#concealed carry exercise

[frudoo]

I beg for more slasher 141 pleeeease 🫶🫶🫶🫶

Part 2 to this <3

Warnings: Dark!Fic/DDDNE, hopefully that's obvious. Gore, slight torture, infidelity (not by 141). Fem!Reader.

     “Thank you for staying with me,” you hum, leaning up from where you sit on the bathroom counter to plant a kiss on his stubbled jaw.

“You know you don’t have to thank me, sweet girl.”

     John finishes wiping off the last of your face mask, grabbing your moisturizer and gently rubbing it in with his fingertips. Wiping his hands off on a towel, he bends down to press a kiss to the luscious layer of fat beneath your chin. You giggle and wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to lift you by your ass and carry you back to his bedroom. Yours is far too lonely right now, and frankly, John likes having you all to himself from time to time. 

     He lays you down on his cozy bed, making sure you’re all warm and comfortable beneath the covers before he strips himself of his clothes. You smile at the sight of his body, muscular and strong but with some fat on his gut. Tufts of dark hair make themselves known all over his torso and teasing a delicious crescendo down his tummy, the peak of which concealed by his boxers. John climbs into the bed beside you, pulling you into his arms and coaxing your head to rest on his cushy chest. 

     “John?” You ask softly.

     He hums, tilting his chin down to see you better. You bite your lip, about to tell him to forget about it, but he senses your unease. 

     “What is it, darlin’?” John sits up and rests his back against the headboard, pulling you onto his lap so he can look into your eyes. 

     “I-it’s nothing. Just… earlier, when I was in the bath, you said… you said I’d get a turn on that guy soon enough. What did you mean by that?” You fiddle with your hands nervously. 

     “What’s it sound like, sweet girl? The boys are bringin’ him back, figured you might wanna join in on the fun,” John explains, big hands kneading the plush of your waist. “That somethin’ you wanna do?”

     Your breath hitches in your throat. You know what they do, of course, but you’ve never actually been involved in a kill. They’ve never even exercised the idea of having you help until now. It’s overwhelming.

     “I-I don’t… I-” You stutter, your chest starting to heave with anxiety.

     “Shh, baby, it’s alright. You don’t have to if you don’t think you can handle it,” he coos, baby blues softening as they stare you down. 

     “I- can I just… talk to him? Before you do anything?” You ask quietly, resting your trembling hands on his shoulders.

     “Yeah, darlin’. Whatever you want,” he whispers, cusping the back of your head and pulling you down for a tender kiss. “Let’s get some sleep, hm? We can talk more about it in the mornin’. Sound good?”

     You nod at the same time he readjusts back into the previous position, his back to the mattress, your head on his chest, legs all tangled up. Sleep comes easy despite all the chaos you’ve been through today, snuggled up with one of your protectors. 

     Typically, you’re woken up with a pair of lips trailing kisses down your neck, or the smell of breakfast cooking in the kitchen. Today, however, it’s the pained screams of a man being dragged around outside that startles you awake. John’s not in bed when you open your eyes, and it makes your heart drop. This is all too real. Your men are expecting you, one way or another. 

     Nervous hands pull one of John’s sweatshirt’s over your trembling body, followed by a clean pair of his boxers. It’s hardly appropriate clothing considering what you’re about to involve yourself with, but it smells like him and you could use some comfort right now. Not even bothering to put shoes on, you carefully step down the stairs and walk outside, eyes frantically searching for the source of the pathetic sobs.

     When you find it, the sight causes bile to rise in your throat. Simon’s holding the man up by his armpits, and there’s a burlap sack covering his head. His knees are broken, calves protruding forward where they should bend back, and upon further inspection, you discover that most of his fingernails have been ripped off. Tears flood your eyes when you finally find your voice, a whimper escaping your throat. It alerts Kyle whose head instantly turns in your direction. He beckons you over, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

     “This is him,” he whispers, kissing your temple soothingly. 

     “How are you so sure?” Your bottom lip wobbles as you look up at him, eyes wide with fear and remorse though you’ve done nothing wrong.

     “Checked your dashcam, dove,” Kyle explains, massaging the shoulder his hand rests on. “Looked him up online. Real clean-cut fella.”

     “Sick fuck has a wife, three kids,” Simon joins in with a sneer. “Guess where we found him?”

     “A fookin’ motel,” Johnny answers before you get the chance. “Shaggin’ a prostitute. Paid ‘er a fair sum fer ‘er silence. Nae cop would listen tae ‘er anywey.”

     John is the last to arrive, tool belt full of sharp weapons jangling with every step he takes. He calls your name but you can’t tear your eyes away from the living ragdoll. The bile has settled itself back into your stomach, and in place of your uncertainty is a gnashing anger begging you to do something about it. In the back of your mind you know you can’t do any true harm to him, but you’re going to do something.

     You gently pull free from Kyle’s hold, stalking toward the weeping man. There’s no tremble in your hands when you pull the burlap sack off of his head, letting it fall to the dewy ground. It’s definitely the man who harassed you, there’s no doubt about it—from the dirty blonde hair adorning his head to the ugly scar that runs across his cheek. He opens his eyes to look around, and when they land on you, he lets out his most pathetic wail yet.

     “No! F-fuck, is that- are you- fuckin’ bitch! You… you fuckin’-” He sputters, and that familiar voice makes your head pound.

     “Does your wife know you’re a pervert?” You ask calmly. “How about your kids, hm? Do they know Daddy likes to go around touching women who aren’t Mommy?”

     “Y-you don’t know wh-what you’re talkin’ about,” he defends, hot tears falling down his flushed face.

     “Don’t worry, they’ll never know what a sorry excuse of a man you were. Do you think they’ll mourn your absence when you’re reported missing, or are they so used to it that it’ll be a weight off their shoulders?”

     “Fuck you!” The man shouts the best he can through a raw throat, and you laugh, leaning in closer to whisper into his ear. 

     “Not a chance.”

     As you turn to walk away, you pretend not to hear his screams as your men drag him into the barn, nor the sounds of Johnny’s chainsaw roaring shortly after.

[rivendell-poet]

Hello! Sorry if this is a weird request but I need comfort rn and would really appreciate it. Could you please write something about the Fellowship (+ Faramir and Eomer) with a s/o who suffers from hypoglycemia, or low blood sugar. So like she constantly has to have food with her at all times because her blood sugar drops super fast. If you don't treat it right away hypoglycemia can send you into a coma or even kill you within an hour so it's pretty serious, and I think it'd be sweet to see them worry. It's something I suffer from so I'd appreciate it. Thanks!!

Hi! First of all, I want to apologise so much for the wait. Second, thank you so much for trusting me with this - I've researched the best I can, but please tell me if there are inaccuracies & I'm happy to adapt/edit this. I hope you enjoy it, and again my sincere apologies <3

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 (& 𝐜𝐨.) 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐲𝐩𝐨𝐠𝐥𝐲𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐚❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « headcanons »

○ Aragorn ○ Legolas ○ Gimli ○ Boromir ○ Pippin ○ Merry ○ Sam ○ Frodo ○ Faramir ○ Éomer

GN!Reader | No TWs | Wordcount : 2k

𝐀𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐧

✧ Has heard of it before, but only in passing and has never pursued study about it. Until you tell him that you have it.

✧ To which he immediately begins to rectify the situation, which starts with asking you. He's very attentive the entire time, asking questions in the correct places and quickly getting a grasp on the basics.

✧ (Also goes to Lord Elrond for advise and to persuade the books and knowledge there. Although it's not a slight on your explanation at all, he simply wants to do the best he can to keep you safe.)

✧ Thanks you for honouring him with your trust, and promises that he's there if you need anything.

✧ Begins to also carry around sugary food. Predominantly dried berries and fruits while as a ranger, but he will buy you and sugar you want when he's king (and honestly most things you want anyway).

✧ One of the best at recognising your symptoms or when you've hit a low - and is quick to check you have what you need.

✧ Big believer in sitting down when your dizzy, as long as you aren't in a literal lake. Asks if you need anything else, before setting down his cloak as a kind of blanket.

✧ Very content to simply sit down for as long as you need.

✧ Is also understanding with more emotional symptoms of hypoglycemia, and one of the most helpful and understanding when it comes to this.

✧ Will stay with you and reassure you as well as he can. Has a good mixture of taking your worries seriously, while also recognising them as symptoms and encouraging you to get your blood sugar up.

𝐋𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐬

✧ Noticed something before you revealed it, with all the snacks you constantly have, but doesn't realise it's a medical condition.

✧ When you tell him he instantly asks if you need to eat something, before realising what he's said and apologising.

✧ Also asks a lot of questions, and gets progressively more and more concerned as you explain (he tries to conceal his facial expressions, which works somewhat well).

✧ Gets a lot of snacks for you, although they start off with being mostly berries. He is very open and asking for feedback on his snack selection.

✧ Very observant as to when you begin to exhibit symptoms, although he's better at recognising physical symptoms than mental symptoms.

✧ Doesn't entirely trust himself to recognise symptoms at the start, so regularly checks in on you to make sure you're ok (when you've last eaten, the exercise since then, etc).

✧ Legolas doesn't joke with your condition, but does express displeasure about the human body doing what it does ('but why? You don't deserve this').

✧ If you're having an low moment, you can see him struggling between wanting to leave you alone and wanting to keep you close to him.

✧ He will go with whatever option you want, but is always incredibly gentle with you when he's there.

✧ Often will sit in a tree, always remembers this is not the best option and somehow gracefully falls to the floor.

✧ (Also sits directly on grass but never gets grass stains.)

𝐆𝐢𝐦𝐥𝐢

✧ Has legitimate sugar-cubes for you when he first learns, although his repertoire eventually expands. (At the start there's also a lot of dried and candied fruit.)

✧ The most brusque about checking that you've eaten sufficiently.

✧ Tries to not be worried, doesn't do an incredible job of hiding it.

✧ Can practically seek his heart-rate spike when you get out something to eat. Instantly stops whatever he's doing to make sure that you're ok.

✧ Will check on you every few weeks, repeating his more basic knowledge and checking that you're still ok.

✧ Although he's the most worried - he's also one of the ones who is most ok with you joining in at combat and not treating you like you're fragile.

✧ He has faith in you destroying your foes - low blood sugar or not.

✧ Drinks a lot less around you, and when he does he researches as to what's best for you.

✧ (Would experiment with your tastes if you do drink.)

𝐁𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐫

✧ Hasn't heard of it - but is very responsive, sits down with you and talks it through with you.

✧ Checks in on you quite often, and if he's gone too long without checking you can feel his hand encompass yours. "How are you, my love?"

✧ If you're ever feeling dizzy or shaky because of a low he's there for you, and if you're ok with being touched he'll take you in his arms to keep you safe.

✧ Insists that you should sit down eventually, but even once you do he keeps you close to him.

✧ Buys a lot of sugary things for you (he actually has a very sweet tooth, so has a lot of recommendations).

✧ After every low, without fail, he takes some time to talk to you. To make sure you’re ok, if there’s anything he can do for you, and if there’s something he can do to prevent it next time.

✧ But, most importantly, he wants to make sure you know that you aren’t a burden. That he loves you, all of you, and he doesn’t care about little things like this.

✧ Nothing could make him love you less.

𝐏𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧

✧ Needs you to explain it to him (probably multiple times). Every time he apologises, but it’s just because he’s concerned - that he needs to know he can keep you safe.

✧ The most open about asking if you need anything, with a straightforward approach rather than just getting ready to care for you.

✧ Is more than happy to share the stash of sweets he keeps on him at all times, although over time you do notice it changing to compliment your tastes.

✧ Actually keeps a little journal of your lows, when they occurred and how long for. He even has a little symbol and colour chart to help keep track.

✧ Is a little embarrassed when you first find out about it. “I- I just wanted to make sure you’d be ok, that I could keep an eye on you. Here.”

✧ (Asks if you’re ok with him doing this afterwards, and completely respects your wishes either way.)

✧ Often asks for kisses after you’ve eaten something particularly sugary (if you’re up to it).

✧ Manages to guess what you’ve eaten with remarkable accuracy. You’re fairly certain that sometimes he gets it wrong simply to kiss you again.

𝐌𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲

✧ Actually very responsible. Listens to you intensely, and then goes away and does a lot of his own research.

✧ Every now and then he’ll ask you a few clarifying statements, and when you ask how he always shrugs and gives (not deliberately) vague answers. Manages to understand the basics of your condition fairly quickly.

✧ Is always ready to talk if you ever need to complain or vent your frustrations, and has mastered the art of agreeing with you and making you feel heard without hijacking the conversation or making it darker than you want.

✧ Has a little stash of some hard sweet (like sherbets or humbugs) in the pockets of almost all his going-out clothes as an extra back-up. Sometimes accidentally gets multiple.

✧ Very good at staying calm in situations, and will stay as long as you need to make sure you’re ok or walk you through something.

✧ More than happy to offer up his coat if you ever need to sit down and there’s only grass.

𝐒𝐚𝐦

✧ The one who enjoys baking you the sweets you carry.

✧ Always slips you a pastry or tart whenever you leave the house, and makes sure you have something with you at all times.

✧ While perusing his recipe books, you notice little scrap notes - details of how much sugar there is, how well it works as a pick-me-up for you if you’re feeling down. It’s remarkably well-kept.

✧ Of course, if you comment on any of this he blushes as he denies it being a big deal.

✧ “It’s no problem! I just want to show how much I love you, is all. And- this is one of the best ways for me. Because I do love you, and what’s the point in loving without something to show for it?”

✧ Also very aware of when you being to display low blood sugar, simply gives your hand a squeeze and gently looks over to you. Asking if you need him for anything, anything at all.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐨

✧ Is the one who you know will, without fail, stay with you until the end.

✧ Even if you need him to go get something for you he always says he’ll be back shortly, always gives a nervous glance before finally leaving.

✧ Asks if you were ok when he comes back in.

✧ Also gets quite worried when you first tell him, and you need to reassure him a little.

✧ Still, he always tries to bake for you - and also has quite a lot of food in his pocket. When he can’t get anything done, or the recipe is too complicated, he’ll sheepishly ask Sam.

✧ Quite often takes picnic blankets when he two of you are going on walks, and gets it out as soon as you need it.

✧ (Honestly, you sometimes wonder if he gets it out just so he can stop and sit down on a blanket or a while.)

✧ When the two of you are staying together he’ll often lie next to you, smiling and leaning on you while still staying awake. Very occasionally, if he hasn’t slept, you realise he’s fallen asleep on you.

𝐅𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐫

✧ Suspects you have a medical condition before you tell him, but won’t ever comment on it. (He does do some reading up beforehand.)

✧ When you tell him he takes it very seriously, and afterwards thanks you for trusting him. There’s a slight blush when he asks if there’s anything, anything at all, he could do to help you.

✧ You assure him that if you need him you’ll say so - and he holds you to that promise.

✧ Isn’t much of a baker, or that much of a sweet tooth, but enjoy going around and buying you things that he thinks you’ll like.

✧ Oftens ends up with highly decorated items (and has a weird tendency to get rose flavoured things) for you. You still appreciate it, and he always informs you of how sugar content there is.

✧ Panics the first time you’re very low on blood sugar, but keeps it fairly well concealed. The second time he’s much more put together.

✧ He’s the one you, generally, feel safest telling if you ever need anything. He always nods, gives you a quick kiss, and immediately gets whatever you were asking for.

✧ When you first mention you feel weak, he jokingly offers to carry you. You jokingly take him up on it, but to your surprise he immediately picks you up and takes you wherever you need to go. (Secretly enjoys this a lot.)

✧ If you’re quite out-of-it, having blurred vision or serious symptoms, he sits with you and tells stories to keep your mind of it. Stays as close as he can, often letting you lean against him.

𝐄𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐫

✧ Will probably need quite a bit of explaining as to what your condition is, but you can tell that he’s trying.

✧ Is also the one who cares the least - not because he doesn’t care about you, but because he loves you for your personality, your smile, and the way you understand him. You having hypoglycemia doesn’t affect that.

✧ However, when you realise in a panic you’ve forgotten a sweet, he quietly offers you one of your favourites.

✧ You can see the blush on his cheeks as he insists it’s nothing, before looking away. And then asking if you’re ok about three seconds later.

✧ Checks up on you probably an excessive amount, but it’s out of a place of concern. (It’s also very easy to tease him about it.)

✧ “You’re still the person I love, and you’re still just as strong with or without it. What kind of man would I be if I didn’t love you for you?”

A/N : Hopefully you enjoyed! Also, sorry for the lack of updates this week - it's been quite busy for me, but I hope to get back to my regular schedule (and do something special for Halloween!)

« masterlist » thank you for reading *･༓˚✧ Taglist : @celestialhole / @starwars2222 / @xiaoseminence / @withasideofmeg / @nilintakan / @wordbunch / @bespectacledhuman / @ferns-fics / @stormchaser819 / @raikan624 / @chewgazellechew / @recordofragnarokfan2 / @fleurdemiel-145 ✧ wish to be tagged?

[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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[jischw]

1. Catherine of Aragon (married 1509-1533)

motto: HUMBLE AND LOYAL

Even allowing for tactful hyperbole, it is clear that Catherine, […] did have the kind of youthful prettiness and freshness of appearance that charmed observers, not only the family into which she would marry. It was partly a question of her complexion: her naturally pink cheeks and white skin were much admired in an age when make-up was clumsy in execution, easy to detect and much scorned. Ambassadors abroad, describing princesses to their masters, generally emphasized the tint of the skin, carefully noting whether it was 'painted' or not. A fair complexion like Catherine's was thought to indicate a more serene and cheerful temperament than a 'brown' one. Then Catherine's hair was also fair and thick, with a reddish-gold tint, her features neat and regular in a pleasingly shaped oval face.

Perhaps Catherine's fair colouring, so far from the conventional picture of a dark-visaged Spaniard, reminded onlookers of her one-eighth of English blood: […] 'there is nothing wanting in her that the most beautiful girl should have. '

If her complexion was her chief beauty, Catherine's chief disadvantage was her lack of height. All the grace of her bearing, inculcated over many years at the Castilian court, could not conceal the fact that she was extremely short, even tiny. Years later a loyal defender had to admit that she was 'in stature somewhat mean', while adding quickly 'but bonarly [bonnie] withal'. She was also on the plump side - but then a pleasant roundness in youth was considered to be desirable at this period, a pointer to future fertility. In contrast Catherine's voice was surprisingly low and 'big-sounding' for a woman; and that no doubt contributed to the impression of gracious dignity she left on all observers, making up for the lack of inches.

2. Anne Boleyn (married 1533-1536)

motto: THE MOST HAPPY

Anne Boleyn was not a great beauty. The Venetian ambassador […] pronounced her 'not one of the handsomest women in the world'. […] Anne Boleyn was only moderately pretty.

Some of this lukewarm praise may have been due to the fact that her looks did not accord with the fair-haired, blue-eyed ideal of the time. In theory, dark looks were regarded with suspicion and Anne Boleyn's looks were conspicuously dark: she was 'Brunet' […] Anne Boleyn's olive complexion’ […] her colouring 'rather dark' or sallow 'as if troubled with jaundice', or 'not so whitely as ... above all we may esteem.' She did have a few moles, although she was hardly disfigured by them on the contrary they acted as beauty-spots. Her hair, thick and lustrous as it might be, was extremely dark […] And her eyes were so dark as to be almost black. But then the theory of public admiration was one thing - blondes were supposed to be of cheerful temperament - and the practice of physical attraction was quite another. Clearly in adulthood Anne Boleyn exercised a kind of sexual fascination over most men who met her; whether it aroused desire or hostility, the fascination was there.

The black eyes were sparkling and expressive; and they were set off by those 'dark, silky and well-marked eyebrows' […] on the subject: she knew well how 'to use [her eyes] with effect', whether deliberately leaving them in repose or using them to send a silent message which carried ‘the secret testimony of the heart'. As a result many became obedient to their power. More prosaically, the Venetian ambassador called her eyes "black and beautiful'. Her mouth, described by him as 'wide' (another theoretical disadvantage by the standards of the time), was recorded by Sander as pretty. […] Anne Boleyn was 'of middling stature' (which made her of course a great deal taller than Queen Catherine). She seems to have been quite slight or at any rate not full-breasted - the Venetian ambassador remarked that her bosom was 'not much raised' […]. But a much more important aspect of her appearance when she first came to court was her elegant long neck; this, with the deportment she had learned in France […] gave her a special grace, especially when dancing, which no one denied.

The fresh young damsel had other qualities, some more obvious than others at the moment of her arrival back in England. She had 'a very good wit', wrote Cavendish in his Life of Wolsey, another source not prejudiced in Anne Boleyn's favour? The phrase, going beyond mere intelligence, carried with it connotations of spirit and adventurousness; in other words, Anne Boleyn was good company. Like many spirited people, she had another more impatient side to her: she would display on occasion a quick temper and a sharp tongue. But of these characteristics, deplored in a woman as much as skill at singing and dancing was prized, there was as yet no sign.

3. Jane Seymour (married 1536-1537)

motto: BOUND TO OBEY AND SERVE

From other sources, it seems likely that the charm of her character considerably outweighed the charm of her appearance: […] of middle statute and no great beauty. Her most distinctive aspect was her famously pure white complexion. Holbein gives her a long nose, and firm mouth, with the lips slighty compressed, although her face son a pleasing oval shape with the high forehead then admired (enhanced sometimes by discret plucking of the hairline) and set off by the headdresses of the time. Altogether, if Anne

Boleyn conveys the fascination of the new, there is a dignified but slightly stolid look to Jane Seymour, appropriately reminiscent of English medieval consorts.

But the predominant impression given by her portrait - at the hands of a master of artistic realism - is a young woman of calm good sense. And contemporaries all commented on Jane Seymour's intelligence: in this she was clearly more like her cautious brother Edward than her dashing brother Tom. She was also naturally sweet-natured (no angry words or tantrums here) and virtuous - her virtue was another topic on which there was general agreement. There was a story that she had been attached to the son of Sir Robert and Lady Dormer, a country neighbour, but was thought of too modest a rank to marry him; even if true, the tale brought with it no slur on Jane's maidenly honour. It was told more as a Cinderella story, where the unfairly slighted girl would go on to be raised triumphantly to far greater heights. Her survival as a lady-in-waiting to two Queens at the Tudor court still with a spotless reputation may indeed be seen as a testament to both Jane Seymour's salient characteristics - virtue and common good sense. A Bessie Blount or Madge Shelton might fool around, Anne Boleyn might listen or even accede to the seductive wooings of Lord Percy: but Jane Seymour was unquestionably virginal.

In short, Jane Seymour was exactly the kind of female praised by the contemporary handbooks to correct conduct; just as Anne Boleyn had been the sort they warned against. There was certainly no threatening sexuality about her. Nor is it necessary to believe that her 'virtue' was in some way hypocritically assumed, in order to intrigue the King […]. On the contrary, Jane Seymour was simply fulfilling the expectations for a female of her time and class: it was Anne Boleyn who was - or rather who had been - the fascinating outsider.

4. Anne of Cleves (married 1540-1540)

motto: GOD SEND ME WELL TO KEEP

Let us take the actual appearance of Anna of Cleves first: for this we are fortunate in having a first-hand description, written only a few days later by the French ambassador, Charles de Marillac, who was not prejudiced in either direction, towards her beauty or her ugliness. Anna of Cleves looked about thirty, he wrote (she was in fact twenty-four), tall and thin, 'of middling beauty, with a determined and resolute countenance.' The Lady was not as handsome as people had affirmed she was, nor as young […], but there was a steadiness of purpose in her face to counteract her want of beauty.

The 'daughter of Cleves' was solemn, or at any rate by English standards she was, and she looked old for her age. She was solemn because she had not been trained to be anything else and the German fashions did little to give an impression of youthful charm in a court in love as ever with things French, or at any rate associating them with fun and delight. […] Turning to Holbein's picture, one finds this solemnity well captured: a critic might indeed term it stolidity. Besides Wotton, in his report, had confirmed that Holbein, generally regarded as the master of the 'lively' or lifelike (not the flattering) in his own time, had indeed captured Anna's "image' very well.

Of course a beautiful young woman, however stolid or badly dressed, would still have been acceptable. Anna of Cleves was not beautiful, and those reports which declared she was were egregious exaggerations in the interests of diplomats […]. But was Anna of Cleves actually hideous? Holbein, painting her full-face, as was the custom, does not make her so to the modern eye, with her high forehead, wide-apart, heavy-lidded eyes and pointed chin.

There is indirect evidence that Anna of Cleves was perfectly pleasant-looking from the later years of Henry VIII. When Chapuys reported Anna of Cleves as rating her contemporary, Catherine Parr, 'not nearly as beautiful' as herself, this expert observer did not choose to contradict her; so that the boast was presumably true, or at least true enough not to be ridiculous.

5. Katherine Howard (married 1540-1542)

motto: NO OTHER WILL BUT HIS

No confirmed authentic picture of Katherine Howard survives. The fact that Katherine Howard is the only one of Henry VIII’s wives for whose appearance we must rely properly on contemporary descriptions, gives her career an appropriately evanescent quality. The same mistiness surrounds her date of birth. She was eighteen or nineteen when the King’s roving eye first fell upon her: that is, roughly thirty years younger than he was. […] Katherine was not only small, as Catherine of Aragon had been, but diminutive: parvissima puella – a really tiny girl. If King Henry was about thirty years older than Katherine, he must have been well over a foot taller. We need not speculate further about their respective weights. The French ambassador rated her beauty as only middling (the same phrase he had used for Anna of Cleves, incidentally), but he did praise her gracefulness, and he found much sweetness in her expression; her habit of dressing à la française (as opposed to Anna of Cleves’ Germanic fashions) no doubt commended itself to him.

Even if Katherine Howard was not a beauty, she must have had considerable prettiness and obvious sex appeal (as well as – or perhaps because of – her youth) since we know that she captivated the King instantly.

6. Catherine Parr (married 1543-1547)

motto: TO BE USEFUL IN ALL I DO

The woman who brought about this cheerfulness, the new Queen Catherine Parr, was herself never described by anyone as a beauty: even the term ‘of middling beauty’ used for both Anna of Cleves and Jane Seymour by Marillac was not applied in this case. ‘Pleasing’ and ‘lively’, ‘kind’ and ‘gracious’ were the most flattering epithets ascribed to her. It is true that a difference of age and status may have been responsible for this lack – widows of over thirty were not expected to be beauties – but when Anna of Cleves indignantly exclaimed that the new Queen was ‘not nearly as beautiful as she’, Chapuys, passing on the comment, did not see fit to contradict it.

Queen Catherine Parr’s only known authentic likeness, attributed to William Scrots, shows an amiable face rather than an intriguing one; the nose is short, the mouth small, and the forehead broad rather than domed in the way that contemporaries admired. Her hair was rather similar in colour to that of Catherine of Aragon: light auburn, tinged with what Agnes Strickland in the nineteenth century would call ‘threads of burnished gold’.

But if the new Queen Catherine was not a beauty, she was neither dull nor austere. She enjoyed dancing. […] She was well set up – the tallest of King Henry’s wives – and her height would have enabled her to cut a regal figure since her conception of her role as queen consort also included a great deal of ornate dressing-up.

Bibliography:

- Fraser, Antonia. The Six Wives of Henry VIII. New York Knopf, 1993.

[futurepastme]

God save... the president!?

Reincarnation au

Of all places Merlin thought he would find Arthur once he came back, a random American airport was not on the list.

Merlin was running. Not only had his alarm failed to wake him up on time, but he somehow also managed to enter the airport through the ‘arrivals’ instead of the ‘departures.’ So now Merlin ran, willing his flight to wait for him.

He dashed through the groups of people like a madman clutching his briefcase tightly, thanking whatever deities that were still out there for blessing him with the smart decision to only pack a carry-on. If he still had to go through check-in, he would 100% miss his flight.

Merlin kept his unplanned cardio exercise at a fast but steady pace until his eyes landed on a flight monitor. He stopped dead on his track, looking for his flight number, when he felt the sudden shock of a body colliding with him.

“Holy…! Do you not look where you're going?”

Merlin almost ignored the annoyed voice in favour of his fleeting chance of going home, but something – destiny, probably, as it often were – made him turn around to face the rude man that had almost toppled him over.

“Won't you say anything? Do you even know how much this shirt cost?”

Arthur Pendragon glared angrily at him. It took Merlin a while to move his gaze from the familiar face and fully take in the scene. Arthur held his blazer jacket open away from his shirt that was now drenched in something that looked suspiciously like coffee.

“Well then? Are you an idiot or something?”

The familiar insult seemed to rewire Merlin's brain and he found himself automatically responding with a shrug. “Takes one to know one.”

“What?” The blond looked back at him with a frown.

“Besides,” Merlin continued, “you're the one who bumped into me, so you don't get to be a rude asshole over your own mistake.”

“Rude…? My own…?” Merlin's disrespectful attitude seemed to throw him off, leaving him a confused mess. He let go of his blazer and recomposed himself. “Do you know who you're talking to?”

Merlin felt the wave of familiarity rushing through him, it seemed that some things never changed.

“Of course I know,” he felt a little smirk growing as Arthur's expression went back to bad concealed confusion. “I'm talking to a royal prat.”

Merlin was delighted, he could feel the waves of irritation and indignation that seemed to irradiate from Arthur and they made him want to giggle.

“Who do you think you are to…”

“Martin.” Merlin interrupted.

“Wha…”

“Martin Emerson.” He interrupted again, and offered his hand.

Arthur looked at his hand for a few seconds as if it were some kind of criminal offense that it existed, and then looked back at Merlin like he was some lunatic.

“You don't have any idea who I am, do you, Martin Emerson?”

Merlin smiled like it was Christmas as Arthur stared at him.

“I already told you that I do.” Merlin smiled sweetly. “You are the condescending jerk who almost killed me and then tried to blame me for it. Me! The victim of the crime!”

“Killed…” Arthur looked astonished, but the frown of irritation never left his face. “You know what? I don't have time for this. Get out of my way.”

Arthur pushed through Merlin nearly causing his fall. Again. “Who do you think you are? The president?”

“No, I'm his son, Arthur.” Arthur answered without looking back.

Merlin watched as Arthur walked away, leaving him gaping at the back of his head as Arthur went on his way like he hadn't just turned Merlin's world upside down with a five minute interaction.

“Last call for the flight G4014 to London.”

The metallic voice from the speakers shook Merlin out of his daze and his body auto-piloted him back to his mad dash through the airport.

It was only once he was safely sitting on his seat at the economic class – he had barely made it – ready to go home, that the full realization of what had happened dawned on him. Arthur was back, he was a complete prat again, and the most shocking news of all: Arthur Pendragon, the legendary King of Camelot, was American.

[cielur5ww]

Idk, a modern Au Scaramouche being soft. It can be considered a gn reader, because it does not specify any pronouns... although I did it thinking of a reader amab.

Headcanons of Scaramouche and you, I think no pronoun is specified. Mention of hickeys, nothing explicit, Scaramouche is a proud.. (he is a bit silly)

Scaramouche bf! He doesn't understand in the slightest why you always put too much effort into decorating when you do your schoolwork, (half of him understands) what you do for aesthetics but to him, it seems unnecessary. (It's minimalist)

Scaramouche bf! Every time he gets upset (he's not serious) all he wants from you is for you to shower him with affection. He is hungry for affection, touch or words (better both to relieve that hunger)

Scaramouche bf! who always complains and snorts, annoyed because both of them live far away from each other. Although you see each other in classes and everything, he also wants to spend time with you alone, simply in your room, seeing what nonsense you will come up with today or simply a date at a cafe or walking through squares, enjoying the peace.

Scaramouche bf! who is actually called Kunikuzushi, but now to leave that painful past behind he calls himself Scaramouche, although he doesn't want anything to remember about his previous name... it really doesn't bother him in the least if you call him Kuni or kuzushi, because he is quite used to it. That you call him that, it's as if that nickname was simply made for him, so that you could say it through your lips with that stupidly sweet smile for him (ironic, right?)

Scaramouche bf! He definitely takes care of his skin, although he has almost absolutely no imperfections, he follows a skyn care routine, and he would like to guide you in this type of world of face and skin care if you didn't do it before!, but if you already did So you would like both of you to be together, each doing your own skin care routine.

Scaramouche bf! Good memory and he takes pride in it, but when something happens he acts like an idiot who doesn't know anything or doesn't remember it (he likes to bother you)

Scaramouche bf! Totally embarrassed if you go to the gym and one day you suggest that he sit on top of a bar to do chest exercises, and carrying his weight you do quite a few repetitions... (he gets embarrassed although he tries to maintain his defiant and mocking attitude.)

Scaramouche bf! He is surprised and freezes in a few seconds if you were to carry him so easily, he knows that he weighs little but the fact that you carried him without effort... surprises him and, clearly, he doesn't blush a little, he simply beams, telling you to put it down. And if you don't do it, and you carry him calmly like a princess... he will be with his arms crossed... maintaining an expression of annoyance but you can't take it seriously when that light blush becomes more and more noticeable on his cheeks, it's cute even though he's annoying.

Scaramouche bf! that his physical strength is below the average man (just a little) and sometimes he HATES asking you for help carrying things, because he is supposed to be independent and not weak. (In the end you approach him on your own, and you will have to insist on helping him until he finally says yes... but reluctantly, as if he could really carry that heavy box that, according to him, weighs 100kg ... or if you stop insisting, he will get upset anyway because you didn't want to help him.)

Scaramouche bf! who uses concealer to hide the hickeys that were stupidly dark, he doesn't even know how the hell he leaves you... that you leave him in this ridiculous state (He likes it anyway)

Just bland headcanons, sorry this isn't reviewed, just vague ideas. Any mistake... well it will be there

[magickkate]

Today, let's explore the world of spell mediums in witchcraft. These tools and methods help channel intention, energy, and manifestation, empowering your spellwork and connection to mystical forces.

1. Jar Spells: Manifestation Bottled

Overview:

Purpose: Jar spells involve placing specific ingredients—herbs, crystals, written intentions, and other symbolic items—into a jar or container. The jar acts as a vessel to concentrate and amplify the spell's energy.

How It Works:

Layering Intentions: Begin by layering your ingredients in the jar, each representing an aspect of your intention (e.g., protection, love, prosperity).

Sealing the Energy: Close the jar tightly to seal in the magical energy and let it work over time. Some practitioners bury the jar, keep it on their altar, or hide it in a sacred space.

Practical Applications:

Long-Term Goals: Ideal for spells that require ongoing energy, such as protection, prosperity, or healing over an extended period.

Concealment: Useful for discreet spells or when privacy is desired, as the jar can be hidden away.

2. Spoken Spells: Power of Incantation

Overview:

Purpose: Spoken spells involve verbalizing intentions, incantations, or chants to invoke and direct magical energy. The spoken word carries vibration and intent, enhancing spell potency.

How It Works:

Intonation and Clarity: Speak clearly and with conviction, focusing your intention into each word or phrase.

Rhythm and Flow: Incorporate rhythm and repetition to build energy and create a harmonious flow of intention.

Practical Applications:

Immediate Needs: Effective for quick spells or urgent situations where immediate energetic intervention is required.

Personal Empowerment: Enhances personal presence and connection to magical forces through vocal expression.

3. Candle Spells: Illuminating Intentions

Overview:

Purpose: Candle spells use candles of various colors, each representing different intentions, to focus and direct magical energy.

How It Works:

Color Symbolism: Select a candle color corresponding to your intention (e.g., green for prosperity, red for passion).

Anointing and Carving: Dress the candle with oils, inscribe symbols or words, and imbue it with your intention before lighting.

Visualization: Focus on the candle flame as you visualize your desired outcome manifesting.

Practical Applications:

Visualization Aid: Enhances focus and concentration during meditation and visualization exercises.

Ritual Enhancer: Amplifies the potency of rituals and ceremonies, providing a focal point for energy manipulation.

4. Sigil Spells: Symbols of Power

Overview:

Purpose: Sigil spells involve creating and charging a symbol (sigil) that represents your intention. The act of drawing or inscribing the sigil activates its magical properties.

How It Works:

Creation Process: Design a sigil by combining and stylizing letters or symbols that encapsulate your intention.

Activation Ritual: Charge the sigil with energy—through meditation, visualization, or ritual—and release it into the universe to manifest your desire.

Practical Applications:

Versatility: Can be used discreetly (e.g., drawn on paper, carved into candles) or incorporated into more elaborate rituals.

Personalization: Tailor sigils to specific intentions, allowing for flexibility and creativity in spellcasting.

Finally -

Spell mediums in witchcraft are diverse and versatile, offering practitioners various ways to channel their intentions and work with mystical energies. Whether you resonate with jar spells, spoken incantations, candle rituals, or sigil crafting, each medium holds its unique power to manifest change and enhance spiritual connection.

[itgirlgyu]

fallen over, choi beomgyu.

🥥 ﹒ ! (＞人＜;)ᶻz ﹒★ beomgyu x fem!reader.

ꜝ ওফ্ফো  ! WC1072. ₍synopsis: during a sunny evening, whilst running away from your daily existential crisis you understand the importance of exercise. and,

sort of acquaint yourself with a charming fellow with kind of slippery fingers, and the prettiest face you've ever seen.

✫ this is dedicated to my best friend @itz-yerin i hope you like it baby!!!

"Don't mind me guys," you choked out despite trying your best to conceal the fact that your lungs were desperate for a steady source of air going in and out consistently, and letting you know that the lifestyle you had chosen for yourself all this while might be the case of being eaten alive if a zombie apocalypse did end up occurring in the near future.

"Go ahead," you were too focused on making sure your nostrils weren't flaring more than usual than speaking in coherent sentences, "Go!"

Your best friend, albeit initially confused but upon noticing and analysing the hunched over cycle posture and the sweat dripping off your body like a waterfall, had taken her befuddled, and slightly concerned boyfriend for a lap, or four while found a nearby bench to sit down to recollect your breath and think over how to expand your lifespan by a few more years.

Battling the urge to completely abandon the cycle onto the street, you lugged it with you as you crawled to the section with the grass, and collapsed beside the fallen torture device. The exhaustion gradually evaporates off your body like dewdrops under the scorching gaze of sunshine in the mornings of june, as a stealthy serenity sneaks in amidst the chaos of your surroundings, transforming all the clamour into a state of halcyon white noise.

You closed your eyes, allowing the gentle breeze to graze your heated cheeks, adorning you with the fragrances of all the florals it has been carrying. The sunshine played hide and seek with the clouds, drawing an array of inane shapes on your face like a toddler, tickling you with its sparkling mischief.

It felt good; it felt fine, despite the concerns that had kept you awake all night. It felt like you were alive in the moment and that's all that mattered. The blades of grass prickling your back, the June sun showering you with its rays and clouds coming to your aid. The warm gust of wind consoling you as well as the slight droplets of ice cold rain—ice cold rain?

You opened your eyes to uncover the mystery behind the whiplash of the capricious weather but to further push into a frenzy of perplexity, the clear blue yonder mocked you as it boasted an expanse devoid of any dark clouds—but the fog cleared up, and the reason behind the sudden downpour was someone's passionate participation in a topic you couldn't quite over hear. The sugary droplet falling off your cheek, and onto the green blades, only to be replaced with a few more similar ones when the conversation took another swift swerve increasing the ferocity of the words coming out of your assailant's mouth—so fast you were even a lip reader would have to suffer.

A few droplets were already a hassle as they dried off on your cheeks leaving a very sticky residue, but you had to seriously draw the line when the entirety of the popsicle slipped from his fingers and hit you right on your face. Before you could even process the piece of ice that was stuck on your face, you heard the man gasp, followed by another gasp from the person he was arguing with, both of them rushing over to make sure you don't sue—except the other one ran to another direction for some reason.

You should be sitting up by now and giving them an earful and but for some reasons, you couldn't—one of the major one being the fact the twenty minutes you actually enjoyed cycling, and the other half an hour you forced yourself to continue transforming itself into a bothersome back pain, and secondly it was quite amusing your main assailant's slightly long shag hair moving up and down from this angle. Removing the popsicle from your cheek, you tried to sit yourself up.

"Are you okay?!" You attacker crouched down to meet you at your current height. His concerned laced eyes analysed your face before fumbling with his jeans pocket to get his handkerchief out, offering it to you, "I am so sorry for this."

You touched your cheek before accepting the handkerchief to dab it onto your cheek softly putting on a show for him—except water and a good few seconds of rubbing the syrupy consistency wasn't leaving your face. You knew that, he knew that, but the world depends on such unspoken courtesies.

"It's alright." You assured him meekly, focusing more of your energy to get yourself off the ground so you don't seem like a brat—despite it taking a little more that what it takes other people, as in like seconds, you were at least able to get your ass off the ground for a few inches when you noticed the concerned expression glazing over his pretty face, "I was cycling for a few hours so my legs just gave out," you lied.

He nodded and extended his hands for you to take, "I am Beomgyu," He introduced himself, and you gave him your name in return.

"I am sorry for what happened! I promise I will buy you a good cleanser of your-" Before the beautiful man, whose name you had just learned to be Beomgyu, could finish his benevolent promise to take care of any arising skin issues you may face, his friend whom you had deemed to have abandoned his friend in need, came running as though he had something important to announce—conveniently missing the laid out bike on the ground and as a result crashing into Beomgyu's back who in a sick game of domino had fallen over you before he could even process what had hit him.

You cursed under your breath when you clearly heard a few of your spine break, with the added weight of two men laid out on top of you earning the questionable looks from every passerby. You couldn't even complain if you wanted to after all it was your own fault leaving it laid out instead of just properly putting it away on standing.

"I went to go get wet tissue for the blunder you created," The top part of the stack, the runaway friend, groaned while wiggling his way out of the giant dog pile.

"And you couldn't announce it, Taehyun?!" The one directly on top of your stomach croaked before turning to look at you, "I'll pick up a tab of your chiropractor I promise."

COPYRIGHTS RESERVED TO ITGIRLGYU 23'. FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED! PERM' TAGLIST: @impureperhaps @full-sunnies @ox1-lovesick @jisungsdaydreamer @wonioml @1921choi @forever-in-the-sky2 @gyuletters

[ultram0th]

31 Days of Derek Hale

Day 05: Cursed Tape

Info │ 01 │ 02 │ 03 │ 04 │ 05

“Der!” Stiles voice rang out, dripping with jubilation. “Come see what I just scored!”

Derek grunted as he got out of his chair, feeling tired from his long day at the auto shop. Still, he shuffled down the hall, clad in only his white tank top and sweatpants, freezing when he saw Stiles beaming ear to ear and holding a large cardboard box.

Before he could even ask, Stiles rushed out, “I got a mystery box at the thrift store! Can you believe it?! How cool is that?”

“Mystery box?” Derek grunted, crossing his arms in front of himself as he cocked his eyebrow. “And how much did that cost?”

Stiles shrugged as he carried the box to the living room. “…um, about eighty dollars, give or take…”

Derek’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched.

Stiles obliviously set the large box down onto the floor before eagerly tearing into it, his large eyes alight with wonder over the “treasures” he’d scored for one-hundred thirty dollars. The big box was stuffed full of various items: scraps of fabric, old porcelain figurines, and some VHS tapes.

“We don’t even own a VCR,” Derek grunted, unamused. 

Among the pile that his husband was creating, Derek spotted an odd looking VHS tape. There was a gaudy neon background that looked like it was ripped straight of the 80s, with little captions indicating that it was a workout video of some kind. However, the weird part was that there was a blank outline of a person on the front instead of some obscure fitness guru. The title of the odd tape read out: Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring _____!

“What the hell?” Derek scoffed as he picked up the tape to examine it some more— the second his fingers grazed the cover of the tape, Derek felt what seemed like a jolt of electricity ripple throughout him.

The werewolf jerked back, confused over what had just happened, yet he quickly realized that he was still holding onto the tape. Derek tried to relax his grip to let go of it, but his hand refused to listen, instead clutching onto the tape with all of its strength.

“Stupid tape…” he grumbled to himself, stopping once he saw something else start to happen.

Steadily, his white tank top began to change hue, turning from bleached white to a neon blue. As the straps thinned out, the collar dropped down low to his midsection, exposing his pecs to look more like a stringer. 

The changes didn’t stop there.

Stunned silent, Derek’s jaw dropped as he witnessed his toned pectorals shudder before pushing out as they gradually inflated. The previously proportional mounds plumped up and rounded, becoming an impressive set of muscletits that jutted off Derek’s chest noticeably. His altered tank did nothing at all to try to conceal them, the enlarged nipples poking out of the sides and demanding attention. His arms packed on more muscle, becoming large and bulging, especially his biceps which rivaled melons. Derek looked down, yet his massive pecs blocked his view of his sweatpants as they tightened against his legs, suctioning to his form to become a skintight pair of spandex that showed off every ridge of his carefully crafted musculature— that was prompt ruined as his legs grew in size, becoming larger. His butt ballooned out as it beefed up and pushed itself outwards. Derek’s eyes widened as he felt a sensation like he was getting harder. When he reached down and patted at his bulge, he almost gasped at the girth package that filled his hands. His cock and balls had inflated to the point where it looked like the larger stud was smuggling a softball in the front of his spandex pants.

When he was done changing, Derek had to have packed on at least fifty pounds of muscle, making him look like some over-the-top workout guru who belonged on the front of those cheesy exercise tapes.

Derek’s face stretched out to form a large grin, despite the panic that he was feeling. The living room shifted and Derek felt as if he were falling, the walls of the room stretching upwards. Derek’s sight rapidly shifted upwards, forcing him to stare straight up at the ceiling. He tried to look away or call out to Stiles for help, but he couldn’t move. All the shocked werewolf could do was smile and show off his hairy muscletits on the cover of Sweatin’ it to the 80’s! Starring Derek Hale!

Blissfully unaware of his husband’s transformation, Stiles finally finished rummaging through the mystery box. “See?” he smiled, standing upright. “There’s tons of cool stuff in here… Derek?”

Stiles looked around for Derek, pausing when his eyes landed on an obscure VHS tape that was on the floor. He walked over and picked it up, his eyebrows rising at the image of a muscled up Derek on the cover, smiling widely. His eyes looked panicked though.

“Derek!” Stiles gasped, clutching the tape close to him. “Don’t worry! I’ll figure something out!” He sprinted out of the house and to his Jeep…

About an hour later, Stiles returned home and set up the VCR in the living room. Once it was connected, he popped the cursed VHS in and pressed Play.

Synthpop blasted over the speakers, and bright neon colors flashed on the screen before a shocked Derek appeared on screen. He was still in his muscled up body, appearing to jog in place.

“Stiles?!” Derek called out on the TV, able to see his husband on the other side. He tried to stop himself from jogging, blushing at how the motion made his inflated pecs bounce up and down. “What the hell happened— Time to get that heart rate up!” His eyes widened at his last statement, having said it was such pep that he sounded like a cheerleader.

Stiles threw his hands up in exasperation.

“How am I supposed to know?” he cried. “How the hell did you get into the TV?”

Derek rolled his eyes as he stopped and started to do lunges. “It’s that damn mystery box of yours!” he accused. “I touched some weird tape and this happened!” He nodded down at his inflated form, wincing as he couldn’t stop working out.

He paused his lunges and started to bounce his pecs up and down.

“And one, and two…” He blushed, but he couldn’t stop the muscled mounds from lifting and slamming back down. Still, he was smiling widely and speaking with immense enthusiasm. “You gotta do lots of reps if you wanna get pecs as big as these!”

Derek couldn’t stop himself from working out and showing off his out of proportion body. The whole time he kept smiling, despite his eyes looking wide and disbelieving.

Stiles, unsure of what to do, figured that perhaps the best course of action was to let the video finish. Plus, he had to admit that Derek looked pretty hot with big, hairy pecs. “Um, maybe… maybe we should just let this play out?” he suggested.

Derek screamed on the inside, but could only place his hands on his hips. “Now that we’re all warmed up,” he beamed, “I’m gonna show y’all some glute blasters!”

[dorianwolfforest]

Hello I can’t stop thinking about all the stuff Harry can just. Carry around. And therefor I’ve decided the frittte bag is actually a bag of holding.

///

“Please tell me you brought everything with you when we left.” Jean has barely stepped foot into the precinct when a realization seems to come over him. You’re not sure you understand. “The gun, for example. Please tell me you have all of your shit, on your person, with you, because I’m not driving you back.”

“Oh sure”, you say, raising the frittte bag you used to haul things around with you. “Should be in here.” You didn’t need to pack as you left, everything you picked up during the investigation, you would keep in the bag.

“Should be.” He repeats with barely concealed disdain. “Check.”

You stick your hand into the bag, fingers latching onto something cold and metallic. That’ll show them, you think, as you pull out… the Kvaalsund multi-tool. The gathered crowd stares in silent disbelief at the small, pathetic little plastic bag which had somehow held both the length and weight of the multi-tool. Okay, that wasn’t your gun. Try again. The chain cutters, prybar, and flashlight all come out as you fish around for metallic objects. Kim doesn’t mention that those are technically his and probably shouldn’t be in there at all. The rest of them blink slowly as a green monkey pen, a cube that looks too valuable not to sell for some kind of substance, and several tare bottles which you insist you found on the street, appear on the desk in rapid succession. You even fish out a board game that Judit picks up and looks over. She considers telling the rest of the precinct it could be a good bonding exercise, but the realization hits that the rest of the precinct would turn it into a drinking game. Kim must realize it too, because he doesn’t tell Judit how great Suzerainty is and how you should all play it sometime. You guess you’ll have to raise that brilliant idea to the group on your own.

Eventually you tire, and turn the bag upside-down. Piles upon piles of clothes, some worn, some not, all stolen, spill out in droves on your desk. Your badge lands gently on top. No one says anything. It’s too weird to say anything, as if reality itself will hear them point out that the bag shouldn’t be able to contain most of these things and realize what a conceptual horror exists within it. You stick your hand in one last time, and finally your fingers clasp around the barrel of your gun.

“Bada-bing, badaboom!” You shout, triumphantly, as you pull it out. Attached to the other end, as if glued to the handle, is a small child’s hand, followed by an arm. Cuno’s red hair and face follow the gun out of the frittte bag.

“Fuck does Cuno care! Finders keepers, pig.” He spits, and tries to pry your grip off of the gun. Was he attached to the gun when you put it in there, or did he crawl into the bag himself as you were about to leave?

It would be so fucking funny to let him go, INLAND EMPIRE whispers, it would be so funny to just drop the gun and let him run wild in the precinct. He could live in the walls, with a gun! You give Cuno a small smile, and he scowls back, questioning your intention. Clearly, you two aren’t on the same soundless communication wavelength yet, but Kim notices it. Jean notices it. As your hand loosens around the gun, they descend upon Cuno like wolves upon a chicken.

Kim’s “Absolutely not, officer!” and Jean’s “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?” are drowned out as you bellow “RUN, CUNO, RUN!” And Cuno takes off, deep into the precinct, shrill laughter scattering against the halls like light bouncing off of a disco ball. Possibly never to be seen again. Yeah, you’re pretty proud of that decision.

LOGIC - “He definitely got in on his own. You would have noticed a child attached to your gun.”

[hgejfmw-hgejhsf]

Whump Wednesday

So as most of you know, words have...not been coming easily for me lately. In fact, words have not been coming at all lately. There's some stuff I've been dealing with offline that has contributed to my muse's disappearance, and truth be told, I've been a bit afraid of writing, thinking that perhaps my muse has up and gone forever and I just simply will never write again.

But then @thinkof-england shared with me her idea of taking on Whump Wednesday via a virtual spinning wheel, and she encouraged me to give it a shot with her, as perhaps just an exercise in getting back to writing again. So tonight, for the first time, we allowed the wheel to guide us...and the prompt we received was TW: amputation. What the hell was I meant to do with that, as my FIRST WHUMP PROMPT out of the gate?!

I said, "I'm going to try to just do a drabble. Just 100 words, that's all, no big thing. Surely the muse can make that happen." And then once the idea came, she managed a staggering 500 words. I have NO idea if these words are good or not, but they are mine, and they're 500 words more than I had when I woke up this morning. So behind the cut you'll find a small pentadrabble zombie FirstPrince AU featuring TW: blood, pain, mention of zombies, and implied amputation without anesthesia or proper medical care.

Please be kind. If this doesn't sound like your thing, please keep scrolling right on by. It won't hurt me in the slightest. What will hurt me are unkind words.

A strangled cry rips itself free of Henry’s lungs as Cash carries him inside the farmhouse and places him gently on the couch. Despite the proof of his immense pain dripping from his golden hair and written in every tense, taut line of his face, he buries the sleeve of his shirt into his mouth to stifle the sound. Ever their protector.

Alex produces a knife and cuts away the blood-soaked denim concealing his twisted and torn skin. Jagged holes from the rotting teeth of the undead fucker that attacked his husband continue to pour blood, already beginning to soak the floral fabric on the couch where he and Henry had once made love, long after everyone else had fallen asleep upstairs. Alex can still hear the soft laughter ringing out in the dead of night from Henry’s parted pink lips when he teasingly asked if they needed to seek out one of those ancient plastic covers. He blanches at the thought now.

But it’s the draining of blood from beneath Henry’s already pale skin that comes back into sharp focus as the hulking shadow that can only be Cash reappears over his shoulder. Alex, having no idea he’d left at all, turns to find a handsaw, a belt, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol bundled in Cash’s arms. His lips are a thin line as he kneels by the couch and rolls up his sleeves, until Alex stills his motions with a hand over his.

“I’ll do it,” Alex says softly, his voice a weak croak of a sound. He coughs, as if something as simple as the pollen count could be responsible for the paralysis of his vocal cords. He turns to Henry, then, whose blue eyes are bright with fear and pain and knowing, always just a step ahead of Alex despite his perpetual attempts at running as far ahead as he can into the future, to prepare a way for them. Henry’s never had to run. He’s always simply gazed up at the night sky in silence, as if the great hunter in the heavens is whispering and he’s the only one who can hear. Or perhaps it isn’t Orion at all, but a guardian angel.

Why then, Alex wonders, if Henry’s gift is knowledge, and if there’s some all-knowing being keeping watch over him from just beyond the stars, could something like this be happening to him?

“I trust you,” Henry says, his teeth clenched tight as he places a blood-soaked hand over Alex’s to still a trembling he hadn’t yet noticed. Henry’s golden wedding band glimmers in the dusk of another dying day, surprisingly free of the scarlet liquid still flowing freely from his wounded leg.

Alex’s lungs refuse to inflate when he draws air into them, and the minute contents of his stomach churn with the task he’s about to face, but he secures the belt tightly just above the wound, rests one hand on Henry’s knee for stability and support, and begins.

[leifyposting]

“Will you be back?” Jean asks. 

She’s sitting straight-backed on Lisa’s bed with her hands folded in her lap, her hair plaited tightly along her skull in preparation for training. She looks ill at ease, as she does often these days — the inescapable consequence of clawing her way out from under her mother’s shadow, trying to refit her skin to the role of an infantry captain, navigating the unwanted attention that comes from being 16 but looking older. 

“Oh, probably,” Lisa says, and watches Jean’s face go blank like it does when she’s trying not to show that she’s upset. 

It’s a little cruel, her flippant answer. She should feel guiltier about it, maybe reassure her best friend that she’ll be back as soon as she’s able. 

But Lisa has ambitions, gods forgive her: dreams bigger than sleepy Mondstadt and its placid people. If Jean loves her — which she does, Lisa knows this without asking — then she’ll have to let her go. 

“But you’ll write,” Jean says, sounding uncertain. 

“I’ll do my best,” Lisa says. She does feel guilty, this time — Jean’s stoic silence does nothing to hide her disappointment. “I hear the Akademiya’s workload is intense. But I’ll try.”

“You can handle it,” Jean says, with a faith that borders on fealty. “You’re brilliant, Lisa.”

Lisa grins. She is brilliant — she knows this well. It is the one thing she has going for her: she is not charming like Diluc, funny like Kaeya, or diligent, courageous, and radiant like Jean. But the Akademiya had sought her out for her mind, even though, at 18, she is much older than the vast majority of novices scouted from outside Sumeru. 

Lisa is smart. She doesn’t intend to squander that. 

“You’re too kind,” she says, throwing one last cardigan into her suitcase and then kneeling on it to zip it up. In a flash, Jean is on the floor in front of her, long swordsman’s fingers pressed to the top of the suitcase as she reaches for the zipper on the other end. Together, they wrangle the suitcase shut. 

Lisa looks down to grin triumphantly towards where Jean is kneeling before her. They are very close, like this, Jean’s face tilted up towards her own. If Lisa were to lean forward just a little, she could—

Jean stands abruptly. She extends a hand to pull Lisa up, her grip betraying the strength concealed in her wiry frame. 

When they both have their feet firmly planted on the floor �� and Jean has genteelly let go of Lisa’s hand within an appropriate time frame rather than holding on to it a moment too long like Lisa almost wishes she would — Lisa looks up and finds herself surprised, as she always is, at how tall Jean has gotten. 

Despite being two years her junior, Jean is already half a handbreadth taller than Lisa, and fixing to grow taller still. Lean and broad-shouldered, she carries herself with a poise devoid of pretense or affectation; she hasn’t quite mastered the Gunnhildr presence that Frederica wears so well, but Lisa can already tell that it won’t be long until Jean too wears it like a second skin. 

Lisa wonders, not for the first time, what happened to the quiet, wide-eyed child who’d looked to her for comfort during storms as if the lightning itself heeded her words. And then she puts those thoughts to one side, because she is leaving for the Akademiya tomorrow, and she cannot afford to second-guess.

Lisa has never known her father, you see, and her mother passed away a year ago. There is nothing more keeping her in Mondstadt.

Well. Nothing except Jean.

“I can’t come to bid you goodbye tomorrow,” Jean says suddenly, breaking the silence. 

“Oh?”

“I’m taking my Company on a training exercise in the field. I won’t be in town when you leave.”

Reschedule your training, Lisa doesn’t say. Aren’t I more important than your Company? 

She bites her tongue and holds back the mean-spirited question, because she is a good friend. (And because she is afraid she already knows what the answer is.)

“That’s okay,” she says instead. 

“I am sorry,” Jean says. 

She looks penitent enough that Lisa abandons her resentment and reaches up to tweak her nose. “Oh, don’t look so sad, darling. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

“I’m not sad,” Jean protests, going a little pink in the cheeks. 

Lisa feigns offense. “You’re not sad that your best friend is leaving?”

“I-I—” Jean stammers. “That’s not—” She catches the mischief behind Lisa’s eyes and glowers at her. “Stop teasing.”

Lisa pouts and throws her arms around Jean’s neck, dragging her down into a hug. “Oh, but you make it so easy!”

Jean snakes her arms around Lisa’s waist and leans only a little awkwardly into the hug. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Emotion, strange and cloying, chokes off Lisa’s windpipe. She squeezes Jean a little tighter. “I will miss teasing you,” she says, in lieu of the myriad other confessions that linger at the tip of her tongue. 

Jean doesn’t respond — only sighs, and presses her cheek wordlessly into Lisa’s curls. They stand there for a long moment. 

Eventually Jean shifts, glancing at the clock on Lisa’s wall. “I should go,” she says regretfully. “I have preparations to make before my field excursion tomorrow.”

Selfishly, Lisa holds on for a fraction of a second more. Then she disentangles herself from Jean and offers her a brilliant smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to keep the Lionfang Knight from her duties.”

Jean’s answering smile is a small, wistful thing. “Have a safe trip, Lisa. Write me when you get there?”

“I will,” Lisa promises: her one concession to sentiment. 

“I would wish you luck,” Jean says, “but I know you won’t need it.”

Lisa smiles. “Same to you.”

Jean stares at her a moment, as if committing the lines of her face to memory. Then she nods. “Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye, Jean,” Lisa says. 

Jean turns and lets herself out of the room, the doorknob as accustomed to her hand as to Lisa’s. The door shuts noiselessly behind her. 

Lisa allows herself 10 ridiculous seconds of staring at the door, hoping against all her better sense that it will open again and reveal Jean in the doorway. 

When it does not, as Lisa had known it wouldn’t, she throws herself back into putting her room to rights, packing everything that will fit into her suitcases and leaving the nonessentials in boxes. 

She has no time for frivolous, unscientific sentiment. She has so much to do. She is leaving for the Akademiya tomorrow, she reminds herself. 

And she tries not to think too hard about why it feels like she is the one being left behind, instead. 

[rascal-xo]

Living in the Shadows | CoD Series | Two

Pairing - TF141 x Female Reader (Callsign Dagger)

Romantic Pairing: Simon Ghost Riley × Female Reader

Series Warnings: Violence, SMUT, Language, ANGST, Gore, Smoking

Chapter Summary: You’ve met the 141, but your new mission pairing with a certain Lieutenant threatens hostility.

Part One: Here

As you approach a door marked with fading Arabic writing, Soap pushes it open, revealing a dimly lit space filled with anticipation. 2 figures are seated around a large table, their eyes focused on the holographic display projecting mission details.

"Captain, I found our special guest." Soap announces, gesturing towards you.

You enter the room, meeting the intense gazes of the iconic soldiers you've heard so much about. Captain Price, with his weathered face and piercing eyes, nods in acknowledgement. Gaz, a steadfast presence, offers you a warm nod. And then there's Ghost, the enigmatic figure shrouded in mystery, whose eyes seem to hold the weight of a thousand secrets.

"Good to see you, Sergeant. Take a seat." Price says, motioning to the empty seat at the table.

You oblige, settling into the chair next to Ghost. The room is filled with a charged silence, the anticipation almost palpable.

Captain Price clears his throat, his voice commanding the room's attention. "We have a critical mission coming up—a high-risk extraction operation deep in enemy territory. Our objective is to retrieve a high-value target who possesses crucial intelligence that could turn the tide of this conflict."

As the details of the mission unfold, you lean in, your focus unwavering. The complexity of the operation becomes apparent, with numerous potential threats and contingencies to consider.

"This mission requires specialized skills and adaptability." The captain begins to say. "From now until the time of the first leg of the mission, you all will be paired up for training."

Captain Price's words hang in the air, and you can sense the weight of the impending mission settling upon each member of the team. The room is filled with a mixture of anticipation and determination, as everyone absorbs the gravity of the task ahead.

As the briefing concludes, Captain Price looks around the table, his gaze meeting each team member's eyes with unwavering confidence. "We'll begin specialized training sessions immediately," he declares. "Ghost, Dagger, you two will be paired up due to your similar combat specialties."

You glance at Ghost, hoping to catch some indication of his thoughts. His eyes remain hidden behind the mask, his demeanor unreadable.

Over the following days, the training sessions intensify. You and Ghost are pushed to your limits, honing your skills in synchronization, stealth, and precision. Despite the grueling exercises, Ghost remains stoic, barely uttering a word. It's as if he operates in a world of his own, carrying his own burdens.

As you navigate obstacle courses, engage in close-quarters combat, and practice coordinated movements, you start to admire Ghost's prowess. His movements are swift and calculated, his instincts razor-sharp. There's no denying his skills, and you find yourself pushing harder to match his level of excellence.

However, Ghost's silence and occasional distant demeanor begin to wear on you. Over the various training courses you barely talk unless its strictly training based. You wonder if he truly respects your abilities or if he simply tolerates your presence.

During a break in your sparring session you notice Ghost, as usual, stands at a distance, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Frustration bubbles within you, and a determination to break through his silent façade takes hold.

Summoning your courage, you approach Ghost, still catching your breath from the activity before. "Ghost," you begin, your voice steady, "Am I doing something wrong?"

Ghost turns his head towards you, his eyes concealed behind the mask. His response is curt, yet tinged with an underlying sense of emotion. "You're doing fine, Sergeant."

His vague reply frustrates you, but you refuse to back down. The tension between you has become palpable, and you yearn for some form of understanding. Gathering your thoughts, you press further.

"If I'm gonna be going into the death zone with you, we might as well skip the awkward lack of pleasantries." You let out a dry laugh.

Ghost's masked face remains inscrutable as he meets your gaze. There's a flicker of surprise in his eyes at your directness, but he doesn't respond immediately. The weight of the silence settles heavily between you, and you can't help but wonder if you've overstepped some unspoken boundary.

After what feels like an eternity, Ghost finally speaks, his voice low and measured. "We're getting off task." His words hang in the air, leaving you slightly deflated. It's not the answer you were hoping for, but it's the only one he offers.

You take a moment to gather your thoughts, realizing that Ghost's reserved nature might be more deeply ingrained than you initially thought.

With a tinge of disappointment, you decide to accept his response for what it is. You can't force someone to open up, especially not when the mission takes precedence. Ghost's skills and expertise are undeniable, and the team's success hinges on your ability to work together

if he won't talk, then neither will you, you decide as you take your stance on the sparring mat once again coming face to mask with him.

Main CoD Taglist: @pukbadger @fiveshelmet @myguiltypleasures21 @madamemelaninn @emmaadlerrichtofen1 @swissy23 @thatchickwiththecamera

Series Taglist: @glitterypirateduck @swissy23 @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @ner-dee @your-antares-universe @kittyoonsstuff @deadbranch @thriving-n-jiving

A/N: Hope you enjoyed chapter 2! Stories starting to establish itself so now I can get into all the fun action packed stuff :))

[darylbae]

maggie noticing ur wearing a crop top, u never wear crop tops

keep em comin — maggie greene 🩰

in which you'd started sporting a crop top, and maggie is pleasantly surprised

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Your fashion had significantly decreased since the world had ended, you had bigger things on your mind, like the undead. You were a city girl, worked for a fashion magazine, so you had a wardrobe stuffed with gorgeous pieces. But it didn't matter now, so you'd swapped the gorgeous heels and bags for concealed, protective clothing. The only bags you lugged around nowadays were carrying supplies and weaponry. Not flattering in any way, but that didn't stop you from finding a connection to a farm girl. The opposite to you, really. Big city girl and rural country girl. But since settling in Alexandria, you'd been on regular runs and found a few good pieces to remind you of Home. You'd found a crop top, still in brilliant condition, with a flattering cut and in your size. It was like the Universe wanted you to have it. It didn't take long for you to start wearing it around. You'd worn it for a walk around the neighborhood, which you regularly did for your peace of mind. You liked to see how things were progressing, and you liked to have exercise outside of the realm of violence. You spotted Maggie conversing with Daryl over by Rick's house, and what better place to show off your new shirt? "Hey," you smiled, eyes not once glancing at Daryl, but fixating on Maggie. She had visibly gulped, forcing a casual smile upon her face as you'd arrived. "You look... nice." You giggled, loving how flustered you'd get her sometimes. "You think? This kinda thing reminds me of who I used to be, big time city girl and all." Maggie rolled her eyes at the old nickname she had for you, as the two of you took a bit longer than everyone else to get along. "Well you certainly look the part now." "Thank you." The two of you stood, the space around you filled with tension of some sort. Daryl had grown increasingly awkward. "I'm gonna leave you two lovebirds alone." He commented, waving a few fingers at the two of you, raising his eyebrows at you with a laugh echoing from his lips. "So, you like it, huh?" You teased, going the extra mile to pull at the fabric and accentuate your curves more. Maggie couldn't help her eyes trailing your form, she wanted you. Bad. "Keep em comin'."

[skylariumrose]

Lights! Camera! Action! It’s Movie AU time!

Codywan AU Pt. 2

Feeling that spark

A treat for the Valentine week 🥰💖

We all love the unused Codywan knife scene from Kenobi – an idea cut down in its prime – so as many before me, I too took a crack at it.

Enjoy another snippet from my fic now titled, A Ven’alor of Mars!

@fizzironi I hope you enjoy as well 😉

Walking into his rooms, Obi-Wan only has a chance to close the door before he finds his arm caught and pressed against his back, the dangerous sensation of cold steel pressed to his neck giving him pause.

“If you move, you are dead.” Is hissed into his right ear, and he believes the prince.

“May I ask what is causing this reaction? Considering we are the ones that rescued you and yours?” Taking a deep swallow, trying to judge the leeway he would have against his opponent.

“Rescue does not involve capture.” Is bitten out, explaining nothing of the prince’s actions.

“No, I believe you are correct.”

Then suddenly stepping back into his space, dropping his head to the left, Obi-Wan falls that way, twisting to flip the regent over his shoulder and grabbing his knife-welding arm as he goes.

As quick as lightning, he straddles the fervent prince, squeezing his knees at his hips and grabbing hold of his wrists, exercising only a minimum of his new-found strength to stop him. He twists Kote’s right slightly to disarm him, the cooking knife falling to the floor with a faint clatter, and only grabs his left after the prince gets in a good left hook. Grimacing through the blooming pain, Obi-Wan holds Kote’s right hand above his head and his left fast to his exposed tattooed torso.

Breathing heavily with a fearsome sneer, eyes a golden honey frenzy, the prince tries to break free to no avail. But understanding flashes over his gaze as Obi-Wan applies a touch more pressure to hold him down.

Kote falls back, head turning to the left as his eyes immediately shift down, defeat his body language. And in the short amount of time he knew the prince, Obi-Wan knew this did not suit him at all.

“You are correct in saying that rescue does not beget capture, except you are not captured. So what do you mean your highness?”

A glare cuts to him with barely concealed disdain, straining once again against his body, but making no headway.

“I mean, that I know the trappings of this, and I will not be idle. I can’t be idle,” Kote tells him harshly, “My people need me. And not to sound arrogant, but perhaps the planet.”

The prince’s ragged breath fills the space as Obi-Wan holds Kote’s sharp gaze and finds himself intrigued, if not rallied in someway, to the nameless cause the prince has. There was nothing more noble than protecting one’s friends and family, doubly so for a sense of protectiveness for one’s people.

Taking in the prince again, Obi-Wan is still taken aback by the strength and forceful grace of the young man now beneath him. How he called attention and held it. How it called Obi-Wan’s attentions in a way it shouldn’t, though he couldn’t deflect his gaze from the curling geometric black tattoos that moved with every flexing muscles —

“Well,” Drawls Siri, her voice carrying in the domed room, “I didn’t think you even thought of playfulness.” Tone full of lascivious humor.

[beardedmrbean]

“Cuckooing” could become a new criminal offence in plans under discussion by the Home Office.

A total of 48 MPs have backed a proposal that would make the act of occupying or exercising control over another person’s home in connection with criminal activity illegal for the first time.

The practice, known as “cuckooing”, is most commonly perpetrated by county lines gangs who often occupy a vulnerable person’s home to store or distribute drugs.

Problem highlighted in popular TV dramas

The problem has been highlighted in such popular television dramas as Line of Duty and Happy Valley - but is in itself not a criminal offence.

Sir Iain Duncan Smith has put forward an amendment to the Criminal Justice Bill that would make “cuckooing” punishable by up to seven years in prison.

The former Conservative leader has had a meeting with Home Office officials to discuss the proposals, which have the backing of 40 Tory MPs including Suella Braverman, the ex-home secretary.

Police visited more than 1,200 “cuckooed” addresses within one week last month, as part of a national “country lines intensification week”.

There are tools, both civil and criminal, available to police and local authorities to disrupt “cuckooing”, and perpetrators can be prosecuted for the crime that they commit within a property, such as drugs offences.

But backers of the amendment, including Sir Robert Buckland, the former justice secretary, believe that using a vulnerable person’s property as a base for such activities itself needs to become a recognised crime.

‘People with vulnerabilities being exploited’ 

“I think that ‘cuckooing’ is another example of how we can reflect the sad reality that there are still many, many people out there who have vulnerabilities who are being exploited by criminal gangs or more sophisticated operators, who use these people as a human shield in order to conceal their criminal activities.

“Therefore, I think anything we can do to strip away that last shield has got to be a good thing in terms of really meeting the criminality where it lies.”

He warned that currently victims of “cuckooing”, which can include people with mental health issues, the elderly or those with learning disabilities, currently risk facing criminal sanctions themselves for criminal activity going on in their home.

He added: “I think it is important that we seek to use the full force of the criminal law to tackle this type of exploitation.”

The proposed new law would mean that a person will have committed an offence if they occupy or exercise control over the home of another person in connection with carrying out a criminal offence.

‘Police need more powers’ 

Means of exercising such control range from the threat of use of force or other coercive behaviour, fraud, or the giving of payments or other benefits to achieve consent of the victim.

Louise Gleich, of the Joint Modern Slavery Unit at the Centre for Social Justice and Justice and Care, said: “The police need more powers to go after the criminals who cause such devastation in the lives of vulnerable people.

“Simply prosecuting offenders for other crimes takes no account of the harm done to the victims. Civil orders are inadequate to properly disrupt this behaviour and stop offenders just moving on to other victims.

“A specific criminal offence is needed and we urge the Government to use the Criminal Justice Bill to update the law.”

The Home Office said: “Cuckooing is unacceptable, and the police already have a range of powers to step in and protect vulnerable people if they are being exploited in this way, including possible jail time for the perpetrator.

“We will consider the amendment and engage with parliamentary colleagues in the usual way.”