#Marksmanship Challenge

[zstartrixxx]

had to share a headcannon / get your opinion..

How do you think, with as many of Jack's characters, would react to meeting their match? ( wit, skill, etc. )

I headcannon that depending on the character and thing, it could either be heaven or hell..here's a few of mine..

Patrick ( knowledge on medicine and human anatomy ) a mixture of fascination and spiraling at the thought of someone out doing him at the one thing he's decent / revolved his time and focus on.

Oliver ( wit ) a mixture of smugness and arrogance, he'd take it as a challenge to out wit each other and then possible make up sex to make you regret challenging him to a wit battle.

Roy ( gun skills ), pussy whipped to a T. Would enjoy it as it's great knowing you can defend yourself, plus it's leads to friendly competitions just to watch you gloat at beating him.

okay, i'm a bit obssessed with this so here is my contribution:

Patrick Sumner (Medical Knowledge & Anatomy):

Picture him watching from afar, cigar in mouth, taking mental notes as this near-idealized rival of his studies. He’d go above and beyond to prove his superiority—in sutures, prescriptions, who knows more—and revel in it, even in his own mind.

I agree with you! Watching someone surpass him in the one thing he’s dedicated himself to would send him into a crisis. It’d be his own personal hell—especially if the situation were highly specific, just him and this rival sharing the same role. I’m thinking post-canon (after India, even during or after the ship events). Patrick would take it as a challenge because he needs to feel useful… Even if he’s distant, analytical, and overly polished with patients, a "rival" would make him lose his bearings.

But if you’re the rival? The tone shifts. Imagine a scenario dripping with sexual tension: Patrick would show you just how skilled his hands, fingers, mouth, and tongue are. That he knows more than just theory—because practice is what matters. It’d turn into a sadistic little competition: Who can make the other climax first?

The prize? "Best Doctor in the Region."

Oliver Mellors (Wit & Banter):

Oliver would watch with smug amusement as you absorb everything you read. Shared reading sessions? He’d challenge you to memory games—"Read this chapter, then summarize it in detail"—and be aroused by a mind as sharp as his.

That’s what excites him most: people who are smarter than him and wield that intelligence like a weapon. Whether you’re throwing sharp critiques at the elite or being sarcastic with him, Mellors wouldn’t hesitate to turn even sex into a dirty game:

"I’ll fuck you while you recite that poem. Miss a line, and I stop." (Spoiler: You’ll be pushed to your limit.)

Chess matches with him are deadly serious, ending with one of you shouting "Checkmate!" and jumping into the other’s lap. Card games? Filled with double entendres. And even bedtime reading becomes foreplay—books tossed aside, arrogance melted away by kisses and rough, claiming sex.

Roy Goode (Gun Skills & Marksmanship):

He loves seeing the person he loves outshoot him. Target practice, quick draws, hunting—anything requiring aim, focus, and precision? He’s there, cheering you on.

In your case, Roy’s the type to hover behind you, giving "instructions" (you don’t need them) just to feel you roll your eyes. His rough drawl purrs in your ear: "Hit that bullseye, darlin’, and I’ll let ya ride my face." (Joke’s on him—you’ll ride him either way.)

Lion Kaminski (Physical Endurance & Athletics):

He’s endlessly impressed by your reflexes. After every friendly competition, he’ll grin and mutter: "Damn, woman—you don’t miss a single shot, do ya?"

As a (near) professional athlete, Lion lives for physical challenges. Who can hold a plank longer? Run faster? Climb higher? It’s all about adrenaline and pushing limits.

With you beside him, teasing him into uncomfortable boners mid-workout—"Bet you can’t last… unless I’m under you"—it becomes sweet torture. Morning runs turn into pinned-against-the-wall moments: "Fuck—how are you this flexible?"

In the end? Win-win.

Remmick (Hunting & Predatory Instincts):

He loves the hunt. And it’s 10x hotter with someone who matches his skill. Your shared hunts become a deadly dance: luring prey, cornering them, killing with grace… Though Remmick tends to get messy, blood splattering his coat.

You tease him: "If you stay clean tonight, Remmy, I’ll let you lick me everywhere." Suddenly, the feral vampire is on best behavior (until he’s not).

[thewulf]

Breaking Point || Simon "Ghost" Riley

Summary: Request -I've got this itch for some hurt/comfort with Simon Ghost Riley and the reader from TF 141. Reader's this badass sniper, always on top of her game. But one day she wakes up feeling under the weather. She decides to push through training, but things take a turn when she starts feeling faint during drills after Price gives her shit for not training hard... Read Rest Here

A/N: Ahhh this was challenging but so much fun to right. Please let me know your thoughts below :) Got a little carried away with this one!

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader, TF 141 x Platonic Female Reader

Word Count: 7.7k +

TW: Heat Stroke, Flu, Illness, general COD warnings.

Four years ago, you were a part of a special training assignment with the American Navy, deployed in a remote and sweltering military base off the coast of Africa. It was here in the middle of the grueling drills and relentless heat that you caught the eye of Captain John Price. Your prowess with a rifle was unmistakable. Every target set before you fell without fail. But what truly set you apart was your demeanor: you kept your head down, focused intensely on the task at hand, never boasting about your undeniable skills.

Captain Price who was always on the lookout for exceptional talent to add to Task Force 141, saw in you a rare combination of humility and sharpshooting expertise. Recognizing your potential he pulled some strings, navigated through the complexities of the American Military bureaucracy, and somehow successfully recruited you into the prestigious ranks of TF 141. This marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. One that would challenge your resilience and skill more than any previous assignment.

Joining TF 141 wasn't just a promotion. It was being welcomed into a family of elite soldiers. While Soap and Gaz took an immediate liking to you, appreciating your wit and marksmanship, Ghost was initially more reserved. His trust was not easily won. It had to be earned on the battlefield not just through training exercises back at base.

Your defining moment came during a perilous mission in the frozen expanses of Russia within your first year with the 141. The mission had quickly gone sideways. Ghost found himself in the deadly crosshairs of an enemy sniper. With the situation deteriorating rapidly and no clear shot available to him your actions in those critical seconds would forever change the dynamics of your relationship with Ghost. From a concealed position you took out the opposing sniper with a single, precise shot, saving Ghost’s life.

This act erased any last reservations Ghost might have held. From then on he saw you not just as another sharpshooter but as an indispensable member of the team, his team. Your ability to make life-saving decisions under intense pressure proved your strength. Not just in terms of physical prowess but in intellectual and tactical acumen as well.

Since then you have become an integral part of TF 141's operations. Your journey from a promising recruit noticed by Captain Price to a pivotal player in some of the team’s most critical missions has been defined by relentless dedication and the deep trust you've earned from some of the military's toughest warriors.

The shrill beep of the alarm slices through the stillness of your room dragging you from the shallow waters of restless sleep into the harsh reality of dawn. For a moment as you blink against the dim light filtering through the barracks' curtains, the room spins slightly—a disorienting dance that forces you to close your eyes again.

You’ve always been the type who never gets sick. The one who breezes through the cold season unscathed while others succumb around you. Your robust health has been a point of pride, a badge of reliability in TF 141. But this morning something is different, and you know it immediately.

Your body aches profoundly, each muscle groaning with a weariness that feels bone-deep, and your head pounds with the relentless rhythm of a dull, throbbing drum. Swallowing feels like dragging sandpaper down your throat. An unfortunate wave of nausea rolls through you as you sit up. It has to be the flu, you think grimly, recognizing the unmistakable and unforgiving symptoms.

Despite the clear signs of illness, the thought of calling in sick doesn’t even cross your mind. It’s not just about pride. There’s also a deep-seated belief that you can handle anything, a belief that has carried you through countless challenges.

With a heavy, determined sigh, you push yourself off the bed. Standing unsteadily for a moment, you use the wall to keep yourself upright. Today is not the day to show weakness, not the day to break your perfect record of health. You decide to power through. To dress and join your team for the morning drills under the rising sun. The thought of letting them down by your absence is more daunting than the physical discomfort threatening to overwhelm you.As you gear up, each movement measured and more deliberate than usual, you steel yourself for the day ahead. Today, you'll prove—not just to your team, but to yourself—that not even the flu can keep you from standing alongside your comrades.

Stepping out into the cool, pre-dawn air, you allow yourself a moment to feel the chill against your fevered skin. It’s oddly refreshing, a natural contrast to the unnatural heat of your illness. It’s bound to be short lived though as the sun’s rays already feel warm on your skin. The training field is a short walk away and with each step you rehearse the day’s routine in your mind. A mantra against the physical discomfort.

As the briefing wraps up and the team begins to disperse to their respective training stations you feel the weight of Ghost’s gaze right on you. Despite the heaviness of your limbs and the fog in your brain, this unspoken solidarity from your teammates, especially Ghost, gives you a sliver of strength.

With each step towards the day’s first drill your resolve hardens. You're not just fighting the flu; you're fighting to maintain the trust and respect you’ve earned. Today, the battlefield is here, within yourself, and you're determined to prove your mettle. You are keenly aware of being one of the few women in the unit and the additional scrutiny that comes with it. It's crucial that you show no weakness even as your body wages its quiet rebellion. Your head pounds with a relentless ache. Your limbs are heavy. And every breath feels like an effort. Despite these symptoms screaming flu, you've chosen silence—no complaints, no excuses.

When you arrive at the training field the usual bustle of activity sharply contrasts with your internal struggle. Everyone is focused on what needs to be done, their attention solely on performance. As Captain Price begins the morning briefing his voice sounds like a distant echo in your ears drowned out by the pounding in your head. The day's challenges loom large, testing your limits before you've even started.

As you make your way to the lineup, the crisp morning air begins to turn warm, almost uncomfortable warm already. Soap falls into step beside you, his familiar grin lighting up his face as he launches into the light-hearted banter that typically marks your mornings together.

“Morning! Ready to outshoot us all again today?” Soap teases before giving you a gentle nudge with his elbow, expecting your usual lively retort.

You manage only a weak smile, one that doesn't quite reach your eyes, and nod faintly. The flu has buried your usual quick wit under a heavy weight of fatigue and discomfort. It takes all your effort just to keep standing without revealing how much you're struggling.

Soap’s smile quickly falters at your lack of reply, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You okay, lass?” he asks. His tone shifting to something more serious.

You nod again, swallowing hard against the surge of nausea. “Yeah, just tired,” you whisper, your voice barely audible. You're careful not to reveal the full extent of your ailment, not here, not in front of your team.

From a short distance away Ghost's intense gaze follows the exchange. Though his presence is more subdued, and his demeanor reserved, his attention to detail remains sharp. You can feel his concern even without words. His posture is alert, his body tensed as if ready to act at a moment's notice.

Ghost offers no overt gestures of worry; he doesn't need to. The slight tightening of his stance is a silent signal of his readiness to intervene. His eyes, just visible through the slits of his mask, never wander, tracking your every move with a vigilance that speaks volumes. You know he's always watching out for his team, and today, his protective focus is unmistakably fixed on you.

"Alright, let's warm up! Start with sprints!" Captain Price commands. His voice cuts through the morning air, decisive and clear. You line up with your teammates, the grass cool and slightly damp under your boots. The whistle pierces the calm, and you propel yourself forward. Each step is a battle, your muscles protesting every movement. Yet you push through the fatigue and dizziness.

After sprints the drills shift to push-ups. Down on the warm, wet grass you feel the earth against your palms, stabilizing yet unforgiving. You count each repetition, your muscles burning and a thin layer of sweat forming, which only seems to heighten the chills that intermittently rack your body.

Sit-ups come next and with each crunch a wave of nausea threatens your composure. The world tilts slightly with each lift, blurring at the edges. Captain Price’s footsteps approach. His presence looming. "Let’s see that strength, Y/N! Don’t slack now!" he urges. The encouragement is meant to inspire but it feels like a heavy mantle on your already burdened shoulders.

“Yes sir.” You manage to get out between crunches.

As you struggle through each exercise you can't ignore the hot flashes followed by chills, the hallmark of flu symptoms. Each movement is more taxing than the last and the temptation to give in and rest grows stronger. However, your determination doesn't waver. You are here to prove yourself, to demonstrate that neither flu nor fatigue can break your resolve. You need to showcase the unwavering strength of not just a skilled sniper, but a resilient soldier.

As the whistle blows, Captain Price directs everyone to break into their respective teams for more specialized, team-based drills. You find yourself grouped with Ghost, Gaz, and Soap. Your usual teammates and three of the unit's most competent operatives. Your heart sinks a bit. Their proficiency and teamwork are unmatched and under normal circumstances you would feel invigorated by the challenge. Today, however, it feels like an uphill battle.

"Alright, team," Gaz announces with a nod, "we’re up for the relay sprints and tactical positioning exercises. We need to be sharp and synchronized. Let's show these assholes how it's done."

You nod silently, attempting to muster a semblance of enthusiasm. Soap claps you on the shoulder giving you a reassuring smile, likely mistaking your subdued quietness for focused determination rather than the fatigue that’s slowly overtaking you.

The drills begin with relay sprints. You watch as Soap takes off with his usual speed. His figure swiftly cutting through the warming afternoon air. Gaz follows, moving with practiced ease. Then it’s your turn. As you push off your legs feel as though they are wading through molasses, your usually sharp agility significantly dulled by the flu’s tenacious grip. Each step feels heavier than the last as your breathing becomes ragged and unsteady.

Compounding your discomfort, the gear you're clad in feels unbearably hot against your skin. The layers that are usually a second nature in your fieldwork now seem like a furnace, trapping in every ounce of body heat. Your temperature rises not just from the fever, but also from the exhaustive exertion and the insulated heat from your tactical vest. Sweat beads on your forehead, not entirely from the physical activity but also from the early signs of heat exhaustion—your body’s desperate attempt to cool down under the layers.

Despite feeling increasingly overheated and nearly overwhelmed, you hide your discomfort well. Your face remains stoic, betraying none of the battle raging within your body against the heat and illness. To an outsider you might just appear intensely focused. But beneath the surface you're fighting a much tougher battle, trying to keep pace while your body screams for relief.

Ghost, from his vantage point, watches closely. His sharp eyes catch the subtle signs that others might miss—the slight falter in your step, the way you're breathing a little too hard after your sprint. His gaze intensifies with concern etched across his face as he monitors your every move, aware that something isn’t right but waiting for you to signal if you need assistance.

When you pass the baton to Ghost your hand trembles slightly. He catches it and for a brief moment your eyes meet. There's a flash of concern across his usually impassive face, a subtle shift that speaks volumes. He nods at you before taking off, his movements fluid and precise, yet his mind clearly not fully on the drill. His glance back at you is quick, discreet, checking to ensure you’re still on your feet.

As the exercises continue with the tactical positioning drills, the demands increase. This part of the training requires quick movements and even quicker thinking as each team member needs to cover different angles and work together seamlessly. You position yourself to cover Ghost’s flank, aiming to maintain your usual high standards. However, the world begins to tilt alarmingly. Your vision swims and the ground beneath you feels as if it’s shifting forcing you to steady yourself against a nearby tree.

Ghost, now at a slight distance, turns sharply in response to your stagger. His eyes narrow, not with disapproval, but with intensified concern. He makes a subtle move to close the distance between you, his instincts as a protector kicking in. Yet, he stops himself, respecting your pride and your ability to signal if you need help. He positions himself strategically, so he’s close enough to intervene quickly if needed. His body tensed and ready to act.

“Y/N, you alright?” Gaz’s voice suddenly cuts through your fog of discomfort, and you realize you’ve attracted more attention than you intended.

You straighten up quickly, nodding more sharply than necessary. “Just lost my footing for a second,” you lie. Managing a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Ghost, who has now subtly shifted his position to provide you with both physical and moral support, keeps his gaze fixed on you for a moment longer. He doesn’t call you out on your obvious discomfort. Instead, he gives you a nod, an unspoken communication between you two. It’s his way of saying he’s there, just in case, without putting you on the spot in front of the others.

His presence helps you gather your strength to continue. Despite the unease churning inside you knowing that Ghost is watching over you with such attentiveness gives you a small, but significant boost of confidence. You focus on the drills, pushing through the nausea and instability, bolstered by the knowledge that help is just a few steps away if you truly need it.

You begin to feel the oppressive heat bearing down on you more intensely than before. Each breath feels like you're inhaling fire. And the tactical gear, usually a familiar weight, now feels like an unbearable burden. Trapping too much heat against your body. More and more sweat beads on your forehead mixing with the slight dizziness that refuses to fade. The discomfort is escalating and despite your best efforts to mask it the heat is becoming unmanageable.

Ghost was still maintaining a discreet distance, watches you with sharp, observant eyes. He senses the subtle changes in your posture and the slight grimace that you can't quite hide each time you move. His concern deepens but he waits for a sign from you, respecting your pride and your position within the team.

As the drills continue you find it increasingly difficult to focus. The world seems to shimmer with heat around the edges and you feel a wave of nausea stronger than before. Recognizing that you might be in more trouble than you initially thought you catch Ghost's gaze across the field. It's a silent plea for understanding, a subtle acknowledgment that you do need his help after all.

Ghost responds immediately, his instincts as your LT kicking into high gear. He crosses the distance between you with a few quick strides. His approach discreet yet filled with purpose. “Everything okay?” he asks quietly. His voice low enough that only you can hear. It’s clear he’s prepared to step in, to offer whatever support you need without drawing unwanted attention to your struggle.

Your attempt to respond is less than reassuring. "Heat… too, it’s not the... can't—why can’t the air?" you mumble. Your words tangling into an unintelligible mess, a clear indicator that you are far from alright.

The expression behind Ghost's mask tightens, his protective instincts flaring as he assesses your condition with even greater alarm. Your face is flushed from more than just the heat. It's clear you're struggling significantly under the weight of your gear and the relentless sun.

At that moment Captain Price's voice cuts sharply through the air, his tone laced with the urgency of the drill. "Let's move it, Ghost, Y/N!" he commands from a distance, seemingly oblivious to the severity of your distress. His focus is on the continuity and discipline of the training. Unaware that one of his own is teetering on the edge of collapse.

Ghost’s response is swift and decisive. Without drawing attention to the situation, he steadies you with one arm, his other hand signaling subtly to Captain Price that something isn’t right. "Give us a moment, sir," he calls back firmly, his tone respectful yet insistent enough to convey the seriousness of the issue without alarming the entire unit.

He turns back to you, his gaze intense. "We need to get you out of the sun," he states quietly, directing you towards a shaded area nearby. His hand remains supportively on your back, guiding but not pushing. His presence a steady force as you stagger slightly under your own weight.

Once under the shade, Ghost helps you remove your tactical vest, easing the burden of the heat trapped against your body. The cooler air hits your skin, offering a momentary relief that you hadn't realized you needed so desperately. But as your body starts to cool an unexpected shiver runs through you, violent and uncontrollable. It feels as though the temperature has plummeted, though the day remains swelteringly hot.

"Ghost," you stutter out between shivers, "it's so cold." Your teeth chatter, a stark contrast to the sweat that still beads on your forehead. The sudden coldness is disorienting, confusing, and you clutch at your arms in an attempt to warm yourself.

"Simon," you manage to say between shivers. His actual name slipping out amidst the confusion—an unusual slip that does not escape his notice. Ghost, or Simon as you now call him, recognizes the gravity of the situation immediately. The usual protocols and formalities fade into the background as he prioritizes your wellbeing above all else.

You blink rapidly trying to focus as your surroundings become a blur. The ground seems to tilt beneath you for a second time and a wave of darkness edges your vision. Simon watches you closely with an arm around your waist in case. His trained eyes catching every sign of your deteriorating condition.

“Hang on,” he urges. His voice steady but the concern is palpable. Before he can offer more reassurance your knees buckle beneath you. Your body finally giving way to the overwhelming symptoms. And suddenly the world goes dark in your eyes.

Simon catches you before you hit the ground his arms securing you firmly yet gently. “Medic!” he shouts. The urgency in his voice cutting through the morning air without a hint of hesitation. Captain Price who had been overseeing the drills from a short distance, turns sharply at the sound. His quick assessment of the situation bringing him running.

Price approaches just as Simon adjusts his hold on you, bringing your body to the ground so you were laying.  “What happened?” Price asks. His voice a mix of command and concern.

“Heat stroke, I think—she’s out,” Simon responds curtly. His gaze fixed on you as he checks your pulse and looks for any sign of recovery. Your brief moments of unconsciousness are fleeting but each second is critical.

As you flutter your eyes open, confusion mingles with the need to communicate. “Simon... it’s all spinning,” you murmur with your voice overly weak. The use of his first name again in such a vulnerable state only cements his resolve to get you the help you need immediately.

As Simon kneels beside you he carefully supports your head, his eyes searching yours for any sign of recognition. “Can you tell me where you are?” he asks again. His voice a mix of firmness and concern trying to assess the level of your disorientation.

You blink slowly but the effort to focus feeling monumental. Your gaze drifts over the familiar yet strangely distant figures of Soap and Gaz before returning to Simon. “We're... in Bosnia?” you murmur hesitantly, the name of a recent mission location slipping out, completely unrelated to your current setting on the training field.

Simon’s expression tightens, a flicker of worry crossing his features as he realizes the depth of your confusion. He exchanges a quick, grave look with Captain Price who has been monitoring the situation closely. The incorrect answer confirms the seriousness of your condition, prompting Price to look around, expecting the medics to be approaching swiftly.

However, as Simon scans the area his frustration mounts. The medics, possibly delayed or misinformed about the severity of the situation, are nowhere in sight. Realizing that waiting even a moment longer could jeopardize your well-being he makes a decisive call.

"Not fast enough," Simon mutters under his breath. His protective instincts overriding protocol. Without waiting for the medics to arrive he gently but firmly scoops you up in his arms. His movements are swift and determined as he begins to rush you towards the infirmary. His concern for your immediate safety taking precedence over everything else.

Captain Price, upon seeing Simon’s sudden movement, understands the gravity of the decision and immediately acts. "Clear the way!” he shouts, commanding the attention of everyone on the field.

As Simon carries you, the world around you becomes a blur of motion and sound, but his steady grip provides a reassuring constant. "Hang on love, we're almost there. Just stay with me," he urges. His voice a soothing presence amid the confusion.

With each step Simon takes your sense of time and space dims, the urgency of his stride and the rhythm of his heartbeat blending into the background noise of the base. As you approach the infirmary you see figures moving quickly to prepare for your arrival.

Simon’s pace doesn’t falter until he reaches the medical staff waiting at the infirmary doors. As he gently hands you over to their care his gaze lingers on yours filled with concern and an unspoken promise of unwavering support, no matter the circumstances.

In the cool, sterile environment of the infirmary, Ghost stands a vigilant watch beside your bed. His gaze locked onto your face as the medical team works rapidly to stabilize your condition. The typical stoic mask he wears has fallen away, replaced by an expression etched with deep concern. Each furrow of his brow and tight set of his jaw reveals more than usual concern. It speaks of a profound fear that he rarely allows others to see.

As the medical staff step back momentarily to fetch additional supplies, Ghost's role shifts subtly but significantly. He transforms from a mere observer into an active caretaker, a role those in TF 141 rarely witness. He picks up a damp cloth and gently wipes your forehead. His touch delicate and caring, betraying the roughness expected from his formidable field presence.

"Hey, love, can you hear me?" he murmurs. His voice soft and laden with a tenderness that surprises even him. The word 'love' slips out naturally. A term of endearment that he hasn't used lightly before. This slip, this small but significant deviation from his usual manner, is a clear sign of his deepening feelings. Feelings he might not have fully acknowledged until this very moment.

You blink slowly, responding to the sound of his voice. Ghost watches for any sign of recognition, any indication that you understand his presence. As you meet his gaze, there's a moment of relief that passes over his features. But it's quickly replaced by renewed worry as he continues to monitor your responses.

He is utterly overwhelmed. A feeling that's foreign to him. He's faced countless dangers without flinching but the sight of you so vulnerable stirs a fear in him that battlefield threats never have. He realizes perhaps more clearly than ever how deeply his feelings for you run. It's not just friendship or brotherly protection. It's something much deeper, more personal.

He stays close, his hand finding yours and giving it a reassuring squeeze. The contact is meant to comfort you but it also grounds him, reminding him that you're still here, still fighting. "Stay with me, okay?" he adds quietly, almost pleadingly. This is not just a command from a superior officer; it's a personal plea from someone who cares deeply.

Ghost's presence in the infirmary becomes a constant, a guardian ensuring that no detail is overlooked, no necessary treatment delayed. His commitment to your recovery is unwavering, his actions driven by a mix of professional duty and personal concern that has become inseparable. The realization that his feelings for you have evolved adds a new weight to every decision, every action he takes on your behalf.

A few hours later, the haze of confusion and illness that enveloped your mind begins to clear slightly. As your eyes flutter open, the stark white lights of the infirmary momentarily blind you, and the unfamiliar sounds of medical equipment beep rhythmically in the background. Disoriented, you try to recall the sequence of events that led to this moment.

Sitting beside your bed, Ghost notices the subtle signs of consciousness returning. He leans forward, his presence reassuring amidst the clinical surroundings. "Hey, you're awake," he says gently. His voice a soothing contrast to the beeping machines. "Take it easy. You gave us quite a scare out there."

As fragments of memory return—the unbearable heat of the training field, your faltering steps, the feeling of collapse—your face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and discomfort. The realization that you succumbed in front of your team, particularly because of a flu exacerbating the situation, is hard to accept.

Ghost reads the embarrassment in your expression and quickly addresses it. "Listen, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. You’re dealing with the flu on top of everything else. Heat stroke is serious and it’s a lot for anyone to handle. Especially when you’re already under the weather," he reassures you earnestly.

He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. His touch grounding. "Even the toughest soldiers need to take a step back sometimes. It’s okay to acknowledge that you’re human, that you have limits. It doesn't diminish your strength," he continues in your silence. His voice imbued with empathy and understanding.

Feeling the sincerity in his words helps ease some of your discomfort. "Thanks, Simon," you manage to whisper, your voice still weak but filled with gratitude. The informal use of his first name in such a vulnerable moment speaks volumes about the trust and comfort you’ve grown to have in him.

Simon offers a gentle smile. His eyes softening. "You’re always pushing yourself to be the best and that’s certainly admirable. But sometimes, taking care of yourself is part of being the best. Don’t blame yourself for this. I certainly don’t blame you for trying," he adds, affirming his support in you.

"Sleep now. Don’t worry about the rest for now. We’re all here for you," he suggests while still holding your hand, his steady presence a comforting constant as you drift back towards unconsciousness. His commitment to your well-being is clear not just as a teammate but as someone who cares deeply on a personal level.

As you close your eyes, comforted by his words and presence, you feel a profound sense of relief. Simon's quiet vigil lets you know that no matter what, you’re not alone. Periodically, he checks the IV line and adjusts the cold packs making sure to monitor your recovery closely.. Each time you stir or grimace in discomfort, he’s there, adjusting your position or simply offering a reassuring touch.

As the hours pass Ghost remains by your side, a silent sentinel. Even as you're asleep he doesn’t leave, instead pulling up a chair to sit beside your bed. Occasionally, other members of the team peek in offering quiet words of support. But it's clear Ghost has appointed himself your primary guardian during this vulnerable time.

This unexpected role of caretaker reveals a depth to Ghost that goes beyond his tactical prowess and battlefield grit. In the infirmary, with the soft hum of medical equipment in the background, his softer, caring nature comes to the forefront, showcasing a profound sense of loyalty and protectiveness towards his team. Especially towards you.

As the day's tension slowly ebbs away in the quiet of the infirmary, you sleep deeply, recovering from the ordeal. Ghost sits steadfast by your side. His focus is solely on you. His usually impassive gaze softened by concern. The door creaks open softly as Soap and Gaz walk in. Both their faces splitting into mischievous grins when they see Ghost in his uncharacteristic role as your caretaker.

“Never thought I’d see Ghost play the doting nurse,” Soap chuckles quietly. Trying to keep his voice low to avoid disturbing you. “What’s next? Will you be knitting her a sweater?”

Gaz joins in leaning against the door frame with a smirk playing on his lips, “Maybe a nice scarf to go with it, mate. Make sure it matches her eyes, yeah?” His comment draws a soft laugh from Soap. Their teasing lightening the atmosphere of the infirmary.

Their laughter, though subdued, is a needed release after the day’s stress. It’s filled with genuine affection and respect for both you and Ghost. They understand the stakes of such moments and the bonds they forge.

Ghost, not missing a beat, shoots them a pointed look. His response is tinged with his characteristic dry humor. "Keep it up, and you'll be on the next solo recon mission in the coldest part of Siberia," he replies. His tone firm but with a faint smirk betraying his amusement.

In the background Captain Price stands silently in the doorway. His observant eyes taking in the scene. He watches Ghost’s interactions with a discerning eye, noting the subtle softness in his usually stoic demeanor. Price is no stranger to the complexities of personal dynamics within his team. And he senses the potential implications of Ghost’s deepening concern for you. There’s a hint of understanding in his gaze, mixed with caution, as he ponders the path this could lead down.

As the laughter begins to die down Price steps forward, his presence commanding a subtle shift in the room’s atmosphere. He gives Soap and Gaz a brief nod, a clear signal that it’s time for them to leave. The moment for jokes has passed and it's time to restore some decorum. As they exit Soap can’t resist throwing one final teasing comment over his shoulder. “Take good care of her, Ghost!” he calls out as his tone is playful yet sincere.

Price remains a moment longer his gaze lingering on Ghost and then shifting to you, asleep and unaware of the exchange. There’s a quiet gravity to his demeanor, an unspoken reminder of his leadership role and his understanding of the deeper currents flowing beneath the surface of his team’s interactions.

Captain Price approaches Ghost, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. He pauses beside him, his voice low and measured to ensure privacy. "Simon," he begins. His tone serious but not without warmth, "you're handling this well and it's clear you care deeply. Just remember, maintaining balance is crucial." His eyes, steady and understanding, meet Ghost's, acknowledging the depth of his concern while gently reminding him of his broader responsibilities.

"Don't lose focus. We rely on you—not just for her, but for the whole team," Price continues, his voice softening slightly to underscore his supportive intent.

Ghost nods, the gravity of Price's words resonating with him. "Understood, sir," he responds, his tone reflecting both respect for Price's leadership and an acute awareness of the weight on his shoulders.

Price places a hand on Ghost's shoulder, a gesture that speaks of his care and mutual respect. "Keep me posted. If there's anything you need don't hesitate to ask," he adds. Emphasizing his role not just as a commander but as a supporter willing to provide resources rather than merely oversee.

"Will do, sir," Ghost says, his voice steady as he watches Price prepare to leave the infirmary. Price gives him one last affirming nod—an acknowledgment of Ghost's commitment and his understanding of the emotional complexities involved. As Price walks away his demeanor reflects as a leader who trusts his team to handle personal challenges with professionalism yet remains ready to step in if the balance shifts too far.

Once alone again Ghost turns back to you, his expression softening as he adjusts the blanket around you and checks the monitors to ensure everything is as it should be. In these quiet moments his demeanor reveals the profound loyalty and protectiveness he feels. Traits that define him just as much as his combat skills.

The room is quiet, the only sounds are the gentle beeping of the medical equipment and your steady breathing. In this sanctuary away from the battlefield's chaos, Ghost’s vigilance continues, a promise of unwavering support.

In the dimly lit infirmary, the soft beeps of the monitor blend with the quiet sounds of the night. Ghost sits closely by your side, his eyes tracing over your peaceful face, contrasting sharply with the day’s earlier tension. The room is calm now, the urgency has passed, but the weight of the day lingers in the air heavy with unspoken words.

Leaning closer Ghost watches you for a long moment. His expression a mix of concern and something softer, more vulnerable. He knows you can’t hear him, but the words slip out quietly anyway. A whisper meant only for you. "You’re killing me here, love," he murmurs. The hint of a smile touching his lips despite the worry in his eyes. It’s a rare admission. One that reveals just how deeply he’s been affected by your condition.

He sighs lightly, the sound almost lost in the quiet of the room. Adjusting the blanket around you one last time to ensure you’re as comfortable as possible, he finally leans back in his chair. His gaze remains fixed on you a moment longer as a guardian watching over you.

Realizing the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion settling into his bones Ghost decides he wasn’t willing to leave you yet. Not when you’d hardly regained consciousness and certainly not when you might need him upon waking. He shifts to make himself as comfortable as possible in the chair beside your bed, his body angled to keep you in sight.

As he settles in, his eyes slowly close but it’s clear he’s not completely given over to sleep. Even in rest, he’s alert, ready to wake at the slightest change in your condition. In this quiet vigil, his presence is both a promise and a protection. A steadfast commitment to be there for you when you finally do wake.

The night deepens around the two of you. The soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor a constant in the otherwise still room. Ghost, in his chair, remains by your side. A figure in the dim light embodying both the warrior and the caretaker in this rare moment of peace.

As the first light of dawn begins to filter through the blinds of the infirmary your eyes flutter open greeting the new day with a mix of confusion and sluggish awareness. Initially, your vision is blurry, the shapes and colors of the room melding into indistinct forms. Gradually though your eyes adjust, and the figure slumped in the chair beside your bed comes into sharper focus. Ghost, asleep, his head resting awkwardly against the wall.

The sight of him so uncharacteristically vulnerable in sleep immediately warms your heart. Despite the residual fog clouding your mind a soft smile plays on your lips. "Ghost," you call out, your voice hoarse but audible enough to stir him from his light slumber.

At the sound of your voice Ghost snaps awake, instantly alert. He straightens up before rubbing the stiffness from his neck as he turns to face you. His eyes that displayed a flicker of reprieve meet yours. "Hey, you're awake," he says. His voice rough with sleep but tinged with unmistakable relief. "How are you feeling?"

"A lot better, thanks to you," you reply. Your voice was still weak but filled with gratitude. "You stayed all night?"

Ghost nods, a soft expression crossing his face as he hears your voice. This subtle return to normalcy reassures him. Warming his heart and letting him know you must be feeling a bit better to revert to familiar terms. "Yes, I stayed. Didn’t want you to wake up alone here," he replies. His tone gentle. Ghost’s eyes scan your face for signs of pain or lingering confusion, ever the vigilant guardian.

"Thanks, Ghost. Really," you manage to say feeling comforted not only by his presence but also by the return to a semblance of normalcy. His constant vigilance, even as you slept, speaks volumes of his dedication not just to his duty but to you personally.

Ghost offers a slight smile, one that reaches his eyes this time. "No need to thank me. Just glad to see you're doing better," he says. He pulls a chair closer to your bed, settling in. "Need anything? Water? More pain meds?" he asks. Ready to assist with whatever you might need.

The simple exchange is light yet filled with unspoken care helps to ease the remaining tension from the ordeal. As Ghost continues to make sure you’re comfortable, you feel a profound sense of safety and appreciation for the bond that has only deepened through this experience. The conversation drifts into a comfortable silence filled with unspoken understanding and mutual respect. In this quiet early morning hour, a new layer of your relationship has been gently unfolded. Revealing the depth of connection that hardship and vulnerability can foster.

As the morning sun continues to pour a warm glow into the infirmary the doctor finishes his examination and nods with satisfaction. "You’ve made a remarkable recovery. I think you're ready to be discharged today. Just remember to take it easy for the next few days," he advises as he begins to pack away his equipment.

Ghost's reaction is almost immediate, his brow furrowing with concern. "Are you sure she’s ready?" he questions the doctor. His voice carrying a protective edge that makes you smile inwardly. His overt protectiveness is both touching and reassuring. A stark contrast to his usual stoic demeanor.

The doctor, accustomed to dealing with the cautious nature of soldiers about their comrades, reassures him with a confident nod. "Yes, she's stable. Just ensure she rests and avoids any strenuous activity. She should be fine," he explains patiently.

Despite the reassurance Ghost still looks unconvinced. His gaze flicking back to you, searching for any sign of discomfort or lingering weakness. "Maybe another day for observation?" he suggests. His tone half-questioning, half-requesting. It's evident he'd prefer you stay under medical supervision a bit longer.

Your heart warms at his concern and though you find his overprotectiveness endearing, you keep your thoughts to yourself. Instead, offering him a reassuring squeeze of his hand instead. "Ghost, I think I’ll be okay," you assure him gently trying to alleviate his worries.

Ghost manages a small smile. His usual impassive facade softening. "Just making sure," he mutters. Though his eyes remain tender with concern. He finally nods accepting the doctor's verdict, but his posture stays alert, protective.

"Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But we’re taking it slow for the next few days. I’ll let Price know." he declares. His tone firm, directed more at himself than anyone else.

As the doctor leaves Ghost assists you in gathering your belongings. His movements careful and considerate. He checks in frequently asking if you're feeling alright to continue, his cautiousness evident but heartening. It’s clear that although you’ve been given the all-clear Ghost will be keeping a close eye on you, ensuring your recovery proceeds without issue.

His unwavering attention not only makes you feel deeply cared for but also subtly deepens the bond between you, underscoring a shift in your relationship where his role as protector has become as instinctive as it is essential.

As you swing your legs off the bed and attempt to stand a momentary wave of dizziness makes your legs waver slightly. Instantly, Ghost is there, his hand firm on your waist, steadying you. His touch is gentle yet secure, grounding you in the moment.

You laugh it off with a light flush coloring your cheeks. "Just wobbly legs," you joke trying to ease the tension you feel from his close presence. Despite your attempt to downplay the situation your movements are still a bit too brisk. A clear sign you might be overestimating your current strength.

Ghost doesn't smile but there's a tenderness in his eyes that wasn’t there before. "Take it slow, love," he advises, his tone almost demanding. His hand remains on your back as a discreet but constant presence. He guides you slowly out of the infirmary. You feel the steadiness of his support with each step you take. His careful pace ensures you don't overexert yourself, allowing you time to adjust as you walk. The corridor seems longer than you remember but Ghost’s reassuring presence makes the journey feel safer, more manageable.

"You don’t have to rush this," he continues. Sensing your eagerness to prove your recovery. "We’ll get there when we get there." His words are simple but effective reminding you that your health is the priority not the speed of your recovery.

As you proceed you lean slightly into his support realizing how crucial his support has been, not just physically but also emotionally. Ghost’s unwavering steadiness helps bolster your confidence, making you feel that no matter how shaky your steps might be you won't fall as long as he’s by your side.

The walk back to your room is quiet but comfortable. It’s filled with an unspoken understanding that something significant has shifted between you. When you reach your door, Ghost finally pulls his hand away, but the warmth of his touch lingers.

"Thanks again, Ghost. For everything," you say while meeting his gaze. It's an open acknowledgment of all he's done and all he might continue to do.

"Anytime, love. Just... please take care of yourself," he responds. There’s a promise in his words, an implication that he'll always be nearby, watching over you.

As you reach the door to your quarters, Simon pauses, his hand resting lightly against the frame. "Can I help you get settled back in?" he asks. His tone as soft as it has been before, something new that has overcome him in your incident. His concern clearly evident.

You nod, touched by his attentiveness and as you enter your room he follows close behind. Simon watches carefully as you slowly make your way to your bed and sit down, still feeling a bit shaky. The room is familiar and comforting but his presence makes it feel even safer, more serene.

Once you're seated on the bed, he scans the room quickly, always alert for what you might need. "You sure you don't need anything else? Some more water? A snack?” Ghost asks, already moving towards your small kitchenette. He assumed a role that went beyond duty into something more personal.

You smile at his back, warmed by his concern. "I’m fine, Ghost. Really," you reassure him. But he shakes his head, not entirely convinced.

"It's no trouble at all. You should eat something," he insists gently while fetching a glass of water and a small snack from your stash. Simple things that you hadn't thought you’d needed until he presented them. As he hands you the glass his fingers brush yours lightly, sending a small, unexpected shiver up your arm. You thank him with a soft smile, touched by his thoughtfulness.

Noticing a few strands of hair falling over your face, Simon reaches out and gently brushes them back, his touch delicate and caring. His hand lingers for a moment, a silent expression of his deeper feelings.

You’re momentarily stunned but thrilled, nonetheless. You find it hard to find words as his hand lingers on your face. "I know I keep thanking you but thanks again Simon. For... well, for everything," you say after a moment. Your voice low and sincere. Using his first name feels natural, reflecting the shift in your relationship.

He pauses, looking into your eyes with an intensity that makes your heart flutter. "I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be," he replies. His voice so soft it’s nearly a whisper, revealing the depth of his feelings.

"If you need anything else, just let me know. I'll be just a call away, love," He adds imbued with a warmth that reassures and comforts. His use of ‘love’ is tender, an endearment that resonates deeply, marking a significant moment in your ever evolving relationship.

He gives you a lingering look that was filled with care and a promise of protection before he reluctantly steps towards the door. There's a hint of hesitation in his movement, a subtle pause that conveys his desire to stay longer.

As he exits, gently closing the door behind him, you lie back against your pillows, the glass of water in your hand. His presence has left a comforting warmth in the room. A sense of safety that lulls you towards rest. The thought of Simon being just a call away brings a smile to your face. And as you close your eyes it’s not just the fatigue that makes you feel at ease. It’s knowing Simon is there, caring for you with a tenderness that goes beyond the call of duty.

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[reveryfics]

The Range

Spencer Reid x Male Reader

Summary: With a firearms test looming, Spencer was struggling to improve even with Hotchner's guidance. Hotchner then recommended he seeks help from someone more qualified.

A/N: I'm going to start tagging these types of fics with "ftm reader" too. A lot of my "x male" fics can be read as both unless it's a specific request or outright mentioned like in my smut posts. Let it be known this started as a undeveloped idea and spiraled into this.

TW: Awkward Spencer - Fluff

The rhythmic thwack of bullets striking the backstop echoed through the vast, concrete expanse of the Quantico firing range, a stark, percussive counterpoint to the profound, frustrated silence emanating from Spencer Reid's isolated booth. Sweat beaded on his brow, not from the physical exertion of firing, but from the sheer, overwhelming mental strain of trying to coax his perpetually trembling hands into anything resembling a steady aim. His latest grouping on the paper target, a ragged constellation of holes, looked less like a concentrated cluster of impacts and more like the scattered pattern of a shotgun blast from fifty yards out.

Aaron Hotchner, ever stoic and observant, stood a respectful distance behind Reid, his arms crossed over his chest, a soft sigh escaping his lips. He'd dedicated countless hours to Reid this past week, patiently deconstructing and explaining every foundational tenet of marksmanship: the proper stance, the firm but relaxed grip, the crucial sight alignment, the smooth and controlled trigger squeeze. Yet, with each passing minute, it became increasingly, painfully clear that Spencer's prodigious intellectual brilliance, his near-superhuman capacity for logical deduction and encyclopedic recall, simply did not extend to the fundamental mechanics of operating a Glock service pistol.

"It's like... the gun just feels alien in my hand, Hotch," Reid confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, as he carefully lowered the firearm onto the bench with a grimace of pure exasperation. "My brain understands the intricate physics, the complex trajectory, the precise ballistics, but my body stubbornly refuses to cooperate with the simplest of commands."

Hotch nodded slowly, a familiar, resigned look settling onto his features. "Some things just don't click, Spencer, no matter how much you analyze them. But this isn't an elective. This is a mandatory qualification test, and you need to pass it to remain active in the field." He paused, his gaze thoughtful. "Perhaps it's best you seek help from someone who specializes in one-on-one firearms training, someone who's specifically qualified to help agents with... unique challenges."

Spencer nodded, biting his bottom lip, the humiliation a bitter taste in his mouth. He picked up his spent casings, the small brass cylinders cool against his fingertips, as he and Hotchner left the cacophony of the firing range, the echoing thwacks slowly fading behind them.

He didn't know the first thing about where to go for such specialized training. As much as he valued Morgan's advice, the thought of asking his perpetually teasing colleague for recommendations on his shooting inadequacy filled him with dread. He could already hear the good-natured but relentless jabs. Which was why, a few days later, he found himself standing hesitantly in the doorway of a small, nondescript local gun range, long after its official closing hours.

And there you were. You, who looked like you were perpetually one stupid customer away from subtly strangling someone, while simultaneously possessing the frantic energy of a person who'd consumed an industrial quantity of caffeine. The lingering, almost palpable smell of strong coffee on your breath confirmed Reid's deduction on that front. You were actively cleaning up, wiping down counters with meticulous, almost aggressive strokes, clearly eager to lock up and go home.

You had honestly thought, for a fleeting moment, that Reid was messing with you, perhaps a late-night prank from a colleague, especially since the range had closed nearly thirty minutes ago and you were clearly in the final stages of your closing routine. But the earnest, almost desperate look on his face, those wide, intelligent eyes behind his glasses, told you he was more than serious about his impromptu, late-night request for help. And who were you, a self-proclaimed connoisseur of quirky individuals, to deny this adorable, socially awkward dork of a man the assistance he so clearly, desperately needed?

You quirked an eyebrow, a silent question in your gaze, but Spencer just offered a small, hopeful smile. With a resigned sigh, you gestured for him to follow. "Alright, pretty boy. Let's see what we're working with."

You led him deeper into the range, the scent of gunpowder clinging to the air like a second skin. The main bay was dark, but you flipped a switch, bathing a section in stark fluorescent light. In one hand, you balanced four boxes of 9mm ammunition, their weight familiar. In the other, you held your personal sidearm—a sleek, customized Glock 19—and a Glock 22, a close replica of the standard issue for the BAU.

"Alright, Spencer," you began, your voice losing its earlier edge, replaced with a no-nonsense professionalism. "Before we even think about touching a firearm, we're going to talk. And then we're going to breathe." You set the boxes and pistols on a cleared section of the counter, the metal cold and unyielding against the laminate. "You said your brain understands the physics but your body won't cooperate. My job is to bridge that gap. We're going to break this down, piece by painful piece, until it becomes muscle memory."

You picked up the Glock 22, checking its clear chamber before handing it to him, butt first. "Feel that weight? That balance? Your hands are trembling, I can see that. That's not just nerves about shooting; that's often a manifestation of mental overload." You watched as he cradled the weapon, his brow furrowed in concentration. "First things first: stance. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, dominant foot slightly back. Hips aligned with your shoulders, a slight forward lean. Imagine you're bracing against a strong wind."

You demonstrated, moving with an easy, fluid grace that belied your earlier grumpiness. Then you moved to his side, gently adjusting his posture. "Good. Now, grip. High on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang. Your strong hand does the work of controlling the firearm, while your support hand wraps around for stability. No 'death grip,' Spencer. Just firm control. You want to be able to isolate your trigger finger."

You demonstrated the grip with your own Glock, showing him how your fingers molded around the pistol, how your thumbs aligned. "Now, this is where most people struggle: sight picture and alignment." You took the Glock 22 back and held it up, aligning the front sight post precisely between the two rear sight posts. "Front sight in focus, target slightly blurry. When those three dots line up, that's your window." You held it steady, letting him lean in to observe.

"And finally, the most crucial part, the part that separates good shooters from great ones: trigger control." You handed him the Glock 22 again. "This isn't about jerking the trigger. It's about a slow, steady, continuous press straight to the rear, without disturbing your sight picture. Imagine squeezing a sponge, slowly, until the water comes out." You placed your finger lightly over his on the trigger guard. "You don't want to anticipate the shot; you want to be surprised by it."

You watched his face, the intense concentration, the almost painful effort to translate your words into physical action. "We're not even going to load a round yet. We're going to do dry fire drills, over and over, until you can hold that sight picture through the entire trigger press. And we're going to focus on your breathing. Deep, controlled breaths. It's amazing what a difference that makes."

You moved to a new target, a fresh sheet of paper with a crisp bullseye. "Take your time, Spencer. We've got all night."

Spencer took the Glock 22, his grip a little less tentative this time, but the subtle tremor in his hands was still evident. He tried to mimic your stance, shifting his feet, then his hips, then his shoulders, like a marionette with too many strings. His movements were jerky, hesitant, a stark contrast to your fluid demonstration.

"Okay, Spencer," you prompted, "now the grip. Remember, high on the backstrap, web of your hand firmly against the tang."

He adjusted his fingers, then adjusted them again, his brow furrowed in intense concentration. You could practically hear the whirring of his brilliant mind, dissecting every instruction, every subtle nuance. But it was clear he was overthinking it, getting lost in the theoretical instead of simply doing. His support hand wrapped around his dominant, but it looked awkward, like he was trying to solve a complex puzzle with an oven mitt.

"Good," you said, trying to keep your tone encouraging, even as you saw the familiar signs of frustration beginning to etch themselves onto his face. "Now, bring the pistol up. Find your sight picture."

He raised the Glock, his arms extending, but they wavered slightly. He squinted, trying to align the front sight, but his eyes darted from the blurry target to the pistol, then back to the target. He took a deep, shaky breath, then another, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He was clearly trying to apply the breathing exercises, but the physical act was fighting against his mental state.

You watched as his shoulders tensed, his jaw clenched. He squeezed the trigger, and the slight, almost imperceptible flinch of the pistol was a clear giveaway. He wasn't surprised by the shot; he was bracing for it. The dry click of the firing pin hitting nothing echoed in the otherwise silent range.

He lowered the pistol, his hands dropping to his sides, the frustration radiating off him in palpable waves. He rubbed his temples, a defeated sigh escaping his lips. "It's... it's just not connecting," he muttered, his voice laced with exasperation. "I understand what you're saying, I really do, but when I try to put it into practice, my body just... rebels."

You took a slow, deliberate breath. You could see him spiraling, trapped in his own head. This wasn't about technique anymore; it was about getting him out of his own way. Without a word, you walked up behind him, your presence a warm, solid wall at his back. You were close enough that you could feel the subtle tremor in his shoulders, the tension in his muscles.

"Relax, Spencer," you murmured, your voice low and calm, a stark contrast to his inner turmoil. Your hands gently but firmly settled on his, guiding them back to the pistol. Your body was practically pressed against his back, allowing you to manipulate his posture with your own. You adjusted his feet, subtly shifting his weight until he felt balanced. Your arm came around his, guiding his elbow into the correct position, your hand overlapping his on the grip, molding it into a perfect, natural hold.

You leaned in slightly, your chin almost resting on his shoulder, your voice a soft whisper near his ear. "Now, feel this. Feel the connection between your body and the firearm. Feel the stability." Your hands, strong and steady, became an extension of his, demonstrating the proper grip, the high purchase on the backstrap. "This isn't about thinking, Spencer. It's about feeling. It's about instinct."

You brought the pistol up, your body moving in unison with his, your eyes looking down the sights as you guided his hands. "Front sight, target. Breathe. Slow, steady press. Feel the resistance, then feel the release." You held it there, perfectly steady, allowing him to feel what a truly stable platform felt like. The tension in his body, though still present, began to subtly lessen under your unwavering physical guidance.

You remained behind him, your body a living brace, subtly correcting his stance, your hands guiding his as you raised the Glock again. "Feel that?" you murmured, your voice a low rumble against his ear. "That's what proper alignment feels like. That's stability." You held it there, perfectly still, letting him absorb the sensation. "Now, your focus goes to that front sight. Make it sharp, clear. The target can be blurry. All that matters is that little post right there."

You could feel the subtle shift in his breathing, a slow, almost imperceptible relaxation in his shoulders. He was still tense, but the frantic energy that had radiated from him minutes before had begun to recede. Your body warmth, combined with the steady pressure of your hands, seemed to be short-circuiting his overactive mind, forcing him to engage with the tactile experience rather than the abstract theory.

"Good," you encouraged, your voice soft but firm. "Now, that trigger finger. Isolate it. Don't move anything else. Just a slow, steady press. Like you're pushing against something heavy." You put the slightest pressure on his index finger, guiding it. "Feel how it moves independently? Don't anticipate the shot. Let it surprise you."

The quiet click of the dry fire echoed in the range. It was a cleaner sound this time, less of a jerk, more of a controlled release. You felt the slight, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands, but it was significantly less than before.

"Again," you instructed, keeping your position, your body still molded to his. "Reset. Find that front sight. Breathe. Press."

He did. And again. And again. Each time, the click was a little smoother, the dry fire more consistent. You felt the tension in his muscles slowly bleed away, replaced by a nascent, unfamiliar rhythm. It wasn't perfect, not by a long shot, but the improvement was undeniable. The rigidity in his movements softened, replaced by a tentative fluidity.

After a series of successful dry fires, you finally stepped back, giving him some space. "Alright, Spencer. Take a breath. Tell me what you felt."

He lowered the pistol, his gaze fixed on it as if seeing it for the first time. He flexed his fingers, then opened and closed his hands. "It's... different," he said, his voice quiet, thoughtful. "When you were there, guiding me, it felt... natural. Like my body knew what to do without my brain having to overthink it. It was just... muscle." He looked up at you, a flicker of genuine surprise and dawning comprehension in his eyes. "I think I understand now. It's not about the physics, it's about the feel."

You nodded, a small, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Exactly. Now, let's see if you can replicate that feeling on your own." You picked up one of the boxes of ammunition. "Ready to load some live rounds?"

Spencer took a deep breath, a flicker of apprehension returning to his eyes, but it was quickly overshadowed by a determined glint. "Ready," he affirmed, a newfound resolve in his voice.

You nodded, a subtle approval in your expression. "Good. We're going to start slow. One round at a time." You picked up a magazine and deftly loaded a single 9mm cartridge, the brass glinting under the fluorescent lights. The distinct clink of the round seating in the magazine was a stark reminder that the stakes were about to increase.

You handed the loaded magazine and the Glock 22 to Spencer. "Load it," you instructed, watching as he fumbled slightly, but managed to insert the magazine into the grip with a more confident click than you'd seen from him previously. "Now, rack the slide firmly."

He did, the metallic clack-clack echoing in the otherwise silent range as the round chambered. He held the pistol up, his hands still trembling slightly, but his stance was noticeably better. The subtle adjustments you’d made earlier seemed to have stuck.

"Front sight," you reminded him, your voice calm and steady. "Focus. Breathe. Slow, continuous press."

He took a slow, deliberate breath, his eyes narrowing as he found the front sight. His finger, though still a little hesitant, began to press. You watched, a silent observer, as the muscle memory you’d just helped him build battled with the ingrained mental blocks. There was a moment of absolute stillness, then—

CRACK!

The gunshot ripped through the air, a concussive force that made the concrete walls vibrate. The recoil made Spencer flinch, the pistol kicking up and to the right. He instinctively lowered it, blinking rapidly, a surprised gasp escaping him. The smell of burnt gunpowder instantly filled the air.

"Whoa!" he exclaimed, his eyes wide. "That's... louder than I expected."

You walked over to the target, a new one you’d put up just for this. A single, ragged hole marked the paper. It was off-center, far from the bullseye, but it was on the paper. And more importantly, it wasn't a complete wild shot.

"It's always louder the first time," you said, your tone neutral. "But you kept it on the paper, Spencer. That's progress." You walked back to him, taking the Glock. You ejected the empty magazine and checked the chamber. "The flinch is normal. It's a natural reaction to a loud noise and sudden recoil. We'll work on that."

You reloaded a single round and handed him the pistol again. "This time, I want you to remember what it felt like when I was helping you. Try to recreate that stability. Anticipate the noise, but don't anticipate the shot itself."

He nodded, taking the pistol. He raised it, his movements a little more practiced now. He took a longer, deeper breath, visibly trying to center himself. You could see him fighting the urge to flinch, to yank the trigger. He found his sight picture, held it, and then, with a palpable effort of will, began to squeeze.

CRACK!

Another shot. This time, the recoil was still significant, but his body didn't flinch as violently. He held the pistol up for a moment longer before slowly lowering it.

You walked to the target. The second hole was still off-center, but it was closer to the first, forming a very loose pairing.

"Better," you stated, your gaze returning to him. "Much better. You're starting to get the feel for it. We're going to keep going like this, one round at a time, until that flinch lessens and your groups tighten. Ready for another?"

Spencer nodded, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, but a flicker of grim determination now shone in his eyes. "Yes. Again."

You reloaded a single round, the familiar clink a small punctuation mark in the quiet range. You handed him the Glock, and he accepted it with less hesitation this time, his fingers finding the familiar contours of the grip. His stance was more natural, less rigid, a faint echo of the perfect form you'd guided him into.

"Remember the breathing," you coached, your voice low and steady. "Control the inhale, control the exhale. Don't let your heart race."

He took a visibly deeper breath, his chest expanding, then slowly contracting. He raised the pistol, his arms extending, and though there was still a slight tremor, his sight alignment was noticeably quicker, more precise. You could almost see the gears in his brilliant mind shifting, moving from frantic overthinking to a more intuitive, almost meditative focus. He was no longer just trying to do it; he was beginning to feel it.

He held the sight picture, the front post unwavering for a crucial second, then two. His finger began to move, a slow, deliberate press. You watched his knuckles whiten slightly as he fought the natural urge to yank or flinch.

CRACK!

The shot rang out, sharp and immediate. This time, the pistol's recoil was still pronounced, but Spencer absorbed it better. He didn't drop his arms immediately, holding the pistol up, his eyes wide but no longer as surprised. He slowly lowered it, a small, almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction on his face.

You walked to the target. This shot was significantly closer to the center, a marked improvement. It wasn't in the bullseye, but it was a solid, undeniable step forward. You tapped the paper with your finger, indicating the new hole.

"Look at that, Spencer," you said, a genuine note of approval in your voice. "You're starting to build a group. You're adapting. That's what we want." You picked up the Glock, ejected the spent casing, and loaded another single round. "The flinch is almost gone. Now we focus on consistency."

He took the pistol back, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. "It's... it's like my body is finally listening to my brain," he mused, looking at the Glock with a newfound respect. "Or maybe, my brain is finally listening to my body."

You smirked. "Something like that. Ready for another?"

Spencer continued, firing round after round, and with each shot, the improvement was remarkable. The flinch became a barely perceptible twitch, his groups on the target tightening from a scattered pattern to a discernible cluster. He was still far from a sharpshooter, but the wild shots were gone, replaced by consistent impacts within the inner rings. You watched him, a quiet satisfaction growing within you. He was learning, adapting, and most importantly, no longer fighting himself.

You decided to join him on the line, pulling up the lane next to his. You grabbed your customized Glock 19 and a fresh target, hanging it with practiced efficiency. The rhythmic CRACK! of your shots mingled with Spencer’s, a steady drumbeat in the otherwise silent range. Your movements were fluid, economical – a testament to countless hours on the range. Each of your rounds punched a neat, precise hole in the bullseye, forming a tight, cloverleaf pattern. It was a stark contrast to Spencer's still-developing technique, yet your presence seemed to spur him on. He'd glance over, a quick, almost imperceptible assessment of your flawless form, then refocus, his own shots becoming more deliberate, more controlled.

As the second hour past closing ticked by, the stack of empty brass casings around Spencer's feet grew considerably. He was no longer just hitting the paper; he was consistently placing his shots within the vital zone of the silhouette target. The initial frustration had completely vanished, replaced by a quiet, intense concentration. He looked less like a panicked academic and more like someone genuinely engaged in a complex, rewarding problem.

Finally, you called a halt. "Alright, Spencer, that's enough for tonight. Let's see the damage."

You both walked downrange to retrieve his targets. You pulled the paper from the hanger, examining it with a critical eye. The first few shots were still scattered, but the latter half of the target showed a significant improvement – a respectable grouping that would easily pass a basic qualification.

"Look at this," you said, a genuine smile touching your lips as you held up the target. "From a shotgun blast to this in a couple of hours. That's excellent work, Spencer. You got out of your head, and you let your body learn. This," you gestured to the tight cluster of holes, "is more than enough to pass your qualification."

Spencer took the target, his eyes wide as he stared at the evidence of his newfound proficiency. A faint flush crept up his neck as he processed your praise, and suddenly, the earlier intensity of his focus seemed to dissipate, replaced by his more familiar awkwardness. His gaze flickered to you, then away, then back, and you could practically see the delayed realization hitting him – how close you’d been earlier, how your body had been pressed against his, guiding his movements.

"Oh," he stammered, running a hand through his hair. "Right. Uh, yes. Thank you. I mean, it's... I really appreciate it. I wouldn't have been able to... that is to say, I'm usually not..." He trailed off, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

You chuckled, enjoying the sight of his return to his delightfully flustered self. "Relax, Spencer. It's just shooting. And you did good." You watched him for a moment, a sense of quiet amusement warming you. "I expect to see you walk through these doors after your test and tell me you passed. Understand?"

He nodded vigorously, still slightly flushed. "Yes! Absolutely. I will. Thank you again. Really." With one last, slightly awkward nod, he turned and headed for the exit, the lingering scent of gunpowder and coffee trailing after him.

A few days later, the familiar chime above the door announced a new arrival. You were behind the counter, deep in conversation with a customer about custom barrel threading, when a figure began to weave through the usual afternoon crowd of shooters and gear enthusiasts. It was Spencer. He was navigating the bustling range with a renewed sense of purpose, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you.

You finished up with your customer, then cocked an eyebrow, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. You didn't need him to say a word. The way he carried himself, the subtle bounce in his step, it all spoke volumes.

Spencer reached the counter, his usual awkwardness back in full force now that the pressure of the qualification was off. He shifted his weight, then, almost shyly, lifted the hem of his sweater just enough to flash the Glock now securely holstered at his hip. The movement was quick, almost furtive, as if he worried someone might scold him for showing off. He quickly covered it back up, a faint blush already coloring his cheeks.

You chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. "I knew you had it in you, Spencer. Good job."

His blush deepened, a delightful shade of pink. "I... I wouldn't have passed if you hadn't helped me," he stammered, his gaze darting around the room, avoiding direct eye contact. "My scores were... significantly better. Hotch was actually surprised." He fidgeted with the strap of his messenger bag. "And I just... I wanted to thank you properly."

Before you could even formulate a response, the words seemed to tumble out of him in a rush. "So, I was wondering if you'd like to... go on a date with me? As a thank you, of course. Not that you owe me anything, but I just thought it would be a nice... gesture. If you're busy, I completely understand, no pressure at all, it's just a thought, really—"

You watched him, suppressing another laugh. He was trying so hard to backpedal, to soften the blow of a potential rejection, but you found it incredibly endearing.

"Spencer," you interrupted gently, cutting off his rapid-fire monologue. A broad smile stretched across your face. "I'd love to."

He froze, his mouth slightly agape, clearly not expecting such a straightforward acceptance. His eyes, wide and surprised, finally met yours.

"I'll see you tonight after work," you confirmed, your voice warm.

A goofy, delighted smile slowly spread across Spencer's face. He nodded vigorously, almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Tonight! Yes. Okay. Great. I'll... I'll see you then!" And before he could embarrass himself further, he practically spun on his heel and hurried out of the range, leaving you to your work with a pleasant warmth settling in your chest.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Little Sister - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Here comes a new challenger...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

The Black Cat, equidistant between the Rumbler's Den and the Nymph, was a stewpot of blue lightningfire.

Jinx's hair just about stood on end; her first entrance past the doors and a peculiar sense of homecoming—or maybe its inverse?—zigzagged down her spine.

The place was a constellation of doppelgangers. Jinxettes and Jinxos, baptized-blue and crooked-fanged, all massed in under one roof. Nameless and legion: they cherished only one thing.

A heartful of chaos, and an eye on the horizon.

The music was pure champagne: spilling over in a foam of techno and crystal-cool vocals. Bassline like a sonic boom. Bodies swaying in sync. The conversation crosscutting through the cacophony was less small-talk than shout-out-loud. Words didn't travel at these decibels; the syllables got lost en route from lips to earlobe.

It was just noise. Mouths moving faster than the speed of light, punctuated by solar flares of laughter.

"...lovesdakiddelicious..."

"...gotanycigs..."

"...ILOVEUPPERS!."

And at the heart of the delirium:

Jinx.

No longer the lost girl longing to fly away, but a queen come home.

She cadged a fizzing bottle of Powerade off a crowded table—bubble-spicy and flame-blue. The swigs scalded, but in a good way, like chugging liquified marshmallows straight off the campfire. Most of the crowd were already three sheets to Shurima. Others were glowy-eyed, touchy-feely: aphrodisiacal strains of Shimmer infusing their veins.

One of them, a trippingly tall Vastayan made even taller by a coif of bright-azure braids, slunk within shouting distance.

"Your hair's soooooooo rad!"

"Thanks!"

"Wish my fur got that sheen..." With a flourish of nails like mirror shards, the Vastayan carded a hand through her tuft. Pink roots peeped through the blue. "...what dye d'ya use?"

"No dye. Just lotsa gunpowder!"

"Hah. That's a hoot."

The Vastayan, mistaking veracity for wisecrack, chortled. Jinx got a packet of wasabi crisps for her trouble; plus a little plastic square of fairydust. White with pink dots, promising a jolt of euphoria so potent it'd shame a thunderclap. Jinx palmed both, though she quickly doled out the latter to the next rando who crossed her path.

She couldn't stand nose candy; set her sinuses afire and makes her sweat bullets.

Last thing Jinx needed was for her firepower to get soggy.

At an indoor shooting-range set up in honor of Zaun's Blue Baddie, Jinx flexed her trigger-finger. The dummies, spray-painted with ultraviolet death's heads, were designed to spring backwards once hit. As Jinx squeezed shot after shot, they became her puppets: each one potted one-two-three in precise sequence, before pinwheeling into splinters.

Her marksmanship won hoots, cheers, and finally applause.

"WOOOH YEAH!"

"ALLLRIGHT, GIRLFRIEND!"

"GOT AN EYE ON YA!"

Jinx met each whoop with a fey curtsy; each toast with an extra shot; each whistle with a flying kiss. When the real crackshots, muscling their way into range, challenged her to a rematch, Jinx called for a whole fucking keg as tribute. Then proceeded to trounce each punter with a quickdraw that'd give the great Zilean himself a double-dose of vertigo.

"You," groused a man twice her age with biceps like meat melons and a gold-tipped canine tooth, "ain't human."

In reply, Jinx flipped him two birdies. He just laughed, clapping her on the shoulder.

"Eh, no hard feelings. Better a pro beatin' me than some rookie sludge-punk. Buy a round for ya?"

"Got my eye on somebody else!"

"An' is he worth waitin' on?"

"You bet my... well, Jinx's... bottom bullet!"

A hearty guffaw, and the meathead slapped her ass en route to the bar. Jinx riposted by snatching the air-gun from another player's holster and zipping off a smart ping that sent him diving for cover, while his friends at the bar erupted into laughter.

Jinx's own smile, tucked between her teeth, split wide open.

They weren't strangers, this lot. They were her own.

In the surreal glow of a back-alley gumball machine spewing rock candy, cherry cordial and gobstoppers, Jinx fed coin after coin, treating herself to the sugar-boost and deep drags of the smoky night air.

The leftovers, she divvied up among a passel of sumpsnipes loitering nearby. Her sweets vanished in seconds, crushed between sharp young jaws. As Jinx taught them how to string lollipops into a garland for a hat, she spied Billy swooping overhead, wingtips cutting black crescents over the smokestacks.

One bell to go, Jinx thought.

The sumpsnipes, cheering, scuttled off. Their little leader waved farewell before scaling a drainpipe to follow his posse up the rooftops, where refrains of Get Jinxed floated in ebbing waves. None of them had a clue their anthem's namesake was the one who'd stuffed their pockets seconds prior with loot.

And it didn't matter.

What counted was the glint in their eyes— the knowledge that tonight was theirs to keep.

A good run was shaping up. Jinx, idling back against the gritty brick wall, let the bloom of light sweat and heat radiate off her skin. She was reaching the sweet horizon of buzzdom: where inhibitions loosened and nerves jived. She needed it; nervousness had a way of curling her toes in their boots.

Soon, she thought.

From the shadowed corner, a voice drawled, "I don’t know if I should get the camera or the cuffs."

Jinx pivoted.

The speaker was a girl, roughly her own age, lounging sideways across a few crates. Her posture, languid, nearly liquid, made Jinx feel as though she'd been poured out of some abstractly sensual honeypot. Like the rest of tonight's jet-blue set, her hair and brows were tinted cobalt: tribute to the Lady of the Hour. She had a pierced lip, a hoop dangling from her right nostril, and lots of tinkly bangles around each wrist. The standard-fare Zaunite duds—tight black baby-T, patched denim hot pants, patent leather thigh-highs—completed the ensemble.

Yet something about her eyes sent a tiny chill skittering up Jinx's spine.

"Cuffs, huh?" Jinx cocked a hip, popping the last gobstopper into her mouth. "Sorry, toots. Never pegged myself for bondage gear. Pun oh-so-intended."

"No?" Those too-old eyes gave Jinx a slow once-over. "Too bad. It'd look good on you."

"Or better off me."

The tart rejoinder earned a sly smile. It was hard to look away from the girl's eyes, though Jinx couldn’t tell what it was about them that set her sonar pinging. Maybe it was the color. Dark sclera, golden irises. Her trivializing face-paint—two hearts inked under each peeper—didn't undercut their intensity.

A predator's eyes.

Jinx stared. She'd never met this broad before. Yet there was a queer familiarity, like déjà vu in reverse.

She'd felt it once before. For another broad, whose eyes were also gold, and yet not really golden at all—they just seemed to attract and reflect all the bright rays flitting through the airwaves.

Except Mel Medarda had never made Jinx's hackles rise.

This girl? A split-second under her scrutiny, and the urge to shoot was building, insuppressible.

Jinx's instinct, failsafe, whispered:

Aim straight for the skull.

Jinx kept her exterior frothy as foam. "You from around these parts? You look new."

"Far from." Another sly-lipped smile. "Maybe our paths haven't crossed because we move in different circles."

"Circles, huh? We talkin' crops? Or circuits?"

"Whichever you fancy."

"I fancy a straight answer," snapped Jinx. "And a lot less mysterio schlock."

"And I'd love to give you less of one, and more of the other." The girl unseated herself from the crates, doing a slinking side-to-side towards Jinx. "But I doubt your father would approve."

"My father?"

"The Eye." Those golden eyes danced, slitwise. "Right now, he has you running in circles. Doesn't want you coming near my particular circuit."

Jinx said nothing. The girl came forward, with steps so small, so measured, that each boot-tip barely stirred a sound. Yet her proximity was overwhelming. The not-right feeling in Jinx's spine escalated from funny to downright wrong.

Whoever this stranger was, she was a big leaguer; and not in the way of chem-royalty or cartel matriarchs: steeped in swagger and studded in bling.

This was a different breed: sharper, sleeker, deadlier.

"I think," Jinx said, dropping her smile, "that I don't much care for circus clowns clowning me for kicks."

"That's why I'm here. To get the air nice and clear between us. Because soon, you'll set your sights on horizons beyond your father's reach. And spread your wings wider than even I can gamble on."

"The only wings are the ones riding your batty ass ragged," Jinx said, flatly. "And what d'ya mean 'soon.' What's 'soon'? Couple days from now? Couple decades?"

The golden eyes shone again, full of cruel knowledge. "Oh, it's already happened."

"Yep. Batty as the belfry."

"And you're late, little sister." That sidling sway stopped just shy of intimacy. "At least... in this thread of time."

The chill in Jinx's bones spiked. It was offset by a jolt of adrenaline tracing her spine, down to the coldness of the pistol tucked into the belt at her lower-back, its shape hidden in sheaves of fabric. The pistol she carried everywhere. The pistol that went warm now. Empty chamber; live bullets. She hadn't fired it in a while.

She had no qualms firing it tonight.

"I ain't your damn sister." Puffpuff materialized in her palm; the safety disengaged with a lethally soft click. "Back up a smidge, sweetcheeks, and drop the riddle-me-this routine. Got somewhere I gotta be, so make it snappy: who're you and what're you after?"

Those odd eyes zeroed in on the pistol; the languid bearing shifted. No shock, but a secret respect. Just enough to turn that predatory prowl benign, dial down the tension from ten to five. She even added a tiny twist of smile, meant to beguile.

Jinx stood her ground.

"They know me by many names, Little Sister," the girl murmured. "Same as you. But you may call me the Wishing Star. A deal-maker. One who grants desires and paves paths."

"Neat-o manifesto," Jinx said, "for a cathouse. Zaun's got plenty, hon. Market's a mite oversaturated."

The smile twisted: amusement turned inward. "Your father would know a thing or two about that, too. Though, as a rule, it's not the sort of talk a man passes down to his daughter's ear. Or past her lips. At least not lips this pretty..."

Cool as ice, Jinx jammed the muzzle against the girl's throat. She fell still. Jinx could practically see the flutterbeats at the jugular.

"Since you've been payin' such close attention to my lips, dollface..." Jinx drawled, "take the extra trouble to read 'em in full. Keep up this charade, and it's one big boom, and a short hard splat. Our ginnels are no strangers to gunfire."

"True." The smile held. "Zaun is a city steeped in blood. Since time immemorial. Or is it time forward? I lose track sometimes."

"Yeah, well. Your time's up. Either spit out what you gotta say, or scram. Fast."

The muzzle dug deeper into flesh. Still those eyes held Jinx fast. The girl didn't flinch; didn't even blink.

"Who do you seek tonight, Little Sister?" she whispered. "And who, left to Fate's design, will you choose?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." The gun held steady. "On second thought? Who gives a rat's ass what you'd like. I've had enough of this yakkety-yak. Get to stepping, Scotch Brite. Otherwise I'll be blowing more'n birthday candles when the fireworks go off."

The girl's smile, at last, flattened. But she didn't seem afraid. More resigned.

"As you wish, Spiderweaver." The girl stepped back; the threat abated. "Our kind do nothing by halves, do they? Including keeping promises."

"Name's not Spiderweaver, and you're just about thiiiiiiiiis far—" Jinx held the forefinger and thumb of her free hand a millimeter apart, "from gettin' your brains spattered across the walls."

"It doesn't matter what I name you. What matters is that I warned you."

"Warned me of what, exactly? Besides the time-honored adage, 'Don't stick your gun in crazies'?"

"Time." Again the smile came. Just enough to send a prickle along Jinx's skin. "It is the favorite string of Fate. And it is winding itself around you, Spiderweaver. A web of webs. I advise you to watch your step. Lest the threads come tangled."

"Ugh!"

Disgust trumped Jinx's disquiet. Even the deja vu pancaked into the same sense of anti-climax as when Jinx, reeling from one too many cocktail-induced all-nighters, woke up in Viktor's workshop in the middle of a particularly steamy daydream about Ekko, only to find her guts skewered by nausea and her body propelled against its will straight into the nearest wastebin.

This whole exchange felt exactly like that. Deceptively promising on the surface; just crap underneath.

Jinx aimed: point-blank.

"See. This is the kind of tripe that comes with hanging with cultists too long. Loopy hokum, bogus prophecy and general lack of brain cells. I should know. Vik's cult of creepos get this way every Tuesday!" Her eyes slitted; blisteringly bright. "Now listen up, crazypants. One, don't ever call me that stupid name again. Two, stop pretending that fate, destiny and all that crap means anything between Jack and Squat in the grand scheme of my spare time. Three? If I catch you anywhere between my crosshairs again, your noggin gets blown to fine pink confetti. Ya get me?"

"I do." There was the barest tenor of disappointment in the girl's tone. It humanized her. Made her easier to dismiss. "I understand. Be well, Little Spider."

"Get bent, Space Cadet."

The shadows swallowed the strange girl's receding silhouette. Jinx's unease lingered.

She pushed past it. Hootenannies this hopped-up attracted all sorts: some cracked in the head, others just plain cracked. This gal had both sides of the coin covered, no question.

Jinx wondered if she was here alone, or on the clock for someone bigger. A messenger, maybe. Some shadowy threat looming behind the scenes.

Better keep on high alert tonight. If that meeting was a prelude, then trouble was sure to follow. Good thing trouble and Jinx's trigger-finger were intimately acquainted. In a city where chaos was currency, staying ahead of the game was a nonnegotiable.

And Jinx, pockets heavy with heat, kept her reflexes primed.

Distantly, the Old Hungry tolled eight o' clock. Jinx let each resonant gong dispel her funk. Tonight was not a night for carnage, however tempting the targets.

She had a different hunt in mind.

Over the rooftops, Billy spun dizzying circles. His dark wings folded sharp and sleek: he issued a single eye-splitting caw, then swooped away.

Coast Clear, he signaled.

Proceed to next stage of Operation Name-Day-Dicking-Down.

Jinx's lips curled into a smile.

[missrosiesworld]

Starlight Flutters

Here are some cute headcanons for Billy Kid when he has a crush:

Starlight Hero Persona: Billy adopts a more heroic persona around his crush, often quoting lines from "Starlight Knight" and trying to emulate the show's protagonists.

Billy: "In the name of justice, I vow to protect you! No harm shall come your way while I'm around!"

Crush: "Are you quoting Starlight Knights again?"

Billy: "Maybe, but I mean every word!"

Over-the-Top Gestures: He tends to make grand, dramatic gestures to show his affection, like showing up with a bouquet or performing a flashy stunt to grab their attention.

Billy, arrives with a dramatic flourish, bowing slightly: "For you, a token of my admiration!" hands over a bouquet of holographic flowers.

Crush, laughs, clearly amused and touched: "You didn't have to go all out, but thank you!"

Billy, his voice warm and sincere: "Anything for my favorite person."

Nervous Energy: Despite his confident exterior, Billy gets nervous around his crush. He fidgets with his hands and his voice may rise a notch higher when he's excited or flustered.

Billy, fidgeting with his hands: "So, um, do you... like movies? I mean, of course you do, who doesn't, right?"

Crush, smiling: "Yeah, I do. Got any recommendations?"

Billy: "Oh, totally! I've got a list! Uh, maybe we could watch one together sometime?"

Show-Off Moments: Billy loves to showcase his skills, especially with his custom-made revolvers, "the girls." He might challenge others to friendly duels or display impressive marksmanship to catch his crush's eye.

Billy, pulls off a perfect trick shot: "Not bad, huh? Just a little something I picked up from Starlight Knight."

Crush: "Wow, that's impressive! You're really good."

Billy, trying to act casual: "Oh, it's nothing. Just, you know, a hobby."

Special Attention: He gives special attention to his crush, remembering small details about their likes and dislikes. Whether it's their favorite snack or a specific hobby, Billy tries to incorporate these into his interactions with them.

Billy: "I remember you mentioned liking spicy food, so I brought you this hot sauce. It's got a kick, just like you!"

Crush, surprised: "You remembered? That's so sweet. Thank you, Billy."

Billy: "Of course! Anything to see you smile."

Protective Stance: Billy becomes protective of his crush, always positioning himself in a way that he can keep an eye on them. He wants to ensure they're safe and will step in if he senses any danger.

Billy steps in front of his crush: "Hey, stay close. I’ve got this covered. No one's getting past me."

Crush: "You don't have to do this, Billy."

Billy: "I know, but I want to. It's my job to keep you safe."

Clumsy Sweetness: When Billy gets flustered, he can become adorably clumsy, sometimes tripping over his own feet or dropping things. He laughs it off, hoping his crush finds it endearing rather than awkward.

Billy, stumbles slightly, almost dropping a package: "Whoops! That was... not supposed to happen."

Crush, giggles: "Are you okay?"

Billy, laughing nervously: "Yeah, just distracted by... something, or someone."

Secret Glances: He often steals glances at his crush when he thinks they’re not looking. 

Crush, catches Billy staring: "What is it? Something on my face?"

Billy, his voice faltering slightly with a hint of nervousness: "No, no! Just... admiring the view."

Crush, teasingly: "Smooth."

Confiding in Nicole: Billy confides in Nicole, seeking her advice on how to approach his crush. 

Billy: "Nicole, what do I do? I can't stop thinking about them, but what if I mess it up?"

Nicole, smirking: "Just be yourself, Billy. And maybe tone down the Starlight Knight lines a bit."

Acts of Service: He goes out of his way to do small, helpful things for his crush. Whether it's fixing a malfunctioning gadget or finding something they’ve misplaced, Billy is always eager to lend a hand.

Billy: "Hey, I noticed your bike was making a weird noise, so I tightened the chain and oiled the gears."

Crush: "You did that for me? Wow, thank you so much!"

Billy, rubbing the back of his neck: "It's no big deal, really. I just wanted to help."

[songsofadelaide]

prism — a side story to cosmic.

cw: captain narumi x (f) platoon leader, established (secret) relationship, fluff and smut, takes place between iv and v of cosmic. no use of 'yn'. narumi gen is his own warning. minors do not interact.

wc: 3k

You were no stranger to an observant eye. As a Platoon Leader, you were subject to your superiors' watchful surveillance and your team members's discerning gazes. It came as no surprise to you when the Captain of the First Division presented you with an upgrade to your beloved personal weapon, the submachine gun marked FE-0080 or Reginleif and asked for you to demonstrate your marksmanship that brought Asakusa's scorpion-type Honju to its knees.

So you acquiesced to your Captain's command and joined the rookies in their shooting training. You didn't back down from a posed challenge, after all, and you impressed your platoon members and fellow Platoon Leaders once more with your precise marksmanship. 

When Gen first took notice of your personal weapon, he surmised it was specifically made to pair with your speed. Anything heavier would weigh you down. Reginleif was a submachine gun made for more close combat offensives and had less firepower than a machine gun or a rifle, but it made up for its lack of strength with its speed and automatic mechanism.

"Unleashed Combat Power is at 67%."

As you finished setting a record for the rookies to beat, whispers from other division members filled the air. 

"The Platoon Leader's super quick, huh? It's almost like she vanishes into thin air."

"She even beat Platoon Leader Tachibana during the joint training exercises between the Eastern Divisions. That's how Captain Narumi discovered her."

"Speaking of which, she and the Captain have been spending a lot of time together..."

Gen himself didn't notice the amount of time you two were spending together. It was lost to him, but the memory of his enjoyment remained— you coming to see him, summoned or not. One day, your presence simply became natural, like a second instinct, until it became a necessity, especially for him.

You sitting next to him in his office, sometimes as Player 2 but most of the time just plain old you. You in your tracksuit uniform with nothing but a white tee underneath. You mindlessly scrolling through your social media while he stormed through whatever game he was playing, warming his bed until you had to leave him— whether it was due to an emergency or just because the day had ended. The sound of your laughter and derision filled his office and he can't seem to snap out of his compulsion to steal the rest of your sound straight away from your lips. 

He signalled for the end of the shooting training after the rookies concluded their rounds and dismissed everyone for the rest of the afternoon. 

"Captain Narumi, sir," you called out to your superior, who had just finished checking the Operation Leader's report handed to him by your Vice Captain. 

"Platoon Leader."

"One of my team members is celebrating their birthday today. They're planning a short trip to the city for drinks this evening," you started as you shadowed Gen's steps back to the base's main hall. "As much as I would love to finish our Maelduin's Portal campaign from earlier, my platoon would appreciate being able to spend some time with me, and I with them. I hope you're amenable, of course…"

He wanted to disagree with you but didn't want to come off as increasingly needy, especially since he knew now that people were already talking about how much time you've been spending together. Was he being needy? 

"Enjoy the rest of your evening, then."

Because he certainly didn't.

Your platoon arrived back at base a little before 21:00 and the first thing you wanted to do was take a dip into the baths because you were certain you smelled terrible— a smorgasbord of alcohol, barbecue smoke and cigarette ash, no thanks to the old smokers seated next to your group's long table.

But Gen had other plans in mind that derailed your quick trip to the baths. 

A single notification lit up from your mobile phone as you placed it on the desk in your personal quarters. 

[ N. Gen-隊長: I'm outside your room. ]

"Captain Narumi?" You quietly called for him, a tender smile on your face as you opened your door for him. "Did you wait for me all this time?" 

Gen smelled like he just got out of the bath, ready to go to bed, while you still smelled of smoke and alcohol. Still, he didn't think twice before embracing you, which you hesitantly returned. 

"I still smell like alcohol…" You murmured into the crook of his neck as you gently played with the hair on his nape. "Pretty sure I taste like it, too…"

"I don't really care…" He murmured before diving in for a kiss. Sure enough, you tasted like an evening out, the bitter taste of beer still lingering in your mouth. 

"Hey," you said as you gently broke your kiss. "You might be fine with this, but I'm not. I-I mean the way I smell. Please, Gen, let me take a quick bath. I promise I'll be back in five— no, ten minutes. I'll be back and let's pick up where we left off, okay?"  

Not even the grumble that left his lips could stop you from grabbing your basket of toiletries plus a change of clothes and leaving him for a bath you promised would be quick. 

It was only in the quiet that he realised it was his first time here in your personal quarters. It's always been you visiting him in his office but rarely did you invite him over— for reasons now clear to him. 

Your room was incredibly bare, even for a Platoon Leader. Apart from the standard furnishings provided by the Defense Force, nothing in that place anchored you there or made known to others that it was your lodging. You kept no trinkets or little decorations, and on your desk sat your mobile phone, which even had the default wallpaper on. 

It had no passcode, either, and he found himself there aptly named 'Captain Narumi Gen' when he took a peep at your messages. All the people in your phonebook were properly labelled and addressed, such as your parents, your elder brother Kanata and his wife Marie, your squad leaders Akabane, Kagomura, Ookawa, and your fellow Platoon Leaders. 

You kept no notes, even fewer photos, and Gen was filled with this awful dread that you'd leave no trace behind if anything ever happened to you. His thoughts were soon replaced by a wave of comfort when he plopped down on your bed. "At least your pillows smell like you…"

He almost nodded off too if not for your arrival. You were still a little damp from your quick soak, your skin still warm and balmy as you shut your door behind you. "Are you still awake, Captain?"

"Yeah, I am. S'impossible to fall asleep here in your room," he said as he sat up again, quietly observing the way you neatly stashed your belongings in your single closet. 

"Really, now? I'd expect you to get a good night's rest here since I have a proper bed and all," you chuckled at his response. "Or are you so used to sleeping on a futon that a bed's uncomfortable for you?"

"No. Your bed… smells like you," he stated, a hand sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck this time. You were fresh out of the bath, still practically buzzing with warmth, and it made him uneasy in an exciting way. "It's…"

"Is it nasty?" You asked as you made your approach. You were in similar standard white shirts and black sweatpants and Gen visibly swallowed as you sat closely next to him. "Captain Narumi?"

"Don't… Don't call me that now," he grunted at you, his lip trembling in anticipation as you raised a hand to cup his cheek. 

"Gen…" 

Ah, his name sounded so, so sweet whenever it left your lips, but this time even more, and he was this close to stealing that sweetness himself if you hadn't scooched over to kiss him yourself. It was tender and affectionate and somewhat apologetic, tasting of green tea mouthwash this time, until you broke away from him and stuck out your tongue to lick the corner of his mouth.

You did it in such a teasing manner but he couldn't even smile— because he was already so, so hard. He pulled out his erection from under his sweatpants and guided your hand to it, his breath hitching as he felt your warm fingers curl around his length and stroke him at a leisurely pace.

Though you couldn't see his eyes, you were certain he had a heady, cloudy, half-lidded gaze on you. He followed your steady movement with bated breath as you got down on your knees and placed yourself between his thighs. 

"Doing it here in my room has its advantages," you told him as you started stroking him again, your breath ghosting over his length. "No one's gonna come in here unannounced…"

Gen let out a low hiss when you flicked out your tongue and slowly licked the tip of his cock, taking all the time in the world to do so. 

"Ggh… S-Stop it already—" He grunted yet again, and though he told you to stop, it was clear he meant otherwise by the way he had a guiding hand on the crown of your head. "Ugh…"

Hearing the sound of his voice dipping and straining in pleasure encouraged you to do even better for him. He shuddered as you gradually received him in your mouth. 

…Maybe he did find a way to tame that smart mouth of yours after all. 

The pace of your blowjob was pleasant, but you knew he was close by the way his thighs closed around you. He tried to wriggle away from you, but you shook your head at him and gently picked up the pace, your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked on him a bit more. 

He took your refusal to let him go as a sign that you'll receive his seed in your mouth, so he obliged you, his body convulsing as he held your head in his hands. A low, guttural moan he obviously tried to suppress escaped his lips as you swallowed his cum, thick strings stuck in the back of your throat, and you eventually released him with a soft 'pop' from your slightly swollen lips. 

"My good girl," his praise was caught between his soft exhales. He pulled you up into his arms and allowed you to tenderly sweep back his hair that curtained his lovesick gaze. 

"You're so handsome," you told him with a smile, your fingers gently toying with the hair on his nape once more. Gen adored being the recipient of such compliments, even more so from you, but he still gets embarrassed from time to time. He's red up to his neck now, his hands warm on your waist. 

"My good girl," he said yet again, his wine-coloured eyes holding your own heady gaze. One hand wandered underneath your shirt while the other dipped under the waistband of your sweatpants, deft fingers rhythmically running over the moistness between your legs. His lips curl into a teasing smile as your expression fades into one of pleasure.

He was already hard again, but he didn't want to be so greedy. Neither did he want the night to end so soon. He did away with your clothes, all similarly and carelessly tossed aside as he motioned for you to lie down on your back for him. A glint of mischief lit his eyes as he placed himself between your legs, lowering his face to your thighs, peppering them with light and faint kisses before he eventually opened his mouth to taste you. 

Another rapid rush of pleasure shot through your body as he gripped your thighs and happily ate you out, playing deaf to your impatient whines as he leisurely and unhurriedly licked and lapped at your folds.

"Tell me what you want, my good girl," Gen whispered, his low and lazy voice hot against your sopping pussy. He already knew what you wanted by the way you ground against his mouth, the burning sultriness between your legs threatening to overflow onto the rest of his face. He slid a finger knuckle-deep into you and thrust at what he believed was an agreeable pace given the sound of your moans, which you were trying your hardest to suppress.

His fingers were skilled and reached the places you never could on your own, but you needed more. "P…"

"If you tell me, 'please put it in my pussy', then I'll do it."

Oh, you wanted to hurl so many complaints at him, but your impatience already showed in your countenance and he was clearly enjoying this. "Well? Hurry up and say it."

"M… My p… ah…" You pathetically whimpered at him, your voice cracking as he broke into another crooked grin.

"Use your words, my pretty girl. I can't really understand you."

Tears welled in the corners of your eyes as you relented to his teasing, your legs quivering at the leisurely pace he's taken. "Please… Please put it in my p-pussy…!"

It didn't take long for Gen to take charge after hearing you plead for him so earnestly. He was already as stiff as a pole, anyway, so he angled himself over you and slid his length over the burning wetness of your pussy before thrusting into you. 

The pace he moved at was gratifying for you both, the sound of your whines was enough of a confirmation for him. 

"Ah…" You coiled your arms around his neck, trembling at his warm touch, his calluses rough yet ticklish against your skin, especially when he sank his fingers into the plushness of your breasts. "Gh…"

Why does it feel like this? You managed a thought as he fucked you deep into your sheets and mattress, the sound of your soft moans and his pleased groans filling the air in the room. You knew you'd be dead if someone else heard you, but you couldn't consider being considerate now— because he's s-so good…!

Gen's bangs fell over his eyes again, hiding away the blissed-out look on his face. He knew it didn't matter that much to you anymore and neither did it to him— because all he could think about at that moment was burying his cock deep into you— fuck good manners and propriety!

You were seeing stars now, his pace slightly rushed and rough and it could only mean that he was just as close to finishing as you were. "D-Don't… don't stop…"

But he knew he had to. He was smarter than this. He knew he had to pull out. You couldn't afford to— at a time like this, too! 

Yet in between his blissed-out euphoria and common sense was a single thought: a family. With you. Your stomach round with a child that was a heap of trouble like he was—

"P-Please, Gen… I'm so close…!"

He snapped back to his sweet reality— your walls tightening around him as he thrust with even more urgency this time. 

"Cum for me, then, my good girl," he managed to chuckle at you. You choked out another small cry as tears filled your eyes again in a wave of oscillating pleasure, your spasms making it difficult for him to pull out as he intended. 

"Y-You can cu—" 

Gen pulled out of you panting the moment you were about to say he could finish inside you instead, opting to spill his scorching cum all over your stomach. He caught his breath before flicking his middle finger on your forehead with all his tender might. 

"Ow! Wh-What was that for?!"

"At least let me put a ring on you before you ask me to cum inside ya!"

"You didn't have to hit me that hard."

"It wasn't even that hard."

A large bandaid was spread over your forehead where your boyfriend last exacted his violence on you. Your quiet breakfast for two at the mess hall the following morning was cut short when Eiji sat next to Gen with his breakfast, along with a clean folder that contained only two sheets of paper.

"Good morning, Narumi. And the Platoon Leader, too. Once you're done eating, I'll need you two to fill out these forms," he stated as he handed you one of the sheets with a header in bold letters that read Workplace Relationship Disclosure Form.

"O-Oh," came your slightly startled reaction as you realised what it was. You placed down your utensils and read the information that had to be filled out. "S-So, do I write 'boyfriend' here? This is so embarrassing…"

"The hell do you mean it's embarrassing? Are you embarrassed to be with me? Embarrassed that I'm your boyfriend?!" Gen yapped at you as he filled out the form handed to him. You were shocked to see him filling out the paperwork himself, even more so when he wrote 'fiancée' next to your name. 

"If there is anything to be embarrassed about, it's keeping your fellow Platoon Leaders awake at night because of your… raucous behaviour," your Vice Captain stated with a feigned cough, and though it was clearly addressed to you, his sharp gaze was directed at your Captain. "If you don't want the top brass to hear about this and mete out a punishment for you both, I suggest you refrain from doing it here at base."

"O-Of course, V-Vice Captain Hasegawa! It won't happen again!" You squeaked at the older man and gave him a stiff bow. 

Gen gaped at your quick surrender before eventually turning to Eiji, who had yet to start his meal. "Haa? We're actually doing important work here! They can consider this our attempt at preserving my lineage, Japan's Strongest— Ow!" 

The older man flicked his middle finger at the young Captain's forehead this time. "Since everyone's talking about you two anyway, let's give them more to gossip about. But I expect not to hear anything about it again starting tomorrow."

[itacats]

In His Steady Hands

FT: Soap x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of chronic illness, muscle spasms, mild self-doubt, and anxiety. Some depictions of noisy environments (arcades and shooting ranges).

SUM: Navigating through the thrill of an arcade night and a tense shooting range visit, you find yourself caught between your desire to push boundaries and the challenges posed by your body. Soap’s relentless charm and lightheartedness ease your tension, but his sharp perception threatens to unravel the mask you’ve carefully constructed.

A/N: Arcade games and shooting ranges with Soap? Sign me up! 🎯💥 Writing this had me imagining his Scottish humor cutting through every tense moment—truly a blessing! Let me know if y’all can hear his laugh too. 😊

Side note: inspired by when I found out I had dystonia when I was on my high school varsity marksmanship team-boy do I miss it😅

In His Steady Hands Mastlist

Part 2: Shaky Foundations & Hurdles

Your group of friends had been talking about an arcade night for weeks, but when the plan finally came together, you found yourself hesitating. The idea of being in such a lively, chaotic environment with your friends—and Soap—both excited and unnerved you. What if your body decided to betray you at the worst possible moment?

Still, you pushed through the hesitation. You didn’t want to be the person who always said no, the one who distanced themselves from others for fear of the unknown. Soap’s enthusiasm when he texted the group chat to confirm the plan was contagious, and a small part of you was looking forward to seeing him again.

The moment you stepped into the arcade, the energy hit you like a wave. Neon lights danced along the walls, and the cacophony of sounds—coins clinking, games beeping, people laughing—created a dizzying backdrop. You spotted Soap almost immediately, surrounded by your friends as he gestured animatedly towards the games littered around the room.

“There you are!” he called out when he saw you, his voice cutting through the noise. “C’mon, you’re not getting out of this.”

Soap was already in the thick of things, bouncing from game to game with childlike enthusiasm. His energy was infectious, and you couldn’t help but smile as he dragged you and the others toward a row of racing simulators.

“Alright, who’s ready to lose spectacularly?” he teased, shooting a cocky grin in your direction as he slid into the seat of the nearest machine.

You raised an eyebrow, feigning confidence. “Big words for someone who might not even finish the race.”

The group burst into playful jeers, and you slid into the seat next to him, gripping the steering wheel. The screen lit up, the countdown ticking down with a deafening rhythm. Three, two, one—GO!

The game roared to life, and you leaned into the controls, adrenaline surging as you swerved through the digital course. For a moment, you forgot about the noise, the people, the tension coiled inside you. It was just you and the game.

But then it happened.

A sudden spasm shot through your arm, jerking the wheel violently to the side. Your car veered off the track, smashing into a barrier. Heat flushed your face as you fought to steady your grip, but the damage was done. The others were already laughing at the ridiculousness of the crash as your stomach twisted with silent embarrassment.

“You alright there, champ?” Soap’s teasing voice cut through the noise, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

You forced a smile, releasing the wheel and flexing your fingers as if to shake off the moment. “Yeah, just tired. Long day.”

“Fatigue’ll get you every time,” he replied easily, leaning back in his seat as his avatar sped across the finish line in first place. The others groaned, accusing him of cheating, but Soap only laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “What can I say? Raw talent.”

Despite the uproar around him, Soap’s eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, his expression unreadable. You avoided his gaze, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as you stood to join the group.

“Alright, what’s next?” someone shouted, and the group began to disperse toward the other games.

Soap caught up to you as you meandered toward a skee-ball machine, his voice low enough that only you could hear. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded quickly, plastering on a casual smile. “Of course. Just out of practice, I guess.”

He studied you for a moment, his eyes scanning your face as if searching for cracks in the façade. But instead of pressing further, he broke into a wide grin. “Fair enough. But if you want to redeem yourself, I’m always up for a rematch. Winner buys the next round of drinks.”

You chuckled softly, relief blooming in your chest as he steered the conversation away. “You’re on, MacTavish.”

True to form, Soap launched into one of his grand, exaggerated stories as the two of you joined the others. He recounted a tale of a disastrous attempt at drunken karaoke during a squad celebration, complete with an off-key rendition of a Queen song and a broken microphone. The group erupted in laughter, and the tension that had settled over you moments before began to ease.

Soap’s laughter boomed above the others, and you couldn’t help but glance at him, a small, grateful smile tugging at your lips. He’d noticed your stumble—of course he had—but instead of making it a point of concern, he’d diffused it with effortless charm, redirecting the focus away from you.

As the night wore on, you found yourself relaxing more, caught up in the laughter and Soap’s easy humor. But in the back of your mind, the memory of the spasm lingered, a reminder of the delicate balance you walked.

For now, though, you let yourself enjoy the moment. After all, shaky foundations could still hold up under the right support.

In the following weeks, another invitation arrived in Soap’s usual no-nonsense fashion—a simple text that read: "Shooting range tomorrow? You coming?" A grinning emoji with sunglasses followed the message, but it did little to ease the tension that coiled within you.

Your first instinct was to decline. Stress had a way of igniting the worst of your symptoms, and the shooting range was a stress-filled scenario waiting to happen–the loud sounds, the jolts of a freshly fired gun lingering in your arms, the metallic tang in the air that tried to overwhelm your nose. But as you reread the message, imagining Soap’s easy grin and his unrelenting enthusiasm, you hesitated. Turning him down felt like letting him down, and something in you refused to do that.

The next day, you stood outside the range, your palms clammy despite the brisk air. Soap was already waiting for you, leaning casually against the entrance. His face lit up when he spotted you, and any lingering thoughts of backing out vanished.

“About time,” he teased, his Scottish lilt warm and playful. “Thought you were gonna bail on me.”

You forced a laugh, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Inside, the sharp smell of gunpowder mingled with the low hum of conversation and the muffled pops of firing. The range was busier than you’d expected, adding another layer to the knot in your stomach. Soap guided you to a station, his confidence contagious as he set up the equipment and walked you through the basics.

“Easy enough,” he said, sliding a pair of protective headphones over your ears. “Just keep your stance steady and breathe.”

Keep steady and breathe. Easier said than done.

The first few shots weren’t bad—your aim wasn’t perfect, but Soap’s steady encouragement kept your nerves at bay. His voice, muffled slightly by the headphones, carried a balance of humor and instruction that eased some of your tension.

But as the session wore on, the stress began to mount. The weight of the gun, the crack of each shot, the subtle vibration that coursed through your arms—it all started to take its toll. Your muscles tightened, a warning sign you knew all too well.

You tried to shake it off, adjusting your grip and forcing a smile when Soap glanced your way. “Not bad, huh?” you managed, your voice tight.

“Not bad at all,” he replied, flashing a thumbs-up. But his sharp gaze lingered on you a moment too long, as if sensing something was off.

When a spasm hit, it was impossible to hide. Your fingers twitched in an unruly manner, causing the gun to jerk slightly in your hands. You quickly set it down, hoping Soap hadn’t noticed. A stray bullet with this many people around was asking for trouble… if not more.

“Everything alright?” he asked, his tone casual but laced with an undertone of concern.

You nodded quickly, avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, just…my grip slipped.”

Soap didn’t push, but you could feel his eyes on you as you stepped back from the station, pretending to examine the target. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken questions and the weight of your own self-consciousness.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to probe or pry. Instead, he gestured toward the target with a lopsided grin. “Not bad for a first-timer. With a bit more practice, you might even beat me.”

His lightheartedness caught you off guard, easing some of the tension that had built in your chest. You offered a small smile in return, grateful that he hadn’t pushed for answers you weren’t ready to give.

But as the session wrapped up and you walked back to your car, the moment lingered in your mind. You weren’t sure whether to be thankful for Soap’s restraint or ashamed that he’d seen even a glimpse of your struggle.

For now, you decided, it was easier to bury those feelings and focus on the fact that Soap still looked at you the same way he had before—like nothing had changed—probably.

Want to see what's up next? Click here!

[genshin-impact-updates]

"Spino Doubleblaster" Event: Water Cannon Marksmanship Challenge

〓Event Duration〓

2024/07/02 10:00:00 – 2024/07/08 03:59:59

〓Event Rewards〓

〓Eligibility〓

Adventure Rank 20 or above

And complete Archon Quest Prologue: Act III "Song of the Dragon and Freedom"

〓Event Details〓

● After the event begins, 2 new stages will be unlocked every day for the first 4 days. There are a total of 8 stages.

● After starting the stage, activate the water cannon with a most peculiar appearance and hit the floating targets to complete timed shooting challenges.

● When the watercannon fires, it will consume its Energy Reserve. The Energy Reserve is slowly replenished over time, but it can also be restored by hitting EZ-Charge Balls.

● In this event, the "Improved Crococannon" is equipped with two different firing modes, and these modes can be used to handle different kinds of Target Ball setups.

[dan-the-womans-blog]

Title:"Partners in Every Sense"

The air in Quantico buzzed with the usual hum of activity. The Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) was bustling as always, agents moving with purpose, files being handed off, and the ever-present sound of the espresso machine in the break room trying to keep everyone running on caffeine and determination. Derek Morgan sat at his desk, skimming through case files, his sharp eyes flicking over details with practiced ease. He was in his element here, surrounded by the intricate puzzles that made up human behavior.

But today, something was different.

Agent Y/N L/N had just joined the team. She was a legend in her own right, having made a name for herself in the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. Her transfer to the BAU was the subject of much discussion. Known for her unparalleled marksmanship, tactical prowess, and an uncanny ability to read situations, she was as intimidating as she was effective. The rumors didn’t do her justice, though; she was even more formidable in person.

Morgan looked up as the door to the conference room opened. There she was. Her presence was magnetic, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. She was tall and athletic, with piercing eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She carried herself with the confidence of someone who had faced down the worst humanity had to offer and come out victorious.

"Agent Morgan," she greeted, extending a hand. Her voice was calm and steady, a perfect match for her composed exterior.

"Agent L/N," he replied, taking her hand in a firm shake. He couldn’t help but notice the strength in her grip, a testament to her physical training. "Welcome to the BAU. Heard a lot about you."

"All good, I hope," she said with a faint smirk, the hint of a challenge in her eyes.

Morgan chuckled. "Mostly. You’ve got quite the reputation."

"Reputations are just stories," she replied, her gaze unwavering. "I prefer to show what I can do."

Over the next few weeks, Y/N seamlessly integrated into the team. Her insights were sharp, her strategies flawless, and her ability to take control in the field was nothing short of impressive. She and Morgan found themselves working closely on several cases, their skills complementing each other perfectly.

One particularly challenging case had them tracking a serial arsonist who was escalating in both frequency and severity. The team was spread thin, and Morgan and Y/N were partnered up to follow a lead in a remote area.

As they drove through the winding roads, the tension in the car was palpable. Not because of any friction between them, but due to the gravity of the case. They both knew how high the stakes were.

"You ever think about what you'd be doing if you weren't an agent?" Morgan asked, breaking the silence.

Y/N glanced at him, a small smile playing at her lips. "Not really. This job... it’s in my blood. What about you?"

Morgan shrugged, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Same here. Hard to imagine doing anything else."

Their lead took them to an abandoned warehouse, the perfect hiding spot for someone who didn’t want to be found. As they approached the building, Y/N's senses were on high alert. She signaled for Morgan to follow her lead. They moved silently, their years of training evident in every step.

Inside, the warehouse was a labyrinth of old machinery and forgotten debris. They split up to cover more ground, each moving with the precision and caution of seasoned agents. As Morgan rounded a corner, he saw a flicker of movement. Before he could react, a figure lunged at him, knocking him to the ground.

The struggle was brief but intense. Morgan managed to get the upper hand, pinning the assailant. It was the arsonist, his eyes wild with desperation. Just as Morgan was about to cuff him, a second attacker emerged from the shadows, aiming a weapon at Morgan.

A shot rang out.

Morgan looked up to see Y/N standing there, her gun smoking, the second assailant dropping to the ground. She moved with swift efficiency, securing the scene and ensuring there were no more surprises.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with concern.

"Yeah," Morgan replied, catching his breath. "Thanks to you."

They exchanged a look, one that spoke volumes. In that moment, there was a mutual respect and understanding that went beyond words. They were more than just colleagues; they were partners who had each other’s backs.

As they drove back to headquarters, the adrenaline still pumping through their veins, Morgan couldn’t help but feel a deepening admiration for Y/N. She was everything he valued in a partner: smart, fearless, and utterly reliable.

Over the next few months, their partnership grew stronger. They became a formidable team, their synergy in the field unmatched. Off duty, they found themselves drawn to each other in a way that was both exciting and unexpected.

One evening, after a particularly grueling case, they found themselves alone in the gym, working off the stress. Morgan watched as Y/N hit the punching bag with a series of precise, powerful blows. He admired her focus and determination.

"You're pretty amazing, you know that?" he said, walking over to her.

She paused, wiping sweat from her brow. "You’re not so bad yourself, Morgan."

He grinned, stepping closer. "No, I mean it. I've worked with a lot of agents, but you... you’re something else."

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes softening. "Thanks, Derek. That means a lot coming from you."

There was a moment of silence, charged with unspoken feelings. Then, with a confidence that mirrored her own, Morgan closed the distance between them, his hand gently cupping her face. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both tender and filled with the promise of something more.

From that night on, their relationship evolved, deepening into something neither of them had expected but both were eager to explore. They were still the same fierce agents, but now, they were also something more: partners in every sense of the word. And together, there was nothing they couldn’t face.

[imjustsocute]

[Call of Duty MW] OC: Liisa ‘Kettu’ Korhenen

Old versions [1], [2]

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Name: Liisa Korhenen

Alias(es): Kettu, Little psycho, Crazy fox of KorTac

Date of birth: December 2nd, 1997

Blood Type: B+

Nationality: Finnish

Birthplace: Helsinki, Finland

Languages Spoken: Finnish (native), Swedish, English, German

PHYSICAL INFORMATION

Gender: Female

Eye color: Sky blue

Hair color: Light blonde

Build: Slim

Height: 5’2 / 157 cm.

Weight: 103 Ibs / 47 kg.

Marks: Freckles on face and arms

Face claim: Elle Fanning

FAMILY

Parents: Osto Korhenen (father), Elsa Korhenen (Mother)

Sibling(s): Noel Korhenen (older brother)

Grandparents: Onni Korhenen (grandfather), Phila Korhenen (Grandmother)

Relative(s): Olivia Nieminen (Aunt, Osto’s sister), Leevi Nieminen (Uncle, Olivia’s husband), Tapio Nieminen (Cousin, Olivia and Leevi’s son)

AFFILIATIONS

Finnish Defence Forces (formerly)

Karelia Brigade (formerly)

Shadow Company (formerly)

KorTac (currently)

BIOGRAPHY

Born in Helsinki, Finland, with a silver spoon in one's mouth. She had everything others had wished, whether wealth, elegance, or intelligence. She already has it all like a princess. At school, she was a popular kid. Beloved by many friends, she was at the top 1 of the class, and she was the cheerleading team leader. She was perfect in many ways. Even though she had a happy school life, A family who always supported her, and a wealthy but, what she actually needed was something which she couldn’t explain. It was a ‘challenge’.

At the age of 18, she joined the military, Finnish Defence Forces. With her small physical size and not quite good at close combat with a large fighter or muscle fighter, she was her unsuitable candidate for a tactical assault unit. Later, she joined the Karelia Brigade as a marksman to back up the team. But it looks like Kettu didn't like her job in marksmanship much. She wanted something to stimulate adrenaline and be more exciting. So she began to roleplay as a ''marksman'' in her way. Just switch from a sniper rifle to a little more dangerous and deadly weapons like LMGs, C4, RPGs, Claymores, Dynamites, Grenades, etc. Told you that she was the trusty marksman. Every mission that she was put in mostly ended up with the whole place being set on fire or turned to ashes. Thus, with a unique individual and work style so she had been called 'Pretty little psycho' while in the army.

Once Kettu was on a mission to capture a drug lord, she accidentally breathed some chemical gas, and this is the beginning of the great disaster. The gas made her even more insane, less moral, and yearn for violence. She used every bullet and bomb to create the chaos festival. The drug lord ended up a dynamite exploded on his mouth, and his head popped up like a balloon. After that massacre, she was admitted to the asylum for 5 months. After that, she was released and back to serving the military with more reckless and disruptive behavior

In 2019, Kettu joined Shadow Company due to she was getting bored with army life for some reason. So she decided to contact Phillip Graves (But she prefers to call him 'Gravy'), A childhood friend/cousin (His father and her grandfather have known each other for a long time. He always brought Kettu with him when he visited his old friend. That made them meet each other. Graves will always be a babysitter for Kettu while the adults are busy with their own business. Kettu liked to play with him, but even 90 percent she liked to annoy him. They're very close like siblings.) He's her commander now, but she still teased him like an old friend. At first, the other operators were surprised by Kettu's behavior, but the time passed, they got used to her weird habits. For Graves, Kettu is a psycho, annoying, reckless, disrespectful, and the most mind-numbingly brain-dead ding-dong operator he has ever met. Graves liked to send her on operations which simple, like invading the enemy's bases, bombing, or extracting the HVT (more colorful and exciting). Kettu really didn't care what Shadow Company had planned; ideals, or using ruthless tactics to take down civilians in cold blood, just don't get in her way, the only reason she was here, she just wanted to have some fun!!!

In 2022, Kettu was discharged from Shadow Company and joined KorTac because she didn't get along well with General Shepherd. She was almost discharged many times because her unacceptable behavior made the entire operation unnecessarily risky, but Graves convinced him to keep her for the useful resource, but he couldn't hold the Kettu excuses any longer. So General Shepherd ordered her to be discharged, finally. She left the note to Shepherd, she wrote bullied him and called him "Bald-Prick" and left Shadow Company.

At the new group, KorTac, she was assigned to back up the insertion specialist team. But Kettu is still Kettu, loves to create chaos and destruction. And that’s how Kettu and König met for the first time. The first impression between them was that Kettu shot RPG at the enemies that almost hit him. He surprised him with the inferno raging, burning the whole place because she snuck away while under fire and placed C4 all over the place. First, König didn't want to mess with her much cause she was really a wild fire and crazy if he got involved with her in some way, he's gonna be killed someday, not by an enemy's gun but her toys instead. By a twist of fate, no matter how hard he tried to avoid her in many ways but in the end, the Lord brought them together on every mission. Till he got used to her crazy ideals after going through many operations together and became her babysitter completely, how strange that he's the one who successfully keeps her in line for some reason. But positively, it's not that bad to let Kettu be beside him. Even she might be pain in ass for sometimes but cannot denied that she make König's life more brighter, colorful and more comfortable from anxiety and stresses when she near him. It looks like they both have a good time together during a mission.

Currently, Kettu has become a contractor for the KorTac private military company, pairing with König.

SKILLS AND ABIILIT

Fighting style(s): Krav Maga, Sambo, Brazilian Jiujitsu, Kick boxing (Mostly use machine guns and grenades)

Weapon(s): M4, M16, LMG, RPG, M32 MGL

Distinct Weapon: m1911, Ka-bar Becker BK9, M26 grenade, MK2 grenade, C4

Special Skills: Bomb specializes, tactical adapting, setting the trap(Claymore, C4, Dynamites), Quick reflexes and high speed, sharp shooting

Shortcomings: Cannot confront a larger fighter directly because of her physical size

PERSONALITY

Myers-Briggs Type: ESFP-A

Very joyful:  Kettu has a certain energy and enthusiasm that can be a bit overwhelming at times.

Optimism: No matter how situations are getting worse, Kettu always has a positive outlook, more than you expected. Or even how much sarcasm or swear words were spilled at her, she's just like, so what. If you want to see any fury from her. Then you have the wrong idea of making her angry, my friend, because she never feels any of those words, but she really likes them.

Easy-going: She’s not serious about her life as much; she just wants to have some fun. 'No plans, no reasons, and no logic.' This is her motto.

NEGATIVE TRAITS

Reckless and Disrespectful: Kettu is not a fan of having been under the wings or following the commander's orders (Especially Shreperd). She always likes to break the rules or brief all the time, and do it her own way. So many high-ranking not prefer her to be reckless and unconventional.

Trolling teammates: Especially those who look like to be stern, stoic, strict, firm, or even hot-headed. She loves to prank and tease them because she wants to see how they would react beneath their straight face.

Lack of sympathy: The effects of inhaling excessive chemical gas substances. It changed her to be a less moral, more disruptive person, and set the fire of chaos as much as she could. Don't get her wrong, she didn't enjoy torturing people or taking down innocent civilians, she doesn't care how they are or didn't kill them. The only one she cares about exploding stuff up, that's all.

FAVORITE

Food: Lohikeitto

Drink: Hot cocoa

Color: Pastel Pink

Song: MIC Drop (Steve Aoki Remix- BTS), APT. (ROSÉ & Bruno Mars), Dynamite (BTS), RUN (BTS), Supershy (New jeans), Ice cream (Blackpink ft. Selena Gomez), Nice type (Kira ft. monii)

TRIVIA

Kettu means 'Fox' in Finnish.

Kettu is a BTS fan girl who never misses a new single album

She dreamed of being a pop star when she was 14 years old.

Kettu hates to read and has a problem with writing reports

She hates cooking. Once she burned the kitchen when she made an omelette.

Kettu loves to spend time teasing with König. She always likes to stick with him all the time. Till there are rumors that these two are dating.

[elderscrollsconceptart]

I've been playing Skyrim lately and have been having a lot of fun reading the lore books. Do we know which authors wrote which in-game books?

So quite a few people from what I understand, but two standout names are Ted Peterson and Michael Kirkbride as being writers who wrote a large % of the in-game books.

Alot of the books in Skyrim are actually carry overs from books you can find in Oblivion and Morrowind which is where Kirkbride and Peterson did most of their writing

----------

Ted Peterson wrote this for an interview in 2005 regarding what books he wrote for TES III:

"Just for Morrowind? Looking at the Imperial Library listings:

The Ancient Tales of the Dwemer; Fragment: On Artaeum; Mysticism, The Unfathomable Voyage; Notes on Racial Phylogeny; On Oblivion; The Old Ways; Origin of the Mages Guild; An Overview of Gods and Worship; Response to Bero’s Speech; The Wild Elves; 2920; Biography of the Wolf Queen; Brief History of the Empire; Dance in Fire; The Firsthold Revolt; Galerion the Mystic; A Game At Dinner; How Orsinium Passed to the Orcs; The Madness of Pelagius; The Pig Children; The Wolf Queen; The Armorers’ Challenge; The Axe Man; The Black Arrow; Bone; Breathing Water; The Cake and the Diamond; Chance’s Folly; Feyfolken; The Final Lesson; The Four Suitors of Benitah; The Gold Ribbon of Merit; Hallgerd’s Tale; A Hypothetical Treachery; Ice and Chitin; Incident in Necrom; Last Scabbard of Akrash; The Locked Room; Marksmanship Lesson; Master Zoaraym’s Tale; The Mirror; The Mystery of Princess Talara; Night Falls on Sentinel; Palla; The Poison Song; Realizations of Acrobacy; The Rear Guard; Silence; Smuggler’s Island; Surfeit of Thieves; The Third Door; Trap; Vernaccus and Bourlor; Withershins; The Wraith’s Wedding Dowry; The Death Blow of Abernanit; The Horror of Castle Xyr; A Less Rude Song; Lord Jornibret’s Last Dance; Cherim’s Heart of Anequina; Invocation of Azura; The Charwich-Koniinge Letters; The Buying Game… I think that’s it…"

And since Peterson worked on Daggerfall he wrote books for that game as well:

"I edited all of them [the books] in Daggerfall, but the ones that I wrote completely (and some of these are in Morrowind too):

Galerion the Mystic; The Madness of Pelagius; Ius, Animal God (regrettably); The Asylum Ball; A History of Daggerfall; Brief History of the Empire; The Fall of the Usurper; A Dubious Tale of the Crystal Tower; Banker’s Bet; Healer’s Tale; Jokes; Rude Song; The Arrowshot Woman; A Scholar’s Guide to Nymphs; An Overview of Gods and Worship; Broken Diamonds; Confessions of a Thief; Etiquette with Rulers; Fragment: On Artaeum; Ghraewaj; Holidays of the Iliac Bay; Invocation of Azura; Legal Basics; Mysticism; On Oblivion; On Lycanthropy; Origin of the Mages Guild; Special Flora of Tamriel; The Alik’r; The Brothers of Darkness; The Faerie; The Old Ways; The Wild Elves; Vampires of the Iliac Bay; Wabbajack; The Pig Children; The War of Betony by Newgate; The War of Betony by Fav’te; Wayrest, Jewel of the Bay."

-----

Skyrim has something like 307 books but the VAST majority are from previous TES games.

If you wanna learn more, the Imperial Library website is a GREAT resource for both

A. Readings the books online

and

B. Learning the IRL author information

Here is a great example:

https://www.imperial-library.info/content/real-barenziah

This Imperial Library article has both the full book text AND lists the IRL author as. Marilyn Wasserman.

I'd super recommend you check out the Imperial Library website. Its great!

[ladydigianna]

buying you time || part 1

past! neil perry x reader, present! charlie dalton x reader

1960 – A Kingdom Without a King

Welton Academy still stood, unchanged, but it no longer felt like home.

You had returned, though you weren’t sure why. Perhaps it was because some part of you still belonged to the past, trapped in the halls where laughter and poetry once reigned. The world had moved on, but your heart remained behind, tangled in memories that refused to fade.

Neil Perry had been gone for over a year now.

The weight of him pressed against your ribcage, an ache that never dulled. Time had passed, seasons had changed, but grief remained—woven into you like Penelope’s shroud, stitched together by day, unraveled by night.

And Charlie Dalton had been watching.

Waiting.

The boy who had never known patience now stood by your side, silent and steady, never pushing, never demanding. Just… there.

You weren’t sure how much longer he would wait.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted him to.

⸻

1959 – The Game

“You don’t have to do this.”

Neil grinned at you, mischief flickering behind his eyes. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You rolled your eyes, watching as he lined up his shot. The Dead Poets had taken refuge at the Dalton estate for the weekend, and Neil had challenged Charlie to an archery contest. A terrible idea, really, given that neither of them had ever touched a bow before.

Charlie leaned against a tree, smirking. “Come on, Perry, show me what you got.”

Neil raised the bow, drew back the string, and let the arrow fly. It wobbled through the air before plummeting into the dirt several feet away from the target.

Charlie burst into laughter.

Neil turned to you, utterly unbothered. “That was just a warm-up.”

You shook your head, smiling. “I think you’re better at monologues than marksmanship.”

He leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Lucky for you, I’m very good at monologues.”

Charlie groaned. “Please, spare us.”

Neil ignored him, turning back to you, his voice dropping into something softer. “Do you think I could do it?”

You frowned. “Do what?”

“Win the throne.”

You studied him, the way his hands tightened around the bow, the way his shoulders tensed. This was a game, but for Neil, it was something more. A challenge. A test. Proof that he could defy the fate his father had set for him.

“Of course you could,” you said.

Neil smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Charlie noticed too.

Later that night, as you sat by the fire, Charlie nudged your shoulder. “You really think he could win?”

You looked across the room, where Neil sat reading, the flickering light casting shadows over his face.

“I think he already has.”

⸻

1960 – The Unfinished Letter

You found it in Neil’s old copy of Hamlet, the pages worn from his touch.

The ink was smudged in places, as if he had hesitated while writing, but the words were clear.

“Father,” it began.

“I know you will never understand, but I cannot live the life you want for me. I tried. I swear I tried. But my heart does not belong to textbooks and law degrees. It belongs to the stage, to poetry, to the kind of love that makes life worth living. I cannot keep pretending to be someone I am not. I have been buying myself time, hoping I would find another way. But time is running out.”

“I am sorry.”

“I love you.”

It wasn’t finished.

It never would be.

Charlie found you later, sitting on the floor of your room, the letter crumpled in your hands. He didn’t say anything—just sat beside you, waiting.

After a long silence, you whispered, “I should give it to his father.”

Charlie exhaled sharply. “What do you think that’ll change?”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

“Then don’t do it.” His voice was gentle, but firm. “You think he deserves this? After everything?”

You closed your eyes. “No.”

Charlie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then let it go.”

You shook your head. “I don’t know how.”

Charlie hesitated before reaching for your hand.

“Then let me help.”

⸻

1959 – The Last Performance

The theater was alive.

The air thrummed with energy, with the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. The audience sat in hushed anticipation, waiting for the curtain to rise.

Neil stood at the center of it all, his presence electric, his voice steady.

“O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!” he declared, his words ringing through the space.

You watched from the wings, breath caught in your throat. He was radiant, every inch the king he had always longed to be.

When the play ended, when the applause roared like thunder, he found you backstage, his face alight with triumph.

“I did it,” he whispered.

“You did,” you breathed, pressing a kiss to his lips.

And for one perfect moment, the world was his.

⸻

1960 – The Storm

It rained the night Neil died.

A storm, violent and unrelenting.

You had run through it, breathless, desperate, slipping on the wet ground as you stumbled toward his house. Charlie had been right behind you, cursing under his breath, but you had barely heard him.

By the time you arrived, the world had already gone silent.

Neil’s mother was standing in the doorway, her face pale, her hands shaking. She had not spoken a word as she stepped aside, letting you and Charlie inside.

The house smelled of gunpowder.

Of smoke and sin.

You hadn’t screamed. You hadn’t cried. You had simply stood there, staring at the body of the boy you loved, knowing in your soul that time had finally run out.

⸻

1960 – The Final Choice

You stood at Neil’s grave, the cold biting at your skin.

“I never thought it would come to this,” you whispered.

The wind howled in response.

Charlie stood a few steps behind, waiting, always waiting.

You turned to him, your voice barely above a whisper. “How did you do it?”

Charlie exhaled slowly, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Do what?”

“Let him go.”

He was quiet for a long moment before he said, “I didn’t.”

You frowned, but he shook his head. “You don’t let go of someone like Neil. You just… learn to live with the hole they left behind.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Does it ever stop hurting?”

Charlie gave you a sad smile. “Not really.”

You looked back at the gravestone, the name carved into the marble like a wound that would never heal.

Neil Perry.

“I don’t know how to live without him,” you admitted.

Charlie took a step closer, his voice steady. “Then let me teach you.”

You turned to him, really looking at him for the first time in months. His eyes were different now, shadowed with grief, but there was something else there too.

Something like hope.

You hesitated, then reached for his hand. His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to let go of the past.

Maybe it was time to start again.

And as Charlie squeezed your hand, anchoring you to the present, you thought—perhaps Neil would have wanted that too.

[shanaocsmuseum]

@ll7esxs @heshmylover 🫵🫵🫵

CoD Ghosts OC: ɴᴀᴛᴇ ᴏᴄʀᴇ⭑.ᐟ - About⟢

⛧| Name: Nathaniel "Nate" Sean Ocre

⛧| Birthdate: 11th December 1993, Grand Junction, Colorado

⛧| Nationality: American

⛧| Age: 34

⛧| Marital Status: Married to Jennifer Ocre (happily, now fuck off no simping him)

⛧| Occupation: Light Machine Gunner (LMG)

⛧| Callsign: Knuckles

⛧| Affiliation: United States Army | Ghosts

⛧| Rank: Sergeant First Class

⛧| Skills:

• Heavy Weapons Expert – Specializes in machine guns, suppressive fire, and area denial.

• Field Endurance – High stamina; excels in long-range recon and carrying heavy loads under fire.

• Situational Awareness – Quick to read terrain and enemy movement; sharp instincts in chaotic environments.

• Survival & Evasion – RRC-trained in stealth, evasion, and operating behind enemy lines.

• Team Backbone – Natural at shielding his squad, holding the line, and staying composed under pressure.

ᯓ★Personality:

Nate always has a quip ready—whether it’s mocking the absurdity of a mission or teasing a teammate. His humor isn’t obnoxious; it’s more laid-back and quicker, the kind that earns chuckles even in a war zone. Confident without being cocky, relaxed but focused. He doesn’t have to prove he’s good—he just is, and that shows in everything from his posture to his trigger discipline. He’s great at making others feel comfortable, but when it comes to his own vulnerability, he clams up. He'd rather brush things off with a joke than admit he’s hurting.

You’ll hear something like, “Well, this is cozy,” while under fire. He cracks jokes to keep morale up—even if the situation is grim. While not the official “leader,” he takes on a protective father role naturally—giving advice, calling out bad decisions, or jumping in when someone’s overwhelmed.

Not easily intimidated. You could throw him into chaos, and he’d still find a way to centre himself and others. He’s been through enough to know when it’s time to stop joking. Underneath the charm is a guy who understands the cost of war.

ᯓ★Background:

Early Lifeˎˊ˗:

Born into a family that wasn't steeped in military tradition, Nathaniel was raised in a town where most people lived ordinary lives. His parents weren’t in the service, but his extended family was full of veterans from various wars, with stories of heroism and sacrifice that filtered into the dinner table discussions. Nate grew up listening to these stories with a sense of awe, but it wasn’t until a personal loss in his late teens that he truly understood the weight of duty and sacrifice.

His childhood was one of adventure and curiosity. He was the kind of kid who lived for sports, outdoor activities, and pushing his limits. Whether it was climbing trees or running miles just to see how far he could go, Nate had a natural sense of adventure that kept him moving. This laid the groundwork for what would become his relentless drive later in life.

The Turning Pointˎˊ˗:

When Nate was 17, tragedy struck. A close relative—was killed in an accident. It wasn’t in battle, but the loss of someone so full of life affected Nate profoundly. That moment made him question the nature of life and death, and in the midst of his grief, he decided that he wanted to live a life that mattered. Honor, service, and strength became his new guiding principles.

He joined the military with one goal: to become someone who could protect others, and maybe even prevent more unnecessary losses.

Military Journeyˎˊ˗:

Nate enlisted in U.S. Army at 18 years old. Assigned to the U.S. Army Rangers after basic training and excelled in every area—marksmanship, field leadership, endurance, and tactical awareness and got selected for the Regimental Reconnaissance Company (RRC).

His parents were supportive, but there was a quiet sadness in their eyes—they didn’t want him to follow a dangerous path, but they knew he was determined. Nate’s time at boot camp was tough, but he thrived in the physical and mental challenges.

He quickly gained a reputation for his natural athleticism, quick decision-making, and unshakable focus. While others faltered under the pressure, Nate found his stride, proving that his adventurous spirit wasn’t just about recklessness—it was about surviving and adapting. During deployments, he stood out not just for his firepower as a machine gunner, but for his ability to read the battlefield and hold ground under extreme pressure.

Operation: Sand Viperˎˊ˗:

As a newly assigned RRC operator, the operation was one of the most dangerous and fast-paced missions he’d ever been a part of, and he played a crucial role in ensuring its success. However, the mission also showed Nate the harsh realities of war—the cost of victory, and the thin line between life and death. It was an experience that left him more determined than ever to protect his team, even if that meant putting himself in harm's way.

As a machine gunner in the Army Rangers' Regimental Reconnaissance Company, Nate’s role was to provide heavy fire support for recon and strike teams operating deep behind the lines. While the units handled infiltration and C4 placement, Nate’s job was to secure perimeters, cover exfil points, and deliver suppressive fire during hostile engagements—particularly when ambushed by enemy patrols. His ability to stay sharp under fire and his fast reaction time earned him instant respect among the Ghosts.

This joint mission became the foundation for Nate eventually joining the Ghosts full-time.

The Call to the Ghostsˎˊ˗:

Nate’s reputation as a fierce, reliable soldier caught the attention of the Ghosts. After a series of covert missions where his skills with heavy weapons and battlefield control were tested in dangerous situations, the Ghosts extended an offer.

Nate was handpicked for his skill set and potential to thrive in high-intensity environments. Though the Ghosts were a different breed, Nate found the transition seamless. His sense of duty, his tough exterior, and his unrelenting desire to protect those around him made him a natural fit.

As part of the Ghosts, Nate now faced an even greater challenge: working as part of an elite, secretive unit tasked with some of the most dangerous missions on the planet.

ᯓ★Affiliation(s):

── .✦Family/Relatives:

• Steven Ocre — Father They butted heads during Nate’s teenage years—Steven feared the military might break his son—but after Nate's first deployment, their relationship softened. Nate inherited his grounded, calm personality from him.

“You didn’t get your strength from the Army, son. You got it from surviving your old man.”

• Katelyn Ann Ocre — Mother Nate tells her more than he tells anyone else. He writes her letters when deployed, and calls her on his rare free days. Her voice centers him when he’s stressed or overwhelmed.

“Even if you’re halfway around the world, I still feel when you’re hurting.”

• Jennifer Marie Ocre (neé McKinley) — Wife Jennifer is Nate’s anchor. They met in their early twenties—either during a brief leave or through mutual friends back in Colorado. She fell in love with the man, not the uniform. She brings him back from the mental weight of war and never lets him fall into numbness. He’s fiercely protective of her and keeps her photo tucked into his tactical vest.

“You don’t need to come back whole. Just come back. I’ll carry the rest.”

Jennifer writes to him often during his deployments. Maybe after a major mission, he listens to a saved voice memo she sent where she says,

“Hey, Nathan. I hope wherever you are, the stars are bright, and you remembered to eat something that isn’t MRE pasta.”

And he just sits there, tired, bruised, smiling like hell

• Cheryl Ocre — Daughter She’s Nate’s whole world. She’s the one person who can crack through his hardened exterior with just a giggle or a question like

“Why do you wear war paint, Daddy?” “Daddy, do you fight monsters?” “Will you come home for my birthday this time?” “Mommy says I have your ‘tough face’ when I’m mad!” “I drew you a robot. It’s bulletproof.”

He reads her bedtime stories when returned, even if he’s exhausted, keeps her crayon doodles tucked inside his notebook. He also worries constantly about the world she’ll grow up in, especially with the Federation war raging.

“There’s not a day that goes by I don’t think about her little voice calling my name… I carry her smile into every fight.”

── .✦Ghosts team:

• Elias "Scarecrow" T. Walker — Respectful and professional, with a mentor-mentee vibe. Nate admires Elias’ leadership and experience, often seeking his tactical insights. Elias sees Nate as a reliable operator and values his firepower and calm under pressure. They have a mutual trust forged through tough missions.

• Gabriel T. Rorke — If Nate joined the Ghosts after Rorke turned rogue, then he would have studied the man through dossiers and mission reports—learning how dangerous a leader-turned-ghost could become. Nate doesn’t fear Rorke—he hates what he represents: corrupted loyalty.

• Thomas A. Merrick — Solid, dependable teammates. Merrick’s straightforward, tough-but-kind personality complements Nate’s steady and protective style. They have each other’s backs in firefights and sometimes joke to break tension.

• Alex "Ajax" V. Johnson — Nate and Ajax get along like a hammer and a molotov—loud, hot-blooded, and unstoppable when paired up. Their humor leans toward morbid jokes and adrenaline highs. Nate, despite being level-headed, lets loose around Ajax in a way that shows his more daring side. They also trust each other deeply in breach-and-clear ops, where Ajax kicks the door, and Nate mows down anything behind it.

• Keegan P. Russ — Keegan’s reserved nature pairs well with Nate’s calm and serious side. They often work together on recon tasks, communicating with minimal words but strong trust. Nate respects Keegan’s precision and focus.

• David "Hesh" Walker — They share dry humor, occasional banter, and deep respect for each other’s combat skills. Hesh looks up to Nate's sniping and stealth expertise.

• Logan Walker — Since Logan doesn’t talk much, Nate finds comfort in their unspoken understanding. On the field, they work efficiently—hand signals, subtle glances, smooth coordination. Nate treats Logan almost like a younger brother, someone he silently looks out for.

• Kick — Nate admires Kick’s brainpower and often watches his six. He doesn’t always understand the tech talk but respects it. In return, Kick looks up to Nate’s combat instincts and calming presence in hectic missions.

• Riley (Military Working Dog) — Nate has a soft spot for Riley and often shares a bond with him off-mission. As a machine gunner with a protective streak, Nate respects Riley’s instincts and loyalty. Riley’s presence provides Nate comfort during stressful times.

ᯓ★Appearance:

⛧| Hair color: Dark brown

⛧| Eye color: Blue

⛧| Height: 6’3”

ᯓ★Random facts:

── .✦⛧| His callsign “Knuckles” originated when he punched out a Federation officer during a POW escape attempt—barehanded and bleeding, but alive.

── .✦⛧| Despite being a machine gunner, he’s oddly patient and methodical with fixing small electronics—he once repaired a squadmate’s cracked GPS by hand. Hates paperwork more than getting shot at. Will do anything to avoid desk duty.

── .✦⛧| Despite his size and loadout, he’s shockingly stealthy when needed. Kick once swore he was part mountain lion. (Silly man) Known to shoulder heavy equipment even when others can’t—he once carried a downed teammate a full kilometer uphill under fire.

── .✦⛧| Keeps a tiny sketchbook tucked into his vest with rough drawings Cheryl gave him. He adds to it sometimes—his art’s rough but heartfelt. Calls his daughter “Cherry,” “Little Bird,” or “Sunbeam”.

── .✦⛧| Keeps a folded photo of his family in the inner pouch of his body armor. It’s smudged, creased, and nearly faded from years of wear. Once carved a tiny "J+N+C" into the side of his helmet during a long patrol. Still wears his wedding ring on a cord around his neck, even on missions.

── .✦⛧| Hates talking about his injuries—he downplays everything from gunshots to concussions with a grunt. Despises the feeling of sand in his boots, a leftover annoyance from desert deployments.

⛧| Faceclaim: Nicholas Hoult

[mapsthewanderer]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: You are about to attend a practical exam proving your marksmanship. (Short. Caleb being Caleb, fluff, using Morse code)

Taking aim

The air is electric. The scent of gunpowder lingers thickly in the air, blending with the raw energy of the crowd. People are shouting, cheering, the sharp cracks of gunfire punctuating the noise like a war drum. The exam hall is a coliseum of contenders, each vying for their place among the elite.

Your throat feels tight, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Your pulse pounds so loudly in your ears that it almost drowns out the chaos around you. Almost.

Then—warm fingers brush against yours.

Caleb’s hand finds your own, steady and sure, and before you can react, he begins to tap. A soft rhythm against your skin, light yet deliberate. It will be alright.

You look up, breath catching. His violet eyes gleam under the fluorescent lights, filled with something unshakable—something you wish you had right now. You tap back hesitantly, your fingers barely pressing against his palm. Really?

He nods, his smile slow and confident, like he’s never doubted you for even a second.

“Come on,” he murmurs, though the words are almost swallowed by the noise. His fingers curl slightly around yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze before he taps again, firmer this time. You can do it.

You don’t know if you believe that. Not yet.

Before you can respond, he pulls you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you like a shield. His breath is warm against your hair, and just when you think that’s all there is—he starts tapping again. Soft, slow, just between your shoulder blades. A message meant only for you.

I love you.

You freeze.

Did he—?

No. You must be imagining things. The tension, the nerves, they’re playing tricks on you. But still, the ghost of his touch lingers, the rhythm echoing in your mind even as he pulls back.

He holds your shoulders for a moment, studying you, then mouths something so clearly that even with all the noise, you understand.

“Go get them, pip”

And just like that, the weight in your chest lightens.

You smile, truly smile, and step forward toward your fate—toward the gunfire, the challenge, the test that will determine everything.

But even as you go, the warmth of his touch stays with you, the secret Morse message etched into your skin.

Writer’s note: It was bound to happen, peepz. I just had to start meddling with the current timeline and not some AU like my other fic ‘The Vermillion bird’. I’ll mark my own canon’s for Caleb as ‘Caleb’s headcanon, The Vanguard’ from now on (I’m betting 20 wishes that I’ll write more because I love exploring this lol). Hope you like it 🫶🏻

[walkingthroughthisworld]

U.S. Army Europe and Africa International Tank Challenge

Article by Matthew Olay

Photos by Spc. Adrian Greenwood, Sgt. Collin Mackall, and Lt. Col. Robert Humphrey

A four-man Army tank crew from the 1st Battalion, 67th Armor Regiment, 3rd Armored Brigade, 1st Armored Division, defeated teams from four other countries over the past week to achieve the first American victory in the U.S. Army Europe and Africa International Tank Challenge.Taking place in Grafenwoehr, Germany, the competition — which first ran from 2016 to 2018 before being paused due to other competitions and the COVID-19 pandemic — comprises 10 graded events designed to measure a tank crew's physical fitness, marksmanship and mental acuity.

 "It still hasn't fully set in for me, yet, that we managed to win this competition in the manner that it happened," said Army Sgt. 1st Class Kevin Greene, the winning crew's tank commander. 

Rather than assembling a "dream team" from the battalion's various tank crews and then making it their sole job to train for the competition, leaders looked across the battalion, searching for the most well-rounded crew, according to Army Command Sgt. Maj. John Jean, the battalion's most senior enlisted leader. 

"Being a combat arms guy, especially on tanks my whole career, that's always one of our foundations: being as lethal as we can, and I think this competition attested to that ability," Greene said. He added that the competition demonstrated the overall readiness of tank crews like his. "If we [have] to send troops forward again and these tanks have to go into battle, the crews are in the right mindset to be as lethal as possible, using that 'one shot, one kill' mindset," he said. 

As a result of their victory at the competition, Greene and his team — which also included gunner Army Sgt. Graham Parker, loader Army Spc. Donovan Lavery and driver Army Pfc. Nicolae Lawson — received Army Commendation Medals and initiation into the U.S. Cavalry and Armor Association's Honorable Order of St. George for armored excellence.

(via U.S. Army Tank Crew Wins International Competition for First Time > U.S. Department of Defense > Defense Department News)

[the-amazing-digital-time-capsule]

TADTC Lore Dump #1

Character Lore And Fun Facts!

Pomni

Pomni was born in and grew up in upstate New York, going down to New York city to visit her very large extended family. She is incredibly good at math and physics, being able to recite long equations, and complete computations very quickly. Despite being able to do this, her memories on why or how she is able to, are foggy.  She doesn't remember her job, family, or education, or training…

She also loves to write historical fiction, but her dyslexia makes spelling and grammar a challenge. Sometimes she gets Caine to read over her stories and check both his historical accuracy as well as spelling and grammar. 

Pomni heavily dislikes playing the violin despite that being her assigned role in the capsule.  Though her memories are cloudy she associates the violin with nothing but anxiety and frustration.  Especially if she is ever tasked with playing sheet music, because of this correlation between distress and sheet music Pomni almost always plays the violin by ear.  She creates or edits performances on the spot, no matter if she was tasked with playing a specific piece or not.

Pomni’s Greek (But doesn't remember), and knows how to speak and write the language, however she has issues with her listening interpretation.

Pomni's lost the most memories when compared to the other capsule members.  Sometimes this fact makes her feel isolated and lonely as she is sure of so little about herself. 

Caine

He was born in 1900, Detroit, later moving and growing up in Pittsburgh. He is a WWI vet, he joined the army right out of high school, lying about his age (to his families dismay).  After showing exceptional skill in marksmanship, he went to Camp Perry, Ohio to become a trained sharp shooter.  He’s favorite rifle to shoot with is the Model 1903 Springfield with a scope.  Near the end of the war, he suffered an accident that made his confidence drop leading to job issues when coming home. After returning from war he worked as a freelance artist and animator, but after losing his animation job in 1926 he had to live off almost nothing. Eventually leading to him raiding an old garage for any junk that he could sell for cash.  There he found the Time Capsule.  

Caine has had a lot of time in the capsule to learn and master many skills.  He is a real renaissance man.  His favorite is being ambidextrous, since he finds amusement in confusing people by switching the hand he's using very quickly. 

Since becoming the leader in 1957 he has access to everyone's names including his own. However, Caine refuses to tell anyone their name, and to be in solidarity with everyone else refuses to go by or tell anyone his own.  Only Kinger Knows that Caine has access to everyone's names. 

No one besides Kinger really knows what has happened in Caine’s past.  He doesn't like to talk about it much due to severe PTSD; PTSD that can get triggered by loud noises, the smell of mud and gas, and getting touched without warning. 

Caine never goes to his room for this reason.

Caine is always interested in learning about what he's missed since entering the Capsule, but people don't tend to talk to him due to his depressing demeanor.  If given the chance he would be incredibly happy to sit and listen to whatever he's missed in the past 70 years. 

Kinger 

Kinger was also a WWI War vet and a Lintennieut Colonel in the U.S Army.  Kinger refuses to enter a relationship while in the capsule, only Caine knows why he chooses to stay “single”.  

As the bartender in the capsule Kinger knows a lot of information, be it people's deepest desire or their social security number. He is very aware of his customers and their affairs.

Kinger is also the designated surgeon of the group, if any Capsule member gets hurt or injured by one of the Guests or anything else… Kinger will sew them back together.  When he performs a procedure he will give the patient alcohol (except Caine) to numb the pain as they don't have access to painkillers. 

Kinger is Caine's best friend and they rely heavily on each other.  Kinger tries to manage Caine's drinking habit by hiding or measuring his alcohol intake, but that doesn't always work. 

Kinger, despite acting the most aloof, retains the most memories of his past.  When you walk past his room at night you can hear him murmuring about missing someone.  

Zooble

Zooble is half German, and speaks the language fluently even in the capsule.

Zooble is the most deadpanned member of the Capsule but also has the biggest heart.  While they may not seem like the person to go to for help they will do anything to lend a hand if needed. 

They have a strange aversion to kids... while they don't hate children and even like them, Zooble avoids them at all cost.  Since Ragatha is the child care attendant, that also means that Zooble inadvertently avoids Ragatha as well, causing tension between the two.

Zooble’s right hand can act as almost any tool, from a blow torch to a screwdriver, Zooble's hand can act as any tool needed as long at they have the correct bit inserted. 

Zooble’s torso is a radar system that tracks every member of the capsule.  Bubble will sometimes use Zooble as a way to find and track down the other members.  Zooble’s hate this fact but can’t do anything about it.

Gangle 

Gangle is half Hispanic American and half Japanese.  Before entering the capsule she juggled two different worlds.  One being her cultural side at home and the other being her American side to her friends.  She would do anything to avoid having these two worlds collide. 

Within the Capsule she is most comfortable with Caine.  She’s not entirely sure why but Caine has always treated her like a younger sister and she is nothing but grateful for that.  He really helped her try to find some joy in the capsule allowing her to find some peace with her new situation. 

Pomni and Gangle are roommates as they are the two main performers.  They share a dressing room 50/50.  Gangle's side is a shrine to her favorite characters, of which she had Caine draw for her from description, and is surprisingly immaculate.  While Pomni's side is minimalistic, with a drawer next to her bed full of crumpled up pieces of paper. Gangle always tries to encourage her to decorate.

Jax

Jax used to be a rich brat who got through life with daddy’s money, but after partying a bit too much his senior year of college he found himself stuck in the capsule. 

Jax likes to be seen as a kind of idiot, cool guy, even when a human. He hid his love of classical books and chose to perform poorly in school.  Barely scraping by enough for his father to buy his way into Yale. 

In the capsule Jax lives on the pixelated streets, “entertaining” the children too old to be cared for by Ragatha.  If his joystick were to ever break Jax would be unable to ever move again, he would be conscious but paralyzed.   

Off duty Jax loves to tinker in Zooble's workshop, making a variety of small trinkets to decorate his alleyway. 

List of who remembers most about their life (Top is most, Bottom is least)

This list excludes Caine since, as the leader, he has access to all his memories.  

Kinger 

Jax

Zooble

Gangle

Ragatha

Pomni