#Soliders

[toncomtoncosh]

sketchbook spreads

[zoomar]

Before the soldiers knew what was happening, Kuratko pecked at them and swallowed them down, bayonets and all, one after another, like so many grains of wheat!

[madcat-world]

Defense - Alejandro Burdisio

[swagtransboy]

I love that I always remember november for the soldiers and that one guy that attempted to blow up parliament. I wish he succeeded.

We love our soldiers btw (no poppy emoji)

[orangeboulevard]

Soldiers Doing It With Their Boots On (OneShot)

((Had to reupload cuz it got flagged sighhh) Day eight of kinktober!! Wowie?! I almost fell asleep writing this at midnight, guys I'm sorry 😔 jkjk Dynamics: enemies to lovers one-sided? I suppose, mlm, soldier x soldier Content: chastity -> uniforms -> eyefucking Word Count: 1128

It's been two weeks, the longest two weeks of Dean's entire life. 

Their assignment objective is this: deliver Mr Mayotte to their troops that will be waiting at the East border. Their journey, however, is through the mostly uncharted mountainous region, with possible hostile inhabitants living in the mountains. That is why Dean is on this assignment despite knowing little about the native geography and even less about the political alignments of the bordering countries; he is the brawn. 

Lieutenant Cameron Lewis is the brains of their small group, small as to be able to stealthily make their way without being detected. He is also... an asshole. An unfairly attractive asshole. Just because he's calling the shots and pointing them where they're supposed to go, a native to the area and a navigation specialist, doesn't give him the right to look down his nose at Dean. Consequently, Dean spends most of his time glaring at the back of Cameron's head, definitely not at his muscular back and ass, his footfalls silent due to training, and also just outright glaring at him sometimes, like over dinner. As he is doing right now.

It was a small fire, they didn't want to draw attention but it was enough to warm their rations. Mr Mayotte was reading his book, not paying attention to the strained atmosphere, he was used to it by now. Dean stabbed his fork at what he guessed was supposed to be chicken whilst he glowered at Cameron. The other man had made a particularly scathing remark about his intelligence earlier that day. Cameron just met his glare, a cocky smile lining his face. 

Dean wanted to hit him. Cameron seemed to sense his growing frustration, his grin grew wider. His eyes darted at Dean's lips then back up. Wait what. Dean's brows furrowed, he's not sure he imagined that. But then he spotted it again, Cameron's gaze falling from his eyes to his lips, then to his chest and lower... Before slowly rising back up. Dean shifted uncomfortably and lowered his eyes. He had to be reading this wrong. He couldn't. Not with him in any case.

It was later that night that Dean discovered that he did not misinterpret Cameron's wandering eye. 

Dean was trying pitifully to fall asleep; it was cold, the kind of cold that invaded your clothes and set deep within your soul. Not even wearing his full uniform offered him complete shelter from the biting frigidness. As he wrapped his sleeping bag tighter around himself, he heard the zipper of his tent start to drag down. 

Dean instantly had his gun in his hand, pointing it at the uninvited. To his very private delight, Cameron held up his hands in surrender, "Just me, stand down, soldier." 

"What do you want, Sir?" It was a cold and formal tone; Dean did not want to spend any more time around Cameron than he had to, especially not at night, especially not alone. 

"A branch cut through my tent, I need to sleep here tonight before I can fix it tomorrow." 

Oh for fucks sake. "You couldn't bunk with Mr Mayotte?" 

"Scooch over."

Dean grumbled as he wiggled sideways in his sleeping bag, Cameron laid down his own bag before setting himself down. There wasn't much space; they were almost chest-to-chest. Dean coughed before turning, his back faced Cameron instead. Soon, exhaustion overruled Dean's awkwardness and he fell asleep, his breathing soft and rhythmic. 

.

.

.

Dean started awake from a nightmare. His eyes searched the darkness for the person whom he'd just seen behind his eyes, the blood and the flesh and oh god, the horrible smell- he snapped out of his descent when he felt Cameron's nose brush against the back of his neck. He just now registered the other man's hands around him, their sleeping bags set over them both- Cameron must have moved them- but why? Warmth?

Dean couldn't deny he was pretty contently warm, he just wished the cost wasn't having Cameron spooning him. He could feel himself already getting hard. Damn he was so pent up. He felt Cameron's lips brush against the exposed skin of his nape and he froze. 

"Are you awake?" Dean whispered. The kiss planted on his neck was all the answer he needed. "Get off." His tone was snipped.

Instead, Cameron pushed his growing bulge against Dean's ass, his kisses running down his neck. Dean gritted his teeth, spinning around so he could push Cameron off. 

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" He can't make it Cameron's face from his dark it is. 

"Don't act like you don't want this, you're always staring at me." Of course he noticed.

"No. I don't... And in any way, we could get in serious trouble-"

"Sod the rules. No one has to find out." 

"... Mr Mayotte?"

"He won't find out, he's probably sleeping right now. But even so, if he isn't we'll just have to be quiet."

"I've... I've never... I wanted to wait till marriage."

"... Do you still want to?" 

"Yeah. Just... You're gonna have to tell me what to do." 

"Well, One: undress." 

There's a dull sound of their uniform being stripped off and lazily being discarded nearby. Dean shivered from the air, he pulled the covers up further over both of them. 

"Okay, two," Cameron started, "before you can... Do that. You're gonna have to.. just. Let me." Dean jumped when he heard and felt the other man crawl under the covers. 

He slapped a hand over his mouth when he felt Cameron's warm tongue lapping over his hard dick. The man held his hips in place as he coated him in saliva. Dean whined when Cameron stopped, but stared down interested when the other straddled him.

The covers fell about them, the cold air catching against Dean's sweaty chest. Cameron set his hands on Dean's chest, Dean was about to ask what he was doing when he felt it. His cock entering a tight hot space, very very tight. Dean hissed in pain slightly. 

"Three," Cameron stated breathlessly, his voice is undercut with soft gasps and groans, "You're gonna put your hands on my hips, yeah just there and you're gonna move me up-"

Dean did so, abruptly pulling Cameron all the way down his dick. He felt the other man clench, his back arched.

"MMNGH! Ah! Not-  Not that fast!" Dean had to shush him, hopefully Mr Mayotte didn't hear. Oh, who were they kidding? He definitely heard Cameron's half moaning and half screaming as Dean pounded into him. For a virgin, he sure didn't hold back.

[cyc8]

My Novel Cover

This novel is still in the works, I will post it for you to read soon, if you are interested, you can comment as you like

Plot of the novel :

Zander Atlas(Man with bandages over their eyes),he was a soldier who had been in the elite army, but some incident caused him to be demoted and sent to the suck battalion in the army, where almost all the soldiers in this battalion were alcoholic,even the commander is not spared.

[koobiie]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[greatcheshire]

You should never forget literally the best line in all of video games

[despazito]

Adult website and period tracker

[twinliches]

when i got my medical certificate i very confidently answered the question "what do you do if a person becomes unconscious?" with "remove from the room immediately" only to be met with puzzled silence by the instructor and that's when i learned that the deeply ingrained nautical fear and grim reality of seamen and their rescuers asphyxiating in enclosed spaces due to build up of toxic gas or especially lack of oxygen does not translate to land.

[10868letsgo]

"Honor to the soldier and sailor everywhere, who bravely bears his country's cause." - Abraham Lincoln

[wisheduponastar]

*･༓˚✧ ❝𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐧❞ ‧͙⁺˚༓˚✧ « Whumptober Day 3 »

Wordcount : 1.4k / Read on Ao3

Set up for failure | fingerprints | wrongfully arrested | “I warned you”

Summary : As a solider, the only thing you can do is obey orders. As a captain, the only thing you can do is give them.

With this order, Faramir does not wish to do either.

TWs : Implied mass death, semi-suicidal ideas (going into a battle knowing you're going to die).

"That will depend upon the manner of your return."

Faramir wonders which one will make his father think better of him. He will not go as far as to say proud. Would he rather have a son who has followed the path of his eldest - to die honourably under his command? Or a son who managed to survive what would have been a suicide mission? The true decider is whether Osgiliath can be won back.

And Osgiliath cannot be won back. Which means Faramir is more wanted as a dead hero.

Even in death he will be a poor imitation of Boromir.

At least when Boromir died it was honourable. He was protecting others, attempting to save Middle Earth - and fighting for the continuation of life. Faramir will be leading his troops to death, and they do not die to defend Minas Tirith - not properly - they will die to try and reclaim a lost city and to kill orcs. Perhaps scholars will be able to make the lesser son seem better than Faramir can see himself.

He keeps walking, refusing to stop in the open. The guards of the citadel let him pass, dipping their heads to him. It is not just standard respect, he realises. How obvious was it to everyone but him that the solution is to die? An open courtyard is not the place to lose composure so he does not let himself break down. By the time Faramir is far enough away to possibly break down, he instead feels mostly numb.

His feet have taken him to his rangers, only separated by a door. Through it he can hear life. He can hear the movement of shuffling, the coarse sounds of whetstones against swords. And there's, of course, the general hum of life and conversation. When Faramir tries he can pick out individual voices, individual laughs - he can see so clearly, in his mind, see the smile they are making. All of these sounds may never be heard again.

Savouring it, Faramir tries to commit all of this to memory. Because he won't hear it again. Taking a breath, Faramir tries to keep his emotions numb when he tells his troops; the only despair they will have to be burdened with is their own. He is about to open the doors when he hears footsteps, looking up to see Damrod. The ranger's face is searching before becoming more sombre, and Damrod asks, "Captain?"

Faramir wonders how obvious his orders are. If you can see it on his face no matter, or because Damrod knows him well.

"How obvious is it?" Faramir cannot jest, but his heart cannot make it lighter either.

"Only obvious to us." Damrod's tone is slightly lighter, but the smile does not reach his eyes. "Which is not entirely a bad thing."

There is a deeper silence that settles upon the two of them again, but neither one makes a move towards the door. Both of them can still hear the joy of their other companions, and both of them do not want to stop that. Will not stop that. Even though Faramir knows that he must. That it is his duty to do so. So why can his legs not move, his heart weighing him down.

His throat is too swollen to say anything to Damrod, and he cannot bring himself to move any part of his body now. Instead they continue to stare at each other and try to capture the joy they can hear. The last joy that they will hear. Damrod seems more capable of moving, and looks towards the door. “Would you wish me to deliver the news, captain?”

“No,” Faramir knows he cannot place this burden on someone else. “The words have been charged to me, and the orders are for me to deliver. I expect that this sorrow will extend further than just this room, and you already have an unfair share of it. I will not give you more hardship, if I can prevent it.”

“There isn’t a soul in there who would believe these orders come from you.” The words are reassuring on the surface level, but there is a slight bitterness beneath them. Still, Damrod does nothing more but wait for his commander to move - to be able to address his people.

When Faramir moves into the room, he can instantly feel the atmosphere shift. First to one of more respect, but still with hints of happiness - that perhaps their captain has come with them to share the joys of their survival. Instead he is here to deliver their doom. Quickly the emotions shift to reflect the sombre news he has, and even though Faramir is yet to speak it is as though all know what he is about to say. What he has to say.

The orders taste like ash on his tongue, choking and of death, but Faramir says them without flinching. “The Lord of Gondor has decided Osgiliath is too valuable a place to be left to the enemy. We are to ride again tomorrow.”

It feels insulting to proclaim the rest of it, that their goal is to reclaim the lost place for Gondor. The subtext to the words is already there, and Faramir knows the rangers will see that in these orders. Along with the futility. Faramir has no reason to try and command his troops to do what is almost impossible, and even less reason to lie to them about it. In this chamber, there are now only the condemned. And all who are around you feel the same way, have fought alongside you for so long. The rangers feel no need to pretend to be strong to one another, and Faramir does not feel the need to - does not want to - pretend to be strong either. The few breaths he takes are steadying, but nowhere near stabilising. It does not prevent tears from beginning to fall, although he is not the only one weeping.

Now there is no sound of joy in this place. The sound of life, perhaps, but the sound that life is making is that of sorrow. They are mourning for themselves. Tears fall freely around this place, and Faramir can feel his face slowly become more soaked from them, as he tries to accept what is happening to him. 

As his father sends him to die.

Faramir has spent up his tears, as he begins the slow march out of Minas Tirith. He wishes that they did not have to start this ‘procession’ from so far away, so that all may see their noble soldiers. He does not wish to have to look into the faces of more people, and see the emotions that are so freely shown on their faces. The flowers in their hands, and the calls that cry from their lips. Often not to him. It is his rangers who have loved ones who bid them farewell.

What emotion is worse for him to see in people? Is it the sorrow of people or the few that look out with pride - as if the enemy they go out to face can be defeated like any other? Faramir does not mind the sympathies of the people, he is thankful that they still have tears to spend - although he hopes they will be able to save some. And so many know people that are marching alongside him, who have the right to mourn. But Faramir also feels sorrow for the people who look upon his rangers with pride.

Because they cannot win. This is a reality that will hit swiftly and harshly, and he is sorry for the people who are yet to experience this. He does not want to be here for the moment they truly realise what is going to happen, what could happen. The possibility that this white city may fall. Although, with a sense of dark humour, Faramir reflects that he will not be here to see their hope fragment. He may, however, become a cause of it.

Faramir leads his people out in silence, because he does not trust his voice. He does not trust it to stay steady, and he does not trust it to say what he wants to say. What he needs it to say.

Looking back at the gates, Faramir reflects on if he shall ever pass through them again. He hopes he will. He hopes that, at least, his corpse may be back in Minas Tirith. Perhaps even as a hero, rather than one who has led his men to die.

A/N : +100 points to anyone who gets the titles reference. The literature girl in me thought it was too good not to do, and I couldn't think of any other title.

« Day 2, Day 4 »

[isaac--r]

He implies she's worth building something new with, next thing we know he's wearing a more revealing outfit with her signature X doodled all over his body. Good for him!

Also, between this scene and the moment they show up in battle, they've apparently had the time to: - turn her entire lab/hideout into a blimp - cover the whole thing in giant tags of the firelights symbol, her cloud tatoos, and more - rebuild pow pow and fishbones, which were very much broken in act 2 - rally the firelights - cut and dye her hair - crop his top - pierce his ears - sew her a shark hoodie - cover her entire body in crayon drawings - accessorize their outfits - again, turn her lair, a giant airshaft, into a functional blimp

Maybe Ambessa gave her entire army the week off before battle. Maybe Jinx and Ekko were on unfathomable amounts of cocaine. We'll never know

[fluffyzoey]

Go here:

Generate 1 Pokémon, doesn’t matter if you know anything about Pokémon or not

Based on looks + whatever knowledge you have about it, COULD YOU TAKE THIS POKÉMON IN A PHYSICAL FIGHT?