#Are Russian sniper rifles the best?

[batwritings]

Kinktober Day 1 - Breeding

My first published piece for Call of Duty! Like a lot of others I got very much sucked in (c'mon...hot masked man? ya'll really think I'm that strong? I'm far too gay for that. /hj) to this series and hope you all enjoy the content I write for it! Enjoy!~

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Coming on this mission was nothing short of a mistake. Yet Price wasn’t one to let work build up and overwhelm him. Plus, this was a favor to Nik; he couldn’t just turn the Russian man down with all the times Nik had saved his ass. The unfortunate part of all this was you.

Your relationship with the Captain wasn’t exactly secret. A number of soldiers had caught you two by now. You two really did try to keep things under wraps! But after Gaz and Soap had caught you in his lap, lips passionately discovering the other’s, well…let’s just say the two sergeants weren’t the best at letting it remain a secret. Thankfully for the both of you, Laswell had workarounds, and the entire squad was sworn to secrecy until further notice. It was only recently, during a short shore leave that the conversation came up: kids. “I’m too old for that pup,” he’d chided, casually taking a drag off his cigar. You huffed a laugh quietly.

“Oh c’mon John,” you hummed against his bare chest. Your fingers played idly with the hair that covered his skin. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t want to see a little mix of both of us running around base? How happy they’d be with all their uncles and auntie Laswell?” You could see the cogs turning in his post-coitus brain. So many different scenarios played over and over in his brain. On the one hand, the two of you had probably the most dangerous jobs in the world. There was absolutely no way he would let you back out in to the field if he found out you were pregnant. 

But the more he thought about it; you all round with his child, the happy life that would await you two. The idea of him absolutely ravishing you with the sole purpose of knocking you up became more and more enticing. Which was exactly why this mission was nothing short of torture for him.

You were being used as bait, put lightly. And a variety of different people had their hands all over you, guiding you where you needed to be. Now normally, Price was by no means a jealous man. He was rather proud to call you his partner, and was more than happy to show you off and brag about you. But something about the way you were being drug around set some sort of fire in the good captain.

“Ghost, do you have a copy?” He asks over the comms.

“Send traffic,” comes the response of Ghost from the other end of the building, no doubt honing on potential targets through the sight of his sniper rifle.

“Go to the next channel, there’s been a change of plans,” Price tells him as calmly as possible. There are a view other questions from Soap, Gaz, and Laswell, but he leaves them all unanswered as he switches the channel on his radio. “I’m going in after them.” “Price…” Ghost starts to protest. He’d warned the Captain long ago that if Price were to involve himself with a partner, emotions would eventually get in the way. The masked man knew his Captain’s emotions and control over them far better than he’d ever let on. “We can’t afford to complicate things.”

“I won’t,” Price comments sharply, slipping down the embankment to get closer to the building. His aim was to slip in a window to a room where he knew there’d be no guards. He remembers the layout like the back of his hand; his photographic memory worked pretty well for someone reaching forty. 

Again, the Lieutenant sighs heavily over the comms. “Fuckin’ hell…” he grumbles, adjusting his position slightly. “Just don’t get yourselves caught in there old man. Last thing we need is losing two good soldiers in one night.”

The captain chuckles grimly before hoisting himself up onto a few barrels and switching his comm back to the original channel. Ghost can be heard explaining the plan to the team, but Price tunes them out. “C/S, move to that empty room we pointed out on the first floor as you can,” Ghost instructs.

“Copy,” comes your hushed response. Price nods, hauling himself up and into the open window. How their target didn’t think to guard this room was beyond him. Then again, with how much he was struggling to get in, it’s not like it was necessary. “Fuck my old boots,” the man grumbles as he hits the floor, joints protesting at the sudden drop.

“Gettin’ old on us there Cap?” comes your teasing tone. You just barely manage to silently shut the door behind you when your world is sent into a whirlwind, eyes now meeting the brick wall in the dark room. A gloved hand is covering your mouth as the other pins your hands above your head. 

“I’m sorry darlin’,” you hear Price say, right against your ear. “But there’s a thought that’s been plaguing me, and I can’t hold it in anymore, Nikolai be damned.” You try hard to wiggle and protest, but your captain has his boot between your feet, shuffling your legs apart.

You gasp a little as you feel the excitement rush straight between your thighs. “That’s my pup,” Price purrs, warm breath and beard tickling the shell of your ear. “Keep those wandering hands still for me.” Slowly, as if to test your obedience, the good captain lets go of your hands. You do as he orders as you feel him undo the suit pants you’d been put in for the night. 

A gloved hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear, running over your wet slit. You try to contain your whimper, but your captain was no fool. He knew your body and all it’s sweet spots better than he knew his own. The rough fabric brushes over your nub and you gasp against his other hand. 

“That eager already are we?” The man teases, kissing along your neck. Your eyes close and your brow knits in frustration. Not that you were mad by what was unfolding, oh no. It was because that man’s amazing cock wasn’t in you right now.

Thankfully, you and Price often shared the same brain cell, and you could hear the telltale sound of him undoing his belt, shimmying his pants and briefs down enough to get his member free. Yours were next, the fabric easily slipping down your legs to pool around your ankles. 

Price was as slow as he felt he could be, rubbing the head of his cock over your quickly moistening slit and hole. “Gonna take me so well darling,” he coos, more kisses and nips against the sensitive area of your neck. 

When his member first breaches your entrance, your knees almost buckle. It had been so long since you’d had your captain inside you, you’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. If it weren’t for the glove in front of you, the diplomatic party would probably have heard your shuddered sigh of pleasure as Price fully sheaths himself inside you.

It doesn’t take long, between the time crunch and your warm, wet walls hugging his cock so perfectly, for the captain to start truly fucking you. He went from gently letting you adjust to trying to muffle the sound of your skin meeting so quick it made your world spin. “Fuckin’ hell,” he groans, sliding his hand down your side to grip your hip so hard you knew it would bruise and you’d have to hide your slight limp for the rest of the night.

“Can’t wait to see you,” he murmurs against your skin, stopping in his sentence to moan softly. “--so full with our child, love. Gonna be so perfect for me.” His words have you absolutely gushing, your wetness making the sex even louder. 

You’re not sure how long the two of you had been at this, but the voices growing closer to the room told both you and Price that there wasn’t much time left. “Price, wrap up your business,” Ghost hisses over the comms. The thrill and knowledge of what brought this on has you teetering on the precipice of orgasm.

“Go on pup,” Price growls softly. “Let’s make this the moment. That moment I breed you like you want.” As every good soldier would, you follow your captain’s order, biting down slightly on the fabric of the glove to keep your whimpers from reaching the hall. The good captain isn’t far behind you, quickly spilling his seed inside you. 

The two of you are trying to come down from your respective highs when you hear. “...Is someone in there?” shouted from beyond the door. In swift movements, Price pulls out of you and you’re pulling your pants and underwear up from the floor. Just as you’re finished fixing your hair and your captain slips around the corner does the door open, light flooding the dark room.

“...Y/N?” asks the intruder. You give a sheepish smile, only accented by the flush still on your face. Not like they had to know it was from the sneaky sex you’d just had with your superior who would probably blow this person’s brains out in the next few minutes.

“Sorry, I…got a bit shy. I needed a moment to adjust myself,” you explain. The person shoots you a knowing look before ushering you out of the room. Price waits with baited breath for them to leave and walk away before sighing. He needed to get out of here before the mission changed any further. 

“All finished?” Ghost asks, voice surprisingly calm for how much he detested the change in plan.

“On my way out,” Price advises, pulling a few boxes closer to help ease his escape.

“Good,” the lieutenant answers. “Oh and Price? Permission to speak freely?”

“Go ahead Ghost, send traffic,” the captain answers, just barely getting into the window before he hears the response.

“Turn your comms off next time you decide to fuck your partner on the job.”

[sanechka0]

ALEXANDER VOLKOV

MAIN INFO

Name: Alexander Volkov Mikhailovich

Alias: Alex

Age: 23 years old (for the time of 2024)

Orientation: Heterosexual

Native language: Kazakh

Other languages: English, Russian

Nationality: Kazakh

Date of birth: June 30, 2001

Rank: Lieutenant

Place of birth: Karaganda city, Kazakhstan

Eyes: grey

Hair color: dark brunette

Height: 174 cm/5`8

Weight: 85 kg

Body type: strong, athletic

Diseases: heart failure

REALITIONSHIPS/FAMILY

Relationships: -

Father: Mikhail Volkov Gennadievich

Mother: Tatiana Volkova/Verbitskaya (maiden name) Ivanovna (dead)

Sister: (Name is a secret) Volkova Mikhailovna

SKILLS AND ABILITIES

Fighting style: Ranged combat

Weapon: L96A1 rifle (used with a silencer)

Special skills: good eyesight, fast running

AFFLIATIONS

A former soldier of the FSPA (Federal Special Purpose Agency), left after an accident. He currently serves in Task Force 141

INJIRIES

A burn on half of his face after the explosion of a rifle, a scar on his arm after the explosion, several scars on his body

PERSONALITY AND TRAITS

Ambivert: in some situations, he can be energetic and sociable, and in others quiet and withdrawn. But in general, he is close to the behavior of an introvert and prefers to be alone, but if necessary, he can talk to someone.

Surface reading: he is able to quickly read the material and memorize information just as quickly

PERSONAL PREFERENCES

Favorite book: "The Master and Margarita" by Mikhail Bulgakov

Favorite color: monochrome, dark shades, pastel shades

Bad habits: smoking

Favorite drink: does not drink alcohol, tomato juice

Favorite food: shawarma, vegetable salads, dumplings, instant noodles, spicy dishes

Favorite musicians: BI – 2, VULGAR MOLLY, 2rbina 2rista, NERVES

FUN FACTS

He is a programmer by education, but he needed this specialty for his diploma. After completing his studies, he joined the army

He cooks well, if he is in a good mood, he can cook delicious food. He hates eating in the army canteen, which is why he prefers to cook something himself in a hurry, such as noodles or dumplings

Very attentive. Can notice things that others don't notice

Copes poorly with stress. Let him always have a stony face, but he can easily snap at someone

Respects people with high rank

He can use people for his own benefit

BACKGROUND STORY

Alex was born into a single-parent family. His father divorced his mother before he was born. His older sister helped her mother as much as she could and studied at the same time. When Alex was born, his mother was glad to see him, because an heir and a long-awaited son were born. Everything was fine until the age of 12, until the tragedy happened. His mother died at work during a fire. After that, he was sent to an orphanage, from where his sister decided not to take him away because of her personal injuries after his father. After 18, he was kicked out of the orphanage and given an apartment in a more or less normal condition, where he lived while studying and worked in a cafe for a low salary.

When he was 19, a man came to him who offered him a job at the agency where his mother died. When he found out what money they promised him, he immediately agreed. He was an excellent soldier, and in particular a sniper. It may sound silly, but he was the best sniper. That was the end of his skills, he was bad at close combat and therefore decided that he would work from afar.

Of course, there were those who envied him. They envied his luck, because it cost him almost nothing to get to this place, while others were not so "chosen" and they had to gnaw out a place for themselves here. Unknown people decided to get rid of him, and therefore seriously framed him during one of the missions.

During the mission, as usual, Alex took a comfortable position to get a better view from above and cover his own. His task was one, to remove people who would interfere. Shot after shot, everything went like clockwork. But after another shot, the rifle exploded in his hands, thereby hitting the floor of his face and his left eye.

These few hours were like a blur: screams, gunshots, pain, hospital and white light. This event was deposited deep in his head, it's hard to forget. Those months of recovery were difficult both mentally and physically. As a result, he almost completely lost sight in his left eye and his face was disfigured by a large burn. Due to the injury, he constantly wears the darkest sunglasses possible so as not to attract attention to himself once again. After such an event, he immediately resigned, because he did not want to put his life on the brink again.

After his dismissal, he worked from time to time as a mercenary, if someone needed his support, because there were people who heard and knew where he left from. He has no friends or acquaintances, which is why he is very withdrawn into himself. Some time later, an unknown person, as she later introduced herself, Kate Laswell, wrote to him. She offered him a job, helping a certain group in one case by promising a good sum, to which Alex of course agreed.

At the end of their collaboration, Price liked Alex, there would be no extra hands in the team, and invited him to work with them. Alex, of course, thought about his proposal, but still agreed.

APPEARANCE

[yawnderu]

Stray - Chapter II

Author's note: not a lot happening here, just pushing this chapter out of my drafts before I start writing about the MW3 campaign. Sobbed for 4 hours about the fanfic in my head after seeing spoilers💀 No spoilers in this chapter, future chapters will be tagged accordingly and having a warning so you don't get spoiled either.

''Focus.'' Ghost's British accent rung in your earpiece, his deep voice barely above a whisper as you took overwatch with a sniper rifle. He didn't have the heart to tell you he could hear your fast, hard breathing on the comms, memories of the past flooding all over while your brain is stuck visiting people who are still alive in the graveyard of your heart.

''Enemy down, LT.'' You whispered as you took down an enemy guard, your focus on the scope not faltering until you saw the body dropping, blood quickly pooling up around their body before your attention was taken by movement in the distance, immediately using the scope to see better. You could easily make out the shape of another sniper, the camouflage outdated for the season accompanied by movement, yet it didn't seem they could see you yet.

''Spotted an enemy.'' You mutter in comms, keeping them open in case you had to run or took a shot. Ghost mutters a soft ''roger'' on the line and you line up the scope to take a perfect shot, easily finding the enemy sniper's head, who isn't even looking into their scope. You take a deep breath, relaxing your body before your finger pulls the trigger, the slight recoil hitting your body, yet you're still looking to confirm the kill.

''Moving.'' You don't wait for further comms before grabbing your equipment, tactical camouflage draped over your body as you swiftly run around, laying on your stomach and examining the area. It was an easy mission— gather intel and go, the barely secured safehouse making it easier for Ghost and you to complete this and go home.

You scan the area, eyes fully focused on the surroundings, looking for any possible movement. You saw none, though you were still highly alert, focusing on making sure your Lieutenant makes it out alive. It doesn't take long before he gathers the intel and you rendezvous at the helipad, your gloved fist raised slightly as you both settle in, his bumping yours after a few seconds of staring.

You lean closer to Ghost, speaking loudly over the rumbling sound of the blades."You think we'll take down Makarov?" He gives you a side eye for a second before turning his face towards yours, hesitantly nodding.

"We got plenty of good soldiers on our side, luv. There's always a risk, but..." He seems hesitant to answer, knowing he can lay his emotions bare to you, but refusing to do so.

"'M not sure." He finally replies and you simply nod, leaning back on your seat while you look at the background get smaller the higher you go. You both know Makarov is the ultimate threat. The kingfish. A man so deadly who has no hesitation on killing people, over 30.000 deaths caused by him, and truth to be told, you're all scared you'll join the growing number.

"Bonnie!" Soap says once he's back to base, arms wrapping around your waist as he lifts you up in the air and spins you, a ritual that started out as a joke whenever you both came back from missions without the other. After over a year of knowing these men and being stationed with them for so long, you eventually develop routines together, no matter how extra and annoying they might seem.

"Played rough with the Russians?" He asked with a cheeky smirk, arm wrapped around your shoulder as you walked back to the barracks. Ghost disappeared the moment you got back, likely to unwind and have some time alone before being practically forced by all of you to go to a bar. He knows the invitation is coming.

"Not many around— Ghost did all the dirty work down there." You shrug, arm wrapped around his waist as you walk, trying your best to ignore the way his toned muscles feel over your fingers. No. Soap is like a brother to you. At least, you've been telling yourself that for the past year or so.

"Sounds like him." He seems more relaxed now, the slight nervousness he gets whenever you or Ghost go on missions without him or more reinforcements slowly dissipating, giving him room to simply enjoy himself. And enjoy himself he will, knowing Price, Gaz and him will force Ghost and you to go to a new bar near base in a few hours.

"Ya should go shower." You raise an eyebrow and look up at him, hesitantly smelling your armpit to make sure you don't smell after hours on the field, laying still in dirt and under the sun. You don't even smell that bad.

"Asshole." Soap finally lets go of you with a laugh, narrowly missing a sharp kick thrown his way, running away like the coward he is.

[mister-ious]

i was watching the russian terminator channel and it got me thinking.. What if Ghost did this?

He doesn’t even know how this happened. Filming a YouTube video about how to use a tourniquet? How to manoeuvre an assault rifle? What type of knobhead would even be curious about this?

... Well, if they're curious about it they would've gone and signed up to the military, no? Why would they watch a video online?

Price waffled on. Something about 'getting people to join the military', something about 'sharing experiences', whatever bullshit reason he listened to during whatever meeting he had about this.. YouTube channel..

Ghost was even more perturbed that he had to be in the first few videos. Out of everyone else, it was him. Why and how has this been allowed? Couldn't Soap have done this? Gaz? No—they were informed about this channel before Ghost and they've decided to concoct a plan. A plan to make their lieutenant teach and tell a bunch of internet rando's about the military.

Soap and Gaz were nowhere to be found when Price were looking for them to film, hiding in the dark corners of base (literally just ducking, looking away, and running whenever they spot Price).

Ghost was absolutely miffed when they didn’t get to find other volunteers to replace him. In front of the camera on a tripod he quietly sighs and grunts, psyching himself up to be the introduction of the video, adjusting his clip-on mic. He claps, the noise muffled slightly by his gloves.

“Okay..” He starts gruffly, spotting Soap’s head sticking out of a bush from his peripherals, glaring at the mohawk. “Welcome to this video. I’m here to show you we operate..” he turns around to point at the guns behind him, “Our weapons.”

It was a lineup of the usual rifles . Some pistols and shotguns—snipers are for the next video they said.

Anyway, Ghost continued on with the video, explaining and presenting apathetically, with some of the rookies holding the guns the way that he told them to. He further glosses over the routine protocols that come with handling guns.

The video ends quite abruptly. Immediately cutting the camera recording after he’d shown the last gun. Ghost doesn’t say the ‘goodbyeandthanksforwatchingthevideolikeandsubscribe!’ farewell. Maybe it was for the best.

A week passes. Six hundred thousand views. Thirty thousand likes.

@celebrityslefttoe: this video has awakened something inside of me

@sochi_22: I’m no better than a man ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

@rarecursor: 8:07 (a clip of him adjusting one of the soldiers’ hold on the gun) I VOLUNTEER. I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE.

@matsurijun: yall need to Go Outside

@prickly9685: where do i sign up 😋?

@WilliamHughes787: Great video! Very interesting!

@amiable4744: sir yes sirr.. enlisting now..

“Ghost. Look at this.” Soap grins, handing Ghost the iPad.

“… Jesus Christ.” Ghost pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he furrows his brows, groaning.

Soap lets out a deep and full cackle, nudging Ghost’s shoulder. “See? T’was a great idea to let ye do the video!”

To be fair, he looked absolutely delectable in the video. He wore a fitted long sleeve camo shirt, hugging his muscles very nicely, paired with camo cargo pants that he made look like skinny jeans. He wore a normal black balaclava, showing off his hazel eyes and his eyebrows were always creased downwards, with this slightly pissed off look.

Because of this positive reaction from the algorithm, Ghost kept appearing in future videos and even filmed a Q&A!

Continuation

[never-enough-golden-kamuy]

Warmth of the cold-blooded sniper

I barely finished second WEEK of this semester and I'm already and still getting owned by my uni. I had to write these stories or I will burn out at best.

Over 1,6k words, Vasilyxf!reader, fluff per usual

Enjoy!

The climate on Karafuto was usually cold. However, when Vasily lowered the binoculars and his eyes fixated on a distant point, the temperature seemed to drop an extra few degrees. 

[Y/N] watched as the man knelt on one knee while resting his rifle on his shoulder. It was one, coherent and smooth movement. Years of practice led to perfection and left no room for any slack. Blue eyes followed the victim's movement above the barrel, devoid of any emotion. His entire body seemed to be detached from the surrounding reality, concentrating on the shot like a well-aimed arrow. 

The sound of gunfire pierced the air, causing a minute of chaos. The frightened birds jumped into the air with a terrifying screech. Smaller animals fell through the undergrowth, leaving only torn leaves behind. Even the small cloud of her own breath froze in the air. 

Meanwhile, Vasily didn't even bat an eye. Only with a learned movement, as natural as his heartbeat, did he reload his weapon, ready to finish off the animal. The clicking of the sliding mechanism sent shivers down her spine as the man continued to stare at his prey, as if even a second's distraction would make it suddenly vanish into thin air. The young deer fell into the undergrowth, thrown about with the last jerks of its life. There was no need for a second shot. Sniper precision was flawless as usual. 

Vasily let out a satisfied hum and signaled her that they could now descend the hill. [Y/N] scrambled out of her spot among the bulging roots and followed him. The woman stepped over irregularities in the ground and ducked under low branches, carefully imitating the man walking in front of her. Her thoughts were already too far away for her to pay attention to her surroundings. 

Sometimes she forgot how deadly dangerous Vasily was. The memories of his laughter and affectionate gestures contrasted sharply with the chilling sight from a moment ago. She also never dared to ask how much of the war was still in him. For her, the war was something distant, it never really affected her. She had no father or brother to take part in the draft. News from the front rarely reached the village, and even if it did, it was hushed in the company of a young woman. 

Is now a good time to ask? Is it even a question possible to answer? 

She almost bumped into the man as he tried unsuccessfully to get her attention. He frowned for a moment at her thoughtfulness and pointed upwards. [Y/N] looked up at the quickly darkening sky. 

They won't make it back home before dark. 

* 

[Y/N] stared blankly at the glowing coals, inhaling the musty smell of the woven bunk she was lying on. Little more than 4 walls and a hearth, long ago deprived of its rightful owner, but still standing intact. For years this old cottage has served as a shelter from the night and bad weather for travelers, a proof of the diligent work of the old days. Its usually quiet and dusty interior was now filled with the pleasant warmth of the fire and Vasili's calm breathing. 

How did he managed to fall asleep so quickly? He didn't seem to care about the hard boards and thin blanket. Are these some secret techniques of the Russian military? She looked at the figure sleeping on the floor. Tucked in his own cloak, he frowned even in his sleep. 

The old bunk creaked softly as she reached towards him, ready to see if the two vertical wrinkles on his forehead were permanent or if there was any hope for him after all. She froze, however, when the glow of the fireplace was reflected in the barrel of the rifle lying within his reach. 

The warning flashed before her eyes. The cold of death bit her fingers and ran up her arm, making her shiver. Vasily never talked about his experiences at the front, and she never had the courage to ask what effect it had had on him. What was the chance that, startled from sleep, he would take up arms? She never saw him sleeping so deeply, will it differ from waking up from a nap? 

As a matter of fact, it was the first time they were sleeping in one room. Grandmas from her village would be outraged if they knew. Two unmarried youngsters sleeping in one room? ALONE? 

Suddenly aware of the whole situation, she blushed and withdrew her hand as if it had been burned. She stole a glance, unsure whether Vasily had magically heard her thoughts. Fortunately, he didn't and continued to sleep, unaware of her dilemma. On the other hand, Vasily didn't seem to be a person who cared about what others thought of him. Fixated on his own goals, he could make decisions completely contrary to the views of the village babushkas. Such as deserting, leaving everything and traveling through foreign territory without a yen to his soul just to get revenge. 

Sometimes it seemed so stupid, but at the same time it was what she admired about him. The ability to make his own decisions and even sticking to them. 

Torn, she bit her lip nervously. The sight of the ice-cold sniper clashed with the memories of the same man, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he tried to capture the smallest details in his drawings. Fear froze her in place, but the flame of hope and curiosity burned brighter. 

She could now put aside her worries about the gossips the next day. People will say whatever they like about her anyway. However, there was still the question of Vasily. Will she startle him? Will he be mad? 

[Y/N] rolled onto her back, her head full of shouting voices. The cautious part of her absolutely forbade any antics that would result in being shot or rejected by Vasily. The rational part of her rightly reminded her that Vasily had never miss fired before, and therefore the likelihood of him shooting her blindly was low. Meanwhile, touch-deprived part of her was laying on the debate table drooling at the mere thought of holding hands. 

And how can you make any decisions in such team? Sometimes it may be better not to think at all. 

The woman took a deep breath, seeking agreement between all parties, and rolled out of bed before anyone could change her mind. She landed softly on her feet and glanced quickly at the rifle. Certain that it wasn't pointed at her yet, she gathered her blanket and spread it on the floor, squeezing herself between the man and the fireplace. She watched what he was doing with one eye and the absolute lack of reaction from him with the other. 

Since he decided to stay in the village for a little longer, the inhabitants took advantage of his youthful strength and efficiency in all possible works. Despite their generous payments in the form of money, food and hospitality, the constant tasks must have exhausted him. 

She lay down on her makeshift bed, wrapping herself in her own cloak. She tried to get as comfortable as possible on the hard floor and closed her eyes, still seeing through her eyelashes the hand lying at the level of her face. Without thinking, she covered it with a piece of cloak, protecting it from the cold of the night. 

And suddenly everything went quiet. As the tension drained from her body, the sound of the blood in her ears diminished, replaced by the rhythm of their breathing. The crackling of the dying fire soothed her frayed nerves, slowly pushing her towards sleep. 

At least until Vasily removed his hand. 

[Y/N] blinked in surprise and looked up, meeting piercing blue eyes. The entire world froze, went deaf, and plunged into darkness, shrinking to the size of just the two of them. She had stared at him blankly for decades after someone had dropped a hand grenade into her brain, depriving of all thought. She wasn't sure if she was breathing at all. 

“The bunk wasn't comfortable” she muttered without even the slightest involvement of the brain in formulating this statement. Vasily raised an eyebrow skeptically, but even in the darkness she could see the slightest lift at the corner of his lips. 

He touched his ear and nodded. >>I could hear<< 

The world went up in flames, burning down all her hopes for a decent life. She was fully ready to sink into the ground and never emerge. 

“Sorry to wake you up,” she mumbled, closing her eyes with a sigh, unable to look at the circus show she just performed. She didn't even flinch when Vasily moved. He could go ahead and take the bunk, or walk away from her life forever. It didn't matter to her as she was about to die right where she lay. 

She flinched when she felt a hand on her back, and then, completely effortlessly, she was moved the few dozen centimeters that separated them. Vasily shifted in his seat and held her against his chest, shielding her from the world. And suddenly the wooden floor of this old cottage was the coziest place on earth. She exhaled softly, the tension leaving her body again and the arm around her keeping them from separating. She swung her arm over his side, feeling it rise in rhythm with his breathing. She pressed her forehead against his shirt and the dull beating of his heart allowed her to finally fall asleep. 

He was warm. The cold-blooded sniper was very very warm. 

[robin374]

What about Medic, Sniper, Spy, Demo, possibly Engineer with an S/O who has a hard time with gifts. Like, they're hard to get a gift for because they like a few certain things. They appreciate the thought of the gifts but if it doesn't suit their needs, it's most likely going to be forgotten in a closet somewhere.

Mercs with a S/O who has a hard time getting them gifts: 

I wrote all the mercs if you don't mind. (Unedited)

Medic: 

Honestly, if you don’t get him anything related to his job or his doves it will end up in the deepest cabinet of the base. 

You always try to get him something original, but it always ends up being something related to his job. 

Once you gave him a gift and Archimedes flew to your face wanting a gift too. 

“I’m your gift, Medic.”

“Of course, you are.” Let's say that you two had a fun night. 

Scout: 

It's easy to get him a gift. Just some comic book or a new baseball bat could make him happy, and more if it's from you.

However, you're a wonderful person and you want to change the gifts. So, you tried to call his mom to find out what she used to get him.

She was very happy to see that her son's partner cared that much about him. So she told you everything about him, from his childhood to the day they separated ways.

You finally got him some new running shoes, because the others were really old and on the verge of breaking. 

Demoman:

You asked BLU Soldier if he used to get Demo gifts, and if he did what exactly. 

He punched you, not because mentioning his old friend, but because you were on the battlefield and there's no time to talk there, according to him.

You thought about getting him some drinks from your hometown, but the thought of him being drunk because of that didn't convince you.

So, again, you called his mom. She told you to get him a new job. 

Finally, you decided to get him something related to his country's history. A new sword from a Scottish king, or an axe… just don't tell him that you stole them from a museum. 

Sniper: 

This one is really difficult to be honest. He’s quiet when he wants it, but he can be open with the people he feels comfortable with.

 Anything related to his job could make him happy, some new rifle scope or a hat for his walks on ceasefires… If this is before his parents died, you called them looking for advice, his dad told you to get him out there because he didn’t want a crazed gunman as a son. Then, his mother told you some stories about him when he was a kid and told that he used to make bracelets and give them to different animals that showed up around the house. 

So you made two matching bracelets. He almost cried when you gave it to him. 

“Thank you, roo.” He whispered, while putting on the bracelet. You’ve never seen him without it since then. 

Spy:

A fancy man we’ve got here. 

French people are so difficult in general istg. He’s a mysterious man, I would understand that you had a hard time getting him a gift. 

You always try to give him new wine to try out, from your hometown or the best wine that you could afford. 

However, this time you got him a new butterfly knife with your initials written on it. He was surprised that you gave him that knife, hell, he even was surprised that you thought about getting him a gift. He always gave different little gift gifts he forgot he could receive too. 

Just don’t tell him that you had to sell your liver to afford it. Medic will take care of it. 

Heavy:

THIS MAN, we all love him. 

You thought about getting him a new minigun made in Russia. However, when you saw the price you passed out. 

Zhanna told you that you could get him a bear as a pet or something similar. Even if it was a good idea, Heavy would have a bear pet but not a loving partner because you would die while taming the bear. 

So you got him three Russian books. Fyodor Dostoyevsky to be specific, you know that English can be difficult to him and that he is an intelligent man out of the battlefield, so you got him some of Dostoyevky’s books to read. He was very happy and hugged you so tightly that almost broke you back, then he kissed your cheek as an apologizing gesture. 

Soldier:

You didn’t know if you should get him something related to America or something related to rocket launchers. 

You tried to ask Merasmus for advice but he almost sent you to Hell. 

“Cupcake! Why are you covered in ash?”

You decided to give him a medal. He was the love of your life and the best Soldier you’ve ever seen, and he also took care of his racoons pretty well. 

“...and with this medal, I declare you, Soldier, the best partner and father of raccoons the army has ever had.” 

He was so excited to receive such an important medal, after the ‘ceremony’ he kissed you on the lips until you were without breathe. 

Pyro:

Anything you get them will be fabulous and amazing in their world. You’re already an angel in their eyes so even if it was a simple stick they would be very grateful. 

You didn’t know how they would see it in their eyes, maybe that gift told them arson was a bad thing. That would ruin everything. 

You opted for getting them a new plushie, a companion for their Ballooniecorn. 

They started jumping joyfully and clapping while they watched the plushies getting along (they were having a tea party and the tea was blood, but shhh, let them be). They gave you a mask kiss and a hug as a thanks. 

Engineer: 

Yeehaw

You thought about getting him new strings for his guitar, but how is he going to need new strings when he can make them? Well, no strings then. 

You were talking with him once and he spilled out the fact that he missed his life in Bee Cave. That gave you an excellent idea. 

On your next ceasefire day, you decided to take him to his hometown as a gift. He was very grateful and showed you all the places he used to visit when he was a kid and told stories about them. Then, you went to his house there and had a romantic night.

[howtofightwrite]

How big would an army of conscripts, armed with Dragunov pattern marksman rifles and iron sights, with between 1 and 3 magazines each, a radio headset that allows them to take orders on a platoon level (50 troops to be specific), and a single platoon artilleryman armed with an RPG-7 with 5 rockets, with assistance from a Mitsubishi Type 89 IFV (35mm autocannon, 7,62mm M240 pattern coaxial machine gun, tracked) and an aerial command/reconnaisance/attack/close air support aircraft, need to be to deal with an army of 1000 heavy pikemen, 50 elite knights, 200 heavy cavalry, 100 light cavalry and 200 longbowmen? The pikemen are armed with a pike and wear breastplates, pauldrons, gauntlets, a helm and chainmail. The heavy cavalry are armed with a heavy lance, a sword, cuirass and helm. Longbowmen use English yew bows and wear gambesons and a chainmail on the head. Light cavalry are armed with a spear, a short bow, and a small sword. The elite knights are armed with a heavy lance and a sword, and armoured in a full body suit of plate and horse barding, and they will move with the heavy cavalry.

Okay, so, for the record, you're not really supposed to use an SVD's iron sights. (SVD is short for “Dragunov Sniper Rifle,” so, these are formally called, “sniper rifles,” rather than just DMRs.) They were (supposed to be) issued with PSO-1 scopes. This can be a little amusing, because once you know what a PSO-1's range finder looks like, it's absolutely unmistakable, and you will see films and TV shows use them on other scopes. I bring this up, because the SVD has an effective range over 600 meters. (Specifications say it's good to almost 1.3km, but, that's very hopeful.)

However, with optics, those SVDs are going to massive out range any archer.

Your infantry have somewhere between 1k-3k packed rounds. So, if they were the only participants, they would need to be a little careful about ammo conservation. But, when you start factoring in the IFV, it doesn't matter.

This scenario isn't extraordinarily different from early battles in WWI. Where cavalry and infantry charged entrenched heavy machine gun fire, and were annihilated.

This is also a moment when the whole, “elite knight,” bit really doesn't matter. You have a minor noble, who spent almost their entire life training to be a better melee combatant. You put them in the best armor you've ever seen. And, then a bullet fired from a mass-produced sniper rifle, designed to be easily fabricated by anyone with a basic machine shop, and simple enough to be maintained by a barely literate conscript will drop them in less time than it takes to read this paragraph, before the knight even knows that someone is aiming at them.

I will say, this is a little bit of a weird combination, the Type 89 IFV, is a Japanese vehicle. The JSDF (to the best of my knowledge) has never used SVDs. These days, I think their DMR is the H&K 417. Until a few years ago, their primary infantry rifle was the Howa Type 89, which is basically a redesigned AR-18. Prior to that, they used the Howa Type 64, which was a 7.62mm battle rifle. (As far as I know, the Type 64 was domestically designed.)

The Russian/Soviet equivalent to the Type 89 IFV would be the BTR-80. As with the SVD, because it's a Romanized translation, BTR stands for, “armored carrier.” Somewhat obviously, these don't work particularly well if they're not maintained, or if the motor pool Sargent is stripping them for spare parts and siphoning gas to sell on the black market, because the government hasn't paid any of you in six months, but it's still going to have a fairly similar effect on those elite knights from the 11thcentury.

The 50 SVD rifles is weird. Full stop. It's a specialist weapon, not a general infantry weapon. In a situation like that, you'd expect to see conscripts armed with AKMs or AK74s, maybe a few SVDs and RPKs.

Now, if you were looking at a contemporary NATO unit from the 60s or 70s, then, yes, you would likely see battle rifles like the M14, FN FAL, or H&K G3. And, when you're describing using an SVD's iron sights, that's more how you have used one of those cold war era battle rifles. Also, while those rifles do have automatic settings, they're intended for semi-automatic fire.

If you're wondering why I'm not even addressing things like the areal support or the RPG, it's because they really don't matter that much. Areal reconnaissance means never having to wonder where the enemy forces are, but basically anything on this list except the RPG, could probably deal with all of the enemy forces on their own. Stacking them together would be absolutely devastating.

I'm not 100% sure, but I think you could use pretty much any modern IFV as a one-size-fits-all siege breaker if they're dealing with medieval forces.

When you're looking at modern military forces time traveling into the past, the biggest logistical issue is long term depletion of supplies. There isn't really a question of, “who's going to win? A guy with a rifle that's effective at a range of over a 1km, or 10 guys with pointy sticks. The issue is what happens in six months, or a year, when there's only three or four rounds left for that rifle on the planet, and, there won't be any more for another six hundred years.

-Starke

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[buckychristwrites]

The Night We Met | b.b.| os

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Summary: Undercover, it's just a normal mission for the Winter Soldier. That is, until he hears a familiar voice from an unfamiliar informant.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: It's angst. There is fluff in there. But it's angst

A/N: This lore comes from the book The Winter Soldier: Cold Front, which is based on the comics, but I based it on the MCU Bucky mostly. :)

Masterlist | Bucky Masterlist | Main Blog

Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it was a hard line to walk.

The clock struck 11, but the night was filled with life.

Piano music filled the tiny bar. A small area was dedicated to dancing, with girls laughing as they were dipped and swung by their male counterparts. The lighting was dim, even more so towards the red mahogany bar. The bartender was busy clearing the tables, occasionally looking up and smiling at the crowded dance floor. A glass was lifted off the wood, leaving a ring of condensation in its place. The sip was a light one, for the drinker wasn’t intending on finishing it. He had a purpose in the bar that very much had nothing to do with the alcohol, drinks or even the beautiful women. 

He lowered the glass back to the bar and scanned the room once more. It had only been a half hour since his arrival, but he felt he was wasting time. Undercover work was not his forte, as he was fond of a, one could say, more direct approach. But orders were orders. And while he was very good at a great deal of things, he had one that he was particularly best at. The single word that constantly ran through his head.

Comply.

“They’re late,” He growled in a low voice. A laugh came through the intercom in his ear.

“You have such high expectations,” The familiar Russian accent replied. He rolled his eyes as he took another swig of his drink.

Experiencing the nightlife of London was not how he imagined his evening would go. In fact, he didn’t prefer the loudness or the crowds. It was ideal for his usual kind of missions, sure. Approach from behind. Stab, or maybe shoot with the silencer on. Disappear. Piece of cake. But for undercover work, he would rather be anywhere else. The noise made it hard to focus. And there were so many people, it was hard to pinpoint the target. 

But maybe that was the point. 

He leaned back in his chair, his right arm draped over the back of the empty one next to him while he looked at the crowd. The music was loud and upbeat. He watched a girl with red curls squeal as her dancing partner swung her through the air, his face matching her euphoria. 

He found himself wondering what that was like; the ability to take a cute girl out for a night on the town. Bring flowers to her door. take her to dinner, dance until the lights turned out, get her home at a reasonable hour. Maybe even stay until an unreasonable hour. There must’ve been a time where he had done that, not that he was able to remember. All he remembered was mission after mission after mission. Even when his break from field work came up, he wouldn’t be allowed out to experience any of it for himself. It would be the usual. Stay in his tiny compartment until he gets sent out again. 

Focus, he told himself. 

Glancing at the clock on the wall, he found himself grinding his teeth. 11:17 it read. Where could this person be?

“So impatient are we? Do you have plans to get to?” The voice in his ear quipped. He said nothing, instead rolling his head onto his left shoulder so he could send a glare through the window. He couldn’t pinpoint her exact location, but he knew he could see it through the scope of her sniper rifle. 

He was undercover as an M16 agent, waiting for an info drop from an actual M16 agent. There was no way to know what the other person who would like, sound like, be dressed as. All he could hope was that the mission wasn’t compromised so he could expect a good breakfast in the morning. 

The bell over the door could just be heard over the music when it swung open. He turned back to face the bar, his body now on high alert. One, two, three footsteps could be made out as they made their way across the wooden floor, and then a figure appeared in his peripheral, sitting two seats away from him. Without moving his head, he glanced over at the company, shocked at what he found. 

A woman. 

Of course, he had dealt with people of all genders when doing this work, but it was few and far between when he met with anyone but another white man. It still surprised him when he dealt with anything else. 

He said nothing while she skimmed the menu, humming a song that he could recall from his distant memory, but could not, for the life of him, place the name. 

“Just a water, please,” She said to the barkeep before setting the menu back down. He frowned. She wore an oversized hat, so he could not see her face, but the sound of her voice seemed to awaken something deep in the catacombs of his mind. There was something so deeply familiar about that voice. His eyes furrowed together as it chewed up his insides, stalling out his brain. She spoke in perfect Russian, but her accent did not match the language. She is not from here, he thought to himself. How can he know her? 

She sat silently, drinking her water and looking around at the bottles of alcohol on the wall. After a moment, she turned in her seat to watch the crowd of dancers. Her water was still in her hands, the condensation running down her fingers and into her palms, though she didn’t seem concerned about it. 

“Beautiful evening for a dance, isn’t it?” She asked, seemingly to no one, but he knew it was towards him. He felt his eye twitch. 

Where had he heard that voice?

She took another sip of water before letting out a wistful sigh. Bucky watched her out of the corner of his eye. The elbow of her right arm was on the back of the chair, supporting her head which was resting in her palm. In her left was her water which she swirled around slowly. He had a moment of deja vu.

What the hell is wrong with you? He asked himself.

He wondered if this was part of the façade, her lingering. It was expected that she would drop the information and go, but her loitering made him nervous. Suddenly feeling hot, he tugged at the tie around his neck. She drained her water before turning back to the bar and lightly setting the glass down. In a flash, she was up and walking towards the door. When he turned back to the bar, he found a slip of paper next to him, and a few coins left beside it. 

Instinct had him turn back towards the door. The bell rang as it swung shut behind her receding back. A force he couldn’t explain pulled him to his feet, his hand quickly grasping the paper before he began to follow her. 

At some point between his arrival and his departure, it had begun to heavily rain outside. Every step on the concrete seemed to be greeted with a loud splash. The rain soaked his hair but he wasn’t concerned. What he was concerned with, though, was the napkin in his hand, which he haphazardly shoved into his pocket.

“Where are you going?” The voice in his ear hissed. “You have the drop. Get to our meeting point.”

“In a minute,” He said through clenched teeth as he continued to pursue the contact. Her trench coat and hat were the only things he could see in the dark city. The voice rang through his comm again, but he didn’t hear a word of it, instead pulling the piece from his ear and smashing it between his metal fingers before letting it drop to the sidewalk. 

What is wrong with you? His inner voice asked again. You’re taking this big of a risk over what? A hunch?

But it wasn’t just a hunch. That was the only thing he could say for certain. He knew that voice, though he couldn’t explain how. The social circle he had was pathetically small these days. 

Was it from a past life? The one before all of… this?

She rounded a corner, and he mirrored her. Did she know he was following her? For the first time in his career, he seemed to forget all things stealth, for he was awfully close to her, and not making any attempt to be quiet. Maybe the downpour was enough to cover the sound of his footsteps. 

She crossed the median and ran across the road through the middle. It caught him off guard. Once he crossed himself, he found her disappearing down an alleyway. He found himself wondering if this was her own meeting point with her superiors. The idea made him slow down, but only for a moment.

I just need to see her, he told himself. I just need to know who she is.

With a sharp inhale and a puff of his chest, he made his way down the alley.

Water dripped from the fire escape to his right. A scraping noise came from the dumpster adjacent to him, and he wondered if it were rats. But the woman he was pursuing was nowhere to be seen. He found his hand hovering over the gun in his waistband, which was hidden by his jacket. 

It was the click of a gun behind him that made him freeze.

“Okay, friend,” The voice said behind him, the familiarity of it sending a chill up his spine. “Just turn around slowly. And explain why exactly you’re following me.” 

Though he’d had a gun trained on him more often than he could count, he couldn’t quite place why exactly this time made him so anxious. He tried to keep his breathing under control as he turned around, and his eyes fell on the informant’s face for the first time.

Roses.

His mind was instantly filled with visions of roses.

His eyebrows instantly furrowed together.

What?

The barrel of the gun faltered, though it was still raised. 

“Bucky?” She whispered.

“What are you doing here?” 

The sentence was said in her voice, though her mouth did not move, and it took him a moment to realize that it came from inside his head. 

With the gun still up, she approached him. His eyes were locked on her own, while she looked him up and down. 

“Oh, Bucky,” She said softly. “What did they do to you?” He shook his head.

“I’m not,” He said, though sounding unsure. “I’m not this- this Bucky.” He realized then that he was speaking English, and that you had been as well. He frowned even more. English was not a language he ever recalled learning. She shook her head, a sad smile on her face.

“You are. I’d know you anywhere.” 

“I’m here to take you out,” Bucky told you, a bouquet of a dozen roses in his hands and a lopsided grin on his face. “You did promise me a dance, just this morning.” You crossed your arms over your chest. 

“I don’t recall promising that for tonight,” You told him, though it was no secret that you were trying and failing to bite back a smile. He took a confident step forward.

“You got other plans?” 

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What are you doing to me?” He demanded through gritted teeth as he took two steps backwards. When he opened his eyes again, you were looking at him sadly, gun finally lowered. He realized now that the girl in the flashback was a younger version of the woman in front of him now. You shook your head.

“Nothing, my love. You’re remembering.” 

You squealed as the two of you spun across the dance floor, the hall loud and lively. It was like the smile was permanently etched onto Bucky’s face. He quickly dipped you, your leg flying upward with your skirt going with it. In a daring move, he stole a chaste kiss before bringing you back up. 

“Bucky!” You shouted with a bright smile. He didn’t answer, instead continuing the dance while laughing. Not a second did he take his eyes off of you. And he found that, for the most part, you didn’t stop looking at him, either.

His hands flew to his temples, palms squeezing his head. This wasn’t him. This was never him. None of it was real. How could it be real? He had never left Russia in his life.

You held a glass of water in your hand, slowly swirling it around the glass as you stared into Bucky’s eyes. The dance hall was still loud, but it was just you and him in the corner, you leaning into the wall while his palm was pressed against it just next to your head, holding him up. 

“What do you say, doll?” He asked, loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough so no one else could. “Another dance? Or are you ready to go?” You shook your head before downing the water in one swig.

“I could do this all night, Barnes.”

“Make it stop.” A hand pressed against his back. You were knelt down next to him. When did he drop to his knees?

“It’s okay.” Your voice was like honey in his ear, the only thing keeping him from going completely off the rails. “You’re just coming back to me.”

“Bucky… I have to… go…” You were laughing as you spoke between kisses, for Bucky couldn’t for the life of him, stop kissing you. To him, this was a dream come true. He had seen you around, the two of you both living on Camp Lehigh and you working at the local movie theater. He’d fallen for you months ago, yet was never able to muster up the courage to talk to you.

That is, until today.

And now, here he was, making out with you in the front seat of his car, after a long night of dancing and laughter. Your face was cradled between his hands as he pressed his lips to your own.

“Just a few more minutes,” He said into your mouth, making you laugh against his lips.

Your hands were on his cheeks. It was the first tender touch he’d experienced in a long time. As if subconsciously, he covered them with his own. His eyes were wild as he stared into yours. 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” You said slowly, firmly. “The people you love call you Bucky.” He shook his head, fighting against your grip, but it never faltered. “Your parents were George and Winifred Barnes. You had a sister named Rebecca. We met on a military base that we lived on with our families when we were 16, and were together until-” You paused, the words catching in your throat. “Until I was informed of your death. After you enlisted.” He shook his head harder now, forcing you to release him.

“I’m not,” He hissed. “I’m NOT!” You didn’t seem bothered by his yelling. 

“Will you still love me when I’m an important military man?” His voice was a whisper in the dark as he laid in your bed, you tucked into his side. He had snuck in through your window after your parents were long asleep.

You contemplated this for a long time before finally saying, “Only if you come back home to me.” He brought his chin down to his chest so he could look at you, and even in the dark, he could still see your bright eyes on him.

“I’ll always come back to you.” 

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” You repeated to him, before reminding him of your own name. That piece of information seemed to make it all click for him. It was as if he always knew it, even though he had never once heard it before. Maybe he was born knowing it. He grabbed your shoulders, gripping you tightly in fear. 

He looked in the mirror, adjusting his tie. The recruitment uniform fit him perfectly, and he couldn’t stop looking at himself in it. This was it. He, James Barnes, was officially a member of the US Army, shipping out just the following day. His heart swelled with a bittersweet feeling. Sweet, as this was his dream his entire life. Ever since he and his family moved to Camp Lehigh when his father enlisted, he dreamed of following in his footsteps. The bitterness, however, was all he could taste in his mouth, because…

You appeared behind him, wrapping your arms around his torso and resting your chin on his shoulder. 

“I’m so proud of you,” You mumbled, but he could still feel the words left unsaid, for he felt them too. 

“What is wrong with me?” He whispered. “What is happening?” Your eyes were brimming with tears as you stared at him tenderly. 

“I can’t explain it,” You told him. “I think they did something to your memories.”

“Please fix it.” Tears fell down his cheeks. “Fix me.” 

“I love you,” He said outside of the train station. It was loud due to the other hundreds of men who were setting off along with him, but to him, it was just him and you. 

“I love you too,” You said back. He raised his hands and brushed away the tears that streamed down your face, though more replaced them. It was almost two years of you by his side at this point, and he couldn’t imagine going a single day without you. With his hands lingering on your face, you placed one of your own on his left bicep. “Please come back to me.” Instead of letting his own tears fall, he yanked you forward, kissing you with a deep intensity. He had to make it count, for it had to last him for however long he was gone. When he eventually pulled away, he planted another kiss on your forehead.

“Don’t you remember what I said?” He asked as he brought you back into his sight, attempting to sound playful. “I’ll always come back to you. And I mean it.”

A shot rang out, and when he looked over, you were laying on your back, groaning in agony. Before he had a chance to consider what was happening, he heard a whizz passed his ear, and something hit his neck. Slowly, he brought a hand up and yanked it out. A blow dart. Almost immediately, he began to feel very heavy. He collapsed next to you, rolling onto his side so he could face you. 

In the moments before his eyes forced themselves shut, he muttered your name over and over. As if he was trying to make sure he did not forget it again.

~

“Today’s the day, Steve,” Bucky announced as the two of them walked down the sidewalk. Well, Bucky walked, and Steve basically jogged to keep up with him. “I’m going to get her name and ask her out.” 

“What makes today different from any other day?” Steve asked. The movie theater was in sight now, making Bucky walk even faster. “You wimped out any other time. It’s been months since we’ve gone to the movies.” Bucky shook his head at his friend’s cynicism.

“Well, be ready to see many a-movie, Steve,” He told him. “In fact, maybe even for free.” Steve rolled his eyes behind Bucky’s back. 

“What if she says no?” Steve asked. Bucky, however, didn’t answer, because he didn’t even consider that possibility. After all, he was one of the most sought out sixteen year olds in the town, and it wasn’t hard for him to get any of the other girls he had wanted over the years (which, rest assured, he did not let it get to his head). So why would this one be any different?

In the distance, the ticket booth became clearer and clearer, and inside, he could see those eyes looking at the line of people and moving them along. His heart fluttered as he joined the line, Steve behind him.

“So what, am I just emotional support then?” Steve mumbled to him. Bucky shot him a glare.

“Stuff a sock in it, Rogers.”

The line was moving faster than anticipated, which was increasing Bucky’s nerves. Was this a good idea? Asking a girl out while she was working? Now that he had the time to consider it, he was starting to feel quite pompous. His time to reconsider was cut short when the man in front of him made his way into the theater, and he was left face to face with you. He took a nervous step forward, and when you smiled brightly at him, he pretended like he wasn’t melting in his chest.

“How can I help you?” Your voice was what he imagined a sunset to sound like, and it made him imagine all the ways he could make you laugh, just so he could hear it. He leaned against the counter, using every ounce of energy he had to feign confidence. 

“Two tickets to Citizen Kane, and one date with one pretty lady.”

You froze, your eyes jumping back to him. It was obvious your demeanor shifted, and he couldn’t quite place what your face was conveying. He felt the perspiration start to build on his forehead, and he told himself that it was from the summer heat and definitely not from anxiety. 

“Does that line work often for you?” At this, he laughed slightly. Your tone was playful, which calmed him.

“You tell me,” He said in earnest. “I’ve never used it before.”

He realized then, when you looked away with a bashful smile on your face, that you were flattered.

“So what do you say?” He asked, his eyes deep in your own. “You wanna go dancing sometime?” You shrugged, trying to play coy.

“I guess one dance couldn’t hurt,” You said playfully. “Especially if a promise of one will get you to let me go back to work.” You nodded behind him, and when he turned, he was greeted by a line of people glaring at him. He turned back and nodded quickly. 

“Right, I’ll hold you to that!” He shouted, grabbing Steve’s arm and yanking him out of line before running down the sidewalk.

“Wait!” You called, making him turn. “What’s your name?” He laughed, looking at the sky above before glancing back at you.

“It’s James,” He said. “But everyone calls me Bucky.” 

“Well, Bucky, can you piss off!” A lady in line shouted, clearly not impressed with the love story that was unfolding right before her eyes. Bucky ignored her as he continued to look at you. 

“What’s yours?” He asked, and when you gave it to him, it was like the skies had opened up and descended upon him. He repeated it back to you before turning and fleeing down the sidewalk.

“What, we’re not even going to see the movie?” Steve shouted angrily at him. 

“Nope,” Bucky replied. “I have too much to do! A date to get ready for!” And before Steve could say anything else, he picked up speed and left him behind. 

As he made his way to the floral shop near his house, he muttered your name over and over under his breath, as if trying to permanently etch it into his brain. 

This time was different, he told himself. He could feel it.

~

He woke, immediately sitting up and looking around. He was in his compartment, where he stayed when he was off field duty. His books were aligned on the shelf as normal. The fridge in the corner was humming like it always did. Something was off, however, and he couldn’t quite place what.

Your name was still fresh on his lips, the dream he had vivid in his mind, though he knew it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory. 

Standing hesitantly, he slowly made his way to the door. Before he could put his hand on the knob, he heard a throat being cleared from the other side. He froze.

Guards were at the door. 

He felt his entire body run cold as he grabbed for the knob, but it was locked. When he went to grab the knob with his left arm, knowing he could overpower it, nothing happened.

His left arm didn’t move at all.

Fear overcame him, a feeling he was not familiar with. 

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is-

The door opened and there was Karpov, followed by Rostova, the voice in his ear from the night before. She refused to make eye contact with him, staring at the floor as she leaned against the wall. A nurse walked up to him without a word, ushering him to sit down on the bed while she took his vitals, but he never took his eyes off Karpov.

“What did you do to me?”

Karpov began to pace, lifting his shoulders up in a casual shrug.

“I needed a weapon,” He said simply, his Russian accent thick. “You survived falling off a  mountain. A man with that strength was someone I can use.” 

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

“I was someone before all this,” He muttered, his voice just a hair above a whisper. “You took everything from me.”

“I gave you a second chance,” Karpov barked in sudden anger. “Do you think you would’ve made it without me? No, you would’ve died in that snow.”

The nurse ripped the blood pressure cuff off him, then trying to place an IV into him, but he ripped his arm away from her.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

“Dying in the snow would’ve been better than this.” Karpov laughed, shaking his head before turning his gaze into his eyes.

“Then you should’ve fucking died before I got to you.”

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

He fought the nurse again as she tried to hold down his arm, and within a moment, his arm was being held down by two guards whom he didn’t even know had entered the room. Fighting with all of his strength, it was no use. The nurse inserted the IV into his arm, and it was then that he noticed the scars all over his arm. IV insertion scars that he had no memory of receiving.

He thought of you, of the dream, of your lips pressed against his. Alarm bells rang in his head.

“Where is she?”

“Ahhhh,” Karpov said, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Your little friend is safe. For now.” As if like clockwork, a scream echoed down the hallway, the sound entering the room. This was the push he needed to break free from the guards' hold. Lunging across the room, he grabbed Karpov and slammed him into the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall. 

“You take me to her,” He growled. “NOW!”

A needle plunged into his neck, him yelling out as he released Karpov and stumbled backwards. The effects of the drug started almost immediately. The nurse, with the help from the guards, slowly lowered him to the ground as he hyperventilated. 

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

“No,” He begged, trying to fight them off with haphazard swipes of his hand. “Please.”

“It must be this way, Soldat,” Karpov said, a twinge of pain in his voice. 

Your father’s name is George. Your mother’s name is Winifred. You have a sister named Rebecca.

The nurse hung a bag of medication, the white liquid rushing down into his veins. He began to feel tired, more so than before.  

He thought of you again, trying to memorize your features, and tried not to wonder if they were going to kill you. You were strong, that he knew for sure, and he had to believe that you were going to make it out of this alive. There was no other option. 

“All will be back to normal in a few minutes,” Karpov said, in a voice that was supposed to reassure him. “Just let yourself go to sleep.” The nurse pushed another syringe into the tubing, another drug added to the mix.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

He fought against the drug, fighting to keep his eyes open for what felt like the second time in one day. His right arm was limp at his side now, just as useless as the left one. Tears fell from the corner of his eyes and into his long hair. His eyes fell forward, looking up at the white ceiling. Little black dots danced their way across his vision. 

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Your name is James Buchanan. Your name is…

As he succumbed to the medication, his eyes forcing their way closed, he forced his mind to focus on your face until the last possible second, when it evaporated from his memory, his name and your own vanishing along with it, and he went into a dreamless sleep

[mania-sama]

rule #33 - pyre

Rule #33 - Pyre - Fish in a Birdcage

➼ information ❧ Jujutsu Kaisen ❧ Pairing: Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento, Fushiguro Megumi & Fushiguro Tsumiki & Gojo Satoru ❧ Tags: veteran! gojo, gojo has ptsd, parental! gojo, no curses au, ptsd, heavy angst, implied/referenced child abuse, russian ballet references, gojo adopted the fushiguros, flashbacks ❧ Summary: Gojo Satoru, a young, decorated veteran, is petrified of fireworks. ❧ Word Count: 2,721 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 27 December 2023

➼ whumptober 2023 ❧ Day 31: PTSD ❧ Previous Day ❧ Masterlist

Festivals are, generally speaking, the worst times of the year.

Gojo isn’t a killjoy. He enjoys the colors decorating the streets and adorning the yukatas, kimonos, or whichever traditional clothes are being worn in accordance with the celebration just like everybody else. Venders add extra spices and seasonings to their food, the prices are lowered, and the overall atmosphere buzzes with childish joy.

And, despite his best attempt to keep up his indifferent exterior, young Megumi’s eyes light up when Gojo informs him of the special occasion. Toji’s children love festivals like the rest of civilian Japan. Excitement is rare to see in a child like Megumi, so he always arranges for someone to take him and Tsumiki out to experience the fun in Tokyo.

Instead of spending time with Toji’s little goblins that he’s doing his damn best to raise into decent human beings, he sits in the tiniest closet in his penthouse with thick sound-proof headphones to maximize the noise-canceling effect. He brings a weighted blanket to drape over his body so he won’t have to feel any reverberations, either. It has the added use of making him feel secure and grounded.

It isn’t the principle of missing out on the festival, it’s having to answer Tsumiki’s imploring question, “Why can’t you take us to the festival?” with a flippant laugh and a lie. He wants nothing more than to lie on the grass or stand in the streets and watch the dazzling fireworks with them.  But as soon as the first fireworks explode, followed by smaller pops and shattered lights, he thinks that the dirt and grass shards are hiding landmines, or that snipers are blowing off his comrades' heads from the broken-glass buildings. The streets are empty save for the scared civilians holding automatic rifles and enemy soldiers with orders to leave no one alive.

Gojo can’t go to festivals. He can’t listen to the sound of fireworks in his own home without diving under his kitchen table and plugging his nose to hide his panting breaths. Experience has taught him to stay in his closet and keep his headphones and blanket on, no matter how his heart breaks as the children’s faces pull into resignation when he denies them yet another festival.

He is normally a very observant person. He’d been so ever since he was a child, but having been trained to be a soldier since he could walk, it didn’t really mean much regarding innate ability. In any case, he kept good track of the days, months, and years. He prefers to ignore schedules entirely and operate solely on a feel-good basis, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t perfectly aware of the exact time it is at any given moment. It’s a system of behavior he can’t rewrite, unfortunately.

Except in the odd case — when he was without food and water in the Gobi desert, when he mourned the death of his best friend, or when both of his children ran a hundred and three-degree fevers for an illness he doesn’t know the name of. Time stops operating in his mind. He loses where he is, and all he can focus on is nursing Megumi and Tsumiki back to health.

Gojo shouldn’t have run out of the house to buy medicine and stockpile their favorite foods. He knows he shouldn’t have. Logic would reason that he would call or text a friend to bring him what he needs and pay them back later. But Satoru isn’t a Gojo for nothing.

He is the youngest decorated veteran of the last century. He doesn’t rely on other people, because he is the strongest. He only calls for help from his friends for the sake of the children, not for himself. Children should always be put before him.

The best officer of the Japanese military can certainly handle an emergency supply run in a safe environment for two sick children. The store isn’t even that far away. He’s in a rush, yes, but it’s simple work. He’s accomplished much more in half the time.

He notices the people in bright yukatas but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Whatever event is going on, he doesn’t care for. He can view it from the balcony of his penthouse if it's something really important. He runs into the store, nearly breaks his card in his hurry to pay, and walks out with the image of his — Toji’s — children quickening his strides. Pushing past the gathered crowds of dressed-up people, Gojo picks up on a faint whisper of excitement. It causes his step to falter, only for a second. He doesn’t even fully stop.

An even fainter whizzing sound fills the vast space between him and the children. The sky explodes in shattered lights.

It’s a festival. He knows this. But when he looks around, where his feet are carrying him behind the closest building on autopilot, when crouches to the ground and covers his mouth and plugs his nose, he isn’t exactly sure. He’s not sure that the thick concrete support beam is ready to crumble as a part of the dilapidated city from bombs, guns, and missiles. He’s not sure that those gasps out there are from the spray of civilians and soldiers falling to automatic rifles and suicide bombers.

He holds the paper bags in his hands, shaking, feeling a medicine bottle between his fingers. It’s for Megumi and Tsumiki. This he knows. He should know. Yet the guns keep firing, and he is the commander of his unit. He needs to be out there, guiding his men through the kill zone of a Middle Eastern conflict Japan isn’t officially a part of. But then, where is his gun? Where are any of his weapons?

He focuses on the ground and the paper bags holding chips and medicine. Chips and medicine. His hands are trembling. A Gojo’s hands don’t shake. He’s been trained to hold a gun since he could grab objects, and he learned how to perfectly weave in and out of a sniper’s scope by the time he was ten years old. This is no different. It shouldn’t be any different.

He closes his eyes as the guns tear into his men. Why can’t he get back out there? The palm of his hand presses against his teeth, and his back hunches in on itself. He’s crumbling to the ground, even though he is Gojo Satoru, the strongest of Japan, the best of his MOS. The chips in the bag crumble in his hands, and people are dying . His rifle has been lost, somewhere in the river he crossed to get into the kill zone, probably. His knives were sticking out of the poor children he had to kill, for there were bombs strapped to their chests and weapons too big for their hands. His other handguns were given to his unit as they had lost theirs to the river as well. 

He is Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t need a weapon to survive.

Yet. His knees are on the ground and the medicine for his sick and injured soldiers isn’t getting to their proper place in time. He clutches a hand to his hair and wills himself to move, but the pops have him put in place. Panting breaths escape out of his shaking hands, and his heart pounds so hard he fears it’ll break his chest. Fear. He’ll admit it. He’s afraid. But he can’t be afraid. He hasn’t been afraid since his mother and father beat all of the fear out of him and introduced him to the kill zone at the ripe age of twelve. He knows conflict. He knows guns. He doesn’t know fear.

But fear knows him.

Closer, much closer than his dying unit, he hears the soft pull of a stringed instrument. It's an odd mixture of a guitar and violin, and its sound is stunted in fragmented half-seconds. He’s never heard this in the military before. His unit has had talent with instruments, but this is something else entirely.

Another instrument is introduced, a piano, he thinks. It’s high-pitched, laying oddly yet beautifully over the original instrument. The song is unmistakable now. Tchaikovsky’s The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy from The Nutcracker. He doesn’t know the play intimately, but he has seen one or two ballets in local performances.

He settles against the concrete beam and listens to the music. It plays over the crowd, though he can’t afford to stop listening for them at all. If they grow quiet, then they’re all dead, or they’ve moved out of the area without him. Either way, Gojo’s escape is going to be messy and long. But he’s Gojo Satoru. If he can get off the ground and stop weeping and running and shaking like—

The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy fades out, and Coda plays next. It’s a little more intense, but it runs in and through his ears. It’s so unfamiliar with the kill zone. He’s never heard ballet music in desolated cities. If he hears music, it’s usually the local music in whichever country he’s in or when he’s at base with a mixture of United States military, allied infantry, and Japanese Special Force soldiers, playing music with those languages in it. In general, they usually have words, whether he can understand them or not notwithstanding.

But this, this is new.

He doesn’t know how or why someone would be playing Tchiakolvsky at this time. It doesn’t make sense, and he dares to pry open his eyes. His paper bags are clenched in his hands, but the contents have spilled out onto the ground. Medicine for his soldiers, chips for food. Not practical, but they make do with what they have. He’s eaten bugs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner before.

Not on the battlefield, but as training when he was a child. If he had to survive off of nothing but the land, he could do it.

The Gobi desert doesn’t have anything but sand and poisonous animals. So much for that invaluable lesson.

The ground beneath him is concrete, and he dares to look up. Outside gathered is a mass of people in bright yukatas . The Russian ballet has come to an end, and Gojo hears the beginnings of Swan Lake . It’s a comfortable tune, but it will turn intense inevitably. Oddly, he doesn’t find it as disconcerting as it’s supposed to make the listener feel. Satoru imagines the black swan, but the dancer turns away from him, hiding her dark makeup.

He stares at the crowd for a long time. It’s unfamiliar to the kill zone. None of them are little children with bombs on their chests or adults shooting at him with weapons they don’t know how to handle. Somewhere in the distance, in the buildings, someone must be aiming for the crowd, to ruin the festival. He’s seen it happen before.

Swan Lake continues, coming close to an end, and a voice accompanies the next song. “You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.”

Gojo doesn’t startle at the voice, but he does turn towards it, and he can’t quite comprehend what he’s looking at.

At one moment, he’s looking at one of his men, and he needs to grab him and bring him down behind the concrete pillar to protect him until they can make a move to safety. At the next, he’s looking at a tall man with Tchaikovsky playing from his phone. He’s looking at Nanami. Nanami in uniform, with a gun instead of a phone. Nanami in a pale blue yukata .

“My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX,” he says, his voice relaxed. “You’re safe.”

Satoru stares at his friend numbly.

“The fireworks will make another round soon. Let’s go back to your penthouse,” Nanami continues. He doesn’t make any moves, though, and a new song from a ballet he doesn’t know filters through the speakers of Nanami’s phone. He thinks. Gojo isn’t sure.

Nanami repeats his early statement. My name is Nanami Kento. Not an enemy soldier, though they did fight together at one time. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. That explains the yukatas and flashing billboards. It’s 20XX. When was Toji killed in battle? When was Geto? You’re safe.

My name is Nanami Kento. You’re in Tokyo, Japan. It’s 20XX. You’re safe.

Russian ballets don’t play in the kill zone.

Satoru turns away from Nanami and shakily collects the medicine and chips that had slipped out of his paper bags, along with the sunglasses that had slipped off his face. He struggles to remember why he has them in the first place. It most certainly has something to do with Toji and children, but he isn’t quite sure how those two add together. Toji is most certainly dead. He knows this with certainty. Children die around him left and right.

Unless it’s about Toji’s children. Gojo looks at Nanami, and as one of his only surviving friends from the battlefield, he says shakily, “I promised to take care of Toji’s kids.”

Nanami doesn’t reply to him directly, yet Satoru takes it as an affirmative. “We need to go back to your penthouse before the fireworks start again.”

The Russian ballets don’t stop playing even as they push through the crowd with Gojo’s hands covering his ears. He can barely hear it over the sounds of the crowd and his blocked eardrums, but it’s there nonetheless. He focuses on what he can sense close to him — the paper bags, Nanami’s back, the safe ground beneath his feet, and the violins and pianos. 

They make it to the apartment, and Nanami stops in front of the gated back entry. “I don’t live here,” he states simply. That means Gojo lives here. If Satoru has the key, then he lives here.

It’s in his pocket, and he unlocks the gate. They walk in and go in the elevator, not the stairs. Stairs. Too many houses, too many stairs and floors to clear.

“My name is…” Nanami drones on to completion. “You’re safe.”

You’re safe.

The elevator dings, and he doesn’t flinch. The ballet filters through the cracks of his fingers, and the paper bags feel heavy in his hands. He’s carried deadweight bodies a hundred times heavier than the feather-light weight of the paper bags, yet he struggles anyway.

They stand in front of the door to his penthouse. Gojo unlocks it, but Nanami waves a hand for him to stop. “Wait here,” he says, and Satoru complies. He’s Gojo Satoru. He doesn’t comply with anyone but himself. He’s the strongest, the best officer of his MOS.

He does anyway, because inside this penthouse —

“We’re going to play the quiet game. Whoever wins gets to go on a spa day with Satoru.”

— are his children, and they are the most important children in the whole world. His children. His children.

Megumi and Tsumiki.

They’re lying on the couches in the living room. Nanami guides Gojo past them, but he manages to spare them a glance, and he sees Tsumiki’s red-colored face peering worriedly at him. He wants to say something to them, but now they’re being fired at and there’s no more time for any words other than directions to take cover.

His hands are still covering his ears when the pop is followed by so many more. But Nanami has him in the closet, and his sound-proof headphones are on, and the weighted blanket is covering him head-to-toe.

He doesn’t technically hear any more of the gunshot-fireworks. He sits in his closet like he’s hiding from an Iraqi unit outnumbering him fifteen to one and figuring out the best way to take them down and make it back to his unit alive. The medicine and chips have been taken from him, and he squeezes his weighted blanket between his palms.

The light bulb burns overhead. His jackets and small winter coats hang beside him like bodies.

He’s the best officer the Japanese military had ever seen, who retired after his third four-year contract ended.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest of his MOS, who trained for combat since he could walk and enlisted illegally at sixteen, can’t take his kids out to a goddamn fireworks festival by himself.

Gojo Satoru hunches and sobs into his blanket.

[prairiesongserial]

24.21

Vanya cackled as the cardinal wrenched a row of seats out of the floor, bolts popping.

“Man, what is your deal?” he said. He didn’t bother with German or Italian, but the cardinal still seemed to understand him perfectly.

“I’m an agent of the Vatican,” she replied, also in Russian. She hurled the row of seats at Vanya. He dodged, but the impact of the seats made the whole train car rattle in place, including his teeth.

The cardinal darted back in for another round of close combat before Vanya could formulate a reply. Vanya was forced to focus all his attention on the fight. He swung his gun up to deflect a blow, wincing as the delicate instrument gained a new dent in the shape of the cardinal’s fist.

“Say, what do you think about–” Vanya cut off as he dodged a strike. “--shooting each other like civilized people?”

“I am not permitted,” the cardinal said flatly.

“Well then, you should really consider surrendering.”

Vanya parried a strike of the cardinal’s hand, the muscles in his arm bulging with the amount of force necessary to stop himself from being bowled over. He thought he heard a seam pop in his sleeve.

“Surrender is not in my best interest,” said the cardinal.

Vanya was getting tired, going blow for blow. He dodged out of the cardinal’s way and put some distance between them again. The cardinal heaved another row of seats into the air and tossed it; Vanya ducked down, and the seats sailed into the doorway with another tooth-rattling clatter.

“What did you say your name was again?” Vanya asked her. “Salome, right?”

“And you are Ivan Gusev,” said Salome. “A Russian agent for nine years and one half of a Special Team for four. Your Special Team partner is Yuri Ostrovsky. You were personally responsible for the Helsinki fiasco and the assassination of Anastas Radulov.”

“I wouldn’t have used the word ‘fiasco,’ but other than that small error, you speak Russian remarkably well. May I ask how long your Revered Reverend Eminence has studied?”

“That question cannot be answered.”

Vanya dodged another blow; he hadn’t been careful, and he’d let Salome get close again. He was huffing and puffing with effort, muscles trembling under the impossible amount of force Salome was able to command with just her fists. Vanya was going to be covered in bruises.

It was spooky how nothing seemed to so much as wind Salome. There wasn’t a single drop of sweat on her face, and no color either. Even vampires could turn red, if you put the effort in. Dirty jokes sometimes did the trick.

“Why? Would that be fraternization?” he asked, voice strained. “We’re all Hemisphere, here, there’s no need to be shy.”

Somewhere on the train, there was the sound of gunfire. Vanya used the half-second that Salome was distracted to put some distance between them again. He struggled to catch his breath.

“That’ll be our better halves,” he said. “Let me guess–you two also decided to flank us. That’s funny. Despite our best efforts, it’ll be a fair fight, eh?”

Salome didn’t reply. The gunfire overhead was slow and measured. Shot, aim, shot. Vanya could almost fill in the picture of what was happening up there. He could hear the difference between Yuri’s sniper rifle and Frankie’s handgun. She had the advantage of the right gun for the job, but Yuri had a decent chance. You couldn’t beat his marksmanship or his cool head.

Vanya was too slow dodging the next seat Salome chucked his way; it clipped him, and he went down hard in the aisle, head buzzing. The seat bounced off an overhead luggage rack and fell right in front of him, nearly hitting him twice.

Vanya’s pulse hammered in his ears. His sleeves were falling off, he realized. He tore the excess fabric away, which only revealed just how bruised his arms were. Salome stalked toward him down the aisle, each footstep a metallic clang.

“You hear that?” Vanya asked.

Salome stopped a few feet away.

“Be more specific,” she said.

“No more gunfire,” Vanya said with a groan. He’d fallen on his wrist; it was definitely broken. He gritted his teeth and powered through, even though trying to bear weight with that hand threatened to white his vision out with pain. “Who do you think won?”

Salome hesitated. Then she stalked forward again without answering.

Vanya rattled off a barrage of machine gun fire–maybe fifteen bullets–before the gun jammed on him. He’d been using it as a bludgeon, so fair was fair. All fifteen tore through the train seat between him and Salome, and all fifteen buried themselves somewhere in her body.

Salome staggered a few steps back. She made a soft grunt, then stood still. Vanya took his time getting to his feet. It was impressive that Salome was still standing, but sometimes that happened. Shock could offer a few borrowed seconds to the dead, but eventually the heart had to stop.

Salome stood perfectly still, her eyes vacant. Vanya gave a disbelieving chuckle the longer this went on. His laugh turned nervous when he watched her reach into a bullet hole and pluck a perfectly clean bullet from the wound. She did this to several more of the bullets, dropping them carelessly to the ground. There wasn’t so much as a drop of blood.

“Ezio,” Salome said. She scooped the train seat in the aisle up on the tip of her toe then used her leg to hurl it out of the way. “I encountered a bug which affected my prioritization. I was presented a scenario with a high number of unknown variables, and I attempted to predict the probability of a certain outcome.” Salome wrenched another seat out of the floor. “Prioritization should not have been diverted from the movement of an active threat. My reaction time was affected by .001 seconds.”

“Good to know that if not for .001 seconds, we’d be evenly matched,” Vanya said, managing to more or less keep up with the Italian. “Hey, what the hell are you?”

Salome hurled the train seat at him. Vanya dodged. Vanya scanned her up and down. One of her arms moved jerkily, as if injured, but otherwise her movements were fluid. As if he hadn’t just shot her fifteen times. Maybe she was wearing bullet-proof armor under that big red robe. But Vanya had shot her practically point blank. He didn’t know of any armor that good. She should at least have been laid out with a few broken ribs.

“They give you amphetamines or something?” Vanya asked. “Or are you actually not human at all?”

Salome didn’t answer. His mind reached for an advantage, any advantage.

“I think Yuri won,” Vanya said, raising his gun to meet Salome’s punch in a clash that sent reverberations through his broken wrist. “You want to know why?”

Salome didn’t answer. Vanya still met her hit-for-hit, but he was slowing down.

“I said, you want to know why? Why I think your partner is dead?”

Vanya seized an opening and kicked Salome’s knee, popping it out of the socket. Salome staggered, and Vanya slipped away, giving himself a few seconds to rest before the next onslaught.

“One outcome is not significantly more likely than the other given the information at hand,” said Salome.

Vanya waggled a finger at her.

“Ah-ah,” he said. “You see–” He faltered, watching her expressionlessly put her own knee back in the socket, but he recovered. “...You see, Yuri has too much to live for. He’s going on holiday with his wife, just as soon as we submit our final reports. A month in beautiful, temperate Latvia, which he’ll spend snuggled up in a cabin on the Baltic Sea, eating nothing but smoked sprats and Anya’s pussy. That man cannot be killed.”

“You’re attempting to trick me,” Salome said. “That is not the name of Yuri Ostrovsky’s wife.”

Vanya’s smile dropped from his face.

“For God’s sake, don’t tell me,” he said.

Salome rushed forward. Vanya let out a yell as he raised his gun in defense yet again, weathering yet another impossibly powerful blow. The muzzle bent at a ninety degree angle.

“Why would I give you proprietary information?” Salome asked. “Are you possibly losing your cool?”

The truth was, Vanya was at a severe disadvantage. Vanya wasn’t sure how many more hits he could take before he went down. Yuri’s situation wasn’t much better. Assuming he and the other cardinal were an equal match, Yuri still had the wrong gun for close quarters. And he hadn’t eaten. Vanya knew they should have found something in Stuttgart.

Vanya laughed. “Lose my cool? Why would I? You know all about Ivan Gusev and Yuri Ostrovsky, don’t you? So you know we’re at our best in a tight spot.”

Vanya swung out with the bent barrel of his gun, jamming it under Salome’s shoulder blade. He wrenched the gun like a pry bar, and sure enough, her injured arm popped out of the socket. He’d guessed right, that her reaction time would be slower on that side.

The arm should have dangled uselessly for the rest of the fight; instead, it slid out of Salome’s sleeve and clattered to the floor.

“What’s the matter with you?” Vanya asked, kicking the metal arm out of the way. “Still having problems prioritizing? If somebody ripped my arm off during a fight, I’d never live it down.”

“Why don’t you want to know Ostrovsky’s wife’s name?” Salome asked. “I believe I was distracted by your bizarre and illogical statement.”

“That–” Vanya didn’t have a tinned answer ready to go. He swung at Salome with the gun, but this time she caught the barrel and snapped it off. “--That’s supposed to distract me from the fact that your arm just came off? Are you made of metal all the way through? Wait, I knew you had a glass eye, but it actually is both of them, isn’t it?”

The resumption of gunfire from somewhere above them cut the conversation short. 

“Well if that isn’t irregular,” Vanya said mildly. “Are they both still alive, or do we have another stakeholder, I wonder?”

The train came to an abrupt stop, knocking both of them off their feet. Salome’s arm went rolling up the aisle.

“This is not consistent with any of my models,” Salome said. She got to her feet and walked over Vanya, heading for the door. It slid open only when Salome forced it, metal crumpling and warping as she crammed it into its slot.

“What, you worried?” Vanya called from the floor. He was still struggling to get his feet under him with his broken wrist.

“You’re not? What do you know?”

“Me? Nothing.” Vanya joined her by the door. “I have faith in my partner. And the saints would never allow him to lose to a Catholic, I’ve been praying.”

“Bizarre and illogical,” Salome muttered. She started up the stairs, apparently calling their match a draw.

“Bizarre and illogical,” Vanya said, following quickly after.

24.20 || 24.22

[thepenguinhbo]

introducing: babygirl v (world's most perfect little angel with a sniper rifle)

yvonne anastasia shostakovich-beaumont (ivo for close friends, v for literally everyone else)

half russian, half french

her family life can be summed up as "let's talk about literally anything else"

corpo background

actually had a very short-lived fling with arthur jenkins. she would rather not talk about it.

jackie welles was her ride-or-die best friend and to say his death fucked her up more than johnny's presence in her head ever did would be an understatement

ends up catching feelings for river ward

her relationship w/ johnny silverhand is mostly antagonistic and she is willing to go to any lengths to put this weird part of her life behind

ends up developing a genuine friendship with takemura

padre and wakako are her favorite fixers, and she is their favorite merc. being in their graces eventually helps her to put regina and dino out of business and take over their turfs along with river.

[acesknights]

° × Warlock Background info post ° ×

CW: Small warning for the post as there will be gore art near the end of this post 🫶

I wanted to make a small(ish) post about warlocks backstory/info because I've been practically only relying on what i find in my notes app and what i remember in my head about him

I'll update this as i go / more info is added into this oc

Info under cut <3

// General information //

Name: Adrian Jan Gruszczyński

Aliases: Warlock

Rank: lieutenant

Affiliations: Shadow Company, GROM [formally]

D. O. B: [09/09/1988] September 9th 1988

Age: 37 Years

Gender: Male - Cisgender

Nationality: Polish

Ethnicity: (West) Slavic

Laterality: Right side dominant

Blood type: O+

Languages: Polish, English, Russian

Personality Type: ISTJ

Specialises in: Long-range-marksmanship, CQC, covert infiltration

Weapon of choice: Barrett MRAD Bolt-Action Sniper Rifle + SIG MCX-SPEAR LT Assault Rifle

// Appearence //

Eye colour: Light Blue

Hair colour: Dark Auburn

Height: 187CM

Weight: 75KG

Body type: athletic

Any markings and/or scars: smaller scars on his arms and legs from small accidents while on the field ie - barbed wire, knife/sharp abrasions.

Deep knife lacerations on his back that required stitches [now healed leaving deep visable scarring]

Chemical burn across the right side of his face, going down to his collar bone - his hair, ear, and neck being affected by the said burn - his right eye sustained little to no damage yet that is subject to change but currently the burn had only eaten away at a large amount of his face, exposing/ripping apart part of his lips - leaving half his mouth always shown.

That severity of a burn had led to him requiring a skin graph from his thigh, more surgeries would be needed in the future to better fix this injury.

The same chemical burn scarring also being on his right forearm, the scarring there hadn't caused major damage as it was partially burned from splashback from the chemicals being thrown onto him but still required the same attention and overlook incase it were to damage his ability to use said arm

// Mannerisms //

Best traits: Tactical Acumen , Loyalty , adaptability to situations

Worst traits: Neuroticism, abrasive nature, known to have workaholic tendencies

Mannerisms: He has a tendency to respond in a brutally honest manner - a trait he had picked up from how he was brought up. He's highly observant, frequently assessing his surroundings and the people around him, which contributes to his tactical acumen. Despite his stoic exterior, he shows support for his team through subtle gestures, like a reassuring nod or a brief, reassuring touch on ones shoulder. Adrian may engage in tactile behaviors like adjusting his gear, checking his weapons over when in deep thought or contemplation before deployment.

// Family //

Relatives: [N/A]

Relationship status: Divorced - 'Katarzyna Gruszczyńska' [estranged]

Children: 'Anya Gruszczyńska' [deceased]

Extra: carries romantic feelings towards his Commander 'Phillip Graves'

// Background //

- Adrian had began his career in the Polish Army when he had enlisted at aged 19, specializing in covert operations and unconventional warfare. He excelled in reconnaissance and stealth missions.

- Special Forces Training: Adrian's exceptional skills caught the attention of the top brass, leading to his selection for specialized training within Poland's elite GROM unit. He honed his skills in marksmanship, infiltration, and hand-to-hand combat.

- While Adrian was still serving in the GROM unit, a mission involving counter-terrorism took an unexpected and horrific turn as Adrian was part of an operation to neutralize a dangerous extremist group responsible for multiple attacks across the time-span of three years. During a high-risk raid on a remote compound that was found inside of a large town, a hostage situation had occurred. This tragically claimed the life of their young daughter, Anya - who had been staying with Katarzyna's parents at the time. Adrian had to witness first-hand the death of his only daughter in front of him. The only view he had was from the scope of his Sniper Rifle

- The loss of their child was an unbearable burden on Adrian and Katarzyna as grief and guilt overwhelmed them both - knowing that this turn of events could've been stopped much earlier than before, yet the two of them had tried to overcome this grief in two vastly different and unhealthy ways. Adrian's relentless commitment to his military career as a coping mechanism drove a wedge between them both - he threw himself into his work seeking solace in the missions to distract himself from the loss of Anya. While Katarzyna could not bear the pain and distanced herself emotionally from him, thus straining and ruining their relationship with one another.

- Overtime, It eventually led to their estrangement, with both of them unable to find a way to heal and reconnect amid the painful memories of their once beloved child. The two agreed to their own separate ways and eventually divorced.

- Shadow Company Recruitment: Adrian's skills and experience eventually caught the attention of the private military organization, Impressed by his service history, they offered him a position that aligned with his talents.

- Injury: During one of his mission within Shadow Company, a mission that Adrian was tasked on had gone south all of a sudden - leading to a gunfight with the enemy rather quickly. Said gunfight leading to Adrian getting hit with a nasty chemical burn across his face and upper left arm. This injury left him unable to serve fully for multiple months, leading him to need multiple different facial reconstruction / skin graphs surgeries to help aid in the healing and lessening the look of this injury he had sustained.

// Images below that show his injury: // + coloured in varient

[transparentfoxpost]

marvel oc #2

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BASIC INFORMATION

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『 Real Name 』

Aries Regulus Stark-Huxley

『 Nickname 』

Ari, Reggie, Regulus

『 Alias 』

Viktor

『 Identity 』

Secret

『 Date of Birth 』

August

『 Place of Birth 』

Moscow, Russia

『 Species 』

Human

『 Gender 』

Male

『 Sexuality 』

Homoromantic, demisexual

『 Current Location 』

Unknown

『 Accent 』

Russian

『 Zodiac 』

(star [Gemini, Libra, Cancer, etc] or chinese [Horse, Ram, Rabbit, etc])

『 Status 』

(alive, dead, hospitalized, etc)

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AFFILIATIONS

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『 Relatives 』

Mother: unknown mother

Father: Tony Stark

Siblings: Morgan Stark

Aunts: n/a

Uncles: n/a

Cousins: n/a

Grandparents: Anthony Stark

『 Pets 』

N/a

『 Marital Status 』

『 Crush 』

Bruce Banner

Thor Odinson

Steve Rogers

『 Friends 』

Natasha, Bucky, Thor

『 Best Friends 』

Bruce, Steve

『 Apprentice(s) 』

N/a

『 Mentor(s) 』

N/a

『 Allies 』

The avengers + Loki

『 Partnerships 』

???

『 Teams or Organizations 』

The avengers

『 Education 』

Masters degree in health care, bachelors degree in computer sciences

『 Occupation 』

Model, actor, and future ceo of Stark enterprise

『 Enemies 』

Thanos,

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APPEARANCE

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『 Eyes 』

Blue, thick eyelashes, pretty

『 Hair 』

Brown

『 Height 』

Six feet, five inches

『 Weight 』

Unknown

『 Important Features』

N/A

『 Usual outfit 』

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『 Superhero Costume 』

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『 Sleepwear 』

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『 Formal 』

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HEALTH

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『 Physical Health』he has type a diabetes but overall he's pretty healthy, so 9/10

『 Mental Health 』

Too many mental disorders to list, 2/10

『 Contacts/Glasses 』

Contacts

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ORIGIN

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Describe the origin of the person here.

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POWER GRID

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━━━━━

• Intelligence - 11/10 •

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• Strength - 8/10 •

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• Speed - 5.2/10 •

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• Durability - 6.4/10 •

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• Fighting Skills - 5/10 •

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• Close-Quarter Combat - 4.2/10 •

━━━━━

• Long-Range Combat - 8.2/10 •

━━━━━

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POWERS AND ABILITIES

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• never aging •

He can't physically age so he can't die by old age

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• superhuman intelligence •

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• Name •

Description

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• Name •

Description

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• Name   •

Description

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• Name •

Description

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EQUIPMENT

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• katana •

Description

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• sniper rifle •

Description

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• Name •

Description

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• Name •

Description

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"Quote"

• ═══════════════════ •

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CHARACTER TRAITS

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• Personality Description •

═════════

•   Good Traits•

•intelligence

•loyal

•stubborn

•pretty

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• Neutral Traits•

•a bitch

•manipulative

•calm

•hard. To anger

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• Bad Traits •

•ruthless

•too strict

•pessimist

•people user

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• Likes •

•books, liberies

•stars, space, astronomy

•animals, nature, bugs, the life cycle

•science, knowledge, documentaries, history

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• Dislikes •

•loud noises, being touched by most people, overwhelming things

•idiots, assholes, homophobes

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• Fears •

•losing his best friend

•heights, more specifically falling

•the ocean, deep water, lakes, rivers, more specially drowning

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• Desires •

•unknown

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• Regrets •

•unknown

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• Triggers •

•being overwhelmed

•a few other small things

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FAVOURITES

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• Colour •purple

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• Music • 50's all the way to 90's work

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• Movie • grease

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• TV Show •full house

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• Food •strawberries

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• Drink •caffeine

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• Leasure Activities • swimming

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NOTES

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He's deaf, and both his voice claim and face claim is Nyle Demarco

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Original template was made by Jess

Edited by Li’l Lilith

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[jcmarchi]

Giant Sniper Rifle - Ukrainians Enjoy Archer Howitzers - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/giant-sniper-rifle-ukrainians-enjoy-archer-howitzers-technology-org/

Giant Sniper Rifle - Ukrainians Enjoy Archer Howitzers - Technology Org

Ukraine lags behind Russia in numbers – Russia has a lot more weapons and people. Even with Western support, this will not change in the near future. Therefore, Ukraine needs to overcome its enemy with quality – the kind offered by the Swedish Archer Artillery System, which demonstrates sniper accuracy and cavalry speed.

Ukrainian TSN journalist Andrii Tsaplienko had the opportunity to see how the Swedish self-propelled howitzer Archer, considered to be the best weapon in its class, performs in Ukraine.

The Archer artillery system is incredibly fast and works well in counter-battery operations. Image credit: Ibaril via Wikimedia (CC BY-SA 3.0)

“It starts up quickly, takes up to 30 seconds. We also quickly organise ourselves and leave the shooting site,” said Yevgenii, a soldier of the 45th Separate Mechanised Brigade, who serves in the Archer crew.

The Archer is actually a very fast self-propelled howitzer. The whole machine weighs about 38 tonnes and still reaches 90 km/h on the road. Its 6×6 chassis is decently competent off-road too. Upon arriving at the firing site, the Archer howitzer gets ready in just 20-30 seconds. If there is a need, it can fire up to 3 shots in just 20 seconds. After another 20 seconds, Archer leaves the area. It is a 155mm howitzer that can fire smart rounds such as the Excalibur, so its accuracy is incredible. The automatic loader not only allows such a quick rate of fire, but also reduces the size of the crew to just 3 soldiers.

The biggest advantage of Archer is its ability to quickly respond to Russian artillery strikes. The Archer can quickly arrive at the battle, deliver accurate counter-battery strikes, and leave before the Russians can even begin to look for the howitzer.

“The enemy has no such thing. This is one of the most advanced weapons that the Allies have provided to Ukraine. Archer can quickly fire several projectiles on different trajectories so that they hit the same target at the same time,” said Tsaplienko.

Of course, not everything is so nice and beautiful. The problem is that the Archer is not a mass-produced weapon. The Swedish defence industry produced only about fifty of these howitzers, eight of which were generously given to Ukraine. Eight howitzers is not many when the frontline is so long.

But when needed the Archer is very appreciated. It has a massive armoured cab – the crew doesn’t even have to leave it for shooting. There are several shells in the automatic loader – like rounds in a rifle. The Archer howitzer for the defenders of Ukraine is just like a giant sniper rifle. The howitzer visited by Tsaplienko had already destroyed a Russian BMP, a main battle tank and a mortar.

It would be nice if Ukraine could have more Archer howitzers. Europe in general needs to find ways to ramp up the production of arms and ammunition very quickly.

Written by Povilas M.

Sources: TSN.ua, Wikipedia

You can offer your link to a page which is relevant to the topic of this post.

[we-do-a-little-developing]

First-person games

First-person games are any form of games where the player character plays in the first person, seeing whatever the player character would. They have been a staple of gaming since their introduction - particularly with shooters - and have remained consistently popular.

Team Fortress 2:

Team Fortress 2 PC Multiplayer Gameplay #2 | 1080p - YouTube

HAHAA YOU FOOL THERE IS NO ESCAPE

I'm not sorry.

The main draw of Team Fortress 2 [TF2] are how customisable it can be. If you like doing things in video games, you can probably do it in TF2 - there are community fashion shows, sword-wielding scotsmen flying through the skies alongside jingoistic Americans who only stopped his nazi-killing rampage in 1949 or just a huge russian man offering sandwiches. There's also the shooting aspect if you're playing normally which is equally as fun. This is due to the colossal cosmetic options, very large weapon choice options and playstyle options across 9 unique classes

Visuals:

A running joke in the TF2 community is that it's a shooter-themed hat simulator. This is due to the 1795 cosmetics in-game. That's a lot. Because of this, your class can appear however you want. Most cosmetics can also be painted different colours, and unusual effects [big gaudy particle effects on guns, hats and taunts] only add to this. This is a huge draw as it attracts all players, from edgelord I-have-no-soul snipers, to players who just want to spent the entire game doing the conga or sneaking around in a cardboard box. All of this, however, fits with the games dated artstyle [for the most part]. This allows TF2 to feel visually coherent whilst retaining unprecedented levels of player choice in appearance.

Gameplay:

The same approach is also given to playstyles. The best example of this is the Demoman class, who has a grenade launcher and a sticky bomb launcher. This gives him extremely good area denial capability due to the explosion radius of his bombs and how he can use sticky bombs to trap areas players funnel through. However, due to his weapons firing slow-moving projectiles and his low movement speed, the Demoman can be very vulnerable when isolated and caught off-guard. By replacing his grenade launcher with boots, sticky bomb launcher with a shield and bottle with a huge sword, you lose all area denial and instead become able to fly around the map [TF2's physics engine is very weird] and decapitate players as a 'Demoknight' , becoming stronger and faster with every kill. A lot of classes have similar items that completely flip their playstyle, albeit to a lesser extend, from switching from a defensive Engineer to the gun-toting, yee-hawing Battle Engineer, or dropping your huge minigun to play as a massive, slow scout as the Heavy. However, playing a class as intended is still extremely fun! Nearly all weapons are single shot [like a rifle or rocket launcher] rather than sustained fire [like a machinegun]. This results in far more fun while playing, as the sounds for firing a grenade and the explosion upon hitting a player is far more satisfying than a brrrrrt from a machine gun. Also, when you die, you often think how you could have killed that player if you'd hit that last shot rather than if you'd just been better at following them with your crosshair if you're using a sustained fire weapon. All weapons force the player to adopt a different playstyle, whether small changes to aiming or playing a near different class [Demoknight, is only when all 3 weapons have been swapped to drastically different ones] so the game always feels fresh.

Payday 2:

Payday 2 is a heisting game, or a first-person-shooter when you've had enough of sneaking around. Released in 2013 by Overkill Software and published by Starbreeze, it featured two distinct ways of performing a heist - stealth or loud. This allowed for two extremely distinct approaches to be taken to each individual heist, with perk decks and skills built up during gameplay introducing new mechanics to assist during heists [alcoholism heals bullet wounds apparently].

Stealth vs Loud: In Stealth, the player has to complete typically quieter objectives and avoid being seen by guards, cameras and civilians at all costs. If this occurs, the alarm will be raised and police will be called, forcing the heist to go Loud. This can be avoided, however, by killing guards, shooting cameras or cable tying a civilian to make them a hostage [you can shoot civilians but that's very much inadvisable]. In Loud, you shoot first and blow things up. Loud is fun. Instead of sneaking around, you walk into a bank and blow holes in things. Depending on difficulty, you may face traditional SWAT units, shield units which require special weapons or ammo to damage from the front, snipers [i hate], Bulldozers [800lb walking tanks who will obliterate you if you get too close], medics [who make SWAT far stronger] and Cloakers, who will hop out of sewers or vents, backflip over a Ford and down you immediately by introducing your face to the pavement. Whilst most heists can be done Stealth or Loud [Loud is typically simpler but Stealth can be much quicker and you get a bonus], some are Stealth only [Shadow Raid] or Loud only [Counterfeit]. This forces players out of their comfort zone to test different approaches and tools to complete objectives.

Perks and Skills: Perk decks and Skills change how a heist is played, rather than its approach. Perk decks are 9 consecutive cards in each deck that have increasing price but increasing benefits, however only one deck can be equipped. An example of this is Stoic, which gives you the Hip Flask which greatly reduces the amount of damage you just took [it's complicated]. The other 8 perks in the deck improve passive things such as reducing time until you're allowed to use the Flask, how much health it restores and so on. Switching to another deck will replace Stoic's benefits with the other decks, however they can be switched between with no penalty. Skills, however, are 15 different skill trees with 7 individual Skills that can be selected at will to provide cumulative benefits - any Skill you have selected will be active, regardless of what tree it's in. Although neither Skills nor Perks change whether you go Stealth or Loud, they can impact how you play heists in the abilities you have to hand. Skills and Perks can be selected to work well with each other to create Builds, such as a dodge build which just forces a percent of all hits you take to no damage [like you dodged a bullet]. This complexity provides extreme variation in how heists are played, with all approaches having a multitude of ways to perform them using any Skills or Perks

Borderlands 2:

Borderlands 2 is a first-person looter shooter made by Gearbox Software in 2012 [but I don't remember 2012]. In BD2, you can play as one of 4 characters [6 if you purchase DLC], each with a unique action skill and vastly different skill trees. There's a lot of guns in BD2. A lot. Each is one of 5 types [rocket launcher, SMG, assault rifle, sniper, pistol] and may have one of 5 elements [fire, ice, corrosion, slag and explosion] with vastly different stats and designs from one another.

The Characters: I'm ignoring the 2 bonus DLC characters here. Each of the 4 main characters has a separate action skill, from a sentry that attaches to walls/ceilings, magic to keep enemies in place, holograms to duel-wielding guns. These skills have relatively short cooldowns, so the action feels continuous when these are in use. Each class also has 3 different skill trees that function similarly to those in Payday 2, with any selected skills being active regardless of what tree they're in. Each tree also caters to a specific playstyle, such as Zer0 [assassin]'s trees assisting with either keeping his hologram up so the player can stay invisible for longer, stronger melee attacks and bonuses for that or skills to assist sniping. However, these skills can be combined to produce builds dedicated to however you want to play and can be reset [for a price, of course] so the player has a large variety of playstyles and approaches to play with through character choice and skills.

The Guns: Most guns [except certain unique ones] can be of any element from 5 and any rarity from common to legendary, impacting its stats. These elements make them stronger against certain types of enemy but weaker against others and can help some guns feel less redundant. Each gun can also have effects such as firing 3 rounds at once for snipers, or extra critical damage. Because of this, all guns feel unique and can be swapped out at any point for different ones. Truly unique guns, however, are typically dropped by bosses or via quests. They are usually rare or legendary, and have special witty text attached with unique stats and models. These guns are typically extremely strong, and allow the player to perform a 100% completion run finding them all if they so desire. This variety causes the weapons to be varied and feel different regardless of how many times you've completed the game.

War Thunder:

We do not discuss War Thunder.

Bendy And The Dark Revival:

BATDR is a sequel to popular horror game Bendy And The Ink Machine [BATIM] where you play as a character enduring the horrors created by the Ink Machine. The gameplay is extremely smooth for the most part [the enemy AI can be janky at times] with a unique visual style and flair.

The Horror: With a mixture of scripted jumpscares, stealth sections and chase sequences, the horror in BATDR is fairly varied in it's sources. The scripted jumpscares provide obvious shock horror, but they're still fairly effective due to the atmosphere and tension. The stealth sections can be completed if you have sufficient mechanical efficiency to kill all the enemies without dying, however it tends to be extremely difficult. Because of this, stealth sections are particularly stressful due to the tension of the consequences for getting seen. With the chase sequences, the anxiety comes from the lack of knowledge of how far from safety you are, and how close you are to death as there's insufficient time to check. These combine to provide sufficiently varied horror and fear in the player despite acting in vastly different manners.

The Atmosphere: BATDR has a very strong atmosphere due to the story, enemies and visuals. Whilst the story provides narrative reasons for the existence of the game and its content, and conscious tension ['what's [x]'s plan?'], the visuals help provide more unconscious tension ['something's wrong here'] alongside environmental storytelling to suggest what has happened in a specific environment. The enemies also help provide atmosphere dynamically through their mannerisms, movement and appearance.

Generation Zero:

Generation Zero is a cold-war survival game set in a post-apocalyptic Sweden where the player character must navigate through a large island off the coast of Sweden, avoiding [and fighting when it all goes wrong] some pretty cool robots with a variety of weapons found around the world.

Visuals: For a relatively small studio, Gen 0 looks extremely clean. All robots can be distinguished from their environment through a combination of colour palette and movement - the robots are typically of two distinct colours that aren't seen too much in the environment, and are often moving so the player can separate them from the environment. There are also quite a few notably different types of robots, and depending on the location their colour will be different. The playable environment is also easily traversable, with the dedicated routes easily identifiable, and the degree of separation between wide open fields and forests with previously inhabited areas help distinguish locations of note.

Gameplay: All the weapons in Gen 0 feel punchy and powerful, which also makes them very satisfying to fire [maybe not as much as TF2 but still really good]. This is also consistent throughout the game - Gen 0's sound design is excellent and really adds to the experience. Ammo is typically also fairly sparse, forcing the player to decide whether a fight is worth engaging in for the possible loot or to conserve their ammo. Sometimes, however, the player is caught off-guard [this is genuinely terrifying] and has to fight. The robots of Gen 0 are extremely powerful but also fairly balanced - the Hunter has a machine gun that can utterly decimate you at close-medium range, has gas canisters and has a concerningly high movement speed, so in order to counter them, the player has to keep their distance as best they can or use explosives to trap them. Tanks [unfortunately not actual ones] and Harvesters both have extremely thick armour and heavy armaments with heavy machineguns and rocket barrages, but if the player stays behind cover, they can steadily destroy them by attrition. The player environments are also as varied as the enemies, from open plains [bad], to forests, beaches and bunkers.

Subnautica:

Subnautica is a open-world first person game set in a predominantly underwater world where the player's main objective is to survive and upgrade their tools. The world of Subnautica is very visually distinct, with the story told through environmental storytelling and audio logs.

Storytelling And Directions: Subnautica rarely has direct instructions for the player. Instead, the developers used environmental storytelling and voice logs to direct their curiosity, hinting at what may be present in specific areas. Environmental storytelling is the process of utilising the environment to imply past events without direct explanation, such as weird alien monuments suggesting that you may not have been the first here. However, due to the complexity of Subnautica, explanations are sometimes necessary. This is done in another world-relevant method, namely audio logs. This is a form of environmental storytelling as the player can find logs around the world, typically suggesting at past events or will receive an audio explanation after scanning an object of construction. These vaguely direct the players curiosity, suggesting where to go next without forcing the player

I'm pretty sure this is unintelligible. I'm tired.

Environmental Design: The biomes of Subnautica are all very visually distinguishable. From the Jelly Shrooms to the Tropical Shallows, each has its own set of visually and thematically coherent flora and fauna. Materials are always in noticeable locations and either stand out from the background or are so close to the player that they'll bump into them eventually. The water also serves as a good cover for chunk loading as at a certain distance, things just become invisible. The light streams and gradient also help keep the player orientated, something that is very much not there in the depths or in caves.

Superhot:

Superhot is a VR game where the player is tasked with destroying all enemies using whatever they have or can find. Time also only moves when the player move. I imagine that was fun to program

The Time Mechanic: Time only progresses when the player moves. This allows the player to make strategic decisions at effectively lightning pace, relative to the enemies. This can also make the game far more dramatic, as the player gets to control the pace of action and can be more deliberate in their actions.

The Other Mechanics: The other stand-out features of Superhot are that guns can be taken right out the hands of enemies. Used in conjunction with the time mechanic, this can be used for some True Shenanigans. It also allows the player to ping-pong from enemy to enemy, constantly keeping armed. The enemy models are also comically detailed, being made of geometric chunks which will be blown apart when struck or shot for a brilliant visual effect.

In conclusion: video game.

Thank you for attending my TED talk

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eyyyy macarena

[spookygayferret]

Hey, remember that Killing Eve-inspired OFMD AU I mentioned forever ago? Well, the first four chapters of it are up on AO3. Featuring Gentlebeard, some fucked up EdIzzy content, violence, bloodshed, expensive fashion, sex, and literally everyone needing therapy.

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death

Rating: E (Explicit)

CW: Violence, blood, Ed and Izzy and Stede being fucked up little dudes, psychological/emotional/physical abuse, dark humor, hurt/comfort, me getting place names wrong probably

Summary: Three men pulled into each others' orbit by circumstance and bloodshed navigate a high stakes world of intrigue, expensive fashion, murder, and sex.

Edward Teach killed people. He was an assassin. A murderer. The Kraken.

He’d gotten the name off a bottle of perfume. Kraken. The first fancy thing he ever touched, Ed’s first luxury indulgence. A small boutique in Paris, Ed forgot the name. His fingers grazing over the bottle of perfume, a thought about buying it. And a deep voice in his ear, asking him what he would like to be called from now on. He wasn’t Edward Teach anymore.

He asked (in French) about the name. But the store clerk ignored him…at least until Ed picked it up, dark eyes darting to meet his own when he asked after the price.

The Kraken. He was twenty when he chose that name.

The perfume wasn’t bad. It smelled of lilies and sea salt.

Ed was sixteen years old when he pulled off his first kill. The son of a Russian politician, out hiking by himself on a late night. A tumble into a body of water, Ed’s hands coming up to shove decisively against the larger boy’s back and send him toppling off the dock. Entranced and called by the siren scent of lavender on Ed’s skin. Ed was small for his age, he was willowy. But he was smart.

He kept the empty bottle of Kraken, it lived on a shelf in his closet. The stench of lilies and sea salt followed him through pattern, the ghost of it. Ed touched his fingers along the surface of the bottle, the glossy writing along the side and the painted tentacles weaved around the glass like tendrils of smoke.

And he asked himself if he even liked it, the smell of lilies and sea salt. It reminded him so much of that night, sixteen years old and having just killed a boy slightly older than him for reasons he hadn’t been allowed to know. The boy had been soft-spoken and his hair long like Ed’s would eventually be. And Ed had shoved him into the water, he’d turned away and left quickly as the boy shouted for help.

The scent of lilies and sea salt kept Ed up some nights.

Ed’s training started in the harsh Russian wilderness. Ed had memories of it, the nondescript van with the tinted windows he’d been pitched out of and onto the muddy forest floor. But after that was this blur of moving, flashes of blood and almost freezing to death. Ed wasn’t sure how he’d survived, to be honest. He’d spent god knows how long in that place, until his hair grew out and he started to forget the faces of the people who’d brought him there.

And the person who emerged from that wilderness wasn’t Edward Teach. He was The Kraken.

From there he had brief stints in Berlin, Rome, all over the map. Ed traveled more in a year than he thought possible, more than he’d expected to travel in his entire life. Learning to break codes, resist interrogation, pick locks, identify poisons, blend in as best as he could, various martial arts, throwing knives, the delicate art of the sniper rifle. Foreign languages (French, Russian, Italian, German, Spanish, etc.) and the inner workings of a human body.

At twenty, Ed reached the final leg of his training. And that was when he met Izzy Hands.