#Purchasing an aircraft

[christenalux]

Aircraft sale and purchase process

The aircraft sale and purchase process is very complex and multifaceted and can go badly wrong if it's not done properly. 

Purchasing an aircraft is an exciting, complex and multifaceted process that should be done with the help of a team professional. The aircraft acquisition process should involve a team which includes a qualified aircraft broker, aircraft title and registration company, certified A&P mechanic, aviation attorney, CPA and aircraft financing company.

As the buyer, you should know what you are looking to buy. There are thousands of aircraft types and models in the market to choose from. To narrow down your search, you have to assess your needs.

There are a lot of Marketplace for Serious Buyers and Sellers of Aircraft around the Globe. You can buy commercial, turboprop and business jets. When you look at private jets as an indulgence, then you can buy helicopters, private luxury business jets and other aircraft.

[zvaigzdelasas]

[TimesOfIsrael is Israeli Private Media]

According to a 2023 report by [SIPRI], which studies conflicts and arms, 69 percent of Israel’s arms purchases come from US firms, 30% from Germany and 0.9% from Italy.

24 Mar 24

[probablyasocialecologist]

THE REGIONAL WAR in the Middle East now involves at least 16 different countries and includes the first strikes from Iranian territory on Israel, but the United States continues to insist that there is no broader war, hiding the extent of American military involvement. And yet in response to Iran’s drone and missile attacks Saturday, the U.S. flew aircraft and launched air defense missiles from at least eight countries, while Iran and its proxies fired weapons from Iraq, Syria, and Yemen.

[...]

While the world has been focused on — and the Pentagon has been stressing — the comings and goings of aircraft carriers and fighter jets to serve as a “deterrent” against Iran, the U.S. has quietly built a network of air defenses to fight its regional war. “At my direction, to support the defense of Israel, the U.S. military moved aircraft and ballistic missile defense destroyers to the region over the course of the past week,” President Joe Biden said in a statement Saturday. “Thanks to these deployments and the extraordinary skill of our servicemembers, we helped Israel take down nearly all of the incoming drones and missiles.” As part of that network, Army long-range Patriot and Terminal High Altitude Area Defense surface-to-air missile batteries have been deployed in Iraq, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, Qatar, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, and at the secretive Site 512 base in Israel. These assets — plus American aircraft based in Kuwait, Jordan, the UAE, Qatar, and Saudi Arabia — are knitted together in order to communicate and cooperate with each other to provide a dome over Israel (and its own regional bases). The United Kingdom is also intimately tied into the regional war network, while additional countries such as Bahrain have purchased Patriot missiles to be part of the network. Despite this unambiguous regional network, and even after Israel’s attack on Iran’s embassy in Syria earlier this month, the Biden administration has consistently denied that the Hamas war has spread beyond Gaza. It is a policy stance — and a deception — that has held since Hamas’s October 7 attack. “The Middle East region is quieter than it has been in two decades,” Biden’s national security adviser Jake Sullivan said in an ill-timed remark eight days before October 7. “We don’t see this conflict widening as it still remains contained to Gaza,” deputy Pentagon press secretary Sabrina Singh said the day after three U.S. troops were killed by a kamikaze drone launched by an Iran-backed militia at a U.S. base in Jordan. Since then (and even before this weekend), the fighting has spread to Iraq, Syria, Jordan, and Yemen.

[thoughtlessarse]

The U.S. military has announced the sale of billions of dollars of missiles, bombs, and other weapons to Israel in the past year, as the campaign in Gaza grinds on. Now, the Department of Defense is also building aircraft facilities in Israel to accommodate American-made refueling tanker planes, according to newly issued public contracting documents reviewed by The Intercept. The project includes new construction and upgrades of existing buildings, including one or more hangars, warehouses, and storage facilities, at an Israeli military base in the south of Israel, according to Army Corps of Engineers documents. The construction stems from a nearly $1 billion contract, awarded to defense giant Boeing in 2022, to provide Israel with four KC-46A Pegasus tanker aircraft to be delivered by the end of 2026. The purchase of the KC-46As was seen as a signal of Israel’s determination to increase its capacity to strike Iran’s nuclear facilities. The KC-46A is the newest tanker being produced for the U.S. Air Force to replace its two aging models. The new aircraft has been plagued with myriad problems, including issues with its Remote Vision System, which allows the boom operator to see the boom through a video feed. The plane has also become a financial burden, racking up more than $7 billion in losses.

continue reading

Giving Israel the increased capability to strike Iran will certainly calm tensions in the region. On the plus side, they're relying on Boeing making an aircraft that's "plagued with myriad problems." With a bit of luck the doors will fall off mid-air.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Well I’ll Be Damned

Label Mature 18+

Summary Even though Major Gale has been captured in a war camp, it doesn’t stop him from being located and receiving letters from back home. One day, amidst the routine stack of mail, he receives an unexpected letter scented with a familiar perfume. The letter ignites his passion for his love back home, rousing him and giving him hope amidst the bleakness of his captivity.

💝Romantic Smut 💝 lovelorn•edging•handjob•ejaculating •semi private

Master List ••• Upcoming List

Gifs @seaside-storm @mads-nixon

Well I’ll Be Damned

Major Gale awoke from his bunk and prepared for his mission of the day. He was stationed on an American base in Germany far from the comforts of his base back home. The barracks were cramped, each soldier allotted a narrow bed with barely enough room to store their personal belongings. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and metal.

Once showered and dressed Gale dug into to his rucksack at his bed and pulled one of your letters. It was one of his favorites when you teased him about a lingerie set you had purchased. As he unfolded the paper the picture of you wearing it untucked from the page. He looked over it with a smile before tucking it into his breast pocket.

Your professional portrait was always tacked into the windshield frame of his aircraft, serving as a constant reminder of you. But this one was special he looked at it almost every night.

On this particular day, he carried the lingerie photo with him instead of leaving it on base, the weight of separation from you feeling heavier than usual.

You had both written each other as frequently as possible, just as you had promised. Despite the distance, your words were a source of comfort for him in the midst of uncertainty. As he headed to the tarmac for another transport mission the longing for home weighed heavily on his heart.

Major Gale inspected the exterior of his plane before takeoff, a ritual he followed religiously. As a superstition he ran his hand along the hull feeling the smooth surface where previous bullet holes had been plated and painted over. The scars of past battles served as a reminder of the dangers that awaited them in the skies.

His men greeted him as they loaded into the aircraft, their expressions betraying the tension that hung heavy in the air. Each one understood the risks they faced, but their determination to complete the mission remained unwavering.

The mission over Germany promised to be just as dangerous as those that came before. With a sense of foreboding gnawing at his insides Gale felt a tightness in his as he sat his pilots seat and placed his hand on the hull taking a moment to let it settle.

His copilot’s concerned inquiry broke through the silence, “You alright, Major?” He asked. Gale’s response was stoic but strained, “Yeah I’ll be fine.” He reassured him.

As Gale buckled into the pilot’s seat the weight of the impending danger pressed down on him. Despite his attempts to shake off the uneasiness, it lingered casting a shadow over his thoughts. With a steely resolve he performed his preflight checks but each motion reminded him of the risks that awaited them in the skies above the enemy.

He gazed at your picture nestled in the seal of his windshield and traced his finger along it the last of his set rituals before takeoff. It was a moment of quiet reflection amidst the chaos of preparation, a final connection to you beyond the confines of war. With a lingering touch, he silently drew strength from your image, a reminder of the love and support that awaited him on his return.

As they took off that day, the roar of the engines drowned out any sense of impending danger. Major Gale’s crew had become accustomed to the risks of flying over enemy territory, but today, their luck seemed to have run out.

With a sudden jolt the aircraft shuddered violently as enemy fire tore through its metal frame severing cables and rendering the engine useless.

Major Gale’s heart pounded against his chest as he wrestled with the controls trying desperately to stabilize the plummeting aircraft. Amidst the deafening cacophony of gunfire he barked orders to his men his voice cutting through the chaos like a beacon of hope.

“We’re in a controlled descent. Let’s hope we make it across the border. Prepare to bail!” he yelled his words tinged with urgency. His co-pilot guided the men through the cramped cabin ensuring each one was securely fastened into their parachute harness.

As the aircraft continued its descent Major Gale made the split-second decision.

“Bail out! Now!” he commanded his voice unwavering despite the imminent danger. With practiced precision his men leaped from the aircraft their parachutes unfurling like giant billowing sails against the stormy sky.

With his last man safely away Major Gale took a deep breath and prepared to make his own exit. With a swift motion he left the controls donned his parachute and flung himself from the doomed aircraft. The rush of wind whipped against his face as he hurtled towards the earth below his senses on high alert.

As he descended Major Gale scanned the landscape for a safe landing zone. Spotting a farmhouse nestled amidst the rolling fields below he adjusted his course and steered towards it. With a practiced hand he deployed his parachute feeling the reassuring tug as it billowed open above.

Overshooting his landing Major Gale crashed through the front door of the farmhouse and through the kitchen colliding into the stove sending pots and pans clattering to the ground. His heart was still racing from the adrenaline-fueled descent.

His abrupt entrance startled the inhabitants. A Mama and Papa who stared at him with a mixture of fear and anger.

Amidst the chaos in the kitchen, the Mama’s cries filled the air accusing him of being a Luftgangster a ‘terror flyer’. The Papa fueled by anger and fear for his safety grabbed a nearby pitchfork and joined his wife in the kitchen.

As Gale lay on his back, attempting to calm the situation in broken German with his hands outstretched, the Papa approached him and raised the pitchfork threateningly. Desperately, Gale tried to convey that he meant no harm, that he was merely a soldier caught in the chaos of war.

With a tense standoff in the cramped kitchen, Major Gale slowly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, using the other to unhook his parachute to show he was unarmed. The Papa, still wary but sensing no immediate threat, allowed Gale to stand.

Backing out of the ruined kitchen onto the porch Major Gale turned to look over the field in search of any of his men, instead he was met with a chilling sight. The horizon was dotted with German soldiers converging on his location. With a sinking heart he realized the grim reality of the situation they had been discovered by the enemy.

As German soldiers closed in Gale’s mind raced, his thoughts consumed by the harrowing prospect of captivity. Despite his best efforts, he was no match for the overwhelming force of the German soldiers and soon found himself being dragged away, his fate along with his fellow soldiers captured nearby now in the hands of his captors.

War Camp

In the grim confines of the POW camp, Major Gale found himself thrust into a world of harsh realities and stark contrasts. Surrounded by towering barbed wire fences and guarded by soldiers whose cruelty seemed endless Major Gale and his fellow prisoners faced each day with a mixture of resilience and despair.

As he adjusted to life in captivity, Gale was struck by the surprising quaintness of the camp’s conditions. The barracks though sparse and cramped, resembled dormitories rather than the grim cells he had expected. Wooden bunks lined the walls their mattresses worn thin from years of use. Despite the grim surroundings companionship flourished among the men, their shared experiences forged bonds that went beyond the confines of their captivity.

Amidst the bleakness of his surroundings a glimmer of hope flickered within Gale knowing that the American army was aware of the imprisoned US soldiers. They sent food and supplies frequently keeping the men fed and healthy. The realization that they hadn’t been forgotten lifted his spirits and renewed his determination as he endured.

Days turned into weeks and he even began receiving letters from home once the military confirmed his location as a prisoner in the camp. It fueled his hope dramatically especially the heartfelt ones he received from you in the US.

Each word penned with longing and affection became his lifeline amidst the harsh realities of captivity. He longed for your touch, your voice, your presence to soothe the ache in his heart.

Each time he received one of your letters his heart skipped a beat. With trembling hands he would retreat to his barrack, finding solace at the table inside as he read every word as if it were a precious gift. But it wasn’t just the words that lifted his spirits. Nestled within each envelope was a picture for him a beacon of light in the midst of darkness.

Despite the hardships of his captivity, Gale always responded to your letters with stoic resolve his replies reflecting his strength and determination.

One afternoon as he received his stack of letters, a surprising one stood out among the rest with the scent of perfume. As he opened the envelope the faint smell of your aroma gently filled the air exciting him. He began reading the letter slowly, and his eyes widened in surprise as he read the contents. A departure from your usual tender words the letter was filled with daring and provocative sexual language.

Quickly closing the letter Gale felt a rush of heat flood his cheeks and his heart was pounding in his chest. Undeniably aroused by the unexpected turn he carefully stored the letter away for later that night, eager to indulge in its contents in the privacy of his bunk.

After the final count and the lights out Gale waited until the cabin fell silent the only sound the soft breathing of his fellow soldiers. With practiced stealth he climbed out of bed and made his way to the window, the moonlight was casting a radiant glow across the room.

Opening the window he let the cool night air wash over him a welcome feeling from the stifling confines of the barracks. Then with anticipation, he climbed back into bed, his heart racing as he retrieved the letter from its hiding place under his pillow.

In the soft glow of the moonlight Gale unfolded the letter once more his fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. As he opened the pages an unassuming photo of you slipped from its confines, falling into his hand.

He gazed at the new image and a sudden rush of warmth flooded his senses. Your hair had grown longer, framing your face with a natural elegance. Your eyes were bright and expressive and your skin glowed with a healthy radiance as a gentle smile played on your lips. The image of you made Gale smile in return. He traced the contours of your face with his thumb lingering on your eyes and lips feeling a deep connection despite the distance.

He then pressed the letter to his face inhaling deeply. The scent of your perfume on the paper was a delicate reminder of your presence momentarily transporting him away from the grim confines of the camp to a place where he felt your warmth and love.

He glanced at the photo of you in his hand again noticing its unusual thickness compared to the others, he felt a flicker of curiosity.

As he began reading your letter, the anticipation for the provocative words built within him and by the time he reached the explicit part, his pulse was racing with excitement.

—“I had my best friend set up this photo for you Gale, she saw me fully nude and everything. Then I took risqué photos of her to send to her man of war too. Quite the little harlots we are as you would say, but I’ll tell you more about that later. I tacked the naughty photo to a harmless one and put it in this letter. I plan to send you more, I want you thoroughly satisfying yourself while you’re away from me.”—

Gale’s eyes widened in shock as he looked over at the photo in his hand, quickly setting your letter down on his stomach. He carefully peeled the photos apart, revealing one of you fully nude underneath.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked meticulously over your form; every curve and contour seemed to come alive in the soft glow of the moonlight streaming from the window. His eyes lingered on the gentle slope of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the elegant line of your legs, with his gaze pausing at the thin patch of hair between your legs making him overcome with sexual desire.

The realization slowly dawned on him that he wouldn’t have to rely on the lingerie photo of you anymore.

Gale felt a surge of arousal coursing through him the longer he stared at the image, his length already hardening just from the mere sight of you. Every inch of your body seemed to captivate him, igniting a fire within that made him feel alive in the bleakness of captivity.

Gale’s breathing grew heavy as desire surged through him, his body responding instinctively to the tantalizing image before him. He reached down and lowered his pajama pants and boxers, allowing his cock to spring free in anticipation.

Grasping himself firmly at the base, he picked up your letter once more, the paper slightly crumpled from his earlier excitement and he began to read again.

—“Before I penned this letter, I want to tell you what you made me do to myself, and your hand better be on that large of cock of yours as you read it Buck.”—

Gale chuckled you knew him all to well. He read your words with eagerness as he began to stroke himself knowing you planned to make him finish as he continued:

—“I laid in bed fully naked for you, trailing my hand over my body as I looked at your handsome picture. I pretended it was your large hand teasing me, imagining the warmth and roughness of your touch. I rested your photo down beside me, your image captured in my mind. I closed my eyes, picturing you above me, your strong body pressing against mine, your breath hot on my skin. My own fingers became your fingers as I traced delicate patterns over my clit, each touch a tantalizing prelude to what I imagined you would do. When I pushed my fingers inside myself, it felt as if it were you, each thrust igniting a fire of desire within me. As I lost myself in the fantasy of you, the intensity built until I was writhing with pleasure, and finally, I orgasmed, your name a whispered prayer on my lips as waves of ecstasy washed over me.”—

Gale dropped the letter on his bed, already fully stroking his erect cock. His head rested back on the pillow as he tried to stifle his soft sighs. He imagined, instead of your fingers, he was plunging his cock inside your tight walls, recalling how he could make you moan so loudly you would wake the neighbors.

His hand moved faster, his jerking becoming almost violent, each tug bringing him closer to what he wanted. His strokes shortened and his grip tightened, and he began making quicker, more intense movements. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the familiar tightening in his groin.

With his free hand, he reached down to gently cup his testis squeezing them to add an extra layer of stimulation. He alternated between firm and gentle strokes, his breathing growing more ragged. The image of you, lost in pleasure, fueling his arousal. He increased the pace, his cock slick with precum, the friction driving him wild. His hips bucked instinctively, pushing into his hand as if he were inside you.

Gale’s soft sighs turned into low groans, each one more desperate than the last. He could almost hear your voice, whispering words of encouragement, spurring him on. The pressure built to an almost unbearable peak, and his movements became frenzied. His hand moved in a blur, every nerve in his body focused on the growing sensation in his groin.

Finally with a sharp intake of breath and a final forceful stroke he felt himself tip over the edge. His body tensed and he released with a powerful orgasm, his cum spilling over his hand and stomach. He continued to stroke himself through the aftershocks, his breaths coming in heavy, ragged gasps, the intensity of his release leaving him momentarily lightheaded. Gale lay there spent and satisfied with the lingering image of you in his mind comforting him in the darkness of captivity.

He removed his shirt using it to clean his cum from his hand and stomach. Then with careful hands he folded your letter back up along with the pictures tucking them both securely under his pillow.

He quietly slipped out of his bunk, now shirtless, and closed the window, ensuring everything was as he left it before he settled in for the night.

As he lay back in bed, he felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. The release had brought him a rare sense of peace. Thoughts of you swirled in his mind as he slowly interlaced his fingers over his abdomen, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

The familiar ache of longing was soothed by the intimacy of the moment he had shared with your image and words. With his eyes closed he allowed himself to drift into a deep sleep.

That night, Gale slept more soundly than he had in weeks. The comfort of your love wrapped around him like a warm blanket, chasing away the cold harshness of captivity. His dreams were filled with vivid images of you, your touch, your voice, your presence. In his dreams, he was in your embrace. The peace of his slumber showed the powerful connection he felt for you even from afar, giving him the strength to endure.

🪖 END 🪖

🏷️ Always Tag Me List 💌

@burnthheparaphilia @abswifey @faegoddessog @lindszeppelin @purejasmine @obsessedvibee @austiebuttbutt @jessica987 @oh-my-front-door @slowsweetlove @hardcoredisneynerd @magicovento @thegabbyh @fallofthedamned @buckysteveloki-me @bucking-mustangs-with-wings @shegatsby @darlingisntit @unicoreads @lovereadingfanfic @elvismylove04 @denised916 @thatoneweirdgirl17 @shockercoco @minispice-1 @meetmeatyourworst @rougegenshin @avidreader73 @jkdaddy01 @mamawiggers1980 @imjustheretoreadsmuthaha @majestyjade

[nocternalrandomness]

An icon is born....

On this day...September 8th, 1940 North American Aviation completed assembly of the NA-73X, the first prototype of the new Mustang Mk.I fighter for the Royal Air Force. This was just 117 days after the British Purchasing Commission had authorized the construction of the prototype. The airplane was designed by a team led by Edgar Schmued. This would eventually lead to the US P-51 Mustang aircraft.

[luimnigh]

So, I had a thought. The planes usually used as Air Force One are modified Boeing 747s, and I was wondering if they'd been affected by the ongoing clusterfuck at Boeing.

Turns out, the US Government is currently in the process of building new Air Force One planes, and guess who got the job?

And as for if they're affected by the ongoing clusterfuck:

According to The Wall Street Journal, the development process has been hit by multiple "production mishaps", including the discovery of empty tequila mini-bottles on one of the aircraft, and the use of jacks that were not rated to support the weight of the aircraft. While the jacking did not result in damage to the planes, "the Pentagon's contractor-management agency formally requested Boeing improve its operations."

...I know people have spoken about the fact that the dropping standards of late-stage capitalism affects products purchased by the rich just as much as products purchased by the poor, but fucking hell they're even fucking up their most important contract.

You kill a President with a crap plane and you're not getting a military contract ever again.

[gunsandspaceships]

How rich is Tony Stark?

Throughout his superhero career, Tony's net worth in the MCU has always been between $10 and $20 billion. How much is that? Let's talk about Tony Stark's real financial resources and purchasing power.

The numbers themselves don't tell us anything, so we'll compare. Some real billionaires are much richer than him (Elon Musk - $210 billion, Jeff Bezos - $195 billion, Bill Gates - $129 billion). Huge difference, don't you think?

Let's list Tony's expenses: he founded and funded Damage Control. He covered the cost of the destruction caused not only by the Avengers, but by everyone they fought. He funded scientific projects and charitable foundations. He covered all the Avengers' expenses (compound, equipment, tech, vehicles, quinjets, food, medical and legal services, staff, team members' salaries, etc.). He made Iron Man suits and equipment for himself, Peter, Rhodey, and later Pepper. It takes a LOT of money to cover all of this. And it's all pure expense. He didn't make any profit from it.

Reminder: He's not nearly as rich as Musk, Bezos or Gates. How much can these guys do, buy and finance? Less than you think. Now divide by 10 to get an idea of ​​how much Tony could.

I'll help you: we'll count in Helicarriers. Let's say Tony had $20 billion (that's max). The price of one real aircraft carrier is 13 billion dollars. Helicarriers, even the basic ones (from The Avengers and AoU), are much more advanced (they fly, have retro-reflective panels that cover them entirely, and have a fancy interior with expensive equipment on board). It will cost much more. Let's give it a price tag of $20 billion. That is - Tony could only buy 1 Helicarrier and get $0 in his bank accounts.

Or another example: how much did the Battle of New York cost? Secretary Ross showed us - $88 billion in property damage. Tony would need another $70 billion to cover the cost of this one battle.

BUT let me tell you, his $10-20 billion isn't even real money. It's net worth. He would never have seen that $10-20 billion in cash or been able to use it. Because these are assets: shares and property he had. He would have to sell them, then pay taxes, and only then would he see the actual amount of money he could use. Which is about half of the net worth - $5-10 billion. Thus, his purchasing power would amount to a small insignificant fraction of the Battle of New York, or 0 Helicarriers, or even 0 real-life aircraft carriers. That's it. This is why the Avengers never had their own Helicarrier - Tony COULD NOT AFFORD ONE.

He didn't have unlimited resources. He couldn't buy everything. Stop imagining him as Scrooge McDuck. He had to work several jobs to provide for the team and protect the Earth. Alone. Where were Thor and Black Panther's resources?

Conclusion: no, Tony wasn't that rich. He worked his butt off to be a wallet of Earth's protection, in addition to being its shield. Remember that.

[usnatarchives]

World War II Aviation Propaganda Posters: When Art Took Flight in the War Zone 🛩

If you think memes dominate the digital age, buckle up! During World War II, aviation propaganda posters were the OG memes, taking the skies and the hearts of people below. The powerful images and slogans displayed on aviation propaganda posters aimed to mobilize, inspire, and boost morale.

Before Top Gun made flying cool, WWII posters did it first! Many posters targeted potential pilots and ground crew, emphasizing the honor and heroism of joining the air force. The U.S. Army Air Forces, for instance, frequently used images of sleek aircraft, proud pilots, and epic aerial battles to inspire young men to enlist.

Aviation propaganda was also used to encourage the public to purchase war bonds. These posters linked the success of the air force directly to civilian financial support. A classic example from the U.S. shows an imposing B-17 bomber with the caption "Keep 'Em Flying! Buy War Bonds."

With many men on the frontlines, women's roles evolved. Posters showcased women building aircraft, highlighting their essential contribution to the war effort. The iconic "Rosie the Riveter" may be the most famous image from this category, but numerous other posters conveyed similar messages.

World War II aviation propaganda posters were more than mere pieces of art. They were tools used to shape public opinion, motivate enlistment, ensure security, and raise funds. These iconic images not only provide a fascinating glimpse into wartime sentiments but also reflect the broader social, political, and cultural shifts of the era.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Father’s Day

A little something for today - I maintain the Tracys would follow the US/Europe date for it rather than AUS/NZ. That’s my excuse anyway…

💛💙❤️

It had gone well. The atmosphere had been joyful. Hugs had been plentiful and the little tears of happiness badly concealed. Every scrap of the mighty takeout feast Scott had fetched from their favourite Auckland steak house had been demolished. Balloons littered the villa. MAX, in collaboration with EOS, had created a playlist that reflected every family member’s favourites spanning a good seven decades.

There had been singing, both tuneful and otherwise.

Six cards graced the mantelpiece, each varied in decoration as befitted the personality of the giver, but all containing a version of the same message - we are so glad you are home. We missed you. We love you. All but one had some reference to pink flamingos. The sixth had a remarkably detailed diagram of Thunderbird Three’s circuit of the sun.

The Man of the Moment had finally been chivvied off to bed by his mother when his head started nodding where he sat on the couch amongst his family. In her words, nobody needed to hear his boar-like snorting, but the flicker of concern in her eyes betrayed the real need to ensure he didn’t overdo it.

The eldest son of the Man of the Moment leant on the balustrade, watching the stars come out and absently swirling the whisky in his glass. The air was still warm and he had to slowly adjust the movement of his wrist to maintain the rhythm of the rapidly shrinking ‘rocks’. He’d come to prefer it un-iced anyway, but when your long-lost father offers you a sample of his secret, secret stash… well. Scott would have taken it with gravel and he would have enjoyed it.

It was good, if a little chilly. And the day had been wonderful, if a little strange. Like stretching a muscle that had gone untested for eight years. Maybe longer.

They’d never really made a big deal of the day before that in any case - even when he was alive their father had often been absent.

But there were always cards (some somewhat delayed in receipt). And he hadn’t realised until today, until he helped Dad drag a large flat box out from underneath his bed, that every card had been kept - from the first one picked out by Mom and signed on behalf of a 2-month old Scott - right up to the year Jeff disappeared. There wasn’t even a gap whilst Scott himself had been missing, thanks to the ingrained military practice of buying and writing cards in advance of deployments. Toddler scribbles, homemade masterpieces, that 4ft monstrosity Gordon had dragged home aged 10… even the obviously-last-minute convenience store purchases hurriedly signed 3 minutes before the still-damp envelope seal was broken. All were bundled together by year, little elastic bands and post-it notes delineating the passage of time.

There had been a lot of laughter, a fair amount of cringing and a few sniffles as those were explored. Happy times.

What Scott didn’t mention, what he’d never mention, was that when Jeff went missing, the cards didn’t stop. Not completely.

Every year except the first, where everything was still so raw and chaotic the day passed with nobody even knowing what date it was, there had been three Fathers’ Day cards written by the Tracy family.

Two were quietly slipped together under Scott’s door - a rare moment of collaboration between the Tinies. They were never the traditional kind, didn’t ACTUALLY mention Fathers Day on the front, but a would be a ‘blank for your own message’ card with a funny or interesting picture. Often an aircraft or some kind of bird. The contents would often be daft nonsense - silly puns, banter about the grey hairs and denial of liability for them, once a comedy poem about an albatross and the Kraken which had kept him smiling for days. But next to the signature, there’d be a little “you’re not so bad after all” or “thanks for everything, big bro” or even once a “Just wanted you to know it doesn’t go unnoticed xxx”

Nothing was ever said, but he’d find them later in the day and squeeze their shoulders or drop a kiss on the top of each head. Maybe there would be less squabbling and teenage stroppiness that day… often there wouldn’t. But things would feel lighter between the three of them for a while.

The third card was more of a letter, more of an incoherent flood of news, worries… regrets… requests for forgiveness. But it was always folded like a card for… reasons. And then folded again. And again until it was halved 7 times and couldn’t physically be squished up any smaller. Then, late at night when everyone else was asleep it would be set aflame right here on the balcony. Scott would watch the sparks fly into the sky and nurture a moment’s foolish hope that the message would be received.

No need for that this year. Dad was right here. Scott could tell him anything he wished at any moment, seek his advice, share his concerns, ask for… approval? All of that. He was right here.

And yet…

He shook himself. And downed the remainder of the whisky, flinching a little at the cold on his teeth and eyed the glass, wondering whether he could risk another one… a less rocky one. There was time for all the talking later. When he was well. When it was safe to burden him with such things. Not yet.

His pondering was interrupted by scuffling and heated whispering from just inside the balcony door behind him. He braced himself to mediate the latest nonsense from the Tinies but all went quiet and there was just a quite clack-swish of something falling through the doorway and sliding a little across the ground. Then running feet as they departed.

He looked down to see a single blue envelope at his feet. Unaddressed but for a tiny cartoon of a child’s scooter…

He rolled his eyes. Suspecting a prank was pending but, too tired to resist the inevitable, he crouched to retrieve it and slid his finger under the flap of the envelope to peer inside. Then closed it again, hurriedly. A chunky font screamed “BESTEST DAD EVER!” from the midst of a multicoloured explosion. They’d got the envelopes mixed up, clearly. He went to call after the two idiots but they were long gone.

With a sigh, he stood back up and decided he’d better chase them down but was arrested by curiosity. Both had given Dad cards earlier… what was this for? He hoped it wasn’t a prank… he didn’t think Dad was ready for that yet… they were trying to keep surprises to a minimum until his heart started behaving more reliably.

They wouldn’t, would they?

Hmm.

He’d better check.

Leaning back on to the railings with a good portion of free space in front to fling anything unpleasant into… he pulled the card from the envelope and opened it… very carefully.

Nothing exploded. Or popped out at him. There was no glitter in his eyeballs nor squeaky earworm tunes blasted from tinny micro speakers.

And yet he gasped harshly as his heart raced and his eyes blurred with sudden tears.

The card was empty but for his name at the top, Alan and Gordon’s at the bottom and two words in the middle, underlined and emphasised with a heavy full stop:

Still True.

[christenalux]

Purchasing or leasing an Aircraft?

You can buy a helicopter with permission from the concerned owner after completing the other purchase process.

There is a lot of Aircraft authorized dealer with the highest sales in their category since 2011, the airplane provides the brand value of a premium business jet and best-in-class performance.

Explore the inventories and portals in more detail below to understand how the airplane will help achieve your missions.

Or, if buying an aircraft is expensive then you can always opt to lease an aircraft for a particular period of time. So in this way, one can save more money while having an aircraft.

[zvaigzdelasas]

[Calcalist is Private Israeli Media]

"We have a huge deficit of ammunition not just in Ukraine but all over the world. We understand we should produce this here in Ukraine because all around the world it’s finished, it’s depleted. All the warehouses are empty," said Ukrainian Prime Minister Denys Shmyhal to the "Financial Times" in October of last year, addressing the ammunition situation of the Ukrainian army, which is interconnected with the challenges faced by the IDF.

The increased ammunition usage in the wars in Gaza and Ukraine has led to an unprecedented global shortage of ammunition of all types. While the IDF tries not to address the issue publicly, Major General Eliezer Toledano admitted last month that the IDF is reducing air attacks, emphasizing the necessity to "manage the economy of armaments" because the war will last a long time. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu also commented on the matter, stating that "we need three things from the U.S.: armaments, armaments, armaments." At a press conference two weeks ago, Netanyahu announced that Israel is preparing the Israeli defense industries to "cut off dependence on the world," a goal that is not realistic in any way.[...]

[L]ast week the Director General of the Ministry of Defense Eyal Zamir concluded a huge deal with the American government for the supply of aerial ammunition in the hundreds of millions of dollars, and so far over 25,000 tons of weapons have been sent to Israel since the beginning of the war in about 280 aircraft and about 40 ships. The Israeli defense industry is also tasked with filling the IDF's stocks. About two weeks ago it was published in Calcalist that the Israeli companies postponed the supply of weapons worth more than $1.5 billion to their customers across the world to divert resources for the IDF's combat needs and that in the last three months, the Ministry of Defense ordered more than NIS 10 billion ($2.7 million) worth of weapons from them. It should be noted that the shortage does not stem from a lack of budget but from a lack of supply, and the Treasury does not restrict the IDF from purchasing ammunition of any kind.

The tremendous need for armaments stems from the unusual amount of bombings that the IDF has carried out in Gaza since the outbreak of the war. Two weeks ago, the army announced that 30,000 targets had been attacked in Gaza. A security source told Calcalist that the rate of fire the IDF is using in the current war is similar to that of a "superpower," is comparable only to the capabilities demonstrated by the U.S., and probably also exceeds the number of armaments of the Russians in the campaign against Ukraine.[...]

Another reason [for the increase in targets bombed] is that in the current war, the IDF adopted a policy of a lighter finger on the trigger [sic] regarding damage to infrastructure and Hamas operatives who are in a civilian environment, thus increasing the ability to hit targets that were not previously attacked. In addition to these reasons, there is also the added pressure from the political level, as well as from the [Israeli] public, who demand an increase in air force bombing to prevent as much as possible a risk to the forces on the ground.[...]

[O]ne should ask whether, considering the existing ammunition stockpile, this policy may not harm the IDF's readiness to carry out future missions, especially given the existing security challenges and the probable scenario in which the IDF will be forced to [sic] carry out an attack in southern Lebanon as well. The IDF may be forced to better clarify its limitations to the politicians to avoid reaching an extreme scenario of an ammunition shortage, or in the words of General Toledano: "There is no infinite army."

28 Jan 24

[delopsia]

Better | Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 6,200  Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Reader has the callsign 'Weave.' AFAB! Reader, post-jet crash scenario, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, face-sitting, hurt/comfort if you squint, friends to lovers trope, blood, and bodily injury, and a likely inaccurate description of naval aviator gear.  

There is nothing quite like waking up and seeing a multi-million dollar aircraft burning right before your very eyes. 

It doesn't look real. Vivid hues of red and orange dance along the busted shell of what used to be a Naval aircraft, a stark contrast against the pristine, white snow. The hellish heat that licks at your exposed, frozen cheeks is the only indication that it's not a figment of your imagination. Distantly, you think you must've crashed, but it's hard to believe when there's not a single ache in your—

"Fuck!"

You shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved, you shouldn't have moved.

Eyes screwing shut. Mouth ajar. Yet not another sound escaping. Every bone, joint, and muscle on your left side is screaming. White-hot, piercing through every nerve. Your rib cage feels as if it's just burst open, burning hotter than the remains of your plane. 

God, what happened?

You don't recognize this place. These trees don't look like the ones from back home, and you don't recall the weatherman saying California was expecting six inches of snow. What you do recognize is the stray boot that pokes out from behind the jet. U.S. Navy issued. But you're not missing any shoes...

"Bob?" The joints of your shoulders beg you not to move, but you've already pushed yourself up, vision blurring as your head swivels. Your feet scramble for purchase on the powdery snow, but something tugs at you from behind, throws you off balance. 

It's your parachute, tangled within the branches of the tree above you, leashing you. Closing your frigid hands around the material is near impossible, fingers so frozen that they can hardly bend. You've barely enough strength to disconnect yourself. 

"Bob?" You try again. 

No answer.

There's a numbness in your legs as you stumble closer to the roaring flames. On its own, the world seesaws, leaving you to stumble as you struggle to keep upright. You only mean to take one step left, but that singular step becomes two, four, five. 

The ground comes back up and smacks you in the hip.

From down here, you can see the boot better, but you can't the leg attached to the foot that occupies it. Or maybe...that's three boots. They're right in front of you, but when you reach out to touch them, your hand can't seem to reach. Scooting forward, you swipe out and try again. All you get is snow.

But they're right there. 

Forward a little more. Nothing. Something within the jet pops, wicked flames bursting out in a mushroom-shaped plume. Ravenous heat claws at your skin, threatens to eat right through you. Just a little closer. Just a little...

your hand grabs hold of the boot, vision centering a little. Around you, the wind spins like a top, but even through the haze, you realize something.

There isn't a body attached at all.

Your head feels like someone's just filled it with lead. The colorful hues of red, mere feet away from your face, threatens to reach out and melt the skin from your cheeks. You need to move. You know you do, but even as you tell yourself to move, your body refuses. 

The collar of your flight suit tightens as you're yanked backward. 

In the blink of an eye, you've got control again, wriggling, fighting to turn around as you're drug away by the thin material of your collar. Words tumble out of your mouth, but your ringing ears hardly comprehend them. Your foot catches on a rock, body flipping around and—

that face is familiar.

Cheeks patched with soot, blood pouring from a gash that stretches from his temple down to his cheek, just barely avoiding his eye. Glasses long gone, but there's a red indent between his eyes from the frames. 

"Bob?" You know it's him, and yet it tumbles off your tongue anyway.

"'m here," his voice breaks, shaky.

The arm you're using to brace your weight crumples out from under you; the snow that catches you is pillowy soft, but the numbing cold stings at your skin, nevertheless. Bob's next tug on your collar is half-hearted, urging but lacking the strength to put behind it. 

Next to you rests a bootless foot, bathed in a deep crimson that makes your heart sink. 

On its own, your hand wanders out to hold onto his thigh, "you're hurt."

Your observation doesn't receive a response, doesn't exactly warrant one, either. Silence is better than hushed insistence that he's alright when you both know that's a downright lie. Instead, he shifts to rest his weight on his forearm, curling his body around yours as a viciously strong wind ripples past. The fire behind you spikes with a roar, heat blasting. 

His free hand strokes the side of your head, thumb swiping at what you only assume to be blood, "what's the last thing you remember?"

And where the hell is your helmet?

There's a fogginess to your memory. You remember waking up to Natasha snoring and Bradley clapping his hand over your shoulder a bit too hard on your way out of the cafeteria. But you don't remember taking off, and your memory lacks a single shred of where you flew. 

But your ears vividly recall a flurry of voices coming through your radio. Your bones still rattle with the vibrations of a too-close-for-comfort explosion, a missile narrowly avoided. A tiny voice screams out from the commotion, barely audible over it all.

"I remember you telling me to brake left," you shouldn't be leaning up into Bob's touch the way that you are.

His response takes some time, but eventually, he hums, "I didn't account for the one comin' up from beneath us."

After all this, you'd better get a raise and a vacation. 

It's hard to miss the faint hum that cuts through the air. Too far away for you to see, but even through the ringing in your ears, the sound is unmistakable. Bob's head lifts, tilted toward the direction that it's coming from. 

Muscles aching, you push yourself up to your knees, ignoring the angered twinges of muscles that beg you to stay still. Shelter. You need shelter. Bob doesn't require any urging, already has one hand braced on the trunk of a tree as he heaves himself up. 

A yelp ripples through the chilly air, echoing through the forest around you. 

It's not until Bob falls back into the snow that you realize who it came from. Crimson drips from his trembling foot like a waterfall; beneath, dull white shines through. 

"'m okay," his voice wavers, "I'm okay." With his good leg, he shields the wound from your view, but you know what you saw. 

The whirring of that helicopter is growing louder. Closer. 

"No, you're not," but there's no time for you to grill him on it. He's already trying to get up again, breathing through gritted teeth as he's forced to put weight on his injury. You know your backseater too well for your own good. Already know he's not going to ask for help.

And that's exactly why you lift his arm and shove yourself beneath it. 

"You don't need to do that," he fusses, but all it takes is one step forward for him to gasp and lean against you. That foot can't bear weight, and you both know it. 

Liar. 

It's hard to tell where you're going, but with the whirring of those helicopter blades growing louder, you don't have much of a choice. The only thing you know is that you flew in from the South-West; your best bet is to head in that direction. Search and rescue has a better chance of finding you there. 

But only if your enemy doesn't follow the patches of red that mark your trail.

Your swollen shoulder strains under Bob's weight, so sore that even the slightest of pressure has you gritting your teeth to bear it. Fuck, never mind your shoulder; everything hurts. As your weary feet tread through the snow, it's difficult to tell what's just sore and what's been injured. Though, you've got a sneaking feeling that your shoulders and ribs are decorated with some hellish bruising. 

And yet, even as he limps along by your side, suffering through the same ejection pains you are, Bob still has it in him to smile at you. It's watery, faltering when that mangled foot is forced to touch the ground, and it doesn't quite meet his eyes, but it's there. 

"Bobby—"

"'m alright," he turns his head off to the side, shielding his eyes from your sight. You hate that you know what he's trying to do. Those baby blues tell a story too heavy for his tongue to bear; if they meet with yours, they'll start talking. 

It's the one reason why he can't play poker. 

"What's that brown mass on our right?" It's hard to tell if he's trying to change the subject or if he's actually trying to figure out what he's looking at. 

The muscles in your neck are tight, making it difficult for you to turn your head. "We need to get you Lasik after this," joking through the pain, you squint in the direction Bob's transfixed on. Trees, trees, more trees, a clearing, followed by, you guessed it, more trees. You don't see what he's—

oh

wait.

Tucked up against a steep hill sits a tiny shack. The paint has long since withered away, leaving behind nothing but brown, rotting planks. The front of it bows forward, the neglected roof sinking inward, but it's shelter. 

A shelter that might collapse on you. But that whirring is growing louder and louder. The ground hums with the motions of the unknown helicopter's blades. You're in no place to argue.

"It's some sort of shack," you observe aloud, fighting the urge not to hasten your step. 

It's a longer walk than it looks. It would be easy to sprint through the clearing, but Bob can't run in this state. There's no guarantee someone won't spot you from overhead. By your side, Bob meekly hobbles along; blood no longer stains the snow, but his noises grow with every step. Little grunts of pain that burn you to the core. 

That helicopter just keeps getting closer and closer and closer. And finally, you see it emerge over the horizon; looks nothing like the ones back on the aircraft carrier. That's not search and rescue. 

"They don't see us yet," Bob's words are rushed, jumbled together as he tries to move a little quicker. Grunting with every step, eyes bolting shut. 

You're almost there. Just a few more steps. Just a few more.

"Almost there," you grunt, stumbling in tune with his hobbled steps, "almost there."

You don't even get to touch the door handle. 

It's hard to tell whose foot gets caught in who's. All you know is that you're falling forward. Shoulder slamming into a flimsy wooden door that gives at the slightest amount of pressure. The decrepit floor knocks the breath from your lungs. Leaves you struggling to garner another breath. 

Rusty hinges wail as the door swings shut behind you. Oddly...human.

Light barely filters through the tiny, broken windows, illuminating a cracked fireplace and what looks to be a shelf that's fallen off the wall. The very definition of bare bones.

Movement on your left has you turning your head. 

Bob's shoulders shake like leaves in the Autumn wind. Laying on his belly, pretty face buried in the crook of his arm, concealing the tears that you already know are there. The blades of the helicopter are loud, but his wobbly breaths are louder.

Careful, as if moving too quickly will hurt him, you reach out to smooth your hand along his shoulder blades. Only serves to make him shake a little harder, sniffles escaping even as he visibly tries to swallow them down. 

"'m fine." Not daring to lift his head. 

"No, you're not." Running your hand upward, you dare to run your fingers through his messy hair, the damp locks remarkably soft, even now. 

You can't be doing this. Touching his hair only makes you want to gather him up in your arms and kiss those tears off his cheeks. Your tongue already bears the words you'd whisper into his ears, sweet nothings and reminders that his feelings matter to you.

"Bobby," you try again, this time allowing the pads of your fingers to skitter across his temple. His jaw moves, ready to speak. You beat him to it. "Don't you dare tell me you're fine."

That's enough to get his head raising, red eyes peeking out from the corner of his elbow. Those baby blues meet with yours, immediately flickering away as if your gaze has just burned him. 

"Me whining about being hurt is going to do nothing but get on your nerves," he murmurs, his voice barely audible, and yet his words burn themselves right into your skin, "it doesn't fix any—"

"Moron," even being shot out of the sky cannot knock the attitude from you, "you never got upset when I dislocated my ankle and whined about it for a week straight. Why would I ever get upset with you?" 

Bob's eyelashes flutter, voice raising by an octave as if it'll strengthen his argument, "I didn't want to upset you."

"I love you too much to get upset with you for being in pain."

Silence.

Your mouth feels like it's full of lead. Face growing even colder than it was out in the snow. Did that really just fly off your tongue? Now of all times? 

On second thought, being gunned down by that helicopter doesn't sound so bad. "I'm sorry, I—"

"D'you really mean that?" Well, he doesn't sound upset, at least. Shallowly, you nod. 

You don't expect him to lift his head from behind the barricade of his folded arms, opting to rest his head on top of them instead. The hand that was just in his hair slides down to the dusty floor, limp. Bob watches it as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. Even reaches out to run his fingers along a tear in your glove. They curl around it, loosely holding your hand as he looks back up at you. 

And he just...stares. A quiet transfixion on your face, like it's the first time he's ever seen you. Taking in every detail, every wrinkle and crease that your skin has to offer. His head moves forward by just a fraction, but then an awkward smile overtakes him, and he has to look away.

Your synchronous inhale is so loud that it echoes through this tiny, one-room shack. Bob tilts his head back to you, seemingly unable to take his eyes off of you. Next to his head, his fingers twist together, like they always do when he's deep in thought. You wonder if he can hear the way your heart pounds against your chest like a drum. Any stronger, and it just might break free of its confines. 

Bob's moving. Pushing his weight up onto a forearm, tilting his body towards you. Hesitates, just shy of bumping his nose into yours. Again, your eyes meet. Getting shot down was scarier than this. 

Hesitant lips press against your own, slotting together like puzzle pieces. There's nothing else to it, each holding it in fear of the other having second thoughts. Only lasts a few seconds, but it feels as if you spent forever there.

"We shouldn't...be doing this," you find yourself saying as if you're not actively curling your hands around his bruised cheeks, "if Cyclone finds out..."

"Fuck Cyclone." And then Bob's lips are on yours again, no thought required.

It's cruel how easily you fit together. You have a sea of options out there, and yet only Bob Floyd's lips fit against yours so flawlessly. Only your backseater smells of suede and jasmine because he can't stay out of that Polo Blue cologne to save his life. The hand that curls around your cheek feels as if it belongs there. This is how things always should have been. 

The angle is awkward; you want to wrap your arms around his neck, but one of your arms is stuck, bracing your body weight, while the other awkwardly flings around to rest between his shoulder blades.

A shy hand presses against your belly, urging you to sink back against the floor. You don't know what possesses you to comply, but the feeling of Bob settling on top of you is something else entirely. Gasping as he disturbs his injury, but unable to draw himself away. Your knees rise, caging either side of his lithe hips; Bob's not wide by any means, but with him between them, your legs feel like they're spread for miles.

"Bobby," panting against his lips. 

"'ve got ya," one of his hands glides up your sides, working its way beneath your heavy gear, greedily taking in what lies beneath him. Your back arches, leaning into the touch; haven't felt someone touch you like this in so long that it's foreign. 

The desperate need for air is the only thing that can drive a wedge between you, lungs stinging as you gasp for much-needed oxygen. Even that can't stop you from leaning back up, still panting as you press a wayward kiss to his exposed neck. Faintly, Bob's breath catches.

"'m probably sweaty," he warns, but his words fall on deaf ears. You're already dragging your tongue along a protruding vein, sealing it with a wet kiss. "Oh, that's..." the words die with nothing but a sigh. 

You've waited your entire life to hear him make that noise. "You're lucky your gear is keeping me from your collarbone," it's more of a cautionary remark than it is anything else. You're itching to nibble on those pretty, exposed bones, can only imagine what sounds he would make.

It only takes him five motions. One to unclasp his life jacket. Two to undo the strap across the chest. One to pull the underlying zipper down and another to shrug the harness off his shoulders, letting it fall down to rest against his hips. 

Hallelujah.

Bruises scatter his collarbones and shoulders, glaringly sore but so sensitive as you gingerly work your way down to plant kisses on them. Feather-light, teeth only grazing so as to not hurt him. The motion leaves your neck exposed, giving him the perfect opportunity to press his wet lips to the skin beneath your ear. 

"Shit," you hiss, fingertips curling against his shoulder blades. He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his mouth curling against your skin.

His hips dip down, moving on their own accord, something hard brushing against your core. With a strained noise, Bob freezes, nose wrinkling with the grimace that laces his features. 

"Were you trying to grind on me, pretty boy?" Teasing. A futile distraction from the pain.

Cheeks heating red, he nods, "'n I got my karma for it, too."

It was just a simple brush, not even full contact, but you've already gotten hooked on that feeling. This isn't the time, nor is it the place. You can already hear the downright fit Cyclone is going to have when he catches wind of this. 

Bob's eyebrows raise just a fraction, "yeah?" 

Motivated by spite alone, your fingers are already halfway through fumbling with the confines of your harness. Wouldn't have even realized you were doing it had Bob not said anything. It takes some squirming; getting that harness off your legs is harder than it looks, and Bob can only get it down to his knees before he needs assistance. 

The millisecond you get that harness safely off his ankle, you plant two firm hands on his chest and push. 

"Jesus," he chuckles, arms opening up to welcome you as you climb on top of him. 

It's easier this way. You've got to do most of the work, but it keeps Bob from disturbing his ankle. And now, there is nothing that can stop you from tentatively straddling his hips, ass brushing against a hardness that you hope to become overly familiar with someday.

"Better?" You chirp, back aching as you lean down to meet his waiting lips.

As the gap closes, he hums, "better."

Beneath your hands, you can feel his heart pitter-pattering away, soft little thumps that mirror the one that rattles through your weary bones. In the back of your head, a familiar little voice asks you if rolling your hips down into Bob's hard-on is a good idea. There may be no going back from this. The last thing you need is for Cyclone to split you two up and never let you fly together again.

But Bob's sharp inhale tells you that this is a very, very good idea. "Sweetheart," it's hard to tell if it's the pet name or the deep, guttural groan that sends your head spinning, "'m not sure you wanna do that to me."

Eyeroll. "But, Bob~" singsonging. 

"But Weave," he whines back, twitching up to rub against the curve of your ass. His eyes scrunch shut, ankle disturbed, but it doesn't hinder him in the slightest. "If we do this," grunting, "I don't think I'm ever gonna be able to get my hands off of ya."

Should you be making major decisions fresh out of a crash? Probably not.

Will you make that decision anyway? Yes. 

Leaning down, you allow your mouth to open, teeth grazing the shell of his pale ear, "maybe that's what I want." And that ear goes ruby red in the blink of an eye. 

Hands running up your sides, Bob bats his pretty eyes up at you, "then lead the way, pilot."

In all of your whimsy daydreams, you've never come up with a scenario quite like this one. Your quiet, sweet-eyed backseater, laying beneath you in a decrepit shack in the middle of God-knows-where, fresh after an ejection. But somehow, as your hips begin to work themselves against Bob's clothed bulge, and as his hands timidly draw up to cup your breasts, you can't help but realize how fitting it is.

His hips unintentionally shift, and in that simple motion, everything changes. Even through the material of your flight suits, you can feel the outline of him pressing deliciously against your cunt. Not much friction, but it's just enough to have both of your heads rolling, surprised gasps falling from your lips. 

You don't know when he's found the opportunity to unzip your g suit, the material that was once wrapped snuggle around your waist, now hanging low on your thighs. But now those deft fingers toy with the zipper of your flight suit, waiting on your command. Rolling your hips once more, you nod. 

Bob can't get it down quick enough, barely gets the zipper halfway before he's reaching beyond, hands remarkably warm as they slide beneath your shirt. Those dull nails drag just right, tickling your skin.

"So damn soft," he muses, and with the way he's stroking up your spine, you almost think he's petting you. 

They're on the move again, concealed by the distraction of his hips rising up to meet you halfway. Your bra shifts as those wandering hands dive beneath it, doing nothing but feel the shape of you in his palms. Thumbs flick across your nipples, sends your body jerking.

"Jesus, Bobby," squirming as he toys with them, you idly fumble with the side-zipper of his g suit.

"You're lucky there's snow on the ground," he's not even looking at your face, absolutely consumed by what's going on beneath your shirt, "else I'd be beggin' to get this blasted shirt off your pretty lil' frame."

"We can—" fuck, it's hard to talk with him handling your chest like that, "we can save that for when we're sneaking around on the carrier."

"We ain't never gonna hear the end of it," he rolls his hips with yours as he speaks, "Bob and Weave, validatin' everythin' them Admiral's keep sayin' 'bout us."

Just as quickly as he'd reached under your shirt, he retreats, instead taking hold of your devilishly spiraling hips. The pressure tells you to move forward, but when you do, he keeps asking you to move further. 

"Bob...?" You're fully sitting on his chest now, and he's still wordlessly asking you to move up.

He reaches up, dragging that zipper down as far as it will go. Right down between your quivering thighs, exposing the flimsy shorts you're wearing beneath. Whether or not he recognizes that these are his own shorts is a different topic entirely. 

"Up a little more, sweet thing," he urges once more, "want you sittin' on my face."

Oh.

You don't even know what to think. It's hard to believe that your innocent backseater even know this was a thing, to begin with, but here he is, hooking an index finger into the crook of your shorts and panties. His breath is hot against your sensitive skin, enough to have you trying to rise up and away from the feeling.

"What if you can't breathe?" Bracing your hands on the ground beneath his head.

Brilliant blue eyes flick up to take in your expression. "Good."

And with both of his hands gripping your hips, he leans up and drags his dripping tongue right between your folds. Broad, flat as he spreads you open with it, fuck, that's a hell of a feeling. With you distracted, he pulls you downward, forcing you to sit on his pretty face. 

"Bobby," fuck, fuck, fuck, his tongue flicking against your swelling clit is something else. 

The bastard hums, somehow already understanding what you mean when you whimper his name. Already knows that the fingers tangling in his hair are a good thing. If you'd thought his breath was hot, this is something else entirely. The wet muscle that laps at your cunt burns hotter than the flames that consumed your aircraft, threatens to burn right through you. 

Only plays with your clit for long enough to have you whimpering his name under hushed breaths before lapping his way down, down, down to your neglected entrance. Tonguing it, tracing your sensitive rim before pushing inside. The soft tip of his nose presses into your clit, paying it attention while his tongue works in and out of you.

"Fuck, fuck, Bobby," you hope there aren't any foot soldiers looking for you; they'd be able to hear you a mile away, "how the hell did you—ah, even know about this?"

You shouldn't have asked that. No, no, you shouldn't have because now he's peering up at you as he works your sensitive cunt, "y'talked 'bout it one night at the Hard Deck." He doesn't even try to pull away as he speaks, words vibrating right up your spine. "Been dreamin' 'bout it ever since."

Then he's drawing back up, swirling around the swollen bud that he can't seem to leave alone, "Can y'imagine the heart attack this'd give Mav?" How long has he been hiding lewd words under a sheepish smile? "Find'n out I've got my pilots sweet lil' pussy on my tongue right after I promised I wouldn't?"

Mav. Poor bastard spent the past month convincing Cyclone you and Bob weren't seconds away from jumping each other's bones, only for it to actually happen the moment he turned his back. Not a soul on that carrier has a clue. They don't even know you're alive, never mind squirming on your backseater's face as he laps at your pussy like it's his nine-to-five. 

That thought alone sends something tightening in your gut. Familiar. 

"'m close," you gasp, tugging at his short locks, "don't wanna cum like this."

Bob pauses midstroke, seems to think a little before speaking, "how d'ya wan' it?"

"I'd rather cum around your cock," not even missing a beat. 

And even with his face right between your legs, tongue fresh off your pussy, Robert Floyd has the audacity to turn beet fucking red. 

"Well," suddenly unable to meet your eye, "then...be my guest?"

You hate him, you think, as you squirm back down, dragging his flight suit zipper along with you. You hate, hate, hate this motherfucker and his ability to sway so seamlessly between demanding and sheepish. 

Beneath his flight suit, his shirt has risen up, revealing a milky-white tummy that absolutely demands a kiss or two. Even if the angle is awkward and puts a strain on your already sore neck. 

"'r you really kissin' my belly right now?" Combing his fingers against your scalp, but that doesn't sound like a complaint to you.

"I've gotta do what I've gotta do," the cold tip of your nose nuzzles the smooth skin that resides just next to the waistband of his shorts. Your fingers itch to pull them down, but his flight suit creates a hell of a conundrum. You can't even catch glimpse of his pale thighs, and those are probably an eighth-world wonder on their own.

Next time. 

For now, you'll have to be content with pushing the loose material of his shorts upward enough so that you can see his briefs lurking beneath. Even from here, you can see the strain he's putting on the material, makes it easy to find him when you reach past.

"Shit," he hisses, hips rising as you take hold of him at the base. Slowly, slowly, you guide him out, finding yourself amused as he chases your touch until he no longer can. 

He's bigger than you thought he would be. A considerable weight in your palm, pale-pink tip silky soft as you toy with it. You hope there will come a day when you can sit down and see how long it takes him to get off from you playing with that mushroom tip. Because right now, as he bites his lip to stifle his noises, you don't think it would take too long.

Speaking of...

"Hah-!" That's a new sound. Peering up at him from beneath your lashes, you poke your tongue out and run it against his length once more. Clamping his hand over his mouth, he reaches down to bat you away from his poor cock, "'gonna get us caught if ya keep doin' that."

Maybe that's the point. Dying with his cock in your mouth. What a way to go.

Cautiously, you settle yourself up on his lap, one hand braced on his sturdy chest while the other guides him to where you want him the most. Blunt head spreading your folds with such ease that it's as if he was made to do it. Once you apply the slightest bit of pressure but allow him to slip forward, just a slight taste that has him grumbling beneath you. 

Drawing him back, he catches on your entrance, and slowly, as if moving too quickly will break him, you allow yourself to sink down. It's been a long while since the last time you felt the growing pressure that comes with such an intrusion, gradually stretching to accommodate his girth. 

You want to make a remark over the way he downright whimpers into the back of his hand, but you can't so much as make a noise. A little too distracted by how your walls mold to fit the shape of your backseater, filling spaces you forgot you even had. Then your hips are flush together, and it's as if your voice has been punched back into you.

"Fuck, Robby," panting like a dog, you're forced to brace yourself against his chest with both hands or else you'll collapse into a messy heap on top of him, "you could've at least warned me that you were packing."

He rolls his eyes. You hope they get stuck back there. "'m not that big," but he is, and it's so dizzyingly delicious to feel inside of you. Not necessarily long, but thick enough to warrant a wide-load sign. 

Experimentally, you lift your hips, testing the waters as you rise up, then slowly sink back down onto him. He hasn't even hit anything special, and yet it's enough to have your lips parting with a silent sound. You haven't the slightest clue where he's finding the strength to swivel his hips beneath you, blindly searching on each timid upward stroke. 

And then your breath is hitching, stars sparkling beneath your eyelids as his plush head finds the neglected bundle of nerves hidden within those gooey walls. There it is.

"Better?" He chirps, smiling. Evidently, he's not just good with buttons and switches in fighter jets.

Nodding. "Better" 

Drawing yourself up quicker now, barely clinging to his chest as you find your pace. Something shallow enough to avoid the aching in your thighs but quick enough to give you what you want. His head downright nails that poor little spot, has your cunt fluttering around him like a damn butterfly.

"Look so beautiful on top of me," he whines, absolutely awe-struck by the way your body moves, working up and down like you've trained for this moment all your life. His hips twitch upward, weakly meeting you halfway, and rips a surprised cry right out of your throat. "Fuck, 's that what you need, darlin'?" 

"Just like that, Bobby," you don't even know what you're saying, only capable of moving a little quicker, desperate to feel him strike that sensitive bundle again and again and again. "Bobby, just like that."

You want more. Need to hear his soft grunts that follow every lewd smack of skin on skin, need more of everything he has to offer you, but your thighs are growing sore. Muscles burning, begging you to stop. 

"Can't," you're trying, but your legs just aren't having it, unable to chase the familiar tightening of your core as you ride him. "I can't keep—"

"I got ya," there's an unfamiliar strength to his hands as they tighten around your hips. His upward thrusts are weak, but he pulls you down into them so hard that you can hardly notice a difference. 

Two motions of his hips, and you're crumbling like a house of cards, collapsing into his chest. All of a sudden, his name is the only thing you're capable of uttering, face hiding in the crook of his sweaty neck. You don't know where this is coming from, but you pray it never goes away.

"So good for me," he mindlessly babbles against your temple, "cum on my cock for me, sweetie."

His words have you clamping down around him like a vice, writhing as he fucks you. Rhythm faltering but downright merciless as he works that sensitive spot over and over, sends a fire rippling up your belly. Skin prickling as it builds, your mouth starts to move on its own. "Bobby, Bobby."

"Cum, darlin'," and he's saying more, some whispered encouragement to give it to him, but you don't need it. 

One, two, three more pumps of his cock, and you're biting down into his collarbone, unable to stop the strangled squeal that he just about jackhammers out of you. Distantly, you can feel his hips stalling, an unfamiliar heat filling you, but your head is back up in the clouds. Foggy, the air so thin that you can't catch your breath as you weakly pulse around his dick.

But this time, when you open your eyes after a long while, you don't find yourself surrounded by snow and an unfamiliar forest. No, you're wrapped in the strong arms of your Weapons Systems Officer, cock still wedged in you as he presses kisses to your sweaty forehead.

"Y'still with me?" He coos into your temple. 

Nodding, "barely." 

It's twelve hours before search and rescue are finally deployed to come and find you. It takes another twelve for them to release you and Bob from debriefing hell. It's an hour after that when the honorary "they're not dead!" celebration takes off. The cafeteria that houses the impromptu event reeks of alcohol, which may be the reason why nobody catches you and your backseater sneaking out of your own party. 

"I still can't believe you didn't break it," you muse, too focused on rewrapping Bob's ankle to pay attention to the fingers that stroke your cheek. The countless stitches look worse than the original gash itself did, sends a chill down your spine every time you see it. 

"See? I told you I was fine," his eye-roll is audible in his tone, never has been good at hiding it. 

Not missing a beat, you nip at his thumb, chasing his hand away from your face. You need to focus. The last thing you want to do is wrap his ankle too loosely or too tightly. But as you place the metal clasp back into his gauze, your work doesn't look too far off from the medics. 

"Better?"

"Not yet," tapping his lips, "'m still missing a little something."

Huffing, you lean up, meeting his lips halfway. You fear that you're slowly creating a kiss fiend. "Now, is it better?"

All of it is worth it when you get to see his face light up, features laced with a grin so big that his eyes wrinkle with it. "Better."

[usafphantom2]

Austrian AF Saab Draken. Austria purchased 28 reconditioned Saab 35 Draken fighter aircraft to supersede the Saab 105 as the Austrian Air Force's main interceptor in 1988. The Saab 105 remained in service as a trainer/surveillance aircraft.

@CcibChris via X

[niftyandinterestingstuff]

1933 Lockheed Vega DL-1B One of ten built in Detroit purchased by the Morrell Meat Packing Company in 1933 becoming the first Executive Aircraft. This is the last one flying and is painted in the USAAC colors of the 35 Pursuit Squadron based in Langly Field, Virginia in 1932.

[pinturas-sgm-aviacion]

1938 Fiat BR20 Cicogna Japan vs Polikarpov I-152 China - Stan Hajek

In July 1937, when Japan entered into full-scale war with China (the Second Sino-Japanese War), the Japanese Army Air Force found itself short of modern long-range bombers, pending the delivery of the Mitsubishi Ki-21 "Sally", which was undergoing prototype trials at the time, and thus required the interim purchase of aircraft from abroad. Italy was willing to give priority to any Japanese orders over its own requirements, and offered both the Caproni Ca.135 and the BR.20 bombers in order to meet their needs. Following an evaluation of both aircraft by the Japanese, it was determined that while the Caproni could not meet the Japanese requirements, the BR.20 closely matched the specification. In addition, the BR.20 had acquired a positive reputation as a relatively fast and durable aircraft in combat during the Spanish Civil War. Accordingly, during late 1937, an initial order was placed by Japan for 72 BR.20s; this was soon followed by another order for a further 10 bombers.During early 1938, the first BR.20 were shipped to Dalian, Liaoning, in Japanese-controlled Northeast China, after which they were transported on for assembly and flight testing purposes. In Japanese service, the BR.20 (designated the I-Type (Yi-shiki)) was used to supplement and eventually replace the obsolete Mitsubishi Ki-1, equipping a pair of bomber groups (the 12th and 98th Sentai) located in Manchuria. The I-Type was heavily deployed on long-range bombing missions against Chinese cities and supply centers during the winter of 1938–39. The BR.20s were operating with no fighter cover at the extremes of their range and consequently incurred heavy losses from Chinese fighters, as did the early Ki-21s that shared the long-range bombing tasks.