#missione Rotary

[pier-carlo-universe]

Rotary Club Acqui Terme: Mauro Ricci e Maria Adele Norando i prossimi presidenti

Il Rotary Club di Acqui Terme guarda al futuro con entusiasmo, confermando le sue leadership per gli anni rotariani 2025-2026 e 2026-2027.

Il Rotary Club di Acqui Terme guarda al futuro con entusiasmo, confermando le sue leadership per gli anni rotariani 2025-2026 e 2026-2027. Durante l’assemblea del Club, tenutasi presso la sede di Cuvage in Strada Alessandria, Mauro Ricci è stato eletto presidente per l’anno rotariano luglio 2025-giugno 2026, mentre Maria Adele (Dede) Norando guiderà il Club nell’annata successiva, luglio…

[kirby-the-gorb]

[sebastianstanisahotmf]

Mission 100

A/N This is something random that I wrote. It has nothing to do with any fandom or anything but I would like to know your thoughts on it. Its also like 1.4k words long which is a lot for me. its pretty average for most people tho I'm just lazy

THIS IS NOT AN 18+ FIC BUT I STILL FEEL UNCOMFORTABLE WITH MINORS READING MY FICS SO PLEASE DNI IF YOU ARE A MINOR.

Summary NONE- read the warnings though

DO NOT REPOST ONTO ANY OTHER APPS/WEBSITES. THE ONLY PLACE THIS FIC IS ON IS TUMBLR.

Warnings Violence, Mild gore, it's about an assassin (need I say more?), angst, thriller kinda

The sky outside is torn apart by the jagged spears of thunder from the storm. The woman is anxiously awaiting a call. A call that determines her future actions. Her glossy, red nails tap on the table, keeping time with each passing second. 

She’s a tall, slender woman (around 5”11) with a pale complexion and eyes like that of a feral cat- dangerous and unnerving. Her cheeks are a pale pink colour which matches her lips. She is dressed in a black suit with a black shirt that has the top button undone. On her feet are a pair of glossy black stilettos. 

She is starting to get impatient. 

The woman walks towards the adjacent room and the dusty floorboards creak with each step. The rain is beating against the thin, single-glazed windows which groan with the force of the winds, a sign the storm is getting worse.

She pushes the door open to reveal a man tied to a chair with nylon rope. The rope is tied around his chest and feet, attaching them to the chair. His hands are zip-tied together and a cloth has been tied around his head to act as a gag. 

The man looks around 50 and his eyes are wide in fear. However, this fear is one he is familiar with.

The woman walks over to the table situated behind the door. She grabs a switchblade and holds it up. The man begins to frantically writhe about, he would scream but he knows it’s futile. Being in a house in such a secluded area makes situations like these worse for the victim but more fun for the captor. 

The woman swiftly approaches the man. He lets out a whimper as she holds the blade to his neck.

“All you had to do was agree. You had to sign on the dotted line and this wouldn’t have happened,” she whispered.

She presses the blade into his neck, not enough to break the skin, but enough to make the man turn pale in fear of what she’ll do next. 

“Now the boss has got me doing this. Again. And for what, all because you want to keep this old house,” she sneers.

The woman is about to continue speaking when she is interrupted by the telephone ringing. She slowly pulls away as a smirk makes its way onto her face. She puts the switchknife back onto the table.

“I’ll be back,” she tells the man before exiting the room.

She walks back into the other room and looks at the rotary phone screaming for her to answer it. She approaches the phone and picks up the handset.

“Hello,” the woman says to the person on the other end of the line.

The woman pauses for a few seconds before replying.

“I’ll make sure I do that boss.” 

She puts the phone back on the switch hook.

The woman saunters back into the room where the man is supposed to be only to see he has escaped. She hears thudding on the stairs and grabs her swtichknife off the table before going to look for the man. 

She trudges down the stairs in search of her prey. She goes into every room she comes across and checks each one thoroughly. Just as she is about to give up, she hears a familiar jingle of keys and runs towards the front door.

“So you thought you would escape me, you should know by now. I will always find you,” she sneers at the man.

“This isn’t you, you know it,” he tells her with pleading eyes.

“You don’t get to tell me who I am or how I act,” her voice trembles at the last word.

She pulls a gun out from the holster strapped to the back of her trousers and makes sure it’s loaded and the safety is off. She holds the gun up with a trembling hand. Tears start to gather in her waterline.

The man turns and tries to unlock the door. His attempt to free himself is ended when a gunshot is heard. This is followed by a thud and a cry of pain from the man.

The woman begins to sob as she steps over the man as she finishes unlocking the door and steps outside. The rain soaks through her clothes in a matter of seconds and her hair is sticking to her forehead. 

She walks through the overgrown garden to a wooden bench almost engulfed by nature. She sits down and looks forward blankly.

That’s when it happens. She can see it. Happiness.

It was cold outside but the blankets wrapped around her kept her warm. She heard footsteps before her father walked into the room and picked her up. The girl giggled as he spun around with her in his arms.

He kissed her on the forehead and walked into the living room where the fireplace had been lit. He sat the girl on his lap and they sat there in silence, soaking up the heat…

The woman comes back to her senses when she hears groaning coming from the house. She practically jumps off the bench and grabs her gun. 

She crouches behind a nearby bush and slowly makes her way towards the noise. It’s the man dragging himself out of the house. She huffs in annoyance and stands up.

She approaches the man with an emotionless face and picks him up by the collar of his shirt. He is drenched from the rain and he’s losing blood fast.

The woman drags him inside and closes the door, which she props him up against. She crouches down to his level.

“You could’ve made it out of this alive if you had just played dead for a few more minutes,” she whispered.

“You could have let me make it out alive.” 

“And risk being skinned alive. I don’t think so,” she has an unidentifiable look on her face now. 

She looks remorseful but merciless at the same time.  Two emotions which usually represent two different sides of a story but not this time.

The woman grabs the man by the collar of his shirt again and begins to drag him into a bedroom.

Once they get there she only just manages to get him onto the bed. 

“You don’t have long left, I hit the artery in your left leg,” she tells the man, checking her gun.

She looks up, confused he didn’t answer. Her eyes full are of sorrow but her body language shows her violent nature.

“What do you expect me to say?” 

“Something!” 

“You don’t have to do this,” he tells her.

“Don’t you understand? I have no choice. You’re my mission,” she doesn’t shout this time, she puts her gun on the bed and looks down at the floor.

“Then complete your mission, my love,” he whispers to her.

In a matter of seconds, the woman picks up her gun and shoots the man in the head. The gun falls out of her hand as she observes the crime scene she has created. Then, the guilt starts to set in.

The thunder outside roars and the lightning lights up the sky like fireworks. 

The woman walks over to the man's corpse and grasps the knife in her pocket. She pulls it out and neatly carves ‘mission 100 complete’ into the man’s arm. 

She grabs some blankets off a nearby chair and tucks the man in. She picks up her knife and gun before exiting the room.

The woman walks upstairs and back into the room with the phone inside. She calls the person from earlier, her boss. After a few seconds, he picks up.

“Mission 100 is complete sir,” she informs him.

“I congratulate you, your debt is paid and you are free,” her boss declares.

She puts the handpiece back on the switch hook. Once again, her face is emotionless but her trembling hands and unsteady steps convey her true emotions of shock, relief and regret.

She slowly makes her way back down the stairs for the last time. She goes back into the room where her latest and last mission lies, motionless and pale. 

She almost hopes he is still alive. As she enters the room she feels tears start to gather in her waterline again.

The woman approaches the man for the last time. She sits on the bed next to him and smooths her hand over the blankets that once belonged to her. She leans over to the man and plants a kiss on his forehead. 

“I’m so sorry father,” she whispers before sobs overtake her body.

She lays down and curls up next to the man.

Her repayment has cost her everything, her life, her happiness, her spark.

Finally, she is free and she has no debts. 

She has no family.

I didn't know who else to tag so if you want to be tagged in other miscellaneous fics then please fill in the form also sorry if you have already filled in the form but if you do it again I can tag you I these types of fics. If that doesn't make sense you can message me or send an ask and I will explain further xoxo

If you want to be tagged whenever I post a fic then click on the link

If you want to see what I repost, my other account is @sebastianstanisahotmf-reblogs

Taglist:@nicoline1998enilocin, @buckys-wintersoldier

[historyofguns]

The article "Sikorsky H-5: One Seriously Ugly Helicopter" by Dr. Will Dabbs on The Armory Life explores the history and significance of the Sikorsky H-5 helicopter, originally designated the R-5 and known as the HO3S in the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps. Developed during the mid-1940s, the H-5 saw extensive service during the Korean War, particularly in medevac missions for rescuing downed pilots and wounded soldiers. Despite its unattractive appearance and cramped flight conditions, the H-5 played a crucial role in pioneering helicopter operations in both military and commercial sectors, establishing itself as the first commercial helicopter (S-51). Dr. Dabbs emphasizes the aircraft's contributions to aviation history, albeit with its many design challenges, and reflects on the innovative yet rudimentary technology that laid the groundwork for modern rotary-wing aviation.

[dixieconley]

How did Obi-Wan not notice the thing with R2D2?? And what if he did?

Obi-Wan: We need to talk about your issues with attachment. Anakin: ::panicking, thinking Obi-Wan's found out about his marriage:: You had a relationship with Satine Kryze! Obi-Wan: … And Ki-Adi-Mundi is married. Jedi can have relationships, Anakin. We've talked about this. Anakin: … I think I would have remembered that.

[Many many past conversations: Obi-Wan: ::lecturing:: Attachment… the code… meditation. Anakin: ::busy tinkering:: Yes, yes, master. Whatever you say, master. Obi-Wan: This is fine. This absolutely will not come back to bite me in the ass later.]

Obi-Wan: Regardless, we need to talk about your attachment issues. Anakin: What issues? You just *said* marriage is okay. Obi-Wan: ::derailed:: What's that about marriage? Anakin: This isn't about me and Padme being married? Obi-Wan: … Obi-Wan: No. Anakin: This is about what I did when my mom died then, isn't it? Obi-Wan: … Anakin: ::getting defensive:: They deserved it! Tuskens are animals. Obi-Wan: ::rubbing his nose:: Anakin. Stop guessing. You're literally making this worse with every word out of your mouth. There happens to be a Tusken Jedi. You've *met* him. Anakin:: ::sheepish:: Oh. So, um, what's this about then? ::finally listening for the first time in the past three years:: Obi-Wan: I came here to talk to you about the salvage operation you ran to rescue R2D2. Anakin: ::puzzled:: Master? You ordered me to go on that mission. Obi-Wan: ::pinching his nose:: Anakin, you do realize that the mission would have been completely unnecessary had you just wiped the droid as per procedure? Anakin: But R2's my buddy. I wouldn't do that to him. Obi-Wan: You got all but two of the men who went with you killed in an attempt to rescue a droid! Anakin: So? I would have done the same for Padme. Or Ahsoka, Obi-Wan: … Obi-Wan: You see no issue in trading sentient lives for an inanimate object. That, Anakin is the very definition of attachment and why you either see a mind healer or go to Jedi jail. Anakin: What? You can't make me see a mind healer! Obi-Wan: You're right. Jedi Jail it is. Anakin: Noooo! I'm gonna tell my good friend the Chancellor on you! Obi-Wan: ::fed-up with everything and feeling both sassy and sarcastic:: Oh, and what's he going to do, order the clones to turn on us and massacre all the Jedi right down to the initiates in the creche? The Force: ::shouting:: YES!!! Obi-Wan:: ::facepalm:: That absolutely came back and bit me in the ass.

Later: Cody: You have a Jedi jail? Obi-Wan: No. Cody: Sir? Obi-Wan: Seemed like a safe bet. ::bitter: He obviously ignored everything else I tried to teach him. Cody: Jedi can marry? Obi-Wan: Yes. Cody: Jedi. As in you. Obi-Wan: As in... Cody: ::suddenly two inches closer:: Obi-Wan: ::squeaking:: Me? Cody: ::smoulders:: Obi-Wan: After the war. Chain of command. Would be inappropriate. Because reasons. Cody: I see.

Two days later: Fox: ::eyeing the assortment of munitions Cody's just laid on his desk, including, but not limited to, slug throwers, thermal detonators, a handful of droid poppers and a rotary cannon:: So you say that the chancellor's a direct threat to the military command of the GAR and that I get to kill him if I agree to mute my external audio pickup and follow your orders? Cody: Yes. Is there a problem? ::looms menacingly:: Fox: ::jumps up:: No takesies backsies! Thorn! Thire! It's Lifeday and Cody's just got us all a present!

~~~

Palps gets wrekt. The Corries have the Best. Day. Ever.

Cody and Obi-Wan swear the riduurok. No one is surprised.

The mind healers ending *building* a Jedi jail just so they don't have to listen to Anakin whine any longer. (R2D2 has the option of joining Anakin. Which, no. C3PO is welcome to that. R2D2 is having none of that shit. Time to head back to his original family -- the handmaidens of Naboo. Who will let him have a little murder. As a treat.)

[actuallybarb]

here with me

pairing: male x gn!reader (i tagged with a lot of different male characters i find comforting, but there’s no names used so you can imagine anyone you so please)

word count: 0.6k

warnings: reader is in pain (nothing descriptive), he comforts. just fluff

a/n: i wrote this as a result of my own migraines, but i kept all the symptoms vague because any chronic pain is a bitch, and you deserve to be treated softly by the person of your choice

The apartment usually wasn’t this quiet when he got home.

Or this dark.

He set his keys on the counter and left his boots by the door, then carefully stepped through the apartment. The kitchen and living room were both empty, and the office looked like it hadn’t been touched all day.

There was no light under the bedroom door. He set a cautious hand on the doorknob, but a quiet whimper had him opening the door without question.

You were laid out on the bed, on top of the covers, with an arm draped over your eyes. The ceiling fan and rotary fan on the ground were both spinning at top speed, and he could just see a dark bag poking out under your neck.

He quietly closed the door and returned to the kitchen, now a man on a mission. He grabbed a straw and a water bottle from the fridge, then took an ice pack from the freezer and wrapped it with a dish towel. He took the last item, a bottle of painkillers, from the cabinet and silently returned to the bedroom, the only sound of his presence being the faint click as the door closed one more time.

“Baby?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

You let out another small whimper.

“How bad is it?”

“9.5.”

Unbearable, then, if you were using an actual pain scale.

He set his items on the nightstand and took a seat beside you on the bed.

“Meds?”

“At 3.”

Only a couple hours ago, too soon to take more. He put those beside the lamp.

He uncapped the water bottle and put the straw in, then he gently tucked a hand behind your head and lifted. “Drink.”

Your lips wrapped around the straw, and he didn’t pull the bottle away until you’d swallowed at least four times. But before you could lay back down, he replaced your old ice pack with a new one. You shivered a little, but the cold was a welcome reprieve.

“Stay or go?”

You could’ve cried. He’d stuck with you through this so many times he knew your comforts by heart. He read your moods instantly, and most of the time didn’t need promptings, but he always took the time to ask when it got bad like this. And he never shamed you for only being able to say a few words at a time.

“Stay.”

It nearly came out as a sob.

He shed his jacket and started unbuttoning his jeans. “Shirt or no shirt?”

“Soft.”

He took off his current shirt and replaced it with his sleep one, nothing decorating the black fabric, just ultra-soft cotton.

“Where do you want me?”

It differed every time. Sometimes you didn’t want him at all, the thought of another person with you sending jolts of pain through your body. Other times you wanted him to stay, but on the other side of the bed. Or you wanted him close, but barely touching.

“Top.”

Or sometimes you needed him to put all of his body weight on top of you like a human weighted blanket.

“Covers?”

“No.”

He positioned himself, knees on either sides of your thighs, then he slowly lowered himself until his hands on either side of your face were the only thing keeping him up.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

He finished lowering himself and settled his full weight against you.

You sighed in relief.

“Better?”

You nodded and tucked yourself into the crook of his neck. “Better.”

“Three taps if I’m suffocating you.”

For the first time that day, you took a deep breath and relaxed.

[cogentranting]

I've been very negative to Umbrella Academy season 4 so far, and overall I didn't like it BUT here are the things I DID like (spoilers)

Lila and Diego naming their daughter Grace

Klaus and Allison looking out for each other at the start and Klaus being close with Claire

Luther's general happy-go-lucky attitude, bless his heart

Five as a CIA agent

Sparrow Ben being a crypto scammer (especially in a world that still has rotary phones)

Diego's one really cool moment of flipping through the air and pulling the hail of bullets around him and then shooting them off in different directions

Luther's hair. Very floofy.

Ben and Jennifer's meet-cute

Diego and Luther's excitement over beating up the CIA team

"Obviously we're meant to be together. Me with my tentacles. You, the miracle squid girl." 10/10. One of the greatest lines of dialogue ever written.

Diego's realization about taking his family for granted and coming home and embracing his in-laws and being enthusiastic about his wife and kids. Far too short, but a good place for him.

Diego somehow managing to hold onto those 3 reindeer through everything.

The suggestion that Tom Holland exists in this universe

The moment of Allison saving Klaus and them hugging with him saying "you came for me"

The reveal of how original Ben died and the reaction of all the siblings to it. Genuinely very shocking and emotional.

the timeline subway concept was cool

Baby shark

the happy ending for the side characters, especially Hazel and Agnes.

the cats in the CIA office

Luther's little elevator fight scene

Validation for Luther's moon mission

the ending use of "I think we're alone now"

[rounderhouse]

"Too often, discussion of a mech focuses on the mechanical components: servos, hydraulics, ballistic plating and rotary cannons. But a 20-ton war machine is nothing without a brain to operate it. The pilot, suspended in their harness, encased in shock-fluid, jacked into their frame, decides where to move, what targets to hit. What goes unnoticed is the contributions of the mech's brainstem: the OS-TACAD. The TACAD is not sentient, but it controls everything that the pilot cannot waste precious microseconds thinking about: synthmuscle integrity, operating stability, frame balance. The TACAD is not sentient, but it dutifully attends to its pilot, ensuring the temperature of the shock-fluid they're submerged in is not too high, that the electrodes are properly providing haptic-feedback to its master. The TACAD is not sentient. It cannot think, feel, or emote. It can only process input into output. None of which explains why TACADs, against all odds, fully counter to their programming, consistently prioritize the life of their pilot over mission success."

-- Problems in Mechanized Cavalry Engineering, 7th Edition

[moongreenlight]

Insane reader my beloved. Literally my babygirl.

@katz-chow been ruminating on this one just for you <3

CW: Gore and violence

Reader who shows up late to their first meeting with the task force. Rolls up in their dark sedan with blacked-out windows and one too many dents on the front bumper wearing civvies instead of the uniform they were given and instructed to wear.

Reader who is a privately hired detective with a talent for interrogations. Not officially a member of the task force or the military because the tactics they use are far less than legal. More a secret weapon on retainer for when doing things by the book doesn’t do the trick.

Reader who gets on the good sides of the task force boys by being sugary sweet and barely hiding their true colors. Skins and bleaches the skulls of interrogations gone South and gives them to Ghost insisting they’re better than the costume store shit he’s got on now.

Gifts Price expensive cigars tucked between the fingers of a severed hand. Drops them off in large pink boxes with delicate ribbons and giggles when he asks a thousand questions about why and how and what the fuck he was supposed to do with this.

Tosses Gaz new knives on the field when they’ve landed a kill or just wrenched them out of someone’s stomach. They make a game out of chucking the gore-slicked blades at one another’s heads to see if they can dodge in time.

Starts playing dodgeball with Soap where they toss his less-stable bombs and unpinned grenades back and forth. Only stops after they’ve accidentally blown up the camp two missions in a row. (Also heavily rumored they have tramp stamps of each other’s names because they’re both too stubborn to back down from a dare but that’s just for vibes)

Reader who gets flown out on specialty missions where a hostage really refuses to talk and takes matters into their own hands. Sometimes hopping on radio when they’re in transit and requesting the force pulls extra men so they can play a live game of operation. They’ve been watching videos on the dark web and the first two seasons of Grey’s Anatomy from their military issued laptop so it’s like an 80% chance all the hostages live.

Reader who stops being allowed to train rookies because the first and only faux-deployment they led they told the group they ran out of rations three days in to a two week long training and they had to play rock-paper-scissors to create a bracket of people to eat first. The mission gets called early when Price gets word that there was actually a field amputation done. Reader doesn’t even apologize, just laughs their way through a barely reasonable explanation. I didn’t think they’d actually do it.

Reader who begs the boys to let them play kill, kiss, marry, kill in the middle of a boring interrogation and when they get told no or to focus on the task at hand, they throw such a fit that they end up sending a screwdriver through the eye of the person they’re supposed to be interrogating.

Reader who brings their own kit to interrogations. Lugs around pincers, rusted blades, rotary bone saws, and dull axes in a flamingo pink toolbox. Sets it up on a small table in front of the hostage and unboxes it like an influencer showing off PR.

Reader who also stops being able to run conditioning and drills with rookies because they pitted the privates against one another during a sparring session. Saying something about whoever could sheath a blade in the other first got a bonus check before tossing a few knives on the mat and walking away. Gaz had to run over and tell them you weren’t serious when he saw blood.

Reader who insists on being able to puppeteer the decapitated head of an enemy grunt they took down and reciting a few lines of Shakespeare to the boys. Dragging the mission out because they know as well as the boys do that everyone is on their timeline.

Reader who dances around hostages that have been zip tied to chairs and beat within an inch of their life. Singsonging threats and having the boys drag the limp bodies of their chain of command across the floor.

Reader who pouts when their victims pass out during questioning after a few of their fingers have been chopped off with a butcher’s knife. Huffs like they’re being put through a massive inconvenience and fishes smelling salts out of their toolkit to wake the poor sap back up.

[lulu2992]

Hello,

Not sure if you've already covered this but what do you make of the rotary phones with the creepy messages scattered across Faith's region?

Hello! So, if I’m not mistaken, there are five rotary phones in the Henbane River region. First, we have these two messages:

Administrator’s Cabin: “Civilian Female 06” crying.

O’Hara’s Haunted House: “Civilian Male 03” (probably O’Hara) laughing.

Then these three from Faith:

Mastodon Geothermal Park: Shaja su dajri martiyi. (Wenja greeting; just a Primal Easter egg.)

Eden’s Convent: Rachel's so sad and alone. Once was lost, never found. She led a faithless life and it brought her low. Faith rose up in her, but Rachel stayed low down. Faith flies divine, and Rachel... Rachel gropes around in the darkness. I left her there a long time ago.

The Last Best Resting Place: A baby is a sack of screaming, shitting, crying impulses with no personality, no thoughts, no understanding of the world beyond feelings. It has no soul. You have to give it one. The only soul we ever have, we receive from others. And it is only others who can take it away.

In my opinion, the main reason they exist is simply to add to the unsettling atmosphere of the region. The ones from Faith also give a little more information about her identity and beliefs, so that’s nice!

In fact, there were supposed to be more messages, but since they were cut, I have no idea if they were going to be on rotary phones or regular ones…

Two of them were linked to a mission at the King’s Hot Springs Hotel (maybe its liberation) and referred to as phone calls instead of answering machine messages in the files. They were both from Faith, and while the first one is now unavailable, the second one was her laughing and saying (almost singing), “They’re coming...”

Then, we had seven others from Faith, one from Joseph, and one from Tweak. I’ve already mentioned them but they’re included below the cut too. Faith’s deleted messages are particularly creepy, so my guess is that most of them were going to be found on rotary phones as well to make her (and by extension, the region she controls) sound even more mysterious and scary.

The other deleted messages from Faith:

You are many little holes, all permeable, infectable, with wriggling insects, long strings of dirt and oil burrowed into your skin.

Slice open the backs of your arms. You'll get ingrown feathers back there if you don't. I want you to be ready when you walk the Path, when you ascend, when it comes.

Lysergic acid diethylamide, psilocybin, mescaline, dextromethorphan, phencyclidine, and sugar to taste.

He loves you. He's always loved you. Just breaks your heart, doesn't it.

It's the nourishment that counts. The taste of care. The fruit of God's earth. Cut out the eyes, pull off the ears, peel the head into layers, eat your fill. Bury the rest in the dirt for posterity.

Death doesn't frighten me. I'm free of my tethers now. Unbound by the judgment of others. Even as Faith, I was under the consuming eyes of the world. Child, whore, Madonna... I am so much more than all of that now. You could never grasp it. And you'll die before you get the chance.

Gotcha!

From Joseph:

In the end, you will thank me.

From Tweak:

You destroyed my life. Once I've come down from this high I'm gonna get you somehow.

I don’t know where they were supposed to be located.

[territorial-tarot-tahr]

C.o.D smut

Word count: 6.3k

CW: Blood and general menstruation if that's gross to you, don't read it. There's self loathing but as a backdrop. Also explicit sexual content below the cut.

Summary: AFAB/Transmasc reader is in pain and Soap tries to help.

P.o.V: Second Person

Again, if you found my A03 from this, no you didn't. Shut up. This one's shorter and a bit older(4months?)than the prior piece. I'm also gonna be so real and say this was written as a mostly self indulgent piece so that's why it's stupidly corny.

No spoilers for any C.o.D game.

🚨Go to my main account "rorschach-retrograding-rotary" for requests or commissions. Or you can just toss something in the comments or something🚨

‼️🚨This was not proof read and I hate reading my work so I have no intention of proof reading it🚨‼️

Feel free to commission me or donate 𝕙𝕥𝕥𝕡𝕤://𝕜𝕠-𝕗𝕚.𝕔𝕠𝕞/𝕤𝕒𝕪_𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕤𝕖

Sweat seemed to find permanent residency on your skin, the ring around your neck was already evidence enough of that. Every second that you felt the uncomfortable ache, it seemed to cut open the scars along your chest again. People who needed to know, knew. People who didn't, didn't. Price and the medical team knew, but that was the extent. You figured the information was on a more need-to-know basis, and as such, only the aforementioned individuals and an otherwise small list knew. 

This list didn't include your 189cm, Scottish lover-boy. Whether out of fear of rejection, or attempt of denial by ignoring, you still hadn't gotten around to it. He'd yet to do anything that would make you think he wouldn't be alright with it, but it was still a risky step you weren't eager to take. You'd found yourself awoken in a disgruntled haze, hair coated in drool and some in your mouth as you blinked awake. A familiar coil of discomfort had knotted itself in your gut. With no heating pad, you'd simply dragged yourself off your cot and to the kitchen after a quick stop in the latrine, which had turned up a few painkillers that seemed to be taking their sweet time. You'd had painful cramps before, sure. But usually you had taken proper care to count and keep track of when to expect them, and as such, you were loaded up on preemptive painkillers.

You hadn't found yourself as prepared or lucky this time. This month you'd simply lost track considering that you'd been on a mission for around two weeks at the point and the focus had been more on whether you'd be alive in any given moment rather than when you'd start bleeding. Well, you reap what you sow. And now here you were, fighting your urge to double over and lay curled up on the floor till you passed out. At least the floor would probably be colder than the heat that felt as if it was stuck to your skin like a damp shirt. That was fair, your shirt was pretty soaked in sweat at the moment.

 Coffee cup after coffee cup seemed the easier answer than laying back down at the mercy of your already wide-awake mind. You couldn't wager a guess on how long you'd stood there waiting, time seemed to slip away from you. The small clock on the wall made a dull chorus of clicks as the second hand flicked by, and the 24 hour digital clock nearby clicked in chorus at every minute. Despite this, your attention did not drift to them, or the whirr of the overachieving air conditioner above, which did nothing to lessen your sweat. Instead, your attention seemed more than eager to slip away to your white-knuckled grip on the rim of the sink, a dish towel at each palm with cold water providing some relief. His hands were on your hips before you'd even realized he was actually behind you.

His breath was warm in your unwashed hair, and his calloused fingers had already begun to dig into the fabric of your shirt. Your forehead was against the cool wood of the cabinet, and it took everything in your power to try not to focus on what you assumed might've been very early morning wood. Or genuinely just something in his pocket.  

"Couldn't sleep?" His remark was sarcastic, the answer already evident as your trembling fingers worked grime off the rim of a mug. You shuddered in response, his breath warm on your neck as gooseflesh covered your body. A t-shirt and plaid pajama pants were evidently not enough to keep the cold away or hold it at bay and since it was easier to find a practically permanent spot in the barracks than getting an apartment, you found yourself cutting your loses.

"Army of coffee cups around here not tipping you off?" Your comment seemed snark-ier than you had intended, but your hand on his and a gentle squeeze seemed to be enough of an apology. Dark bags were under your eyes, fatigue and exhaustion was evident on your face as you turned to look at him over your shoulder. His shirt was faded, stains from coffee and cigarette butts formed their own patterns across the barely recognizable band logo it had once shown. Either he'd slept in his shoes and jeans or he'd decided to put them on after noticing you'd gotten up in the night.

"Collective break room. Cups were just as likely to be yours as they were to be Simons." He yawned as he leaned further against you. His footing wasn't lost but it seemed slightly comical in the moment how lazy he was trying to be. Too tired to stand up straight but enough energy to not only realize you'd woken up, but also notice you were acting odd and try to get to the bottom of it. His voice was rough, evidently still half asleep as he continued. "All I'm askin' is, what's eatin' yuh?"

You huffed softly and shuffled where you stood. You mumbled incoherently as John patted your hip, his fingers rubbed the fabric for a moment longer. He traced the indent of your hip bone against your pants before leaning down to hold his face against your neck. He spoke quietly, his voice muffled as he made a comment about you needing to eat more. You neglected to answer, scoffing and rolling your eyes as you instead pushed his hands from your hips to hold your waist instead. You heard his soft grunt of amusement before it faded to a yawn again.

He kissed along your neck for a moment as he took the mug and carelessly tossed it into the sink. A few moments more and he'd planted his feet before hoisting you up onto the counter. You'd never been particularly short, but sitting on the counter was what it took for you to be eye level with John. You could see his eyes were matched by yours with similar rings of dark circles. His lacked the bloodshot lines that creeped at the corners of yours but regardless, it was still evident that he was tired.

His lips found your neck and he bit your skin gently, leaving a small red mark that bloomed on your skin as he patted your thighs with his warm palms. His eyes searched yours for any cues he was missing, something he was supposed to be getting but wasn't, though you knew if you did decide to try and make him guess that it would be hours before he'd even be on the correct ballpark of correct answers. Easier just to throw him a bone. Something vague that would get him to back off for a bit. The back of your head touched a cabinet as you leaned back. You swiped your hand across your mouth to remove any excess coffee before shrugging.

"Just not- I'm not feeling all that great." Your brows were knit in a small scowl as you wrung your hands together. Your palms were sweaty, a sigh on your lips as his hands squeezed your waist again. His hands were warm. You could feel it through your shirt as he gently kneaded some of the skin. He didn't even seem to realize he was doing it, working more off of what felt good rather than thinking through his moves.

He attempted a light-hearted scoff as he scrutinized your excuse. Though you were unamused regardless and shoved at his shoulder, a sneer tugging at your lips. Though he quickly kissed you on the mouth, the sneer leaving your face as his lips met yours. You wagered he used more force than he meant to, as your neck was being forced to an odd angle with the back of your head against the cabinet.

"'ve seen yuh get shot, stabbed, punched, pinned. Seen all that shite. And I know yuh don't go all mopey or secretive about it. Talk to me, gaol. What's actually got yuh wide awake?" Damn, he was earnest as hell. You avoided his practically pleasing gaze as he implored you to share whatever your burden was, whatever ailed you in the moment. Whatever it was, he wanted to share it or at least try and get you to open up. You swallowed hard and you couldn't be sure if you would actually articulate anything if you opened your mouth. You weren't sure whether you wanted to or not either.

One of his hands left your hips and ran through your hair and you leaned into the touch as you begrudgingly met his gaze. Cold sweat sat in your tresses and you wondered how he could stand to touch your slicked locks.

"I'm not pulling your leg, Johnny. I'm not feeling all too hot right now. That's all." Your insistence came out as almost wishy-washy. A whiny complaint as you sat on the counter and stared at him through weary eyes. Your statement earned you unforseen side effects in the form of a cheeky grin as he kissed your cheek and spoke in a teasing tone.

"Yer definitely lookin' hot if it's any consolation."

Oh. Oh. It had little to no intention of telling him that regardless of how "hot" you looked right now, you felt like a ketchup bottle of blood and no amount of flattery would really help that.

You only seemed to register his further attempts at testing the waters when one of his hands found the hem of your shirt. He maintained eye contact as he began to tug your shirt up slightly, exposing the lower muscles of your abdomen. He seemed to be waiting more for your consent and permission, trying to see how up for action you were at the moment. He was met with you grabbing his wrist as you practically snapped:

"Wait." From you as you stared him down, wide-eyed with an air of panic streaked on you.

It wasn't as though you'd never gotten intimate before, but being intimate with him specifically would be new. You'd had a few partners in highschool but none who were important enough to mention. They'd also only known you from before your first surgery. When you'd been grabbing onto anything in an attempt to try and force yourself into the idea that if you could play the part of a highschool girl, then maybe you'd find some kind of satisfaction in that life. You didn't enjoy that part of your past, and as such you hadn't disclosed it to your peers.

You'd been too cautious to let John know about your surgery yet, too worried that he'd treat or think of you differently. As such, you'd usually turn the topic to him. With intimate times usually culminating in you practicing your blow or hand job skills or simply just denying intimacy altogether on some occasions. You always remained fully dressed, with your most casual being a tank top and shorts. You let him touch freely over your top, and he usually ended up holding the back of your head but that was the extent. You tried to focus intimacy back to him, focusing on making him feel good.

He'd always done his best to be understanding while still expressing concern for you. Nights of one-sided intimacy ended with him asking in earnest if there was something he could do for you. Stating he "didn't want to leave you with blue balls". You'd always shrugged it off and insisted you were alright, to which he'd find some way to repay you sooner or later. He'd grab a copy of a book he knew you wanted, try and cook you something in the barrack's kitchen or simply get you flowers when he saw them.

He'd done nothing that would make you think he wouldn't be accepting, and yet you still found your stomach in knots and your heart pounding away in your chest as his fingers cautiously rested on your shirt. His eyes searched yours and despite your unsure inner turmoil, you still found that you couldn't find it in yourself to ask him to stop. You wanted him to know. You wanted to stop feeling guilty. To stop feeling like it was some kind of shameful secret that you had to hide from him.

Your throat seemed suddenly and uncomfortably dry. A few swallows did nothing to quell the dry spot that seemed less than eager to leave. John removed his hand from your shirt, letting one stay on your hip and bringing the other up open palmed by his head as if in surrender.

"Not looking to tic you off, 'pologies." It was clear that there was guilt in his tone as he gently squeezed your hip again. His face gained a slight blush of embarrassment at having driven that strong of a reaction from you. Christ, had he pissed you off? Had he made things worse? Here you were simply trying to deal with whatever was makin' you get up in the middle of the night and he came along and pissed you off. Great going genius. Dumbass.

His internal monologue was practically written across his face as his gaze went from the coffee mugs, to the cabinets, the ceiling and really anything that wasn't your face. In return, you found your own embarrassment creeping on your face. He'd been trying to do something for you, to be nice and you'd snapped. You'd snapped at him for something that you had planned on doing yourself. Damnit. Alright, off with the band-aid.

"I didn't mean to yell, you just- you just startled me. That's all." It was time for your own gaze to be best friends with the floor as you continued speaking. "I'd just like to ask a selfish promise of you first. Is that okay?"

"Oddly serious."

"John."

"Sorry. Alright, ask away."

How do you phrase this? You'd never really had to think of it before, you'd naively assumed that you could cruise through the relationship without the topic ever coming up.

"Just promise that you won't get mad at me."

He paused for a moment, his eyebrow cocked up in an arch as he gnawed the inside of his cheek.

"Sounds like it's gonna depend on what yer about to spring on me."

You seemed ready to insist and he quickly amended his statement, a kiss on your forehead before he spoke.

"Yes, sorry. I promise I won't be mad at you."

You paused before nodding in acknowledgement and guiding his free hand back to your shirt hem. His fingers ran along the cloth for a few moments more before eventually tugging the cloth up again. His other hand joined the first in the ordeal of lifting up your shirt and before long, he was holding the balled up shirt in one hand haphazardly. Your thin scars sat pale and discolored against the rest of your skin and you saw his eyes trace over your body a few times before meeting your gaze again. There, you'd done it. Your cheeks burned what you could only assume was a vibrant scarlet as you waited for some statement of acknowledgement or a scoff. Maybe a huff before he broke down your self esteem.

Though you were eventually met with a sympathetic look as his set your shirt to the side and resumed holding your hips.

"That all?"

Was that all?

You'd shown the man what had been your secret. What kept you awake on some nights just wondering in a cold sweat about how he'd react, if he'd insult you, demean you. Break up with you on the spot, spread the word among your peers. Leave you getting stared at when you walked into a room. But what you'd earned instead was a "That all?"

"The fuck do you mean, 'that all?'" You weren't livid, you weren't annoyed, honestly you couldn't place what you were. Had you wanted some big reaction out of him? Had you wanted a big emotional confrontation? Well, no, but what you'd wanted at least something. Not a reaction that made it seem like you were being dismissed.

You opened your mouth to speak again and instead found him cutting you off with an abrupt kiss that bumped your head against the cabinet again from the force he'd used. He held the kiss for longer than you found normal and just as you were about to try and tap on his shoulder as a reminder that you needed to break for air, he pulled away and laughed quietly to himself as his hands rested on his own hips.

"Laddie, you had me worried yuh were about to reveal some kind of second head or fused twin in some Total Recall type of shite. Maybe a really corny tattoo that I would laugh at 'und not be able to take yuh seriously because of. But this? I don't get how yuh think I'd be mad about it. 'Could spend hours jus' starin' at you if yuh'd let me. What I'm getting at here, is that yer quite possibly the most gorgeous guy I've had the fortune of layin' eyes on. Scars or not." Near the end of his accented monologue, he gently began cupping the your face before kissing your forehead again.

Your mind seemed to have paused, processing everything slowly. Maybe you were just hormonal. Maybe you just had pent up aggression from something else, but you found self loathing begin to rush over you in droves as you thought about the aforementioned nights laying in puddles of your cold sweat as you worried and terrified yourself with an endless sleep of scenarios and what-ifs that scared you into not telling him for so long. And yet here he was. He seemed to be barely thrown-off his paces.

You found tears lining your vision, frustration at yourself as well as some swell of relief had planted seed in your heart as you leaned forward to cry into his shoulder. He looked fairly surprised or at least unexpecting of that reaction, though he quickly found his role again. One hand moved to be buried in your hair and gently massaging your scalp as the other found your back and gently patted it between your gasping inhales.

One of the few things that kept you from wailing into the material of his shirt, was the knowledge that you weren't trying to awake or draw the attention of any late night walkers nearby. Instead, you did your best for emotional release via choked sobs and your quivering breaths. You grabbed a handful of his shirt with one hand and your other wrapped under his arm to hold tightly to his back as you gave another shaky inhale and left the impression of your tears and spit in darkened patches across his shirt.

"Gotta throw this into the dryer before I call it in for the night, yeah?" He chuckled quietly into your hair as he gave you a squeeze. He was warm against you, and you found your lungs gradually being able to work actual proper breaths into your chest. Your crying hadn't lasted all that long, but your process of calming down and simply laying against him lasted far longer. He planted another kiss on your head before gently holding your jaw in his warm hands. He swiped his thumbs across your face to wipe away your stray tears.

He held your gaze for a few moments longer before speaking. His voice was quiet, his eyes searching yours as he attempted to check if you were alright or not yet in an unspoken question. You gave one final quivering exhale as you collected your thoughts and what dignity you had left.

A few moments more and you had calmed down fully and you'd hopped off the counter. He held your hand in a firm but gentle grip and it seemed like he had something more to say, but you cut off him. Figuring that you owed him an explanation for his initial question.

"I'm cramping. That's why I'm down here. Couldn't sleep."

It seemed clear that he wasn't sure what you were speaking of initially. His mind most likely moving through any of the training or sparring sessions where he might've hit you harder than necessary or when you could've possibly sprained it. Though a few moments more and a few embarrassed hand gestures from you, he seemed to get the gist. Your cheeks gained the splash of bright red again as you saw him begin trying to think through how to help.

"Pain killers?"

"A couple in my system right now. Not helping."

"..heatin' pad?"

"Couldn't find one."

He paused in his suggestions and it was clear he had something working in his mind as he stared at you for a moment longer before giving his next idea.

"You uh- you try an orgasm yet?"

You quickly threw a swing and slugged him in the shoulder as you scrunched your eyes to a glare. You called him a pervert and you saw him smile subtly as he feigned pain from your punching. He rubbed his arm and gave a quick hiss through his teeth as he continued pretending your attack had hurt him, complaining half-heartedly that you would leave a bruise. Regardless, he let you continue to punch him a few more times, though the smile and crinkle of the corners of his eyes made it clear he was anything but upset.

"Lay off, lay off." He chuckled for a moment as he took your hands in his before moving them to your side, though you quickly crossed your arms as you shot him a half-hearted glare.

"Look, all I'm sayin', luv is that I was with a girl a good number of years back. Anytime it was shark week she'd ask for some time together and I, being the astute gentleman that I am, would say yes. She was claimin' it made her feel better for a littl' while. I ain't sayin' there's some great biological flare to it, but at the very least, it took her mind off it for a while if there ain't any other explanation." He cast you a subtle smile before planting another kiss on the side of your neck, taking care to bite the skin and leave a red blemish.

Your brows furrowed as you scrunched up your face in a mild show of scrutinization. You were sure his story had some merit to it in terms of the source material but in terms of whether or not it actually meant anything? Whatever it was, he believed what he was saying even if you were suspicious of it. You found the warmth of his hands had been traveling up slowly but surely, with his hands now on your side instead of your hips. As he held your eye contact, the question was practically written on his face. His eyebrows were raised as he waited for your answer. One of his hands still squeezed your side but the other dropped slowly to rest on the curve of your groin through your pants. Damn it. What did you really have to lose?

--

"You know this is insanely unsanitary, yeah?"

Your protest was practically token at this point. You had little intention of actually backing down now but you still wanted to put all the cards on the table. Some kind of disclosure. Or at the very least one final chance for him to back out if he had his own doubts he'd been too polite to speak.

"Well aware." His tone was matter-of-factly in that his will or decision wouldn't be the one wavering. Though it was clear you were more than welcome to still change your mind if you wanted to. He'd slung your t-shirt along with his underneath you in leu of a towel or blanket considering he didn't want to risk waking anyone up on his way to the barracks. The hour was still late enough that no one else was awake. No one else should've been awake. The clock gave another scornful series of clicks and you watched his jaw already at work even as he stood with his hands on his hips staring at your closed knees.

"Are you chewing gum?"

"......maybe. That an issue?"

"Johnny, I don't want you somehow spitting gum in my- look when did you even get it?"

You watched as he quickly swallowed the piece without hesitation and shrugged as he glanced back to you. He began to speak with a tone that made it clear his comment was satirical. Or at the very least an attempt at self depreciation to try and make you more comfortable since you seemed less than whole-y in your element. He wasn't entirely stupid. He was sure if he was laying splayed out like a Christmas turkey on table, he wouldn't exactly be full of confidence. He spoke with his hands. That was something you'd begun to notice during your months of being together. And it seemed reflected now with how he spoke with vague gestures and a grin that now tugged at his lips, revealing the tops of his teeth and some hints of gums.

"Feel like there's a lot of unwarranted judgement coming my way about my breath care and gum habits. Specifically coming from someone who's asking me to eat them out or fuck their pussy till they see stars."

You cringed slightly from your spot on the table, you propped yourself up on your elbows as you stared at him from between your knees. You were sure he hadn't meant anything by it, and in all honesty you couldn't pin down why you disliked it either. But his use of "pussy" just made your stomach churn more than the cramps were already.

"Y'mind not calling it that?"

"Callin' it what? A pussy?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. I mean I can be gross and jus' call it a hole if yuh'd like. That sound insanely sexy? 'Laddie, please let me fuck your hole.'" He trailed off into a quiet laugh as he wiped his lips. It seemed clear that he was working through compromises in his mind. As much as he was joking, it seemed clear he was still trying to find a solution that pleased you. He ran his pointer finger and thumb over his top lip, rubbing what stubble had managed to grow out before he settled on one.

"Does 'cunt' work?"

You raised an eyebrow in response, seemingly more of a "convince me" rather than an absolute "no". You adjusted the shirts underneath your hips, your flannel pants were catching on the fabric and you found a short internal monologue crossing your mind as you began wondering why you hadn't already taken them off. You felt foolish. They were going to come off anyways, so why'd that have to be part of whatever attempt at being "sexy" he'd pull? Whatever. Your internal monologue was cut off by his voice soon after.

"Simple yes or no. If I were to say-" His voice started off at what you assumed was his attempt at "husky" but considering his accent, was more so borderline incomprehensible in the beginning. "There is nothing more that I'd like to do right now than grab your knees, snap your legs open and eat out your cunt like it was the last fuckin' meal on this whole damn planet-" He trailed off, his fingers had begun tracing along your hips again before eventually fondling the tassels of your pants as he undid them. When he was done, his fingers were hooked along the seam of your waist and and he was leaning his head against your partially parted legs, his cheek on your knee.

"What would yuh do then? Would that be doin' anythin' for yuh?" You feigned deep thought, rubbing your chin for a moment as you egged him on. You brought your other knee to the other side of his head and gently squeezed.

"I'd probably say I'd need a bit more convincing."

He brought a hand up to haphazardly grab at the thigh of the leg that he wasn't leaning against. He opened your legs slightly further and he enunciated his syllables further now with dropping his head and inch of two. "Alright well what 'bout this," He hummed in thought for a moment or two as he mulled over what to say.

"I could say somethin' along the lines of 'seein' you splayed out like this with a cunt that's practically begging for me to fuck, 'und a mouth that's beggin' me to kiss it. You've got eyes that make me want to get lost in 'em. You've got a voice like music." He seemed to laugh for a second before adding onto the monologue, almost in a purposely attempt to ruin whatever blissful or heartfelt tone. "You've got a cunt that I'd be more than happy to already be inside of by now."

This was met with a surprisingly sheepish grin from you as you used a hand to shove his face off your leg as you tuned away and attempted to keep some kind of cool or reserved exterior.

"Yeah sure. I guess that'd do something for me." With that confirmation of yours, he cast you a toothy grin again before making quick work of your pajamas pants. He had first bitten the hem and tugged them down a few inches, but after a look of confusion that you shot him, he quickly abandoned that idea and instead just used his hands like a normal person. He'd balled them up and tossed your pants aside without much thought. His lips soon found your abdomen and he began planting kisses all along your visible skin.

When he got to your chest, he cast you a glance. It seemed more like confirmation of permission as he held your gaze. You gaze a curt nod of acknowledgement, almost more akin to embarrassment before he exhaled warm breath onto your skin. You were met with a string of chaste kisses along one of your scars as he gently squeezed your sides. One of his knees was hiked up onto edge of the table as he leaned further forward, the kisses continuing to follow. The kisses turned to hickies as he began leaving red marks that bloomed across your skin, and you watched as he stared in some amount of odd satisfaction as the marks began to cover larger amounts of different patches of your skin.

He left another blooming red mark on the bottom of your jaw before capturing your lips in a kiss. One of his hands became tangled in your hair, grabbing almost a whole fistful as he held onto you with some depraved amount of desperation that you couldn't even be sure the origin of. After a while, he seemed to remember that it was a good idea to let you breath, and he broke the kiss. Staring down at you through hazy eyes as he huffed quietly. His huffing left every exhale as a puff of his breath straight to your face, and you counted yourself lucky that he'd had the forethought to chew the gum before hand.

He shot you a quick grin before quickly slipping off you and moving to stand at the edge of the table again. He wiped his hands on his pants though he hadn't dirtied them. He then let his fingers trail at the edges of the waistband of the boxers you had on. You grimaced slightly as he pulled at your boxers again before leaving you bare on the table. Your face burned a vibrant scarlet and you stared at one of the walls to your side, though you felt him tap your calf for your attention.

"Jus' give me the word and we'll stop. Yeah?"

You nodded shakily but kept your gaze on the wall only to hear him call for a verbal response.

"Not doin' anythin' till I hear it."

You nodded again as you responded, speaking almost under your breath in a seemingly annoyed fashion. "Understood."

"Lovely."

With that you felt him press his middle and pointer finger to the folds of your cunt. His thumb rested lazily on your clit as he dragged his fingers around for a few moments. His fingers slipped into your cunt with little resistance and he found that the blood worked surprisingly well considering he wasn't sure how aroused you were and how much of the slick was yours. You were warm. Felt slicker than he wagered you'd be after an orgasm as well. He then moved his fingers to the base of your cunt before giving one quick swipe upwards, dragging a smear of your blood up with him. You yelped, shot him a confused stare as he laid a hand open-palmed on your abdomen.

"That alright, luv?" He met your gaze for a moment as he rubbed his finger tips to his thumb, feeling your blood in a way that weirded you out. Though what drew a cry of disgust from your lips was when he swiped his fingers across his tongue, tasting your blood. You gagged for a moment and physically cringed as you began yelling about how gross he was. He shushed you quickly for a moment and was cut off by his own barky laugh.

"Again. I'm hearin' a lot of complaints from someone who's needin' somethin' from me. And if you keep yellin' like that, you're probably gonna catch some poor passerby-er's attention."

You begrudgingly gritted your teeth as you turned your gaze away from him and mumbled a half-hearted sigh of acquiescence. "Whatever."

You nodded though and returned to staring up at the ceiling above, an occasional glance at either of the two clocks as they clicked quietly. Your mind wandered for a moment as you attempted to try and keep your mind off of how exposed you felt. The cool air on your cunt only seemed to add to the sensation and you squirmed for a moment more before settling still again. What seemed to summon your attention again was his movement as he crouched down, his hands gripping the outside of your thighs. His face was between your legs and you met his gaze for a moment before you saw him lick a stripe along your folds.

You grunted, moving a hand to lay across your eyes as he dragged his tongue from bottom to top of your sex. You gritted your teeth again and found that your mind traveled to the fact of how unsanitary it all was. You thought of the mess of blood that must've been in his stubble at the moment and you found yourself suppressing a small gag. Despite this, you stayed quiet considering how good it felt. His tongue slipped into your cunt and you squeezed instinctively to which he grunted. A puff of his warm breath hit your cunt, and you heard him mumble softly. As such, you felt the vibrations hit your heart in a way that sparked a rumble in your throat.

Your cunt already ached from your cramps and you found that his tongue was driving you closer to an orgasm than you wagered you would've been otherwise or in regular circumstances. Every lick across your cunt left you fighting your urge to buck against his mouth for more friction, but you quickly found the he seemed to get the message. His hands tightened on your hips and tugged you forward for closer contact as he continued licking, his hawked nose occasionally dragging further in your folds. He wouldn't pretend that it tasted amazing, but the tang of copper on his tongue wasn't something he found particularly offsetting.

You whined softly and he squeezed the malleable flesh of your hips in what you assumed was his attempt at a reassuring fashion. His mouth moved upwards along your cunt, his tongue eventually lapping at your clit. You could more directly see the blood on his lips and stubble now as well as the flecks across his nose. His hands moved from your thighs to the tops of your knees as he began to spread your legs further. You whined softly in return, feeling your muscles ache in return as your breathing hitched.

Your heart hammered in your chest and his eyes seemed hazy as he continued lapping at your cunt like a dehydrated dog at a water bowl. He continued lapping with more intention as he dipped his tongue further between your folds. He could feel his cock grow stiff against his leg and he did his best to ignore it. You were important. This was for you. He resigned himself to fucking his hand after you fell asleep.

You whined softly and moaned from behind your hand as he tugged you closer. The work of his mouth on your clit left you giving a shrill mewl as you came. You heard him grunt in surprise and felt him release your clit which he'd begun sucking on. You saw him blink a few times before licking the discharge from your folds as it made it's way down and mixed with the remaining blood in your folds.

After he finished cleaning the remains of your orgasm, he stood back and looked you over as if to gauge your reaction or wait for any criticism. He criss-crossed his arms and laid his forearms across the tops of your knees and stared down at you before speaking softly. "Y'alright?"

You nodded blearily, half focused on him and half focused on trying to keep some kind of dignified expression again as you spoke. "M' good."

You heard and saw him chuckle before cleaning his face with his hand before wiping it on his pant's leg. He leaned over you for a moment, keeping balance on his forearm before pressing a kiss to your forehead and then pressing one to your lips. A few moments more and you rubbed your mouth absentmindedly for a moment as you looked him over. Your cunt had stopped painfully throbbing and your stomach had stopped coiling in knots for a a moment. Maybe his ex had actually been right about something.

[bekolxeram]

Heya, I've got a question since you seem to know a lot about aviation. So this point is a bit of a 'controversy' among the fans: does Tommy fly both helicopters and planes, or just helicopters? People are inferring the former because of the episode in season 2 where Chimney called Tommy, and then the water-bomber plane came, and, watching this, Chimney thanked Tommy. Now, I find it to be entirely plausible that a) Chimney meant it as a thanks because Tommy organized the rescue rather than being the pilot himself and b) also a minor detail that, while written back then, was never meant to come back in the way it did. Now, however, we have a lot more background info on Tommy, and to me it seems unlikely that he got training for both helicopters and planes, and that he does fly both in his line of work. Also, if he was able to fly planes as well and had access to them at work, why would they take a helicopter to Vegas when a light aircraft would be the better option? (I assume, though I could be wrong). What are your thoughts and your expertise on this?

Thank you for asking! Always love an aviation related question.

One of the first posts I've ever written here is about this very topic. The US Army operates mainly helicopters. Yes, they do have like a hundred or so fixed wing aircrafts for transport and recon missions, but that's nothing compared to the 4000+ helicopters currently in service. You also have to finish your entire helicopter pilot training before you can even apply for fixed wing training program for the Army. Tommy's timeline is already tight enough, I don't think he had the time to learn how to fly a plane in the military. (You need like at least 800 hours on a multi-engine airplane as pilot-in-command to be considered for the CAL FIRE training program for instant.)

But the most damning evidence is that the news reporter in 2x14 actually said the air tanker was with CAL FIRE, so not LAFD, a completely different agency. I imagine Air Ops had their hands tied during that major power outage already, so Tommy had to pull some strings and call other agencies for help. (Shamelessly pugging my own hc of Tommy dating a CAL FIRE pilot in the past here.)

And yes, light fixed wing aircrafts are much more suited for medium range trips. They are also cheaper to rent and more widely available than helicopters. So there's a chance that Tommy has no experience on an airplane at all. Helicopter pilots do have a head start when learning how to fly a plane though, the basics of flight are the same, it's just the mechanical side of things that differs between rotary and fixed wing. For example, you have to closely monitor your air speed when flying a plane, because it generates lift by deflecting the incoming stream of air downward. If you fly too slow, you risk stalling the plane and falling out of the sky. A helicopter on the other hand, actively moves air downward by spinning the main rotor, so air speed is not that important for safety, you can move straight up and down without moving an inch horizontally.

That's not to say it's impossible for Tommy to know how to fly a small airplane. He may simply have more connections in the rotary wing world, or he feels more comfortable flying a friend in a helicopter since he's more experienced. Helicopters also have the advantage of landing straight down in tight spaces, eliminating the need to wait for a landing slot on a runway when traffic is high.

[farenmaddox]

Fic: nobody said it was easy Fandom: Supernatural Status: Complete, 10k Rating: T and up Pairing: Castiel/Dean, significant amounts of Sam & Cas friendship Summary: After the events of 11x23, Dean and Mary miss Cas at the bunker by a mere few minutes. Cas goes to rescue Sam from the BMoL and brings in a few allies to help, meanwhile Dean has no idea anything is wrong and just thinks it’s taking them a while to get home. After Sam’s rescue, Castiel and Sam talk, and grieve. When they do go home, Dean and Cas’s reunion goes a bit differently. a.k.a. Cas Widower Arc

Excerpt: (under read more)

Castiel strode back into the bunker at 5:34 am, his blade ready in hand for round two—he was prepared, this time, and was certain he could throw the blade into someone’s chest before they managed to touch the sigil—only to find no one there.

“Sam?” he yelled out.

A ticking noise from the generator was the only answer. The banishment sigil was still there, on the wall, and there was a pool of blood on the ground near it. Castiel dabbed his finger into the blood, and tasted. Mostly human, faintly demonic: it was definitely Sam’s. The woman clearly knew them pretty well if she had laid a trap for them that accounted for angelic presence, but Sam seemed to have been able to put up some kind of a fight.

Castiel told Dean he was going to look out for Sam. He was doing a great job of that so far. Less than a day and he’d already lost him.

No, he cut himself off, he couldn’t think that way right now. It was nothing but a distraction. He had to keep his thoughts organized. Sam had been taken, and Castiel needed to find him. Just to be absolutely certain, he conducted a full search of the bunker, calling out periodically. It felt like a waste of time, but it would be far worse to just leave without checking if it turned out that he was badly injured and hiding somewhere.

When Castiel was satisfied the bunker was truly empty, he turned his thoughts to how he would even begin to find his friend. Sam was normally the one who had the best ideas on finding people, so Castiel tried to imagine what he would do in this instance. He would interview the people in Lebanon to see if any of them remembered seeing a blond British woman. Castiel was off-putting and not good at interviews, but he knew a few of the people in this town by now from periodic missions to retrieve beer or takeout for the boys, so maybe he could manage it. But what Sam would be trying to find out was where she might have said she was going, and what kind of vehicle she was driving. Oh, of course—Sam would use the computer to look for her vehicle.

Castiel stared at Sam’s laptop. The laptop stared back.

Castiel reached into his pocket and retrieved from his wallet the slip of paper with the phone number he had, thus far, been too much of a coward to use. He walked over to one of the old rotary phones that Sam and Dean had told him was disconnected. Maybe humans couldn’t use it anymore, but Castiel certainly could. He let a fizzle of grace chase down his fingers as he entered the phone number, and listened to the call connect. If only Dean and Sam could have been there to see it and do the thing with their mouths and eyebrows that meant they were impressed. These mundane uses of his grace were only fun when he had an audience.

“It is six in the morning, this had better be damn good,” a voice groaned into the phone.

Read the rest on AO3

Note: my AO3 account is locked to registered users only. You need to be logged in to read the fic.

[historyofguns]

The article "Dabbs: My Time in the U.S. Army Rotary-Wing Flight School" by Will Dabbs, MD, recounts the author's lifelong passion for aviation and his experiences in the U.S. Army's Rotary-Wing Flight School at Fort Rucker, Alabama. Dabbs reflects on his childhood fascination with World War II aircraft, leading him to pursue a career as a military helicopter pilot. He describes the competitive selection process, the various training phases, and the challenging yet rewarding journey through flight school. Dabbs particularly highlights his time training with the UH-1 Huey helicopters, his transition to flying CH-47 Chinooks, and the intense camaraderie and friendships formed with fellow soldiers. The article also touches on the inherent dangers of military aviation, including the loss of friends, and concludes with Dabbs expressing gratitude for his military experiences.

[dixieconley]

What if Palpatine's habit of using the chip to make Fox his personal assassin had consequences?

Triage: Fox, you need more sleep or it's going to have serious consequences to your health. Fox: I'll sleep when I'm dead. Triage: … Triage: You mean that literally, don't you? Thorn: ::chiming in helpfully:: He does sleep-- Fox: Thank you, Thorn. Thorn: --he sleeps standing up during Senate shifts all the time.  And at his desk.  He's been making folding art out of his flimsiwork again.  Look!  An Omicron class attack shuttle!  And a rotary cannon! Fox: Give me those.  I still need to file them. Thorn: ::clutches the rotary cannon to his chest:: No! My precious!! Triage: … Triage: That's it.  I'm sedating you for the next eight hours and you *will* sleep. Fox: … Triage: If you ever want another cup of caf again, you'll cooperate. Fox: …fine.

And so Fox gets sedated so he can get some real rest.  But what none of them know is that Fox is *used* to carrying out blackout missions while his conscious mind is suppressed.  Overuse of the chip has left him highly suggestible in this state.  And sedation?  Is an awful lot like being put under by the chip.

Triage: ::surveying a sleeping Fox:: Finally. Thorn: Hey, this is a good thing, right? Triage:  ::darkly::  Kill the chancellor for me please. Thorn: Is he a traitor?  Please tell me he's a traitor.  We get to kill traitors. Triage: …yes.  He's somehow managed to violate even the low standards for health and safety that we had on Kamino.  So do kill him, please. Thorn: ::laughing:: I wish.

And they think they're joking, but Fox is Right.  There.  And he's heard everything even if only subconsciously.

So… four hours later.

Triage: Where's Fox?  I'm going to kill him.  He's escaped from Medbay.  Again. Thorn: Where do you think? Triage: …at his desk? Thorn: ::nods:: Making a lightsaber out of flimsi. Triage: ::sighs:: Keep him there.  I'll be right up. Thorn: Will do.  Thorn out.  ::to Fox::  Can you make one of the Chancellor next?  I want to blow it up. Fox: ::nods, keeps folding:: Thire: ::bursts into office:: Fox!  Thorn!  The chancellor's dead!  He was killed in his sleep!  And the guard on duty said the last person to leave was the commander! Thorn: Couldn't have been Fox.  He was under sedation in Medbay and he's still asleep right now. Thire: But he's at his desk? Thorn: He does that.  Fox sleepwalks-- ::both stare at Fox in dawning comprehension:: Thorn: … Thire: You don't suppose he got footage, do you?

Much later, after a long nap:

Fox: I couldn't have killed him.  I'm a professional.  If I'd killed him, I wouldn't have left a body behind. Thorn: Maybe don't use that argument at your trial? Fox: Meh.  The Chancellor's dead.  Nothing can top this. Fox: Other than kriffing *remembering* it.

[pinturas-gran-guerra-aire]

1917 07 Castor Oil Music - Russell Smith

Castor Oil Music depicts Sopwith Triplane N533, one of several triplanes flown by RNAS Cdr Raymond Collishaw. Collishaw, who commanded “B” Flight of Naval Squadron 10, scored two of his 60 victories in this machine. N533 bore the name “Black Maria” on its fuselage and was marked with a large “C” on the fuselage and upper rear elevator. This was one of only six Sopwith Triplanes which were equipped with twin Vickers machine guns rather than the single Vickers which most Triplanes were armed with.  Although only about 150 Sopwith Triplanes were built, it was considered a successful design, and is acknowledged to be the inspiration for Anthony Fokker’s more famous Dr.1 triplane. Collishaw thought highly of the design stating “The Triplane I found to be a delightful machine - in my estimation much preferable to the Pup.” The title, Castor Oil Music, refers to the castor oil which was commonly used to lubricate the rotary Clerget engines used by the Sopwith Triplane. Here was see Collishaw warming his engine as he prepares for another mission