he's got a gun tucked into his thigh holster.

"h-hi," you pick up the basket next to you, standing up, and when you come close, simon is rough, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you near him with a short growl.

"oi," he snaps, but you just flutter your lashes at his harsh voice, smiling bigger. "can't fuckin' come 'ere lookin' so pretty."

you giggle, and even though you're wearing heels, you still find yourself standing on your toes as you try to get close to him.

"you forgot what i packed for you, simon. how could you forget?" you pout a little. he sighs deeply, smoothing his gloved hand down your back before nodding his head.

"c'mon. can't 'ave ya out here. fuckin' muppets starin' at my wife."

he turns and immediately starts walking. he's entirely too fast, and you skip in your wedges practically to try and keep up with him. when he notices, he slows his pace, and you grip the basket better in your hand before reaching for his with the other.

your hands intertwine, and you look around as you walk, reading the plaques on the wall, the shiny medals, waving at johnny when you see him holding a bag of crisps upside over his open mouth.

when simon shuts the door behind you in a dark office, you set the basket down on the desk, pushing back the kitchen towel fabric.

"okay, so i brought those muffins you like from that little shop. they had blueberry this morning, oh my gosh, simon, they also started putting out these little scones that--oh!" you gasp as he grabs you from the fat of your hips, a big flat palm over the base of your spine as he pushes you flat onto your stomach onto the desk. "simon!"

simon sucks on his teeth as he flips up your skirt, letting out a low whistle as he palms your ass, spreading the fat of it so he peek at the seam of the white lace you're wearing. you lay your palms against the desk and whimper, not used to simon being so rough, so upfront, so bold.

"can't just come here all dressed up, baby," simon grunts, shaking his head. "and not expect me to take wot i need...been surrounded by nothing but wankers all fuckin' day..."

you relax a little, giggling.

"simon," you sigh, your eyes closing as you push your hips back into his hands. "i missed you so much..."

"tha' why y'came down 'ere, luvvie?" he asks, smirking under the mask. "ya missed me? missed y'r husband? what'd ya miss, baby? tell me."

you arch your back a little, bowing it, and you laugh when he gives your ass a firm grab before picking you up and spinning you around, caging you against the desk. you smile up at him, dazed, a little dizzy, and he winks at you, eye-black dark and deadly around those killer brown eyes. he's so big, so hot, and you're suddenly very aware of how big simon looks in all his gear.

"i don't know," you say softly. "it's so cold in bed at night..."

simon snorts, "tha' right? 's cold? the lil' shits don't keep ya warm?"

"our girls like to sleep on your pillow, i think they miss you, too."

"fuckin' lil' bastards," simon chuckles, and you sigh, sliding your hands up his vest and tugging him just a little closer. your spread your knees to let him between them, and he reaches down and grips your thighs, hiking them up around his hips as he sits you onto the edge of the desk. "fuck, you're so fucking pretty..."

you tilt your head back for him.

"i miss eating with you. it's so quiet when you're not around."

"mmm. i bet, luv."

"and i miss you when i'm alone," you whisper. "i miss you when it's just me..."

simon narrow his eyes, "tell me, swee'eart."

you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down towards you. you kiss him over the mask, tasting sand and ash, licking over his lips through the cotton. it's lewd, disgusting, but he groans under the fabric.

"when, simon? when?" you ask, and he hums lowly.

"when? 'ow about right now?"

"no way, you're so gross, simon," you giggle. "our first time is not going to be on a desk in some dingy office where you work--"

you seize when he cups you between the thighs, big gloved hand palming your cunt through your lace panties. you arch your back and gasp, gripping his biceps tight as you lean into his touch.

"don't need t'make it our first time," simon tilts his head to the side. "can still make it real fuckin' nice, baby."

"oh, now you wanna touch me?" you suck in a shaky breath. "just because some of your men wanna look up my skirt?"

"oh, for tha', i'll make ya scream my bloody name, for oll of them ta hear," he growls, and you smile wide up at him.

"guess they need to learn i'm a lieutenant's wife," you giggle, and simon whistles low, tugging your panties to the side, and you whimper when you he prods at your entrance with two big gloved fingers.

"ahhhh..." simon hisses. "ya like tha' title, tha' it, baby? yeah...yeah you like tha'..."

"i like it," you whine, and when he meets your watery eyes, he plunges those big fingers deep, thumbing at your clit. your mouth falls open, your nails digging into his sleeves, and you suddenly wish you had asked him to take you to get your nails done so you could really claw it. "i like it..."

"could make these boys lick the fuckin' ground ya walk on," he mutters, and you whine when a particular rough thrust of his hand squelches between your thighs. "they'd do anythin' to please me, baby...even johnny would chew your bloody food for ya if i asked him to--"

you reach down and grip his wrist, your thighs shaking as you jolt. it feels so good, your entire body is on fire. his fingers are petting a nice little spot inside of you, stroking it as he pumps his hand nice and steady inside of you. his thumb is working you in gooey circles, flicking at your clit and putting taut the little string in your lower belly. your whole brain feels like it's fizzling, your blood rushing, and you stick out your tongue, licking over his masked jaw as you start to feel like you're gonna pass out from the wet slick, slick, slick sounding from your wet cunt.

"simon--simon--" you pant, and he groans, nodding his head.

"so pretty, baby," simon breathes. "so fuckin' tight, gonna 'ave to work ya open before i give ya my cock, lovey..."

"it's so big," you mumble, and simon coos, nodding his head.

"i know, baby, i know, 's big, real big...but you can take it, remember?" he laughs. "you can take it woteva i give you..."

you nod.

"i can take it--i can take it--!"

your vision blurs. there's tears coming down your face, sweat lining your forehead, your back, but you can't wipe the giggly, lazy smile off your face. simon cups the back of your head with his free hand, sitting you up, and when he pulls his fingers out from between your legs, his gloves are stuck to his hand practically, completely soaked through.

"y'r so pretty when y'cum," he murmurs, and you stick out your tongue for him. he gets the message, shoving his mask up just enough, and he bends to kiss you warm and wet.

"well then," you meet his eyes, all languid, all relaxed, a devious little grin on your sweet face. "why don't you give me another then?"

simon grins, all teeth.

"woteva ya want."

[shotmrmiller]

simon who can afford a better flat than the budget friendly flat he lives in but won't move. johnny doesn't understand. he wants to blame it on simon being the enigmatic, intentionally perplexing man he tends to be but he has a flat.

he doesn't have to. he's got no significant other, no kids (that he knows of, god only knows if simon's got a bairn somewhere. it makes him heated thinking about it. he's it's uncle, damn it.) why does he rent here when living in base is free?

the question answers itself when he's over one evening, empty beer bottles on the table, amber glass reflecting the warm glow of the lone lamp overhead. the television is on, volume turned down, blending with the other sounds of the night— the distant barking of dogs, the quiet hum of simon's fridge, the occasional car passing by outside.

the conversation had died down already, not like they don't spend almost every waking breath with each other at work and they'd been sitting in a comfortable silence when there was a sudden, sharp knock at simon's door.

it startles johnny, reaction instinctive as he reaches for his hip, hand curling around the grip of his holstered gun but simon seems relaxed. he pins him with a look and mutters, "s'alrigh'."

what does he mean it's alright? it's 'witchin' hour'' as his mam calls it, who could possible be at his door? he cranes his neck to look and—

it's you, standing up here with a flour-dusted apron, small hands holding a warm pastry, the steam twisting and curling off of it. you're exude homely charm, soft face glowing from the corridor's light (or maybe it's at the sight of seeing simon, who knows?) he can smell it in the air, sweet, inviting.

what johnny finds interesting enough to send a quick text to kyle is how simon is looking at you. as if you're handing him more than just a custard tart, but also a little piece of heaven, a fragment of a dream he hopes to have one day.

"'m sorry, simon. i wasn't aware you had any company. i just really needed to stress bake or i would've gone off the deep end and end up in prison."

violent little bonnie. he can see the appeal.

simon cups his hands over yours (he definitely did it as an excuse to touch you) as he takes the treat. if you make food to unwind and give it to your neighbors, johnny oughta move in next door too. he'll never turn down free food.

"don't worry about it." johnny's eyebrows shoot to his hairline at the softness in his tone, bottle halfway to his lips.

clearly more than a passing fancy.

"i'll just uhm, if you're friend wants some too—" but simon gently interrupts you before he can ask for some of that sweet comfort too.

"he's not hungry."

cruel, cruel bastard. he'll remember this day, jot it down in his calendar. when he gets a girl of his own, he'll be sure to do the same.

johnny wonders if you've got a crick in your neck from looking up at simon as you speak hushed words, meant only for him. can he get at least a nibble of that tart?

you shoot johnny a shy ㅤsmile before turning around and simon closes the door, turning back to the warming beers, golden tart in hand.

even the plate it's on is cute.

"ah can see the hearts in yer eyes, lt."

johnny can practically hear the air parting as simon's fist cuts through it, aimed at his head. he avoids it with practiced ease. "ooh, touchy. ah'll leave ye be if i get a bite o' tha'."

he doesn't gets not even a crumb because simon is selfish.

(simon moved here purposefully because he knows you live here and can't be at peace without knowing where you are at all times. there's a tag inside your favorite pair of shoes you left out in the hall once to dry after a hard downpour. the bakery you work at is down the street, if he looks out the south facing window, he can see you going in and leaving work. he likes to let himself in your home and smell your cushions. took one of your shirts too but at least made sure it wasn't one of your faves. he has to wash it every other day)

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. I

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

vol II

warnings: slow burn, mentions of attempted sa for reader, depictions of blood and injury, mentions of standard gotham violence

Dear fuck, he’s as heavy as he looks.

You use all of your weight to pull him backwards towards the couch, almost giving up when you realized you’d have to lift him up off the ground to actually get on it.

Getting him through the window was enough of a hassle, challenging the difficulty of the decision to bring him in here at all. 

Thankfully you don’t have to think too hard on it because you feel his body stiffen up suddenly. He jolts upright, though clearly pained to do so, hand flying to the gun holster on his side.

You take a step back, hands out in front of you. “Hey, it’s alright.”

“Who are you?” His voice is interrogative. 

You put your hands down, “You’re the one who passed out on my balcony, I think if anyone gets to ask that question it’s me.”

He stares at you, white lenses bearing into your soul.

Okay, yeah. You tell him your name. He doesn’t move. “You just looked like you needed some help..”

His posture loosens a bit, and his hand finally leaves the holster.

He glances down at his abdomen, a sizable tear in his suit and a nearly alarming amount of blood. “You got any bandages?”

“Uh, I—yeah, yeah, I do.” You dart down the hall into the bathroom, shuffling through your first aid kid. You toss a few wraps into your arms, along with some antiseptic spray you suspect he’ll need. You grab your hand towel and get it wet under warm water. 

When you return, he’s moved himself onto the sofa, lifting his shirt up to assess the damage. You round the couch, seeing more blood than you’d have hoped for.

“Can I?” You ask, motioning to his injury. 

He looks up at you for a long moment. He nods.

You kneel down in front of him and replace his hand in lifting up the shirt. It’s a cut, it doesn’t look terribly deep, but still not shallow enough that he could just leave it.

You take the rag and dab it around the wound, trying to clean up the blood as much as possible without making contact with it.

He’s very still as you work, and you get the strong impression he’s watching you carefully.

You grab the antiseptic spray, shaking it. “This’ll sting.”

He grunts.

You apply the antiseptic thoroughly and he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t move his gaze from you for a second.

You unwrap one of the bandages and place it on firmly, making sure there’s no bleedthrough.

And not that you particularly want to be thinking about this right now, but the man is noticeably ripped. Stacked like a house of cards.

You rip away your gaze and stand up, hands on your hips, taking a deep breath. You look at him—at his helmet.

You don’t know how you can tell, but he’s studying you. Trying to get a read on you, maybe. Regardless, you’re eager to escape the gaze.

You shovel the remainder of your supplies back into your arms and bring them back to the bathroom, calling out, “I didn’t take off your helmet, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

There’s a short beat. 

“Do I seem like someone that worries often?” 

You peek your head out of the bathroom door. 

You look at him. “You seem like someone that doesn’t worry enough.”

He snorts. “You’re not far off.”

You make your way back once you’re done, looking at the disregarded meal you’d been interrupted from. “I have pasta if you…eat.”

“I do.”

“I can go in the other room if you—”

He clicks the lock on his helmet, taking it off. He’s left with a second mask underneath, covering his eyes and nose. His dark hair sticks up from the helmet, a white streak poking out in the front. He looks younger than you would’ve expected. Cuter, if his jaw is anything to go by.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Okay then.

You grab a second plate out of the cabinet and scoop on the rest of the pasta from the pan.

You hand him the plate, avoiding standing too close. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

You turn back around as casually as possible after hearing the name, wanting to avoid letting your face give anything away.

This guy kills people, right?

You sit down in the armchair across from the couch, spooling the pasta on and off the fork. He doesn’t show the same hesitation in dining away that you do—you guess fighting crime would require some calorie exchange.

“You a nurse?” He asks after a few minutes. 

The question takes you by surprise. You hadn’t taken him as a small talk kind of person. “Huh? Oh, no, I’ve just taken a few first aid courses and stuff.”

He gives a short hum, thoughtful.

“What?”

“You’re good.” Hardly.

“I didn’t really do anything.”

“You did enough.” He says, not leaving much room for argument.

He stands up at once, walking past you to the kitchen. Your gaze follows him silently. He puts his empty plate in the sink and returns to the edge of the living room.

He looks at you once more and pops his helmet back on followed by the click of the lock.

“I’ll see ya.” He says shortly, before ducking out the window.

You’re left alone, sitting in your armchair, plate of cold pasta forgotten on your lap.

That could’ve gone very badly. Maybe not your most thought-through decision to literally drag the Red Hood into your apartment, but hey. Maybe you’re exercising your ability to be an upstanding, helpful person. Or maybe you were just hoping to prevent a vigilante being found dead on your fire escape.

Regardless, you close the window after him, leaving it unlocked. Just in case.

You wake in the middle of the night to the sounds of footsteps in your living room. You shoot upright, immediately spotting the lamp light flooding in from under your door.

Creeping to a stand, you grab the baseball bat next to your bed and slowly walk to the door.

You creep the door open as quietly as possible, inching out half a step at a time. A nearby creak on your floorboards had you swinging blindly, only to have your bat get stopped midair. You look up to see Mr. Hood himself, blocking the blow of your hit with his hand. 

“Wow. You and a bat against Gotham, huh, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You let go of the bat and drown your face in your hands. “What is wrong with you?”

“Apparently that I don’t carry enough baseball bats with me.” He says coolly, inspecting your bat. Though he’s got to admit, your bat is probably a hell of a lot more useful than his. 

You drop your arms at your side. “If I’d known bringing you into my apartment one time was going to be considered a free pass forever, I might’ve thought twice.”

“If I’d known I was going to nearly be concussed with a baseball bat, I might’ve too.” Barely. If you’re being honest with yourself, you’re still half asleep and it was not a very good swing.

He looks at you straight on for the first time. His helmet quickly drifts down and back up to your face just as fast.

You look down. T-Shirt, underwear, and…no that’s it. Not…ideal. You pull down on the unfortunately not at all oversized shirt, wanting to creep back into your room.

He turns his back, allowing you to do just that and scramble for some shorts to throw on. 

“Very gentlemanly of you.” You call out from your room, “And only thirty seconds after breaking into my apartment.”

“Okay, one, I’ve been here longer than that. In a non creepy way.”

“Right.”

“And two, I didn’t break anything. You live in the middle of Gotham and don’t lock your window?”

You reemerge in the doorway, “I live on the eighth floor.” 

He turns around to face you again, helmet in his hands. “Didn’t stop me.” No it did not. 

“Mm. So are you here specifically to judge my home security or was there something you needed?”

He takes a deep breath, “Actually yeah. I just need a place to rest for a minute.” 

“Rest from what?”

A series of gunshots echo from down the street.

“Next question.”

Concise.

You and Hood sit on the couch in the dark, per his insistence, because for some godforsaken reason, you have no curtains. It takes a few minutes for the silence to dissipate into forced conversation, which takes a few more minutes to fade into actual conversation.

“Can I be honest with you?” You ask him.

“Does it matter how I answer?”

“I don’t understand how you’re not dead.” You poke your head up, turning to him. “Are you human?”

He cranes his neck to look out the window, “Maybe getting shot at isn’t the worst thing that could happen tonight…”

You roll your eyes with a smile that you’re glad is hidden by the darkness. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You don’t have much in terms of self-preservation skills, do you?”

You ignore him as to not acknowledge that he’s probably right and roll through to your next curiosity, “Who the hell was shooting at you anyways?” Though, you don’t really expect an answer.

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They got ‘til sunrise anyway.”

You tilt your head, “‘Til sunri—” oh. Yeah. Come to think of it, he does have two guns on him right now. At least that you can see. You squint blankly at the wall, “You know, I’m placing a lot of trust in the hope that you’re not just as bad as those guys.”

“Yes you are.” He nods, not doing anything to convince you that he is in fact a good guy. He hasn’t tried to harm you in any way though, so you guess that’s a good sign.

You tilt your head at him. “Do you get paid to do this?” 

“I’m pretty sure there’s a lot of people who would pay me not to do this.” 

You nod solemnly, mouth turned into an exaggerated frown. “So you have a day job?”

He looks over at you, “Do you always ask this many questions?”

“Are you always so dodgy about answering them?” You shoot back. If you’d thought for .5 seconds longer on that, you might not have said anything. But you feel comfortable here, in your apartment with a man whose face you’ve never seen, name you don’t know, and always has at least two loaded guns on him.

He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah. I am.” He looks over at you. “You live here by yourself?”

You look around at the empty apartment before turning back to him, “Seems that way.”

He shrugs, “Boyfriend could be out or something.”

“Well most people are asleep at one in the morning. Like I was. Remember that?”

“No.”

You sigh, curling up into a ball on your end of the couch, resting your chin on your knees. You’re quiet for a minute before piping up, “Do people actually break into apartments on high floors a lot?”

“Stupid people.” He pauses, looking over at the frown on your face. “Look, I’m in the neighborhood a lot. If I see somebody climbing your fire escape I’ll shoot them.”

You let a little smile out, “I’m thinking there’s other steps you could take before you get to that point.”

“If you want to waste time.” His gaze doubles back at you, “That was a joke, by the way.”

You bark out a tired laugh, “Yeah, I picked up on that, thanks.”

He removes his eyes from you, fixing on a set of pictures you have hanging on the wall.

Your eyes flutter and you move to rest your head on the arm of the couch. “Is this going to be a regular thing then?”

“You could lock your window.”

“Living on the eighth floor didn’t stop you, I can’t imagine a shitty lock will do much more.”

“If you don’t want me here, I won’t be here.” He says gruffly.

“If I don’t want you here, I’ll let you know.” You mumble, eyes closing.

You can barely make out a laugh from him, “Good to know.”

You’re not quite sure how much time goes by when he leaves, but you have a pretty strong feeling you’d fallen asleep. Your main indicator was feeling the blanket draped nicely over you that you could’ve sworn was on the chair across the room.

Maybe it’s ten o’clock at night and you’re sat on your kitchen floor, bawling your eyes out. Maybe you’re going to have to quit your job. Or maybe you’ll have to face a lawsuit. Maybe this is the worst day in the history of time. Maybe it’s about to get worse. 

The sound of your living room window sliding open has you startling into a rush, body panicking as if you’ve done something wrong and desperately need to cover the evidence. The past few weeks of sporadic visits leaves no question about who it is, and you just hope the kitchen island in front of you will be enough to convince Hood that you’re not in and he’ll leave.

But because today is today, that’s not how it goes down.

You can vaguely make out the sound of his footsteps approaching, a courtesy that you’re sure he incorporated on purpose.

“Oh fuck…” you mutter to yourself, wiping your eyes.

He rounds the counter, looking down at you. “Wha—what’s wrong?”

“Fuck. Nothing.” You say, standing up and adjusting your clothes. “Are you hurt?” He better fucking not be at only ten.

“No, I—why are you on the floor?” 

You roll your eyes, “I live alone, forgive me for assuming I would be given the privilege to cry on the floor in private.”

“Did something happen?” You’re trying really hard not to call him an idiot. 

You raise your eyebrows, giving a light nod. “Uh, yeah, I’d say so.”

He shifts in his stance, “Do I need to talk to someone?”

You scoff, knowing damn well his version of ‘talk to someone’ does not include talking to someone. “Why are you even here so early?” 

“Wanted to stop by before I went out.” he says quietly.

You’re about to snap something at him again, but the burning in your eyes takes immediate priority. You wrap your arms around your middle and try to calm yourself down, with very little success. The tears fall easily and your shoulders start shaking as you look at the floor, letting the melancholy take over. 

It feels like much longer than it probably was, but sometime after the first few tears fall he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest. This only makes you cry harder, sobbing against his armor. Your arms stay wrapped around your center, while his hands remain completely still against your back, though firm. You don’t realize it immediately, but he’s holding a good portion of your weight up, you’d for sure collapse onto the floor otherwise. You kind of wish you would. Sitting on the floor felt nice, maybe falling down on it will feel even better.

You slowly start to regain your breathing, the well in your eyes drying up again. He waits for you to stop completely and slowly pulls back from you, hands momentarily still wavering next to you like he’s ready to catch you.

It takes you a minute to notice, but his helmet is locked on to the finger-shaped bruises on your forearm. You awkwardly move your opposite arm to cover them, looking around your apartment with nothing to search for.  

He’s quiet for a long while, clearly thinking hard. “What happened?”

You sniffle, “Some asshole at my job.”

“Some asshole?” He doesn’t believe you. Rightfully so, but he has no business being able to tell that you’re lying about one single word in that sentence.  

“My boss. Was very intent on successfully hitting on me.” You exhale deeply, “His approach could use some work though, if I’m honest.”

His posture remains statue-like. “Where do you work?”

You look at him straight on for the first time that night, “What does that matter?”

“I’ll take care of it.” He says simply.

You wave him off, “It’s fine.”

He waits a moment before letting you know, “I’m being polite by asking, I’m going to find out either way.”

You plop back down on the kitchen floor, knees to chest. “Well, then do it the hard way.”

About ten seconds of him staring down at you in silence go by, before he sits down next to you. It’s a bit funny how he tries to shrink himself down next to you, you’re assuming because he doesn’t want you to get panicked again because this massive stranger is sitting next to you in your kitchen in the dead of night.  

You don’t look at him as he clicks his helmet off and sets it on the other side of him. It’s quiet for another minute when he holds his gloved hand out to you, and you’re not quite sure how you know what he wants, but you do. You place your bruised arm in his hand, letting him gently pull it closer to him and scan over it. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” 

Again, you don’t know how, but you can tell he’s asking how far things went. “I started screaming and it freaked him out. He let me go.” you say numbly. 

You can see him nod out of the corner of your eye, bits of red making their way into your peripheral despite the discarded helmet. You turn slowly to look at him, finding him looking at you already.  

His face is more covered than it had been the first night, the same black mask covers his eyes but the lower half of his face is also hidden by a red mouthpiece. You’re in the lamp light and closer to him than you had been before and you’re counting out specks of green in his blue eyes. He lets you, to your surprise, and when you run out of emerald hues you take focus on his thick, dark eyelashes. Your gaze moves back ever so slightly to make eye contact with him and you tear your eyes away, zeroing in on the kitchen tiles. 

You sigh contemplatively, “I’m worried if you kill my boss it’ll be traced back to me and I’ll get pinned for it.”

He doesn’t laugh. But your delivery was a little dry in the wrong way so really it was on you.

“I’m not going to kill him.” he tells you, “I wouldn’t gamble with my pied-a-terre like that.”

Your head falls back, hitting the drawer behind you with a light thud. “Then why waste your time at all?” Maybe you should slow down with the snide comments.

He wants to, but he doesn’t call out the implied self-slighting in your words. “Maybe it’s a ‘me’ thing but I don’t particularly like men that hurt women.”

You let out a dry laugh. “In Gotham, it just might be.”

He sits with you on the linoleum tile of your kitchen until your eyes start to droop and he lightly corrals you to your bedroom before taking his exit through the window. You told him multiple times that he could go and you were fine, but he insisted that nothing important was happening in the city that time of night. You didn’t quite believe him though, because it was past midnight by the time he’d headed out.  

When you showed up to work the following day your boss wasn’t there. Wasn’t there the day after either. Or the day after. He didn’t make an appearance again until the following Monday. And when he did show face, he did so with a neck brace and a cast on his leg. But once more, he absolutely refused to make eye contact or speak to any of the female employees. It actually became a whole thing when he wouldn’t give instructions or feedback to any of you, and insisted on having his secretary replaced with a man, who he then used as a middle man to speak to all of the women for him. HR got involved three times in the span of the next five days, and by the Monday after, he’d been fired.

So to recap: yes, no, no, undecided, and hard no. 

Maybe you’re really starting to like this Red Hood guy.

Hard yes.

You’re slightly on guard upon hearing a clattering on the balcony, though if the past few weeks have been any indicator, you’re not in much danger.

Your posture slumps as you peer around the hallway corner, “Oh, it’s you.”

“Good to see you too.” he grumbles, dropping onto the floor.

“Well, I have to imagine I’m a step up from the last person you saw.” You say, looking him up and down, seeing what sure as hell looks like a gunshot wound on his chest armor. “What happened to you? The Mad Hatter uses guns now?”

He groans, “Ah, I said something about him being a heartless fuck, and I guess he took it personally.”

You sigh, “Jesus Christ, Hood.”

He waves you off, “It’s not that big of a deal.” 

You scoff, “He tried to shoot you in the heart.”

“Yeah, well, he missed.” He grumbles, adjusting his position on the couch. 

You exhale sharply, “How do you know?”

“How do I know?” He tilts his helmet at you, exasperated. 

You throw your arms up at your side, “I don’t know! I’m not equipped for this scenario.”

He huffs, “Look, it’s fine, it hit my armor. It’ll probably just be a bad bruise.”

“Probably?”

“I don’t think there’s blood. Could you…” he vaguely gestures to his torso, but it's enough for you to get the hint.

You shake the panic out of your head, “Yeah, yeah, of course.”

You help him shrug off his jacket as he strips off his armor, and you lift his shirt up as slowly as you can in case the injury is worse than he thinks.

You’re not shocked to see that he has scars, that’s kind of a given in his line of work. What you are shocked to see is one very long scar that lines directly up the center of his body. It’s a deep scar, too.

And, oh. The long scar extends further, splitting off into a fork at his collar. That’s—oh. Oh. Oh. That is an autopsy scar. 

You’re not sure what to do. You’ve never seen a living person with an autopsy scar—though you have to imagine neither have most people.

He clearly does not want to talk about it and you’re happy to let him keep the skeleton in the closet.

You avert your gaze back over to his diaphragm at the area of reddened skin.

“There’s no blood, but…” You inspect it a bit closer, “I think there’s going to be a bad bruise. You might end up with bruising on your ribs, you need to get that looked at.”

“I am.” He says shortly.

You stand up straight, dropping your shoulders. “By someone who went to medical school. Or has taken more than one anatomy class in their life.” 

He yanks down his shirt, standing, apparently too quickly, and wobbling. You catch his arm as he sways, attempting to steady him. “You should sit down.”

“Need to go back out.” He grunts, trying to pull away from you with little force.

“To get killed? ‘Cause you’re going the right way about it.” 

He tilts his head at you like he’s daring you to be so bold again. At least that's what it felt like. You sigh, gesturing to the couch, “Sit down.”

You didn’t expect it to work but he does as told.

You look around, unsure of what to do next. “Do you need ice?”

“What?”

“You’re hurt.” You say slower. “Do you need ice?”

He falters for a second, “No, it’s—no.” A couple beats pass before he adds, “Thanks, sweetheart.” 

It’s impossible not to notice that he’s staring at you. You feel hot under his gaze, not knowing what to do with yourself. You clear your throat, telling him to hang on for a second. 

You call out behind you as you walk to the kitchen, “Take your helmet off, it’s rude.” You grab the painkillers from their new easily-accessible place on the kitchen counter and grab a water bottle from the fridge.

It was a joke but when you come back his helmet is off and he’s just wearing his domino eye mask. His hair is extra tousled, the white streak barely visible in the mess of loose curls. You toss the bottle of meds at him, followed by the capped bottle of water. He catches them easily, downing more than he probably should have but he got shot tonight so you figure you’ll give him a break about it.    

You plop down on the couch next to him, honestly closer than you’d meant to. Your knees and shoulders lightly brush against one anothers, though neither of you make any moves to scoot over. 

You both look straight ahead at the wall, simmering in the amity. “So did somebody else deal with the Hatter or when you get shot do you just bounce back like a T-1000?”

He scoffs, “No, getting shot at is a bit of an inconvenience for me.”

“Wrong line of work.”

He cocks an eyebrow, “You’re telling me.”

You turn your head to him, “Why do you do it then?” 

He looks back at you earnestly. “Someone has to.” 

“Someone does.”

He tenses up a bit at that, breaking eye contact. “Not well enough.” 

Your head slowly lulls and drops into a rest on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen up a bit more before almost completely relaxing.

“So violence is the answer to violence?” you ask, not argumentative, just genuinely musing. 

Hood sighs, “Half-assed reform programs didn’t do anything, shitty ‘crisis interventions’ didn’t do anything, the cops sure as hell don’t do anything.” He shrugs under you. “You run out of options eventually.”

“And that’s why you took it upon yourself to intervene?”

“Mm. ‘When reason fails, the devil helps.’” He says, quite melodramatically, in your opinion.

“I-Is that—” you squint, shooting off of his shoulder to look him in the eye. “You spend your nights getting in street fights and shootouts and you spend your days reading Crime and Punishment of all things?” You gawk at him, “That explains a lot about your disposition.”

He shrugs with a shake of his head. “It’s a rough world. Can’t afford to be reading about Hogwarts.”

You pause, combing through your next words, “‘Man only likes to count his troubles; he doesn’t calculate his happiness.’”

His eyes crinkle under his mask as he smiles, clearly pleasantly surprised that you know your shit. “Touché.”

You grin back, pleased with yourself. 

There’s a brief recession where your smiles both get caught in the flicker between on and off, where your eyes take the opportunity to scan over each other’s faces. 

You realize that this may be the first time you’ve seen him properly smile and it’s so magnetizing. So much so that you don’t realize you’re staring at his lips until your eyes snap back up to his and find that his are on yours.

His eyes don’t leave yours as he nudges you a bit with his shoulder. It does just enough to break the trance, giving you the cue to rest your head on him again. This time you allow more of your weight to lean against him and he actually seems relaxed for once.

 You glance at the clock on the wall without moving and realize it’s almost four in the morning. “I’m tired, Hood.” you mumble into his shirt.

“You don’t—” he falters for a moment, “You don’t have to call me that.”

You squint at him, “What should I call you then?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “J.”

“J?” you whisper, like it’s a grave secret. You guess it kind of is.

He nods.

“Okay.” Your cheek flattens against his shoulder. “J.” 

You nearly think you’re imagining it when you feel him rest his head against yours.

“You don’t know how to protect yourself?”

You roll your eyes at him, “You saw the way I swung at you with the baseball bat, what do you think?”

It’s only just after sunset, you could still see some purple-pink hues in the sky if you looked out the window. He’s started showing up before patrol some nights, saying he felt bad about waking you up at 3 am multiple times a week. So now, he mostly only drops in late if he’s a manageable amount of injured.

You stand in the middle of your living room together, after you’d made a joke about needing him as a bodyguard in Gotham. As it turns out, that was a one way street to him finding out that you’re useless in a fight.

“I was hoping you were having an off night because you just woke up, but now I'm concerned.” He says, grimacing.

You shrug, “I carry pepper spray.” 

He grumbles, displeased. “Put your hands up.”

You drop your head to the side and glower at him, “Really?”

He raises his eyebrows at you. Just do it. 

Alright, you’ll humor him. You put your fists up and he holds his hands open in front of you in kind. You throw a light punch.

“Come on, put your weight behind it.”

You do, hitting his hand harder. “Hood—”

He tilts his head forward at that, looking at you through his brows.

You inhale impatiently, “J, Why do we have to do this? I don’t have any illusions that I could knock you out and I can’t imagine you do either.” 

He shakes his head, “It’s not about knocking someone out, it’s about defending yourself. Gonna be a hell of a lot harder to hurt you if you’re throwing punches. Harder.”

You give a raised hum, “Not if they have a gun…”

“Well, we’ll work on that too.”

You groan, throwing a half-assed hit. “Where’d you learn to fight?” You ask before throwing another.

“Turn your body into it.” He corrects. “My, uh, my dad taught me.”

You hum, hitting him again. “Are you guys close?”

“You’re being nosy again.” He grunts amidst a hit.

“You’re being evasive again.” You shoot back.  

He drops his hands, taking your wrists in his, “Here, put your hands in front of your face when you shoot so you can block counters.” He tells you, adjusting your stance accordingly.

You make a face, “I’m confused, am I fighting a mugger or a kickboxer?”  

He ignores you, moving his hands around to give you different angles to hit at. 

You go at it for a few minutes, taking his critiques with reluctant concedence. “Alright, that’s good.” He says, relaxing his body.

You perk up, “We’re done?” 

“No,” he shuts you down before asking earnestly, “Do you trust me?”

Your brain hadn’t even fully processed the question before you nod, mumbling a ‘yes’. He takes a measured step closer to you, watching carefully for your reaction. You almost back up in surprise, angling your head up further to look at him properly. You give no objection, so he continues, “I want you to try to get me on the ground.”

You let out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-scoff. “You’re twice my size.”      

He sighs, looking at you somberly. “Sweetheart, odds are you’re not going to be evenly matched against someone that wants to hurt you. You get ‘em on the ground ‘n you have the upper hand or it’ll give you time to get away.”

You throw your hands up at your sides, “I don’t—” You huff, “Fine, okay.” You try to trip him by sliding your leg behind his and kicking, but he blocks you expertly.

You, against better judgment, shove your shoulder into his side, though it does nothing to phase him, let alone knock him down. 

“You gotta get more creative than that.” He chastises with a tut. 

In response, you take a step back to reassess the situation. You try to maintain a poker face as you strategize in your head. You make a dive for his legs, wrapping your arms around the back of his legs and pulling hard to make him lose balance. You’re sure if he were actually trying for a damn you would immediately be done for afterwards, but it does make him wobble. You then throw all of your weight against him, pushing him backwards and causing him to hit the floor with a thud.

He probably allowed for gravity to come to your aid, but he lands on his back all the same. You land half on him, half on the carpet, your hand resting on his chest. He looks up at you nodding, “Good. That was good, sweetheart.”

You smile, quite proud of yourself, and start to stand up when he hooks his arm around the back of your knee and pulls you to the ground too, switching places with you. You hit the ground gently with a sigh, “Really?”

He has one hand rested next to your head to balance him in his place above you. He smirks down at you and lets a tussle of white hair hang over his forehead. “Can’t be getting cocky, sweetheart.”

You laugh sourly, “Coming from you?” 

You quickly push at the bend of his arm and use the distraction to adjust your position to wrap your legs around his center and push your arm against his chest in an attempt to rotate him off of you.

He counters you by pushing your shoulder down, holding you down to the floor. His opposite hand flies to pull your forearm away from his chest, pinning it next to your head, careful to avoid your hair. He moves so quickly that you have half a mind to think he acted on pure instinct. That, and the look on his face when the dust settles says that he hadn’t intended for you to end up in this position. 

Your legs are still wrapped around him and you’re too frozen in the moment to make any changes. He’s in no more of a rush to move, large frame towering over you. You feel his touch stutter against your shoulder, his eyes flickering across your face.

You gaze up at him, taking in the soft look in his eyes behind the mask. You think you can see more green than you did before. You unwrap your legs from around his waist and slowly start to sit up. He releases your wrist and eases the pressure on your shoulder. He leans back half as quickly as you move forward, stopping when you’re propped up on your elbows.

Your faces are only a few inches apart and it feels like your only option is to look down at his lips. You have a feeling he’s doing the same to you. The adrenaline of the hassle has long since faded but the rhythm in both of your chests remains quick.

He leans forward so barely, but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. “J…” you say breathily, not sure what implication you’re aiming for.

He stills and this time you’re sure he’s looking at your lips. He blinks a few times like he’s trying to come back to himself and inches his face away from yours slowly. 

You let the hold in your breath release, disappointed more than anything. He eases off the floor to a stand and holds his hand out to help you up too. You take it with more of a frown than you’d meant to let out and rise to your feet.

“Let’s, uh…” He looks at the ground before taking a step back and putting his hands up again. “Let’s try some combos.”

You blink up at him for a second before raising your hands too.  

Alright, one step at a time.   

vol II

[majorshatterandhare]

[ID: eight photos of Tim Ledsam in his Gunpowder Tim costume from the Mechanisms. Tim has light skin and long, curly, brown hair and short brown facial hair. His costume takes various forms in the photos, but consists of a white, collared, button-up shirt under a light brown waistcoat, with trousers, and often a long, light brown coat and a pair of retro welding goggle, either on his forehead or around his neck, and in one photo over his eyes.

Image One: Tim sits in front of a white sheet playing his acoustic guitar, with a mic aimed at the instrument. He is lit with green lighting and the background is lit blue. His goggles are around his neck and he looks at his fingering. His mouth is open like he may be speaking or singing. He is not wearing his coat and his sleeves are rolled up.

Image Two: Tim stands with his body facing diagonally toward the viewer's right, but his head turned toward the viewer's left. His trousers are dark brown and he is wearing his coat. He has a belt on top of the coat and a piece of brown fabric with a yellow symbol painted on it tucked into the belt on his right front. He holds something wooden (possibly a large hand gun) in his right hand, with the length of it resting against his shoulder and pointed behind him. He is outside and behind him is a metal bar and behind that is some large canisters and some of the canisters are behind a collapse metal fence in a brick structure. The ground is light colored pavement. His goggles are atop his head.

Image Three: A close of of just Tim's face and neck. His head is turned so his neck comes in from the right side of the frame. He is looking at the camera. His beard is shaved in this photo so his facial hair is only around his mouth and not along his jaw. He has black lines of make up extending from his eyes. The background is dark, but he appears to be outside. His goggles are on top of his head.

Image Four: A waist-up photo of Tim, outside a white building. He has his coat on and is mostly facing the camera. His left hand rests on his holstered gun and his left hand is away from his body, but down by his belt. His coat is gaping open and his waistcoat is bunched above his belt. He is looking to the right of the frame.

Image Five: a bust photo of Tim, straight on, in front of a heavily peeling, painted brick wall. He is wearing his coat, his goggles are around is neck, he has a few lines emanating from his eyes, and he looks at the camera. Up the left side of the image is text reading "Unit 1666 Arson [unreadable]" and along the bottom there is text reading "'Gunpowder Tim' 5.11.16.65.05 Local"

Image Six: a bust photo of Tim standing facing diagonally toward the viewer's right while holding onto a mic on a stand and looking to his right (the viewer's left). His right hand is just out of frame holding his guitar vertically by it's neck. He is lit up in purple. He is not wearing his coat and his goggles are on top of his head. Behind him is unidentifiable stuff.

Image Seven: a bust photo of Tim, standing diagonally to the viewer's right, with this head in profile. He has his goggles over his eyes and is looking up toward where the light is hitting him (ie toward the sun). He is wearing his coat and behind him is a brown brick wall.

Image Eight: a desaturated photo of of just Tim's head and neck. His head is turned toward the viewer and is closer to the left edge of the frame. His goggles are on top of his head, pushing his hair back, and his mouth is open like he is speaking. The background is blurry.

First name Gunpowder, last name Tim

[snowballseal]

Pretty Bird

Sylus X Reader

Summary: Sylus is jealous of you giving Mephisto attention. That's it. You tease him when you find out.

Word Count: 2123

Note: Nothing really, hope I did him justice! His dialogue is a little harder for me to nail down.

---

The first time it happens is when you cross to the N109 Zone to accompany Sylus on an “errand”.

The first thing you do when you reach the ornate, empty house - of course - is say hello to your favorite bird.

“Hey there pretty bird.”

Mephisto squawks, bobbing excitedly on his perch as you bound up to him. You grin and give the crow a gentle scratch on his head. He preens under your touch, mechanical feathers fluffing with another quiet, scruffy caw. Adorable.

Despite his unnerving gaze, which you find to be eerily similar to a certain Onychinus leader, you can’t help but love the little bird. For some reason, it always comforts you a little bit to see him perched outside your apartment, or following you around Linkon. He always tries to act like he’s not spying on you, but you know he is, and you know he’s going to report right back to Sylus. Maybe that’s why it’s comforting.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re trying to sway his loyalties.”

Speak of the devil.

“As if,” you snicker, giving the bird one final scratch before spinning on your heels to face Sylus. He sits across the room in one of his big armchairs, eyes glued to the gun he’s loading, face carefully blank. As always. You saunter over and pop yourself onto the arm of the chair, bumping his shoulder. “You know Mephisto doesn’t listen to anyone but you. I’m just like the fun mom who gives him things.”

His lips twitch ever so slightly, “Mmm, does that make me your husband in this situation?”

Heat creeps up your cheeks.

You are no stranger to Sylus’ flirty nature. That’s how things have always been between you, though it only really gets to you now. Before, when you kind of hated his guts, it was just annoying. Well, maybe even then-

“You wish,” you retort, but there’s no hiding the blush painting your cheeks.

“Hm, I thought you knew me better than that, sweetie.” In an instant, his hand curls around your wrist, giving it a sharp tug that knocks you off balance. You let out an undignified squeak, tumbling right into his lap. And before you can squirm away, Sylus locks an arm over your legs, keeping you trapped against him. Those red eyes freeze you in place, dark and warm with mischief. “Why would I wish for something I could so easily take?”

You stare at him, eyes blown wide, face completely red now. You can’t even form any words in response, which seems to amuse him even more. A smirk curls his lips, and he gives your hip a playful pinch.

“What? Crow got your tongue, sweetie?”

You sputter, finally finding your voice, “Sylus!”

“Good. Now that you’re focused, we can go handle business.” Sylus sets you on the ground, making sure you’re steady before he stands nonchalantly and tucks his gun in its holster. Like nothing just happened! “We don’t want to be late now, do we?”

Before you can even say anything more, he’s heading for the door. It takes a few seconds to shake yourself from your  state of shock, and then you’re quickly following after him.

“Sylus-!”

He cuts you off, that stupid, attractive smirk still on his lips, “And by the way, try not to spoil Mephisto too much, sweetie. He’s grown rather petulant when you’re not around.”

You’re pretty sure your blush sticks around for the entire car ride after.

---

The second time is when you visit on one of your off days. 

When you get there, Sylus is still asleep. You take a moment to crouch by his bed, a fond smile adorning your lips as you take in his peaceful face. You remember when he used to sleep sitting up, so he was ready for anything, but now he looks relaxed. Though you still spot the gun tucked under his bed.

Deciding not to bother him, you quietly make your way back out to the living room and grab a book. It’s about the only way to pass time in the N109 Zone, at least, without getting yourself into anything dangerous. As soon as you sit down, Mephisto flaps across the room and lands on your arm, plopping himself down into your lap like a cat.

A giggle escapes you when the crow throws his head back, looking up at the most awkward angle you can imagine. You give his beak a little rub, and he makes a soft clicking sound, beady red eyes falling shut.

“I swear, it’s almost like you’re a crow with cat programming,” you hum, mostly to yourself. Mephisto ruffles his feathers, though, at the word ‘cat’, eyes flashing back open. You snort, easing a hand over his wings, “No worries, pretty bird, no cats. I’m just kidding.”

He settles back down, seemingly embarrassed by his reaction, which only makes you want to coddle him more. So cute. If only Sylus would be this cute with you. Heat tinges your cheeks at the thought of the tall man resting against your lap, looking up at you with softly narrowed eyes, humming in content as you pet his ha-

Snapping your book open, you throw yourself into the story in hopes of banishing such rogue thoughts. If Sylus knew what you were imagining, he would tease you for years. You really don’t want to feed his ego even more. Mephisto wedges himself between your arm and your side, happy to just fall asleep as you read, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

It doesn’t take you long to actually get immersed in the storyline, though. So much so that you don’t hear the steps coming up behind you.

“It seems you come here more often to spend time with Mephisto than with me.”

You practically jump out of your skin when a strong arm circles your shoulders. Sylus’ voice is a low rumble in your ear, thick with sleep. He leans over the back of your chair, and you narrowly miss the way he eyes the bird in your lap with distaste. He looks far too content curled up on your lap.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were sleeping,” you hum, closing the book.

He grumbles, sleepy eyes shifting to bore into you. The smallest pout pulls at his lips, and you have to stifle a giggle as you reach up to smooth down his messy hair. Sylus leans into your touch, much like Mephisto did, his eyes flickering shut. Okay, maybe he is just as cute.

“Are you mad I didn’t come cuddle with you?” You tease. Sleepy Sylus is definitely your favorite Sylus. “I didn’t know the big, bad Onychinus leader likes to snuggle.”

“It’s simply to ensure you don’t cause trouble in the N109 Zone,” he murmurs, still just as quick-witted though he’s half-asleep, “I can’t have my kitten wandering around all by herself, now can I?”

“I was just reading, Sylus. No trouble here.”

“Hmm, then you might as well come read in bed.”

You hesitate, fingers tracing along his jaw lightly, “You sure I won’t disturb your sleep?”

Those dark eyes blink back open lazily, a rare, genuine smile dancing in their depths, “Trust me, kitten, my sleep will be much better with you at my side.”

God, you’re weak for this man. Mephisto squawks his complaints as you lift him from your lap, but takes off to his perch without much fight. Sylus feels a flash of victory as you intertwine your fingers. The sensation of your small hand in his eases the strange tightness in his chest whenever you’re apart. He curls his other arm around you possessively, sending the bird a smug smirk.

You catch it this time, lifting a brow as you glance between him and Mephisto. Your brain stalls. Was he…jealous? No way. There’s no way Sylus would be jealous of you spending time with his bird. He’s more mature than that…or maybe not, you realize as he drags you back to his bed, only to lay himself over you like a large cat, using your lap as his pillow. Exactly as you imagined.

Your heart flutters a little, which you’re sure he hears somehow, because he squeezes your waist teasingly. You pinch his cheek lightly before running your fingers through his snowy hair. It’s always softer than you expect.

“Go to sleep, Sylus,” you murmur, voice far too fond, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

He hums, and you can feel the sound vibrate through his body. Almost like a purr.

God, you don’t even have a chance, do you?

---

The final time is when you visit the N109 Zone to attend another auction with Sylus. And this time, you catch him in it.

“Where’s Mephisto?”

Sylus’ face sours at your question. You bite back a smile.

Ever since the day you spent napping in his room, you haven’t been able to escape that thought swirling in the back of your mind. So you decided to test your theory. Sylus is always messing with you, afterall. It’s only fair you get a bit of revenge.

“I sent him out to gather intel,” Sylus huffs eventually. Why do you always look for that d***  bird first? “That is his purpose, afterall.”

“Oh.” You feign sadness, letting out a long sigh. “That’s too bad! I brought him some treats.”

“Well, you can leave them here. I’m sure he’ll eat them later,” he says, voice dismissive as he fixes the cuffs of his coat.

“Hmm-” You slowly make your way over to him. Those perceptive eyes narrow on you, watching you carefully while you straighten his collar. “Will he be here later? Maybe I can give them to him after the auction. I miss my pretty bird.” 

Amusement curls in your chest when you see the man’s brows twitch ever so slightly. He’s really annoyed. Now you understand why he loves pushing your buttons so much.

“No, I’m afraid he’ll be busy all night.” You can practically hear him gritting his teeth. Almost there. You keep your eyes focused on his coat, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. He’s trying to figure you out and you’re scared that if you look up, the laughter you're holding back will break loose. Instead, you put on an exaggerated pout.

“That’s unfortunate. I was really hoping to see him tonight.”

Sylus growls. Actually growls in annoyance.

“Would you prefer to have Mephisto on your arm tonight instead of me?” His words come out biting and harsh, tinged with unmistakable jealousy.

The air goes silent.

Before you burst into a fit of giggles. Sylus’ eyes widen when you collapse against his chest, your entire body shaking with laughter. He freezes, though his confusion quickly gives way to realization. 

You were playing with him.

“I suppose this is some form of revenge,” he hums, shaking his head. It’s surprising it took him so long to catch on. With anyone else, he’d be beyond angry, but your laughter is so bright, so infectious, that he can’t stop the small smile that pulls at his lips. When you finally look up at him, tears glint in the corners of your eyes. Who thought this would amuse you so much?

“You’re jealous! The Sylus is jealous of a little bird. His bird.” You bite down on your lip in an attempt to muffle the giggles that keep coming, but it doesn’t do much to help. It’s just too much for you. You never ever thought you’d see Sylus actually jealous of someone, let alone an animal.

Sylus narrows his eyes, though they glow with a certain fondness. “Such a sadist, sweetie, messing with a man’s heart so lightly.”

“Oh, but your reaction was so adorable,” you sing, reaching up to poke his cheek. He playfully bites at your finger, making you draw it back quickly with another laugh. “Just the fact that you could even think I like Mephisto more than you is so silly. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Hmm, then I’m afraid you’ll just have to prove my silly conclusion wrong, won’t you?” His hands settle on your waist, drawing you closer to the warmth of his body. You oblige him, stretching your arms up and around his neck to draw him down.

“Of course. I can’t have my pretty bird walking around thinking he’s second best,” you tease, fingers curling through his hair. “Even if he has a jealousy prob-”

“Quiet.”

Anything else you say is muffled as Sylus finally kisses you.

Safe to say, after that, you make sure to give Sylus extra attention, especially when Mephisto is around. (Though you do still sneak him treats when Sylus isn’t looking.)

[cataegisira]

Witch Briar, Keeper of the Book of Names, Lord of the Witches Lodge

I'll say it now, I'm not gonna render these. I only put the background circle in 'cause it felt wrong not to.

The Witch is a character I've had in my brain for a couple years now. I originally envisioned them as just a witch with a gun and a couple'a demons, but eventually, they became some... odd not-quite-human creature.

They have a Book, a very special book, as I'm sure you can tell by the capitalization, called the Book of Names, and when asked what it is, the Witch says only...

'A grimoire filled with the names of demons, written in the blood of something that never lived but is not dead, on pages of something that never died but is not living, and bound in the hide of a sinner taken before their time.'

No amount of cajoling, threats, coercion, or even bribery will pry anything more detailed than that from their lips, though threaten them enough, and you may see their other artifact, that large one on their hip, made of silver and iron and charred rowan wood and kissed by magic.

Or you'll meet their hounds, if you're not quite human, yourself.

Like most long-lived witches, the Witch changes their name every few years, and, during the 1890s, they call themselves Briar, as the name of a witch is a powerful thing, and you don't want to keep a fake long enough for it to become real.

They're supposed to be that 'I can't tell what's in their pants, but they're hot as fuck' sorts of character, but I don't think I quite got the androgyny right. I think they're a little too feminine here, sadly.

That's what I get for drawing like 98% gay girls and freaky little demon bastards, innit.

Anyway, a friend bought me an AC, so, because I live in a desert and desperately need a replacement for the one that broke last year, I'm running a weird west genre TTRPG one on one for him.

The Witch here is meant to be a story important NPC, so I had to finally get off my ass and draw them. So I did. Yay!

[pathologicalreid]

excuse me but spencer and kindergarten teacher reader is just what i need and i didn’t even know!! it’s like my new favorite ahhh i need more please!!

fishbowl | S.R.

you offer to bring spencer lunch when he forgets his at home, leading you to become an object of curiosity at the BAU

also kindergarten teacher!reader: kindergarten crush

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: the bau being nosy, kindergarten teacher!reader, pet fish/class pets, lots of dialogue, spencer has his cane word count: 1.79k a/n: i love spencer and kindergarten teacher reader they are very important to me!! i would equate this fic to spencer bringing a girl home for the first time, but home is the BAU. thank you for requesting!

“Ma’am,” an unfamiliar voice said insistently, you snapped out of your awe-induced stupor and looked up at the security guard. He didn’t seem overtly threatening, save for the gun that was holstered to his hip, but he was looking at you the same way you looked at your students when they first came to school in the morning. He was looking at you like you were lost. “Can I help you?”

You frowned at the guard for a moment, fumbling with your school bag for your phone to call Spencer for help. You held the phone in your hand, trying to open it with busy hands as someone approached you, and just as you were about to ask the security guard for a second, you were met with a familiar face. She had cut bangs in her dark hair, but other than that, the woman in front of you was the same Emily Prentiss you had met months ago, “Hey, Miss Y/L/N, right?”

The relief in your eyes had to be visible as she smiled, “Right,” you affirmed, “It’s good to see you again, Agent Prentiss.”

“Oh, no, please, call me Emily,” she insisted, taking charge and reaching over to take your tote despite your protests. “What brought you all the way out to Quantico?”

Ducking your head as she led you through the security checkpoint, you clipped your visitor badge to the waistband of your skirt and crossed your arms in front of your stomach before answering, “Uh, Sp- er, Dr. Reid forgot his lunch this morning, so I offered to bring him something.”

Arching a dark brow, Emily led you into the elevator and hit the button before leaning against the wall – sixth floor, you’d have to remember that. “Y/N… I know,” she said, proffering you a knowing look that made you flush.

“Spence left his lunch at his place,” you shrugged, “I had a half day today, so I told him I could bring something by.”

Humming, watched carefully as you shifted your weight from one leg to the other, “So, you went to Spencer’s place with your key and grabbed his lunch for him.”

Nervously, you looked up at the number above the elevator doors – why was this taking so long? “No, there’s a deli around the corner from my school, he likes the soup there. I have a key, but the deli was on the way. I’ve been watering his plants while he’s away. That’s why he gave me a key. If you were wondering.”

Your secret was out, you rambled when you got nervous. You hadn’t even considered the fact that Spencer would want to keep the private aspects of your life private.

Emily definitely noticed the sigh of relief you let loose as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, “Spencer’s desk is through there. At the end on the right,” she directed you, handing your bag back to you.

As you slung your bag back over your shoulder, you thanked the person who held the door open for you and made your way through the bullpen. “Next time,” you said, garnering the attention of your boyfriend, “You have to come get me. If they ever let me back in this building, that is.”

Casually, he reached for your hand, pulling you closer to his chair until you were close enough to drop a kiss on his lips, “I thought you were going to call.”

Your shoulders slumped as you set the lunch on the only clear spot on his desk, “Terribly, impossibly long story,” you waved him off, setting your bag on the floor as you noticed a familiar wooden apparatus next to Spencer’s desk. “Your cane is back,” you observed, “Are you alright?”

He nodded, “’M fine,” he reassured you, “It hurt this morning when I woke up, but it’s fine now.” He turned his head at the sound of a door opening, you followed his gaze as a blonde made her way out of the bullpen, leaving the glass doors swinging behind her.

It was hard enough to come around to the fact that Spencer’s job was dangerous, but the fact that he had actually been shot – not long before he met you – was even harder to come to terms with. You watched him carefully as he got up and found an available chair for you to sit down in and begrudgingly came to the same conclusion, he seemed fine.

As you unpacked your lunch, a new face approached Spencer’s desk, leaning against the metal, “Reid, who’s this?”

Upon first glance, the man in a V-neck t-shirt was very protective over your boyfriend. From what you knew about the team, that made a lot of sense – Spencer was the youngest member. Taking the initiative, you stood up and reached your hand out for him to shake, introducing yourself to him, and he introduced himself as Derek Morgan.

“Alright, pretty boy,” Derek said, nodding over at Spencer. “So, what brings you here to the BAU?”

Explaining yourself again, you sat back down, crossing your ankles and watching as Spencer’s boss walked by, ushering Derek along with him. “Mr. Hotchner,” you greeted, happy to see a familiar face. Your eyes followed them as Derek said something about this being the first time Reid’s had a girl in the BAU.

You laughed slightly, glancing over to Spencer who didn’t seem bothered by the commotion.

“How do you know Hotch?” Emily asked from her desk, she nodded in the direction of the unit chief.

Passing Spencer a napkin, you looked over at Emily, “He toured my school with his son. They’re talking about switching me to preschool next school year, so I was there – he recognized my name.”

A solemn expression passed over Prentiss’ face, “Right, how is Cody?”

“Good! He’s doing really well, he and his mom are moving over the summer to be closer to her parents, so he’ll be at a different elementary for first grade,” you explained, wondering if they usually got updates like that on the children they find.

You waited for another question, but Emily’s phone started ringing, “Saved by the bell,” Spencer said, switching off his monitor and turning his attention fully onto you. “How was school?”

While eating, you explained how with half days, you usually just have an activity day with the kids and, for some reason, today you found it impossible to get them to stay on task. “I get it though, I think it’s hard to pay attention when the workday is shortened, even if I have a ton of lesson planning left to do after the final bell. Especially if they’re moving me next year.”

“When will you know for sure?” He asked, eyes catching on something behind you.

Shrugging, you balled up your trash and put it back in the deli bag, “I might not for a while. They’re trying to hire someone for preschool but if they can’t find anyone, I might be pulling double duty… What are you looking at?” You turned in the desk chair to find the blonde from earlier and another woman, also blonde, but dressed in bright colors, “Ah,” you said, understanding what Spencer was looking at.

The two women looked away, pretending like they hadn’t been staring. “I’m sorry,” Spencer apologized, “Usually on Fridays most people go off campus for lunch, but it seems like today was the exception.”

Leaning back in the chair, you gave Spencer a knowing look, “They’re tapping on the fishbowl,” you concurred.

“The fishbowl?” Spencer asked, frowning in confusion.

Turning around again, you waved at the two blondes in an attempt to try to get them to come in, “The kids do it all the time, they’re tapping on the fishbowl to see if they can get the fish to move,” you elaborated.

“Fish? What about fish?” A new voice chirped, and you turned to find the blondes had elected to come into the bowl.

You nodded, “Two fish. They’re the class pets.”

“Do they have names?” One of them asked, looking between you and Spencer curiously.

Spencer chuckled, “Nikola Tesla and Rosalind Franklin,” he answered – he was, after all, the one who had named them in the first place.

Beaming at your boyfriend before going back to his co-workers, you giggled at their confused looks, “Do you teach a class filled with geniuses?”

“No,” you smiled, “they’re four- and five-year-olds, they call the fish Nikki and Rosie,” you clarified. “I’m Y/N,” you said, deciding to forego a handshake and waving at them instead.

The two of them introduced themselves – JJ and Penelope – and continued to make conversation with you before the latter of the two gasped, “You should come to girls’ night!”

There was a chime of agreement from Emily’s desk, and you looked over at Spencer to see if he wanted to weigh in. Truthfully, he looked less than excited at the prospect of you spending the night with his co-workers.

“What, Reid?” JJ asked teasingly, “Are you afraid we’ll tell your girlfriend all of your dirty secrets?”

A laugh erupted from Derek’s desk, “He would need to have dirty secrets for you to tell!”

At that point, Spencer looked like he was ready to drop his head on his desk, you reached over and set a hand on his knee. You peered back up at JJ and Penelope, “Can I get back to you?”

Holding up her pointer finger, Garcia grinned, “Absolutely, have Spencer give you my number!”

You stood up at that, gathering your things and silently letting Spencer know that you were ready to leave, “I’ll walk you out,” he offered, standing up, and grabbing his cane as he did so.

Waving goodbye to his team, you led the way out, holding the door for Spencer as he tried to wave away any remnants of your concern. The two of you stood in silence as you waited for the elevator, resisting the urge to hit the call button again as your impatience resurfaced.

The two of you let people off of the elevator before boarding the empty car, “I’m really sorry about… all of that.”

Frowning, you kept your eyes trained on the elevator doors, “It’s like a little family,” you murmured, completely disregarding his apology.

“What?” He asked, turning to face you.

You pointed up toward the sixth floor, “Your team,” you replied. “The way you all function. It’s like a family and you’re the younger brother – at least in that dynamic.”

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, “Oh, yeah. Kind of.”

Nudging at him with your elbow, you smiled slyly at your boyfriend, “Do you think they liked me?”

He nodded reassuringly, “I think you will very quickly be welcomed into the family.”  

[benevolentbones]

Saw you're taking Reid requests👀 I could use some Spencer x Reader who is new at the BAU and is super clumsy and they just fall head over heels over each other and he gets protective over her and it's all super cutesy.

thank you sm for the request! i hope you enjoy! really tempted to do a part 2 to this !! requests still open<3 i’m working through them

clumsy | spencer reid x reader

part 2

warnings: mentions of injury, general clumsiness, cursing, gn!reader

word count: 1.3k ish

summary: you’re new to the bau and are just super clumsy.

you were damn good at your job. you were a great profiler. you were great on the field. and you were quick to complete your paperwork.

the only issue you had was, you were incredibly clumsy. and not in the cute ‘oops i dropped my pen’ kind of way, more so in the ‘injure yourself on the field’ sort of way.

take your first ever case for instance, you and your previous team had busted into an unsub’s apartment, and after catching the guy, on your way back out you tripped over his collection of cds causing you to take his whole bookshelf down with you. you ended up breaking your arm and couldn’t use your gun for twelve weeks.

but now, you had just started a new job at the bau, and you were hoping to put the clumsiness behind you.

“agent l/n, this is agent morgan.” hotch went around the bullpen, introducing you to the team.

you had met in his office earlier, he had given you a rundown on what to expect and as there was no new case as of present, he was introducing you to the team and then going to set you up with some paperwork to fill in.

“great to meet you agent l/n, i hope to talk more with you soon.” derek shot you a flirtatious smile as hotch brought you over to the last member of the team.

dr. spencer reid. the tall man was currently leaning gingerly against one of the counters by the kitchenette section of the bullpen, a mug of coffee in one hand and a case file in the other. he wore a blue button up, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, along with a navy blue waistcoat and trousers.

“reid” hotch began, striding up to the younger male, with you at his heels.

“this is agent l/n, they just transferred here.”

spencer’s eyes shot up from the pages he was studying, now flickering over the person who stood next to hotch.

you, alike him, had the sleeves of your black shirt rolled up, notably more messy than his neatly folded cuffs. you had your hands stuffed into the pockets of your black suit trousers, with a smile plastered on your face.

“agent l/n, like y/n l/n?” reid’s interest was piqued.

you gave the taller man a small nod “yeah that’s me.” you chewed on your cheek, rocking lightly back n forth on your feet.

“i’ve read about your work, you’re- excellent on the field. i look forward to working with you.” he shot you a closed mouth smile which you returned.

“hey hotch, can you come look at this?” penelope called out from across the bullpen.

the older male, inhaled before turning on his feet, leaving you and spencer alone in the kitchenette.

“didn’t you accidentally shoot yourself during your last case?” spencer quizzed, sipping his coffee. he distinctly remembered reading an article about your last case before you took some time off, you had caught the unsub and while trying to put your gun back in the holster, it went off.

you felt your face flush.

“um- yeah, that may have happened. but don’t tell anyone. i’m a little clumsy” you giggled out, lifting the right side of your shirt to show a gunshot scar just above your hip.

spencer inhaled sharply, not expecting you to show off the scar.

“ouch.” he hissed, imagining how it must have felt. “i’ll try and keep you from hurting yourself on the field next time.” his eyes met yours and he gave you a genuine smile.

~

you had been working with the bau team for a few weeks, and have grown close to everyone, especially spencer.

you had developed quite strong feelings for the brunette over the time you spent at work and out with the team, he was always so considerate of you. always checking in to make sure you were doing okay, making sure you felt comfortable with everyone. and unbeknownst to you, he felt the same.

at first he thought your mention of being clumsy was a cute quirk, maybe you would accidentally injure yourself once in a blue moon and blame it on that. but as he grew to know, and care for you, he found out it was a daily occurrence.

on your fourth or fifth day in the office, spencer had brought a cup of coffee to you, placing it down on your desk which was conveniently across from his.

you thanked him with a warm smile, picking up the ceramic cup and taking a sip. he settled down into his seat, and began reading his case files until.

“fuck!” you yelled out, causing a few glances to be thrown your way.

spencer stood up abruptly, scanning you to see what had happened.

along with dropping the mug onto the floor, which shattered, you had managed to fully drench yourself in the hot coffee spencer had just made for you.

he quickly ran over, grabbing some paper towels to help clean up the mess. you shot him a sad look, followed by a string of apologies.

“i didn’t mean to- i just knocked it off of the desk and-“

“it’s okay, y/n.” he smiled sweetly up at you, patting your leg with the paper towel.

the next day, spencer had gifted you a resilient travel mug with a closing top.

~

the day came where you had an out of state case, the team all sat around the table for the briefing. spencer at your side in one of the desk chairs.

you had a habit of fidgeting during long meetings, you simply couldn’t help it, which spencer had noticed the first time you all had a lengthy briefing.

you were playing with your fingers, scratching at your nail beds until a warm hand gripped yours.

you glanced over to see spencer’s arm outstretched, his lightly callused hand now gripping yours gently. his focus didn’t stray from hotch, who was explaining the case, but you could notice a light pink hue to his cheeks.

you smiled to yourself, resting back into your chair. spencer interlocked his fingers with yours, gently pulling your desk chair closer to his, and for the rest of the briefing you both remained in each others grasp.

“wheels up in 10.” hotch announced, causing everyone to jolt out of their respective slumped positions.

the team made their way out to the jet, you and spencer in tow. you slung your to go back over your shoulder, spencer a few steps behind you.

everyone else had boarded at this point, and they were just waiting on the two youngest members of the team.

“y’know i’ve never been to colorado- i heard its really cold this time of year.” you hummed out, starting to climb the steps up to the jet.

spencer was listening to you intently, he liked when you rambled about things it made his heart swoon when you talked about how excited you were.

“hey just- be careful okay?” he mumbled, watching your careless steps.

“yeah yeah i’ll be fine spence.”

you adjusted the strap on your bag, looking over your shoulder to make another comment about the trip. bad idea.

as you went to place your foot onto the next step, you completely missed it, causing you to topple backwards.

spencer, who was behind you, was mentally preparing for this the whole time. he immediately stretched his arms out, gripping onto your falling form. he wrapped one arm around your waist, using his other hand to grab onto the railing to balance you both.

you locked eyes with him, faces practically inches apart.

“t-thanks, that would’ve been close.” you could feel your face burning.

a smug smile graced reid’s features, his grip on your waist not faltering.

“falling for me already, l/n?” he chuckled, eyeing your features. you grew more embarrassed, the tips of your ears burning.

he just wanted to lean in and kiss you, and he would have but you were interrupted.

“reid, l/n- we are taking off now come on.” hotch yelled out from inside the jet.

[finniestoncrane]

Ain't So Bad

Cooper Howard x Fem!Reader, word count: 1.1k i want this man to do horrible things to me, i want him to tell me he'll make sure i'm ok when i know full well he's the most dangerous thing around, he's driving me INSANE anyway i'll have a softer thing for him soon!! 🤎 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: dubcon/noncon, restraints, use of 'no' but reader is quick to do as told, restraints, slight threat, gun mention, hair pulling

The sun had thankfully almost set, the long shadows cast by it a welcome relief, though it did mean that night was coming, along with the threats that were its constant companion. But you always assumed you were safe, travelling with your own companion. Especially when that companion was Cooper Howard. Charming, despite his foul attitude that put most people off. Handsome, at least to you, and much to the disappointment of the more ‘reserved’ folks you came across out in the wasteland. And you felt lucky, most of the time, to consider him yours. But you suspected that, while he kept the danger away, that there was a reason for that.

Even predators had something they were afraid of. There was always a greater evil.

And as the darkness fell, his silhouette lit only by the small fire in the corner of the roofless room, you began to realise that Cooper was a lot more dangerous than you had let yourself come to terms with.

“Cooper, wait… we’re not safe enough, I don’t…”

You trailed off, aware that your words were falling on deaf ears as Cooper dragged his dry lips across your cheek, grazing his teeth against the skin as you felt him pushing you backwards, your spine straightening against the crumbling wall behind you.

“It ain’t so bad out here… certainly won’t be when you see what I’ve got in store for you.”

“Please, Cooper… no, Coop, I can’t-”

Interrupted by your own sharp inhale, you held the breath as you watched Cooper’s eyes settled on yours, your hands above you head against the wall, his hands tight around your wrists, preventing you from holding him back any further.

“I’m here to keep you safe, darlin’. You’ll be fine.”

His words meant very little against what you knew was lurking out there, and your nerves pushed your protests out of your clamping throat.

“But Cooper, you know I get scared… I don’t want to do this, not here.”

“Well too bad, missy…”

He lifted your hands and slammed them back down again, watching as you winced at the dull pain.

“… it ain’t like there’s a nice place I can take a girl like you for something like this…”

Cooper’s grip loosened, one of his hands leaving yours as he fumbled with the belt on his pants. You could have easily pulled away, but you didn’t. You couldn’t be sure why, and you chose not to linger on that thought, luckily distracted from it as Cooper’s unbuckled belt clanged, his eyes back towards you.

“…Now, are you going to be a good girl and take it?”

The free hand now drifted to his hip, pushing back his long coat, his palm lazily resting on the holstered gun by his side before he continued speaking. Slowly, clearly, in a low, guttural tone.

“Or am I gonna have to be a bad man and take. It.”

His stare penetrated you, like he could see through your skull to the wall you were trapped against. Your chest seemed to stay completely still despite the deep breaths you took. When you tried to speak, your tongue stayed flat, your lips trembling, nothing but a squeak of air managing to pass between you.

“I asked you a question.”

All you offered was a stuttered mumble and a sheepish nod of your head, a smile offered to you by Cooper as he kicked your legs apart with his muddy boot. Two gloved fingers teased at the front of your pants, pulling them away from skin before sinking below the waistband and brushing against your thickened lips. Excitement, adrenaline, fear. All of it passed over you in a heartbeat, your heart fluttering as he removed his hands from you. Bringing the fingers to his lips, he bit down on the leather with his yellowed teeth, tearing off the glove and tossing it to the ground. His fingers were back down quickly, spreading apart your folds. His uncovered fingers delved inside of you, only briefly, before he withdrew that small modicum of pleasure from the otherwise intense and nerve-wracking situation.

As he separated himself from you, your back arched involuntarily away from the wall, your body betraying your protests as you ached for more of his touch.

“My, my… you sure were fussing a lot for someone who is clearly enjoying themselves…”

Bringing his two fingers up, he spread them apart, watching carefully as your slick stretched in long strands between them.

“Bend over.”

“Cooper, wait, please, I-”

Gripping your waist, Cooper knocked you off balance and let you fall to the floor, a cloud of dust rising up around you.

“I done enough waitin’, darlin’.”

As you struggled to get onto all fours, you felt yourself knocked once more, cheek slamming to the ground as your arms were pulled up behind your back. You could feel the rope tightening around your skin, your wrists bound together and stuck against your spine.

“Now listen, you just lie there…”

He leaned down, whispering into your ear, his hot breath tingling you, making the hairs rise on the back of your neck.

“… and try to keep quiet.”

Behind you, Cooper fell to his knees, pulling down his own pants before turning his attention to yours, uncovering just enough of you that he knew he could slip himself between your thighs and into your wet, warm cunt without leaving either of you too vulnerable to any surprise guests.

Once his other glove was off, you could feel his palm sliding up your back, cracked nails scratching at the nape of your neck before his fingers gripped your hair. Your back contorted as he lifted your face from the ground, positioning you perfectly for his curved cock, lubed with his own drool which he let drip down from his lips in a long, lewd strand, to slide inside of you with little mercy. He pounded into you once, setting the tone for the rest of the encounter you had to endure.

But he hadn’t lied.

“Just a little longer, darlin’, we’ll have you back on two legs… just hng gimme… ah… fuck, that’s it…”

His brutal pace, the way he was so desperately trying to get to the conclusion, the relief, the pain of the stretch, the heat in your own chest that made you moan in response to the way his cock pulsed within your walls.

But he was true to his word.

Because while one hand was tugging at the hair, fingernails scratching your scalp, his hips bucking into your body, knocking you forward and into the ground, his other hand clutched the shotgun, finger teasing the trigger, tempted to send shots into the air at his climax, but ready to defend you both against anyone, or anything, that threatened to interrupt him.

“See, darlin’… not so bad after all.”

[miley1442111]

protective- a.hotchner

summary: aaron (literally) fights for you

pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!fem! reader

warnings: angst, talk of abuse, violence, general cm topics, crying, reader is a victim of DV (not aaron), gross men (i think that's it?)

not entirely proofread

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Aaron Hotchner was a leader that you’d known from the beginning. He was your team leader, he was calm, collected, and calculated in everything. His lunch was the same everyday, he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t swear all that often, and he wore the same sequence of shirts and suits every week. He was organised. 

Mondays was a blue shirt with a black suit, Tuesdays was a white shirt with a navy suit, Wednesdays was a white shirt with a black suit, Thursdays was a blue shirt with a grey suit, and Fridays was a white shirt with navy suit. Everything was fine and dandy, you trusted him, and you enjoyed his company. Everything was fine, until it wasn't. 

One stupid day, 8 whole months after you and your ex had broken up, he just so happens to be at the same bar you and the team are celebrating in, and he must’ve made it his personal mission to find you, to shout at you, to get you back. To piss you off. It hadn’t exactly been a good week, but then again, what week is when you’re dealing with murder cases? 

“Y/n,” Penelope sighed, looking out at the rest of the team on the ‘dance floor’. “I don’t understand,” she drew out the ‘understand’ to a ridiculous length, purely to annoy you. “How are you two so perfect?”

“Keep your voice down!” you hissed, turning back to her again. “We may not be at work but this is a work dinner.”

Did I mention he was your boyfriend too? 

“Have you seen yourself?” she gawked. “You’re gorgeous! He’s gorgeous! You two would make perfect babies” 

You chuckled. “I thank you for the flattery, but we can be honest here, he’s fucking gorgeous, and yeah, I’m alright,” you laughed when she hit you lovingly. “And, we’ve been together for 6 months, not 6 years. No babies for like… a while at least.”

“Y/n!” Charles’ voice rang out in the bar, meaning everyone around you turned to your group. “You fucking blocked me?!”He came up behind you, placing a tense hand on your shoulder, gripping the skin there until it hurt. “What kind of bitch does that?”

“Me, I guess,” you answered simply, staring straight down at your drink. Charles hadn’t been a very good boyfriend, nor a good person, and you didn’t really understand why you’d stayed for so long. Something about watching women get killed by their partners kind of snapped you into reality. Not that he was that bad but, he wasn’t good.

“Yeah right, you bitch. Unblock me, we need to talk about this!” 

“About what?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “We broke up 8 months ago, let it die Charles.”

“Baby, I miss you,” he leaned in closer, his breath heavy with alcohol. “I miss that pretty pussy too.”

You shuttered with disgust. “Get the fuck off of me,” you punctuated each word carefully and spoke slowly, making sure he heard you.

“Don’t be like that baby,” he smirked, tightening his grip. “Or it won’t end well.”   

You felt it. The gun in his holster. He wasn’t past killing you, you knew that. You knew he wasn’t safe. He never had been. He just wanted to get you home and into his bed, and you’d rather that than dead. 

“Get off of her,” Penelope demanded. He turned his attention to her, and you instinctively reached for your gun, only to remember that you left it at home. You weren’t about to let him hurt Pen. “And who may you be?” he asked. “Don’t,” you gritted out. “You’re here for me, not her.”

He turned his attention back to you. “I know that sweetheart, I don’t see why I can’t chat, do you?” 

“Let’s just go,” you told him. He nodded, a smug smirk on his face. You got up, his hand stayed on your shoulder the whole time, his other hand on his hip. 

“Good girl,” his laugh was dirty. Everything about him was dirty and sleazy and it made you sick. But again, better you than Penlope. 

Penelope’s eyes searched for someone, anyone to see you. He needed Morgan, o-or Hotch, or just anyone. “Hotch!” she called when she finally caught his eye. He rushed over to her. 

“Are you alright?” he asked, searching her for injury or signs of upset. 

“Y/n a-and this tall guy, he was talking to her and then she just got up a-and left. She looked scared. I-I didn’t know what to do,” she stuttered through her sentence, tears building in her eyes. 

You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. You. Scared. 

It played in his head like a sick mantra until he finally did something. He rushed out of there as fast as he could. He had to find you. He needed to find you. 

He ran down the alley beside the bar, nothing. Ran down the road with Morgan on his tail, nothing. Cars weren’t even moving, it was just a regular night. 

“Y/n!” Spencer called out to you. 

There you were. Leaning against a car with him standing over you. 

The three of them rushed over, ready to just take you back inside. They didn’t know how dangerous Charles was, how obsessed he was. 

“Stop!” you warned them. “Go back inside, I’m alright, I promise.” 

“We’re not leaving you here,” Derek argued. “Man, get off of her-”

Charles scoffed. “She wants this, she’s into it. It’s just some harmless fun!” 

Aaron almost recoiled out of disgust. He knew what you were into, and he knew it wasn’t this. It had taken you almost the full 6 months you’d been with him to even be comfortable enough to kiss or touch him in public. You didn’t talk about it but… it did come with the territory of being a behavioural analyst. He noticed how you shied away from the way he touched you sometimes, he noticed how you refused to drink a drop of alcohol, he noticed how you flinched at big noises, he noticed how you held his hand during sex. All of these little things, it led him to one conclusion, you’d been abused. 

He promised himself if he ever got to meet the fucker, he’d hurt him, if not kill him. 

Then in came Charles, and thus began the night Aaron Hotchner ended up in jail for aggravated assault. 

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You sat in the police station, your head hung low. This was all your fault, none of this would’ve happened if you’d just-

“It’s not your fault,” Aaron whispered as he sat beside you, putting his cufflinks back on. Of course, you’d bailed him out and he’d gotten off with a warning and a fine, which was pretty good considering what he did to the guy. “Please don’t blame yourself.” 

You shook your head, willing yourself not to cry. “Aaron you got in a fight because of-”

“A choice I made to provoke a dangerous person,” he finished. “A choice I made.”

You nodded. “Aaron, your lip,” you placed a gentle hand on his cheek which he leaned into. His lip was split, he had a bruise forming on his head, and you knew his back was sore from the fight. You knew how hard Charles could hit. 

“My lip is fine, I promise. The paramedics gave me some painkillers. Are you alright?”

The dreaded question. No, you were hilariously, awfully, un-alright. You had to see Charles again, he touched you again, he talked to you again. You shook your head, tearing up.  Aaron didn’t shy away. He held you as you sobbed in that police precinct. He didn’t care about anyone staring, he didn’t care that the team was waiting outside, he didn’t care. He cared about you. You were all that mattered in that moment, and every moment after it.

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