hip holster

Excerpt from one of the several Check, Please! fics I am working on.

This one’s an AU, one of the “Jack went into the NHL at 18 and Bitty has some unrelated career” variety, of which there are many.

Shitty Knight (that was going to take some getting used to) was waiting outside the locker room when Jack emerged. With him was a shorter man, slender and blond, wearing a blue t-shirt and the shortest red shorts Jack had ever seen on an adult. He had sunglasses perched on his head and was deep in conversation with Knight. Must be an intern.

As Jack drew nearer, they both turned toward him. Jack almost stopped walking. The blond man was armed; he had a hip holster clipped to the waistband of his miniscule red shorts.

“Um – hello,” Jack said. He was trying not to stare at this tiny, armed – okay, the word his brain kept suggesting was ‘twink,’ but that seemed uncharitable so he resisted it. This tiny armed person. He focused on Knight, who would surely explain.

“Jack. Good skate?”


“Yeah, I coulda predicted that. Jack, this is Eric Bittle. He’ll be heading up your security detail.”

Jack could not keep the look of incredulity off his face. Bittle seemed totally unsurprised by his gobsmacked expression. “Go ahead, get it out of your system,” he said, his voice a smooth, Southern-accented tenor.

“I’m sorry, but – really?”

Knight also looked like he’d had this conversation more than once before. “To paraphrase Shakespeare, though he be but little, he is fierce.”

“Midsummer Nights’ Dream,” Jack said.

“Mr. Bittle is my best agent, Jack. He may not look like a bodyguard, but he is quick and he’s a crack shot.”

“If you say so, Knight, but…” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Okay, I’m not usually this much of an asshole, but this is my life we’re talking about, and you – I’m sure you’re good at your job, but you look like I could tip you over with two fingers.”

Bittle calmly took the sunglasses off his head and handed them to Knight. “Try it.”

Jack spluttered a little. “Look, I’m not going to…”

“Bless your heart, this isn’t my first time at the bake-off, Mr. Zimmermann. I know how this goes. Nobody buys it until I show them, so go ahead. Try it. And don’t hold back.”

Georgia Gothic

You mention a democratic politician during casual conversation. The words ‘2nd amendment’ rumbles deep in the back of the throats of the natives. They all instinctively reach for their hip where a holster would normally sit.

It is 96 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Yesterday it snowed 3 inches. You think it may have rained on Tuesday.

There is a man by the side of the road selling homegrown vegetables and fruits. You buy a watermelon. “They’re in season!” He says, his smile full of teeth. Too many teeth. They are always in season.

You visit the islands of Georgia. The sand is pale. It is as pale as the faces of the national park rangers. “Don’t go onto the beach at night.”

You go fishing in a river. You catch a Bass. Bass don’t have teeth normally do they?

Peaches. There are peaches everywhere here. You cannot escape them. You must eat them. Peach viscera coats your floor, and peach puts fill your garbage can. You are happy. The peaches are sweet and sticky.

You feel the call of the World of Coca-Cola. You cannot resist. You must make the pilgrimage to Atlanta. You have seen the same car pulled onto the side of the road with its hazards on five times. You reach the world of coke. You do not remember your name as you wander through bubbley, red halls. You try the Beverly. You are infinite.

This is seriously one of my favourite pieces of clothing; it’s so versatile and just so bloody cute! I even made a pair of tights into a fishnet bolero for this!!

I’ll be doing a giveaway on this account and my hipstergram soon, so keep yourself updated ;D

Bone - Bucky x Reader

Not Requested - REQUESTS OPEN

Bucky x Reader in which the reader and Bucky have to share a bed due to ’unfortunate’ circumstances… and Bucky brings a …friend.

Note:*evil cackling*( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)*chokes on spit bc I’m awkward af* …so this is based when Bucky was still with Hydra, but he had a partner… you. idk if this is English or not bc I’ve been dealing with some massive migraines lately :( …buuuuuuuUuuuuut… enjoy :) -Aly

Warning: language

Originally posted by sebastiansource

“You fucking shitting me? You’ve legit only got the one room with one goddamn bed?” The poor boy behind the check-in counter nods quickly, keeping his gaze averted. Can’t blame him, I mean you’re standing there in a black leather catsuit with a cargo belt and two hip holsters, a thigh holster, ankle holster, a sniper rifle on your back, and an automatic rifle in your hands; plus there are at least 10 large knives strapped to your body. Not to mention that you’re covered in blood and are currently wearing dark, smudged eyeliner in Hydra’s infamous ‘asset war makeup’ style. Having the Winter Soldier hovering over your shoulder helps, too.

Winter leans forward to mumble to you in Russian, causing you to nod slightly. You turn to scowl at the boy again, handing him some cash that Hydra had gifted you with. They sent you to exterminate some ‘pesks’ with the knowledge that you’d have to lay low in the town for a few nights.

“You say one goddamn thing about seeing ether of us,” you hiss, your Russian accent coming out thicker, “And I will slide blades between your fingernails and nailbeds, and force you to type a hundred page essay.” The boy’s eyes widen in horror as Winter chuckles quietly behind you. He’s seen you do just that, to some democrat that was getting too nosey for Boss’ tastes. The boy shakily hands you a keycard and your cash back. “Спасибо,” you thank as you take the key. You and Winter march to the elevator.

The metal walls bounce back the sounds of the two of you breathing as you stare at each other. Unlike most average people, you two stand facing each other, because apparently when your mind has been wiped a bazillion times you loose all sense of elevator manners.

The door dings upon arrival and the two of you step out when the doors slide open. “669,” you mutter, leading Winter to the door. You hesitate to unlock it, brows furrowing. You turn your head to Winter whom looks at you inquisitively. “Dibs on the bed,” you wink.

“Damnit,” Winter grumbles, following you into the small room. “Share?” He suggests pleadingly as the two of you secure the room and shed your weapons onto the desk in the corner.

“Sure. If you try and fuck with me and I’ll slit your shitting throat,” you warn in compliance.

Winter just smirks, lowering his voice to seductive and smooth tones as he says, “Thats not what you said last time, darlin’.” You whip around, a gnarled hunting knife slipping from your fingertips. It embeds itself in the wall millimeters away from Winter’s ear.

“Call me darling again, asshole,” you grunt. Winter shrugs, that same shit eating grin on his stubbled face. Fucking asshole. You scowl and turn back around as Winter begins to undress. You step into the bathroom and shut the door behind you before stripping down.

The shower is hot, and you relish the way it almost burns your skin. The only time you get a hot shower is on missions like this one, otherwise Hydra throws you into a cold one. In fact, the only time you’re warm at the compound is during training, and when they wipe you. Apparently when electricity is fucking spazzing out in your brain and severing nerves, your body works up a sweat. Imagine that shit.

You’re quick to wash in the shower, knowing that you’ll have to get out before Winter decides to try and join you.

Steam spills from the shower and into the room when you step out. Winter, who sits buck ass nude in a chair, glances up at you and grins, “Leave any heat for me, Soldier?” You roll your eyes, keeping them off of where he wants them most: his dick.

“You smell,” you grumble as you dig through a duffle bag for some clean non-combat clothes. You end up with one of Winter’s clean undershirts and a pair of panties. You spin around to glare at the man, prompting him to saunter into the bathroom.

You shake the towel from your body and wrap it up around your hair in a turban style, before slipping into the clothes. The shower kicks on and you can hear Winter dropping things every few minutes. You dry and finger comb your hair while you scan some documents that had been picked up on the mission.

You’re so engrossed in the paper work describing some man in a flag costume and a bitch with too much cleavage showing for her catsuit to be functional and shit, that you don’t even hear Winter finish his shower until he’s sitting next to you on the bed. You jump, snapping the files closed before tossing them to land on the desk by your guns.

Winter smirks, “Time for bed.” He’s scanning your bare legs. “Is that my shirt?” You nod, not bothering to speak to him as you slide under the covers. You’re on the farthest left side, as close to the edge as possible. Winter joins you with a chuckle. “Looks good,” he whispers as his arms, both warm flesh and chilling metal, snake around you and yank you back into him. You jab an elbow back into his ribs and scoot away. “Have it your way.”

“Shut the fuck up you shit head,” you sneer. Winter shifts and you can feel his smug grin. He lives for bothering you. Also because if he died then Hydra would kill you too, and he does have a heart. At least, when it comes to you. In the end, Winter obeys, and the both of you drift off into restless sleep.

Your body’s inner clock wakes you up at 5am sharp. You try to sit up, but find yourself in the tight embrace of Winter. You pause, settling back into your spot when he groans sleepily. It’s actually… not bad… Kind of comfortable… Shit you’re going to be punished for this. You resist the urge to slip from Winter’s hold, but instead lay in his arms calmly. He’s very warm. Scratch that, he’s like a goddamn furnace blasting out fires in the 9th circle of hell. You face away from him, your bodies pressed together from top to bottom. Your head is on his right bicep, his left arm is wrapped around your waist, and your legs are tangled together.

It’s then you feel something poking your ass uncomfortably. You shift your hips, trying to get a feel for what it is, and that’s when Winter moans lightly. You freeze as it adds up in your brain. Hip level, hard, cylindrical… THE WINTER SOLDIER HAS A FUCKING BONER! Your eyes go wide and you can feel something welling up in your chest. Laughter fights to break free from your throat but you stifle it and roll your hips again.

This time, Winter groans loudly, his grip around you tightens and he pulls you closer. Your body is shaking with silent laughter, jarring him from his sleep. “What the fuck?” He’s a cranky grumbling mess as his grip on you loosens. You roll away and out of the bed, landing to stand over Winter, your laughter becoming verbal. “The shit are you laughing at?”

“You-” Your laughter makes it hard to speak as you stutter through an explanation, “You’ve g-got… a-a-a b-boner!” You’re practically crying at this point as red flushes across Winter’s face and down his neck. He rolls onto his front in an attempt to hide it, but ends up choking on a moan at the pressure. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

“’s not that funny,” Winter mumbles in embarrassment. You sigh, shaking your head and wiping your eyes as your laughter stops.

“No, you’re right,” you admonish, plopping onto the bed by him, “It’s completely natural for men who haven’t had sex in 60 years.”

Winter scoffs and rolls his eyes, “It hasn’t been 60 years.”

“Right, I forgot, over 70 years. It’s… what?… 2013? 2014?” You snicker, watching as Winter rolls onto his back before sitting up.

“How would either of us know? What’s the last thing you remember?” Winter stalks off wth his depressing statement and heads for a shower. You frown at his bare back, what is the last thing you remember?

Bitch, that dick.

“Hey!” You holler to Winter. “Take care of your friend in there, yeah?” Winter grunts loudly in reply. You snicker, standing up to get dressed in battle gear again, prepping to accept the newest mission in D.C..


You smirk, slapping a hand on Bucky’s thigh. He glares forward grumpily while the others laugh raucously. “It’s okay, babe,” You assure gently. “All men get a little excited sometimes.”

“I can’t believe that the grumpy cat Winter Soldier over there got a boner because of spooning!” Tony pipes up between cackles. “‘Winter Boner!’”

I always wanted a JungleTribe hip holster pack, but it was wayyyy out of my price range, so last week I made myself one with lotus cutouts. its not finished yet, this is just my first attempt at winging it. I plan to add some more d-rings/grommets for deco still. I dislike purses these days, and my utility belt is brown which throws off some costumes, so I felt a black alternative was a wardrobe necessity. I plan to make a double holster/utility belt combo next, in steampunk coords. It also can be worn as a backpack  better photos later

Closed // brxthersandsxns

Matt sighed, putting the gun back together and sticking it in the hip holster. “Lovely… It’s fucking cold out.” He closed his window, forgetting to lock it. He went over to his closet, humming softly to himself.

anonymous asked:

I'm writing about a warrior character who is about 6 foot, when he's all geared up I imagine him with all sorts of blades attached to his person, but hidden so as not to draw attention. But realistically, how many blades could a person carry around?

Well, there’s the old movie joke.

The answer is… a lot. It could be a lot. This is usually more of a gag with fighters who use knives, soldiers, and cops (you know, ankle holster, shoulder holster, hip holster, back holster). While the never ending stream of weapons is a joke, most professional combatants are going to carry around three to four different weapons on their person. The primaries and the backups. If he’s carrying a hidden weapon then it’ll be something small like a knife (though you can actually hide a full frame pistol on your body). He won’t be stuffing a greatsword down his shirt or a longsword down his pants.

It’s going to look something more along the lines of: carrying a spear/longarm in one hand, longsword (backsword, arming sword, etc) sheathed on the waist as backup, shield in the other hand or on the saddle for convenience (if not going into battle), dagger on the other waist. He may also be carrying a mace or other specialized mass melee weapon depending. And depending on cultural or historical expectations, he may also be carrying a bow. Not the bow will most likely be a warbow and, unless he’s heading into battle, it will be not be strung (as in he’s carrying his bowstring, it’s not on the weapon). Many of the weapons he has (again if he’s not intending to use them) will travel wrapped unless he has a specific reason for wanting them seen in order to protect them from the elements. That’s probably the closest he’ll get to incognito.

Unless he’s specifically expecting trouble, he’s also unlikely to travel in his armor. It’s more likely to get damaged. Like all his gear, it must be properly cared for and that means being cleaned and polished regularly.

However, most of the weapons he’ll be using aren’t the kind you hide.

What’s perhaps the greatest mistake when writing about warriors is this one: the warrior needs a weapon. No, a warrior is the weapon.

They are the weapon they carry with them everywhere they go.