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lonestarflight · 1 month
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"The Enterprise earns its wings as it flies piggyback on a 747 over Edwards Air Force Base, Calif."
Rockwell International ad commemorating Enterprise's first flight on the 747 SCA.
Date: February 18, 1977
Intrepid Museum Archive: 2014.113.01
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nocternalrandomness · 2 years
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OR1201 AMS-RHO rocketing out of 36L
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odinsblog · 6 months
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Collective punishment of an entire group is prohibited under international law. Israel’s proposed siege would be a war crime that indiscriminately harms innocent people, especially the sick, the disabled, the elderly and small children, who never supported Hamas, a group repeatedly propped up by Benjamin Netanyahu himself, to sow division amongst the Palestinian people.
This in no way excuses Hamas raping women and murdering innocent children and the elderly. That’s terrorism. That’s war crimes. A war crime doesn’t stop being a war crime based on who does it, or which side you support. I had the great misfortune of having watched some of the videos of what happened. I don’t know how anyone can see this and not be heartbroken and dismiss it because of some idiotic, “they had it coming” mentality.
Look, Palestine is being oppressed. By Israel. Israel is doing the oppression. Benjamin Netanyahu is a war criminal. We can and should support Palestine. We do not, however, have to ignore war crimes to support Palestine. Similarly, Western media outlets should stop ignoring and downplaying Israel’s long and well documented history of war crimes and other atrocities committed against Palestinian civilians and reporters.
And please pay close attention to who resorts to antisemitism to “defend” Palestine. The cause of the Palestinian people is strong enough without using bigotry and racism.
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(video)
Finally, this is not a “war” between Palestine and Israel. Those words disingenuously imply a false equivalence, that both sides are evenly matched. They are not. The Palestinian ≠ Hamas, and the Palestinian people and Gazans do not have tanks, armored personnel carriers, helicopters, an air force, a navy, an army, nuclear weapons, and a sophisticated missile defense system. Israel, however, does have all of those things.
Hamas ≠ Palestine.
Palestinians do not have to be the perfect victims to deserve our support and sympathy.
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laracrofted · 3 months
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i want your midnights
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synopsis: on the coldest new year's eve in a decade, bob floyd shows up at your door. prequel to delicate.
pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader
warnings: 18+ minors and ageless blogs dni, bob is really soft and cozy and lovestruck, swearing (barely), so much yearning and pining, kissing kissing kissing (wc: 2.2K)
note: surprise! i wasn't planning to write something for new year's, but i missed lovestruck bob. happy new year, loves! 🍾
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summoning a few people who might be interested: @sometimesanalice @roosterbruiser @theharddeck @callsignspark @lewmagoo @gretagerwigsmuse @roosterforme @rhettabbotts
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He shouldn't be here right now. For several reasons. 
Technically, Bob should be on a plane right now – or on one of several planes because San Diego International doesn't offer any direct flights to the part of Montana Bob is from
He usually flies from San Diego to Los Angeles and Los Angeles to Bozeman and drives from there.
Except when half of California freezes over in the coldest storm in a decade on the very day Bob is supposed to head home for New Year's and grounds all of LAX.
This normally wouldn't be a big deal. He doesn't even care all that much about New Year's – New Year's is celebrated very casually in his family. He's usually in bed well before midnight. – but Bob already missed Christmas. 
He and Phoenix were selected for a special detachment at the end of December, which – while an honor and a privilege, etcetera – meant Bob spent Christmas on an aircraft carrier in the middle of the Pacific. He didn't get back until December 28.
Phoenix immediately drove up to San Francisco to be with her nieces and nephews. He'd been waiting for New Year's. 
Now, after countless delays and an eventual cancellation – which should've happened hours ago when Bob maybe could've found another way home, rented a car and driven the seventeen hours – Bob is stuck in San Diego.
Disappointed isn't a good enough word to express what Bob is feeling right now. 
He could've driven back to his apartment – his sad apartment, already devoid of colorful lights and silver and gold decorations because Bob didn't expect to come back until January. He could've called Fanboy or gone to the New Year's Eve party at the Hard Deck, but Bob isn't in the mood to be around people right now. 
He only wants to see one person. 
And now Bob is here – standing outside of your apartment with a backpack and a carry-on, like Bob is about to clear out a drawer and move right in. 
He probably looks like a weirdo. He definitely feels like a weirdo. 
Damn. This was a mistake. 
It's a brisk 40 degrees and dropping outside, and Coronado smells like ocean air and fireplace smoke. Pine needles, shed from the withering evergreens hauled onto the streets and abandoned the day after Christmas. Seawater and camphor and burning wood.
He shivers in the cold, broad shoulders rounding under the worn wool of his sweater. He should've worn something warmer – something nicer – but all of Bob's warmer coats are either deep in his suitcase or at his parents' house. He never expected to need them in San Diego.
A shaky puff of breath blows from his quivering lips. 
He breathes in a deep and steadying breath. A bracing breath. And knocks on the door. 
Minutes pass. Or maybe, just seconds.
Finally, Bob hears a voice from inside. Blessedly.
"Just a minute!" 
Your calm voice is like a soothing balm, even muffled, even barely audible, and Bob feels like a loosed bowstring – held taut for hours on end and at the sound of your voice, finally let free. He can drop his shoulders and loosen his clenched jaw for the first time in the past day – in the past week.
Tension melts off of him like the last snow of late spring from the Montana pines. He can finally relax. He can breathe again.
A crack of light spills out of the creaking door, and Bob pulls his gaze from his scuffed brown Blundstones. 
You are silhouetted in the doorway like a priceless Renaissance sculpture, glowing, curves highlighted and illuminated in the most beautiful dress Bob has ever seen.
Black satin, catching in the dim light and glimmering, like a blanket of stars on a cloudless December night.
He used to lay under stars like those in Montana and memorize the constellations. He feels the same sense of wonder, of awe looking at you.
He's always found you beautiful – even dressed in your coveralls with grease smudged on your cheeks, sometimes especially then – but now, fuck.
He's never seen your hair like that before, loose around your shoulders, curled like the ends of a ribbon on a beautifully wrapped present on Christmas morning. He shoves his hands in his pockets, slightly chapped and reddened from the dry cold, and pinches the denim between his palms, squashing the urge to reach out and wrap one of the delicate strands of hair around his finger.
A deep shade of red paints your lips, parting in a surprised smile. "Bob Floyd, is that you?" You shiver and hug your arms, and Bob, respectfully, keeps his eyes on your face. "Jesus Christ, when did it get so cold out here? Aren't you cold?" 
"I, uh... run warm, I guess," Bob says. He lifts his baseball cap and runs his fingers through the mess of strands underneath, in desperate need of a trim. Sets it back on his head and squares his shoulders. "Are you headed out?" 
You look down and absentmindedly shuffle your feet to look down at your heels – which reveals a slit in the fabric, exposing a line of bare skin all the way up to your thigh. God help him. 
"Kind of. I'm supposed to meet up with some of the other mechanics at the Hard Deck. There’s some New Year’s thing there, I guess.” You fold your arms across your chest and look at him, still smiling curiously. “But what about you? What brings you here on New Year's Eve?" 
He showed up out of the blue. Anyone else might be annoyed, but all Bob hears in your voice is gentle curiosity. Like Bob is the most pleasant of surprises. 
"I spent 12 hours in the airport, only for my flight to get canceled, and I couldn't go back to my apartment after that and spend New Year's alone, but I couldn't go to the Hard Deck either. I'm sorry," Bob adds. "I shouldn't have shown up here like this. I should've called you. You have plans."
You regard him, expression calm. "Don't be sorry. I'm happy to see you."
You're happy to see him. You're happy to see him.
Is it cold enough for the pink in his cheeks to be mistaken for a different kind of flush? He hopes so.
"Do you wanna come in?"
His eyes grow wide. "Oh... well, what about your party?"
You drop your shoulder in a shrug. "New Year's is kind of lame anyway. I was really going as an excuse to get dressed up because I never go anywhere fancy enough to wear this dress. It's been in the back of my closet for months."
His eyes drop to the dress again, and absently, Bob wonders what the material would feel like between his fingers, what it'd feel like to run his hand over the elegant slope of your hip. He swallows.
"It's quite a dress," Bob croaks. His mouth is so damn dry. "You, uh... You look really beautiful. It's really... yeah."
You watch him, expression softening like warmed butter. "Thank you, Bob."
You look at him – look past the backpack and the scuffed carry-on and the slightly baggy sweater that once belonged to his older brother – and Bob feels seen, really seen. He feels safe.
You bump the door open wider with your hip and reach for his luggage, wiggling your fingers playfully until Bob passes the suitcase over. He's rewarded with a beaming smile, radiant and warm.
"Come on. You like Chinese?"
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You change after Bob comes in, hanging up your dress and putting on an oversized gray sweater, pushed up at the sleeves, and a pair of fleece pajama pants that aren't quite the right length for your legs, covered in white dots and blue and white snowflakes.
You order the food and put on your favorite New Year's Eve movie while Bob calls his parents and gets comfortable, changing into sweatpants. His mom is pleased that Bob isn't spending New Year's alone, but Bob chooses his words carefully.
He is spending New Year's with a friend, not with a girl.
She'd ask questions Bob couldn't really answer in your hall bathroom.
When Bob comes back in, When Harry Met Sally is on.
You explain: "It's my favorite New Year's Eve movie. I watch it almost every year. If I start watching it 28 seconds after 10:30 PM – exactly, like down to the second – I can count down to midnight while Harry is confessing his love to Sally in the New Year’s scene."
You curl up on the couch, nursing a glass of champagne, while Bob sips from a chilled can of Ginger Ale while Harry and Sally banter and dance around each other and fall in love.
Admittedly, Bob is only half watching.
He likes this movie, but Bob is much more interested in you.
He is rarely alone with you.
He usually comes to see you on the Naval base – sometimes even making up questions as an excuse to come and talk to you, bringing coffee as a thank you for your answers – or seeks you out at the Hard Deck. He drove you home once when Bob was working late and spotted you in one of the hangars, but otherwise, Bob has never been here before.
About 30 minutes into the movie, Bob gets overheated and sheds his sweater, leaving him in a white short-sleeve and sweatpants underneath the oversized blanket from your bedroom. It's made of some kind of sherpa and smells like you.
Everything in here smells like you.
His legs are sprawled out in front of him, resting on the coffee table between a half-eaten plate of spring rolls and what’s left of his chicken chow mein. He ate his body weight in noodles and miso soup, and Bob feels warm and relaxed – if bordering on uncomfortably full.
He can barely focus with the smell of your perfume in his nostrils; excruciatingly aware of you underneath the blanket next to him, curled up with your legs folded underneath yourself, head lolling to the side, dangerously close to resting on his shoulder; smelling like cherries and champagne and vanilla and you.
A countdown begins in the background of the scene.
“Five…”
You sit up underneath the blanket, which brings you closer to him, inadvertently.
“Four…” 
Your arm brushes against Bob’s.
“Three…”
You watch the screen, excited, and count along.
“Two…” 
Your lips part in a wide and excited smile.
“One…” 
Cheers erupt on the screen, but Bob isn’t even pretending to watch the movie anymore. He’s watching you. 
You grin at him, eyes bright, looking so beautiful that Bob can’t hold the words in.
“Can I kiss you?” 
Surprise flashes across your face, soon replaced with a small smile. Bob can see a lipstick stain at the corner of your mouth from where earlier, you'd messily wiped the red from your lips with a cocktail napkin. He wants to reach out and smooth it away with the pad of his thumb. He wants to kiss the spot where the smudge used to be.
Instead, Bob holds his breath. Waits.
He shouldn't have said anything. You've been such a good friend to him. You changed your plans, invited him in.
What if Bob's ruined everything now?
You've never been so close. You ask, "Like a New Year's kiss? Or like a real kiss?"
What if Bob hasn't ruined anything at all?
“Both,” Bob says softly, like a confession.
What if?
You're glowing in the sparkle of multi-colored lights, still strung along the walls, still decorating the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room, blues and reds and greens, eyes glimmering, liquid warm. "Yeah. That'd be okay."
"Okay," Bob echoes, leaning in.
He presses his lips against yours in a gentle but firm kiss, cradling your jaw with a careful hand, stroking your cheek.
Bob doesn't linger. Doesn't press his luck.
He gives you a good and solid kiss and pulls back, eyes slowly opening.
"How was that?"
You lick your lips, and Bob follows the movement with his gaze, entranced.
"Kiss me again."
It's after midnight now, and uncertain, Bob asks, "Like a New Year's kiss?"
You shake your head, slow and clear, and lean in, and Bob meets you in the middle.
He kisses you in earnest now, kissing the smudge of red on the corner of your mouth, licking a drop of champagne from your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth, running his hands over your skin.
You do the same, running your hands over his shoulders, over his neck, and knocking his baseball hat from his head, run your fingers through his hair. You pull on the ends of the strands, pull him closer, and god, it's all Bob can do not to moan into your mouth.
You're all warm skin and soft curves and sweet perfume, and Bob is drowning drowning drowning.
You knock the wind out of him, and eventually, Bob is forced to pull back and catch his breath. His chest is heaving. His cheeks are pink and warm.
You blink up at him, eyes wide and glassy, as if pulled from a dream, and give him a dazed smile. You murmur, low and breathless, "Happy New Year, Bob."
I think I'm in love with you.
"Happy New Year," Bob whispers instead.
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end note: likes are always appreciated, but comments and reblogs make my whole day. i love hearing from y'all!
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teenidlegirl · 1 month
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ೀ ݁.﹒𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐅𝐖𝐀𝐘 .ᐟ
⠀⠀┈ ꒰ ᘏ ₊ ࣪ ꒱ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑 ⋅ 𝐚 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐮𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞
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ઇ ˚ ݂ ֹ ꒰ miguel o’hara 𝓍 fem!civilian!reader ꒱ ! ۟ ׅ ♡
˒ ♡ ៸៸𓂃  𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚  ˖  ׁ ⁩ .ᐟ  peter and jess are suspicious of miguel’s slightly strange behavior. avoiding further questions, he goes on a night patrol but that plan changes when he stops by your apartment for a quick checkup.
˒ ♡ ៸៸𓂃  𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕  ˖  ׁ ⁩ .ᐟ  fluff, swearing, pet names, spanish terms, slightly suggestive (if ya squint), arguments, tension
᠀ . ˚ ┈ masterlist ⋅ next chapter
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he was acting different. well, to everyone he’s just miguel. but to his two closest colleagues, oh yeah there’s something up in that man’s big ass. peter and jess notice the slight change in his behavior. sure, his intimidating demeanor and the usual yelling at random spiderlings is still intact. but miguel is being secretive about something and that made the two spider individuals suspicious. besides monitoring the multiverse on the orange screens at his desk, miguel would have a small separate monitor off to the side and observe for long periods of time. what is he watching? or the better question is, who is he watching? they couldn’t get a glimpse of the screen but it’s definitely not multiverse-related. the two had to eventually ask him, or least attempt before he would tell them to buzz off. take a shot in the dark.
“heyyy miguel.” a familiar, annoying voice echos his office, making him wince at the sound.
“no.” he states sternly, those ruby eyes remained fixated on the orange screens.
“aw come on. you don’t even know what i was going to say.” peter swings up to his platform, standing beside the tall brooding man. mayday babbles in the baby carrier, tiny arms stretching out to miguel.
“don’t care. now, leave.” miguel doesn’t budge, hunched over his desk with fists at his sides. he knew exactly why peter visited and he did not care to elaborate. it’s a personal matter, others should respect that. but unfortunately, certain people like to be nosey sometimes. he groans internally.
peter raised his hands in the air. “hey, man. i’m just looking for my friend. it’s just—”
“i don’t need you looking out for me. just leave parker, before i do something i’ll regret.” miguel threaten, consistently opening and closing his fists as a method to maintain himself.
peter only responds with a chuckle as he watches his daughter climb on top of miguel’s shoulders before sitting down on top of his head. miguel, on the other hand, accepts his fate with a quiet sigh and allows mayday to use him as a playground. secretly, he doesn’t mind the baby at all. in fact, he adores it when she plays with him but of course he rather die than admit that. take it to the grave.
“maybe mayday can get you to talk.” peter suggests, placing his hands on his hips.
finally, miguel side-eyed the man dressed in the pink fuzzy robe with an annoyed look. before he could utter a word, another voice interrupts him.
“yeah, maybe she can.” jessica enters the room, landing on the platform, resting a hand on her swollen belly and the other on her hip.
“not you too.” the tall brooding man groans heavily, rubbing his temples with one hand. he swears, if mayday wasn’t sitting on top of his head right now, he would throw the desk at peter.
“come on, miguel. something’s going on with you, like you’re hiding something.” jess inquired.
goddamnit, now he’s really pissed off. the only source maintaining his anger, preventing him from lashing out is the adorable baby on top of his head. he really doesn’t want to discuss about this. people should just mind their own damn business.
“well, i’m not. if that’s all you need to say, then leave.” miguel argues, not looking at either of them.
“uh huh, miguel. you ain’t getting away with it this time.” jess takes a step forward, crossing her arms. “who’ve you been watching?”
his fists grew tighter at that moment, shoulders and back tense. “no one.” hint of venom laced in his tone.
luckily, and finally, mayday climbs off his head and clings onto his bulky shoulder before sipping off. thanks to his swiftly reflexes, he catches her with both hands and securely held in her in his grasp. the baby girl starts babbling, tiny arms reaching for her father. miguel carefully hands her back to peter before his hands clenched and fell down at his sides, avoiding both of their intimidating gazes as he looks back at the screens once again.
just as jessica parts her lips open to speak again, miguel beats her to it as he sends a light glare at both of his colleagues. “mind your own business.” he hissed back before opening a portal by his watch and entering it, leaving jessica and peter speechless.
“well, it could’ve gone worse.” that was peter’s attempt to lighten up the mood. he isn’t wrong though, all kudos to mayday.
jessica let out a sigh of defeat. “always stubborn.”
     ━━━━━━━━ ִ  ۫   ꒰ ♡ ꒱  ۫   ݂ ━━━━━━━━
after completing a random mission, totally not as an excuse to avoid peter and jessica, miguel quickly returns to HQ to file his report. after submitting the report, his thoughts couldn’t help but wander to you. yeah, ever since your last encounter, he’s been ‘checking’ on you making sure you’re doing fine. occasionally, he would pull up a monitor of the street where you live, your apartment visible in frame. his crimson eyes would follow your tiny figure as you walk on your way to and from work. when lyla accused him of being a stalker, miguel used the excuse of making sure you weren’t doing any stupid things that would lead to you into trouble. the last thing he wants or needs is saving your dumbass from your own stupidity again.
instead of watching the monitors, he decides partake in a patrol tonight. just as he opens a portal by his gizmo, lovely dovely lyla appears in front of him, making miguel let out a heavy groan.
“gonna spy on ms. sassy, again?” she winks at him with a teasing smile, arms crossed.
miguel shoots her a glare, the eyes of his mark frowning. “lyla, por dios. i’m not spying and it’s not even about her, i’m patrolling the area.”
she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “oh please! you’re just using that as an excuse to spy on her.”
he grunts in response. “i’m not, and remind me to fix your programming afterwards.”
the ai rolls her eyes again. “whatever, boss man. be in denial, you know i’m right.” she offers a smirk before vanishing in the air once again.
miguel clicks his tongue, shaking his head. this is not spying or whatever, this is a patrol around the city which is his duty as their spider-man. proceeding to his plan, he steps through the portal and ends up on the rooftop of a random building. as his crimson eyes scan the area for any suspicious activity or disturbance, they find your apartment building which happens to be a few blocks away. his eyes remain glued on the building for a hot minute, remembering the night he took you home. he still remembers the exact floor. as his eyes linger at the sight, miguel unconsciously swings towards your apartment building. realization kicks in the moment he lands on top the roof of the building directly across.
what the hell is he doing? why did he swing all the way here, to your apartment? this is supposed to be a night patrol, not a checkup. he can do that at HQ.
his mind is filled with complaining thoughts yet he doesn’t retreat and go back to his original plan of patrolling. instead, miguel remains in place and observes your apartment.
screw night patrol, supposedly.
those ruby eyes land on your balcony, no visible light from inside, as sign that you’re not home. he exhales slowly, brows furrowed. where are you? it’s only 9:30, not super late but you’re by yourself nevertheless. working late? out with friends or someone? on a date? oh lord, that thought alone made him icky.
wait — why miguel he feeling icky about you being on a possible date?
jeez there is something going on with him.
sleep deprived? possibly, maybe.
those thoughts pause the moment he sees a tiny yet familiar figure dressed in royal blue walking down the sidewalk. squinting his eyes for a better view, his assumption was right. it’s you; the one thing that has been infiltrating his mind for a week for unknown reasons. you carry a hershey bar in one hand and your phone in the other. completely forgetting the night patrol, miguel keeps a curious yet cautious eye on you as you continue your walk home.
is he seriously doing this? checking up on a random civilian? checking up on you? what hell is going on with himself? he’s never done this.
jeez — miguel is literally scaring himself by these strange, unusual acts. the question still infuriates his mind. why is he doing this?
maybe just a simple checkup, making sure you return home safely, he thought to himself.
his ruby eyes continue following your tiny figure until you reach your apartment building and enter. well, you made it home safe just like he wanted. he can now resume to his night patrol yet — miguel can’t find himself to do so. like he’s stuck in place, unable to move, glued to the ground. but it’s more so he doesn’t want to move. instead, he remains observant from above. the moment light illuminated from your apartment, his senses perk up. the sudden urge to swing to your balcony consumes him entirely. at first he seems hesitant. it seems odd, maybe creepy for him to stop by your place just to ‘checkup’ on you. miguel doesn’t be labeled as a weirdo.
god what’s going on?
why is the multiverse pulling him towards you? it hates him already, is this just torture at this point?
why the sudden interest in you? yes, you’re a clumsy person and need to be more careful. why is he so riled up about it? why does he care? yet despite all that, you just seem so alluring to him. a beautiful mystery. oh beautiful? damn miguel is in deep but isn’t wrong. you’re quite attractive so there’s no denial. whatever this is, he loathes it.
after having internal debates, miguel swings over and lands right above your balcony. he is really doing this? a frustrated sigh escapes his lips.
that one question repeats in his mind like a damn plague: why is he doing this?
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you were in the middle of making your bullet journal until you heard a light thud coming from the balcony. quickly looking up from the coffee table followed by a soft gasp, your eyes detect nothing other than the numerous futuristic buildings from the distance.
adrenaline flows through you. what the hell was that? is there something outside on your balcony? are you hearing things? how would anything reach up here? you live on the 5th floor. numerous negative possibilities ran through your mind like a marathon.
setting down your pastel yellow marker, you slowly rise up from the floor and tiptoed over to the balcony door. as the glass automatically slides open, you’re greeted with nothing. your cautious eyes scan the area, searching for anything unusual or strange. little did you know about the giant man clad in red and blue literally squatting above your balcony, watching you in amusement. the corner of his lips slightly twitch upward. how unaware you are of his presence, searching the source of disturbance. the way your head turns, searching for answers. the suspicion expression illustrated on your face. furrowed eyebrows and flat lips, taking slow quiet steps. miguel allows himself to indulge in this silly moment for a few more seconds before leaving.
after failing to find anything, you exhale slowly and head back inside. how strange, you thought. that unsettling sensation still lingers but you’re glad there wasn’t anything bad. however, you make sure to lock everything as extra precaution. as you thought you locked the balcony door, your golden doodle daisy managed to slip out. damn you clumsy for that. you walk away to the kitchen to grab a snack, fully unaware of your dog outside. as any dog does, daisy sniffs the floor while wagging her fluffy tail. that wagging sudden stops as she smells, or senses something unusual. she starts growling as she looks upwards, finding a figure hovering above.
fuck — he’s caught, by your damn dog.
“oh shit—“ he curses as carefully lands on the balcony. daisy barks aggressively at him, making miguel panic. “hey hey. stop!” he put out his hands, a dumb attempt to calm down the dog but she keeps barking. “ay chingado! ya cállate! stop barking!” he yelled in a whisper, getting more frustrated every second. god he never hated dogs so much at this very moment. he needs to get out before—
“what. the. fuck?” you blurt out, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, standing at the doorway.
goddamnit, he cursed internally. he got caught and now is getting aggressively barked by your annoying dog. just fucking great. “listen i—“
“what the fuck are you doing here?” you hissed, walking towards him before crouching down to grab daisy and carry her in your arms. you calm her down with gentle shushes and petting her head. once she did, you look back at spider-man with a glare, unlike the soft and loving look you gave daisy just a few seconds ago. “why the hell are you here?”
miguel struggles to find an excuse because he’s too fixated on your outfit. a white nightgown with white fuzzy slippers. a sudden burst of heat rose up to his cheeks and ears. with the moonlight shining, you glow underneath it. his ruby eyes trace your facial features down to your collarbone then to your—
what the fuck?
snap out of it, o’hara.
miguel snaps out of trance, dismissing those weird thoughts. “i was on night patrol until your dog started aggressively barking at me.” he points at daisy with his index finger.
you aggressively swat away his hand. “don’t point you filthy finger at my dog.” you threaten, holding daisy closer to your chest, feeling her fluffy fur against your skin. “she has every reason to bark at you since you’re an intruder.”
his eyes widen in utter disbelief, offended by your rude comment. quite comical how it looks on his mask. “filthy? my finger isn’t—“ he lets out a groan. “i’m not an intruder, i’m on patrol.”
“patrolling from above my balcony? more like stalking.” you argued, arching a brow.
miguel stares at you in utter disbelief. “stalking? i’m not stalking you! i just happened to land on your apartment building while on patrol.”
what a damn lie.
well… sorta.
you scoff, rolling your eyes. “bullshit. you’ve been stalking me. creepy ass hero.” you avert from his gaze, looking back at daisy while petting her gently.
the tall hero remains speechless at your shocking words. a creepy hero? well that just slaps him in face. miguel isn’t trying to be a creepy, just keeping a cautious eye on you from potential danger because it’s part of his duty as spider-man.
“i’m not so get your head outta the gutter, mamona.” miguel argued, frowning at you.
you look back at with a surprise expression before turning into a smug one. “just admit you’re obsessed with me. i’m quite flattered the infamous spider-man has a thing for me.” a teasing smirk graces your lips.
his eyes widen drastically in shock. “i’m not—“ he heavily sighs out of disbelief, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “chingado contigo.” miguel muttered to himself, not meant for you to hear but you did, much to his dismay.
your eyes perk up, brows raised in astonishment. “órale, spidey. if you wanted to, you could’ve just asked.” that teasing smirk grew more smug with wiggling brows, a hint of seductiveness in your tone.
he snaps back at you, visibly dumbfounded by your wild response. “what?! no! stop it.” miguel threatens as he points a finger at you but obviously fails as he watches you giggle, making him groan.
god — why do you have to be so unhinged? so ridiculous with sneaky ass remarks.
he hates it a lot.
or does he?
“i’m just kidding. i would never be with a guy who’s a complete stalker.” a giggle slips through your lips as you turn around and walk back inside, concealing that smirk on your face. you can feel his glaring eyes on you, making your smirk grow wider.
miguel just stands there, all flustered up and blood boiled in embarrassment like a shy schoolboy. god he needs to leave, he really needs to leave but some magnetic force keeps him there with you.
since you didn’t hear footsteps following you, you turn around to find him still standing in the same spot. “are you coming or what?”
he looks back at you confusingly. “what?”
you roll your eyes. “oh come on, i won’t bite.” you gesture with your free hand for him to follow.
miguel just stares at you for a moment, feeling hesitant. you’re inviting him to your place. what the hell is happening? first, he saves you twice, get into several arguments like it’s normal and now you’re inviting him into your apartment.
a sad sigh escapes your lips when he doesn’t respond or budge. “fine, stand out here like a dumbass for all i care.” and with that, you leave him outside on your balcony as you head inside.
standing there speechless, miguel decides to listen for once, against his mind screaming at him to leave. slowly entering your home, he takes it all in. if there’s one word to describe it, minimalistic. however, there is a sense of coziness and comfort in your home. the interior just literally screams you, but in a positive way. for once in his life, perhaps in a very long time, miguel feels tranquil. an uncommon feeling for him.
“do you want anything? water, cafecito, tea?” your voice makes him snap out of trance. you enter the kitchen, approach the counter where the coffee maker is and pour coffee into a transparent mug.
“i uh… cafecito would be fine… if you don’t mind.” he answered awkwardly, his eyes following you.
you hummed happily as you grabbed another mug from the cabinet. “anything specific or…?” you ask while pouring the warm liquid into the mug.
he shakes his head. “no. it’s fine how it is, gracias…”
after making his coffee, you turn around and slide it across the kitchen island for him to take. as you look up at him while sipping your coffee, you find him still standing in the middle of your living room.
you raise a brow at him, visibly confused by his odd behavior. “stop acting like a weirdo and grab your damn coffee.” you gesture at the mug.
miguel scoffs heavily in response, walking towards the counter and grabbing the transparent mug. part of his mask disintegrates, revealing those plump lips up to his nose. he brings the mug towards his mouth and takes a sip. a low hum of approval escapes him, content with the delicious taste.
you observe him curiously, eyes landing on his lips. probably the closest you’ll ever to see his face. ever since your last encounter, you’ve always wondered who’s underneath that mask. desperately want to know the face that belongs to that attractive voice.
yeah, his voice is attractive as fuck.
“what?” his voice makes you snap out of thoughts, catching you staring at him.
“will i ever get the chance to see your face?” you blurt out, confessing wholeheartedly. you lean against the counter, holding your mug in one hand while your chin rests in the palm of the other.
miguel nearly spits out his coffee, staring down at you with wide eyes. “no.”
“aw come on, spidey. we’ve hung out together three times already. we’re practically friends at this point. i think i’ve earn the right.” you pout before flashing him a tiny smirk, an attempt to convince him.
his expression falls flat. “we’re not friends and you have not earned the right. don’t get any ideas.”
you snort before taking a sip of your coffee. “jeez. you can never take a chill pill, can you, spidey?” you can tell he rolled his eyes, making you giggle.
“you’re annoying.”
“you’re stubborn.”
he frowns at you. “i’m not.”
“you’re proving my point.” you smirk.
miguel resist the urge to roll his eyes for the millionth time. instead, he takes a deep breath to maintain himself form lashing out. without answering back, he sips on his coffee. at least the coffee was the only good thing coming from this situation.
“so how many more spider-people are out there?” you change topics, taking another sip.
“a lot.” is all he answered, so flatly.
you sigh sadly, slightly shaking your head. you choose to move on. “i take it you’re the leader.”
he nods while drinking his coffee.
“figured. the bossy attitude and stubbornness makes sense.” you take another sip, hiding your smirk.
he frowns at that, eyes narrower. “what’s that supposed to mean?” miguel seems offended.
you snort. “god you’re the most stubborn man i’ve ever met. i feel bad for the other spider-people, having to deal with your stubborn and bossy ass.”
miguel heavily glares at you, trying his hardest to not crush the mug in his hand. dear lord you’re really annoying, rudely annoying specifically. “and you’re the most annoying woman i’ve ever met.”
you scoff. “you ain’t the first one to say that.” you mumble while drinking coffee, averting his gaze.
he stares at you, analyzing your expression and change of tone. for a split second, he actually feels a bit of guilt for saying such a thing. yeah, you can be little annoying but it’s mostly sass.
just as his lips part open to speak, a beep comes from his gizmo. both of you glance at the watch in unison. you watch the eyes of his mask narrow at whatever the message says, making you wonder what it is but you don’t question it.
chugging down the last bits of coffee, miguel sets down the mug on the counter and walks away heading for the balcony. the mouth portion of his mask is covered, now fully masked.
“ahem.” you fake coughed, finishing your coffee before setting it aside and following him. “you’re gonna leave without saying goodbye?” you crossed your arms, standing in your iconic sassy posture.
he turns back to you, shooting a glare before letting out a sigh. “goodnight.” as the door slides open, miguel walks towards the edge of the balcony.
you followed but stop by the doorway, leaning against it. “later, stalker.”
he groans internally at the stupid nickname. god he hates you. well, hates the nickname. without looking back, miguel jumps off and swings away.
your eyes follow the shades of red and blue as it moves across the city. once he was no longer in your sight, you walk back inside.
did you just have coffee with spider-man?
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lieutenantfloyd · 7 months
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When Duty Calls Part 1 | Cyclone x Reader
Word count: 1.9k
Summary: Your return home brings you inner turmoil, prolonged typing bubbles, and what may turn out to be a chance to mend what you broke.
Warnings: mentions of anxiety, a lot of internal thoughts/monologue, implied non-platonic feelings (if you squint).
a/n: This took a bit longer to get out than I’d hoped, but I’m so excited to have gotten the ball rolling!
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In your experience, one of the hardest parts of being back stateside is the noise. Both the quiet and the loud.
Your former home — An aircraft carrier somewhere in the middle of the Pacific — was by no means quiet, but each sound, each movement, each person, had its purpose. the low hum of radio chatter or the sound of planes taking off overhead had become a strange comfort to you. You were one of the lucky ones who quickly found where you belonged amongst that noise. Now after years spent painstakingly carving your name into the Naval history books, you were far from just another officer. And yet, in some twisted way, that glorious reputation of yours is exactly what brought you back here in the first place.
Exactly 23 hours ago you were still stationed on that aforementioned aircraft carrier, completely unaware that you would soon be summoned and informed — albeit with more eloquent verbiage — that you were to pack your things and head back to TOPGUN. A thousand different questions brewed inside you, but you were well aware that the Navy has never been the place to voice them. Instead, you honored each following set of instructions with nothing more than a simple "Yes sir, no ma'am".
The subsequent hours were filled with personal chaos and three different modes of transportation. Luckily, not much could phase you at this point. At least not enough for anyone to pick up on your external cues of panic. Contrary to the aviator stereotype, you liked to think of yourself as level-headed with a strong preference for flying under the radar, both in a literal and figurative sense. You'd weathered through everything the last 24 hours had thrown at you without so much as a snide remark. You kept your calm when the airline briefly lost your single piece of checked luggage. You even brushed off each lingering stare and every all too frequent ask of "So, Is your husband/brother/father/next-door neighbor in the service?". Yet, approximately three and a half minutes ago, something in you started to crack. Logic told you that this was just your nervous system coming to terms with what the next several weeks would entail, but an increasingly large part of your mind knew that that was only half the story. But seeing as you currently found yourself frozen in the back of your Uber, gripping the door handle as if your life depended on it, these facts were neither here nor there. As the latest wave of anxiety runs its course you suppress a shudder and call on your now-sapped willpower. Logic once again tells you that fresh air helps in these situations, so you force your pointer finger out and roll the window down. You hold the button until the window is right above halfway down. Just far enough to let the bright San Diego sunshine in while still allowing you to lean your head against the cool glass. After a few deep breaths, you run your tongue along the outside of your lips. The air is laced with the familiar taste of sea salt. If your memory served you right, you were just under a mile from the ocean and no more than three from base. The thought had barely crossed your mind before the pang of countless different emotions hit you. You silently curse your faultless sense of direction. In sudden need of a distraction, your free hand reaches into your bag and pulls out your phone. You blink away the dryness in your eyes before shifting your attention to the small screen which only takes a halfhearted tap to flash to life. You swipe through your notifications before tapping on the message that's been lingering in the back of your mind since the early hours of the morning.
I'm assuming you've been made aware of your latest assignment. received 7:13 am. — followed by — We hope your trip back goes well. received 7:26 am.
I landed about an hour ago, you text back. Headed home now.
It didn't surprise you that Warlock would be the first to reach out. Given his rank and location, he probably knew all about the mission. Plus, if you knew anything about the man, it was that he's always been the diplomatic type. From the stories you heard of their younger years, a part of you has always wondered if this is why his friendship with Cyclone worked so well.
Speaking of Cyclone, you click the back button and select his contact. Your last conversation with him — dated just one day before your deployment — quickly appears. God, had it really been almost five months since you last spoke? At this revelation, you sit staring at the screen for a few beats. You knew him and his personality far too well to expect him to welcome you back with open arms, but that didn't make the radio silence hurt any less. You want nothing more than to reach out, but with a shaky breath, you remind yourself that he's a horribly busy man with fewer personal relationships than you can count on one hand. However, this doesn't stop a flash of sadness from coursing through your body.
Exiting the text thread, you click on the only other new message. It's from an unsaved number and its contents inform you that everyone who's been called back is meeting up tonight at the Hard Deck. Just as you are about to send back a quick "thank you. Who is this?", something else pops into your mind and grabs your interest entirely. You quickly back out and tap on Warlock's contact. You read his second message again, Then at least five more times after that.
We hope your trip back goes well.
We?
You weren't one to get into the semantics of things, but the ambiguity of his word choice hung heavy over you. There was a possibility that he was innocently referring to himself and his wife. Yet there was an equal, and far more electrifying, chance that he was talking about himself and Cyclone. It was no secret to Warlock that the pair of you were, at least at one time, immensely close. That familiar itch returned to your fingertips, though this time you feared it would be here to stay. Over the last five months, You've been down this path countless times before. Yet each time it got harder and harder not to simply dial his number and ask about his day as if no time had passed at all. Reminding yourself that the chances of him picking up were firmly in the negative, you looked from your phone entirely and instead redirected your sights to the world outside. As you look up, The car rounds one last corner and the familiarity of your surroundings kicks into overdrive. The lump in your throat grows as both the ocean and your house come into view. Your heart swells as you realize your neighborhood hasn't changed a bit. You were fully prepared for your homecoming to be emotionally taxing, but what you hadn't prepared for was just how right it would all feel.
You come to a stop at the curb directly across from your house. You thank the driver as you exit, and a moment later your feet hit the concrete. Your hands are surprisingly steady against your luggage. The car slowly pulls away. You are left standing in your yard, phone in hand, staring up at your long-established home. The walk up the driveway is one you've made at least a thousand times. And something in you knows that it's the bittersweet familiarity of it all that finally allowed your one inescapable urge to take hold.
The rational side of your brain — the one you should be more inclined to listen to in this situation — told you that he's probably terribly busy doing all those terribly important Vice Admiral things he spent far too many hours a day doing. But the emotional side — the one that above all else, won't let you forget your history together — told you that all you really wanted was to hear his voice again. Or at very least get a few words of blunt (and often trenchant) encouragement. Your suitcase rolls over polished hardwood as you close the door behind you. The only thing you're greeted by is a stale silence. Your friends in the area had been kind enough to stop by while you were gone to ensure remained in working order, but that didn't make the stillness any easier to swallow.
Surely there's no harm in simply reaching out, right?
It was in that moment, standing with your back against the front door, that you hoisted up your white flag of defeat. Almost instantly your fingers were fast at work typing out your message before your conscience could reckon with how bad this idea was. Your words of choice were innocuous enough, yet you feel nothing but anguish the moment after you hit send.
Hey there. I know it's been… a while. You probably know I'm back in town on orders. If you have the time, I'd love to catch up. Sent >1min ago.
You kick your shoes off with a frustrated huff and immediately head for your bedroom. For what you lacked in the typical aviator ego, you made up for tenfold with split-second impulsiveness. On the bright side, you at least had the sense to leave the "I miss you so bad please respond" part unsaid. It's a short walk, and you toss your phone onto your bed once you're there with the full intention of taking a quick shower. Only, your phone lands face up. Leaving you watching in horror as your still unlocked screen proudly displays the typing bubbles on his end slowly appearing and disappearing.
Somewhere between bolting back out of the room and spending 45 minutes under the ice cold water coming out of your shower head, you pulled together a crude course of action. For the duration of your time here, you will do nothing but keep your head down, execute the mission, and be the Navy's perfect little flying angel. Somewhere between the lines of the damp post-it note you jotted this down on are the words "and no more attempts at reconnecting with the people you left in the past.". though even you know that even your best attempt at following that step will wind up unavailing at best. Post shower and with a slight semblance of a plan in place, you were already starting to feel like yourself again. Like every other mission, your ability to execute the plan would make or break you, and If the secrecy surrounding why exactly you were called back to Top Gun was anything to go off of you would have to be entirely focused and at your most cutthroat.
Exiting your room, you made your way to the front door where you quickly pulled on your boots and grabbed your keys from the dish in the entryway. The route from your house to the Hard Deck is one that's permanently etched into your mind. This wasn't the time nor the place to be making friends and in all honesty you wanted nothing more than to stay in and order takeout. However, you knew that you needed to scope out your competition as soon as possible.
You check the entryway mirror one last time before turning the knob and passing the threshold. You square your shoulders as you make the short walk to your car while also doing your best to ignore the growing feeling that the first of many wrenches is about to be thrown at your freshly made strategy.
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Taglist: @luckyladycreator2, @katesmadness, @natasharomanoffisbaebby, @nobody7102, @idiomaticpunk, @thebeckyjolene, @paintballkid711, @simpledyiing, @barbiewritesstuff, @bbooks-and-teas, @starshipfantasy, @saramaple, @marchingicenotes7, @bayisdying, @princessofglitterland, @katesmadness, @shakira-sasha, @xoxabs88xox, @nyx2021, @qardasngan, @fanboyluvr, @mrsjaderogers, @bellamy1998, @alexxavicry, @madamemelancholysstuff, @autumnleaves1991-reads, @dozcan123, @nani-kenobi, @noxytopy, @accio-boys, @the-winter-marvel33, @justameresimp, @abaker74, @starlightmoon2020, @comfortzonequeen, @flrboyd, @heyitskay-21, @kmc1989, @kkrenae (let me know if you'd like to be added!)
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thelightsandtheroses · 6 months
Text
After Rain | Frankie Morales
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Summary:  You’ve been afraid for days that Frankie isn’t coming back to you this time, that you might never know what’s happened to him, but now he’s here at your doorway. Warnings: TF spoilers, angst, language, discussions of drug addiction and use, depression, PTSD, dad!Frankie, 18+ blog, minors DNI. Pairing: Frankie Morales x female reader (established) Word Count - 1.3k Notes - This was meant to be a longer fic but I ended up making it more of a drabble! The fic title is from the Dermot Kennedy song of the same name.
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“I don’t know man. I’ve got the new baby now, and my lady isn’t into me doing this kind of shit anymore.” Triple Frontier
“Let this darkness be a bell tower/ and you the bell” Rainer Maria Rilke - Let This Darkness Be A Belltower
He comes back broken.
Will drops him off, nods apologetically at you before he goes to his own home to probably make his own apologies.
There’s a faint smile on Frankie’s face as he stands in the doorway wearing a crumpled shirt, his battered rucksack dropped on the floor. You suppose it’s relief that he’s home. There’s something else too; apprehension, uncertainty about the welcome that will meet him because he’s been so much longer than he said, he’s not called you once either.
In the distance you can hear Sofia playing with her toys upstairs, oblivious to what is happening at her front door and you’re hoping your son won’t hear the door, won’t suddenly wake up because he’s only just got to sleep.
Frankie’s had time to shave in his absence and for some reason that is the thing irritates you the most. You’ve been worried he’s dead and he’s been having a shave! He couldn’t text or call, or send a fucking carrier pigeon but he could shave?
You thought they were dead.
You thought Frankie was dead.
You’re about to say something, purge yourself of this rage, when you meet his eyes. There are storms in them; anguish and pain and emotions you can’t even identify. 
What happened out there?
“Hey querida,” he says softly after a moment, the low timbre of his voice instantly flooding you with relief. This is the man you have loved for years. He holds pieces of your heart and soul with his own.
You shift yourself to let him pass, place your hand on his body as he moves past you. He’s home.
That’s got to be something, right?
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Rain taps on the living room window as you wait for Frankie to come back downstairs. The last few days have seen more thunderstorms and rain than you would normally have expected. When it started, you thought to yourself that it was a reflection on your own mood and worries. You were trying to work out what to do, what could you do if the worst had happened?
Despite the rain, it’s humid. The type of rain that leaves the air thick and your skin sticky.
You take a sip of your drink, wait for the creak on the stairs.
He’s tentative when he walks into the living room, wearing sweats and a faded t-shirt, his shower dampened curls just a shade longer than he usually wears them.
“Mateo needed a change,” he says, “he’s almost asleep again now.”
“Have you seen Sofia yet?”
“Yeah,” he sniffs, “she’s still playing in her room. Promised I’d join her in a bit.”
“She’s been waiting for you to come home. I think there’s been some internal drama with the dolls, something only you will understand apparently.”
“It’ll be Strawberry,” he says, shaking his head. “She’s trouble.”
There’s a moment of silence and he sits close to you on the couch. You can smell the sandalwood shower gel lingering on his skin, the crisp toothpaste on his breath.
“Missed you,” he mumbles, leaning closer. “Missed you all.”
“We missed you too. What - what happened?” So much for easing him gently, you think, but you need to know.
Frankie looks at the floor as you gently take one of his hands in yours.
“Tell me. That’s what this is based on, right? You tell me things, we’re honest with each other, whether it’s easy or not.”
“It was fucked. It was so fucked.” His voice cracks and he runs his free hand through his hair.
“I thought it was just a reccy, that’s what you said.” You resist the urge to say ‘I told you so’ to say that was why you’d begged him not to go. 
Frankie relapsed recently. He had then been suspended from work which was how you had learned about the relapse. You hadn’t been sure how the two of you would get through that at the time. You had a mortgage, a small child and were weeks away from your new baby being born at the time. Somehow the two of you had endured it though. Things were strained, you can’t lie, but you were both determined you could get through this.
The reccy had posed more of a direct threat to every bit of progress made though. You were incensed that he thought this was something worth pursuing; that the money was worth whatever it cost him.
Frankie was terrified and desperate about the position you were both in and he still wanted to provide, to be there for your little family. You didn’t want him to do it. You remembered the way he would come back from missions. His recovery was new and tentative, he didn’t need more trauma weighing on this.
He didn’t need more wounds on his soul.
However, it was only supposed to be a reccy, just a few days. He was convinced it would help him, help you all. He said it would buy you both some time while he tried to get his licence back, would help him get through this bad patch - it would give him some purpose. You’d wanted to ask if your family wasn’t quite enough purpose there.
“It went wrong, went bad. ‘S why I didn’t call - I couldn’t.” Frankie exhales and then adds, “Redfly died.”
“Redfly -Tom? Tom’s dead?” Everything in you runs cold and the anger that’s been constricting around your heart fades.
You could have lost Frankie. It could have been him.
The images won’t leave you and you put your hands on Frankie’s hands just to remind yourself he’s here, he’s real. He hasn’t left you.
“Tell me,” you gently press, leaning closer to him.
He doesn’t tell you everything about the mission; he can’t, you expect. He tells you enough to make it clear that things went wrong, that the helicopter crashed and they were stranded, that Tom died at some point in the whole sorry affair. He holds your hand the whole time as though you’re the only anchor to this moment, the only thing separating him from a jungle he’s still stuck in.
Part of you wants to get straight into the car and go yell at Santiago, Will and Benny for their parts in this. For the greed and stupidity and foolishness of this whole mission. Part of you wants to scream at Frankie for this.
You listen to the rain instead, try and calm yourself and put those conversations away for another day.
After his story, the two of you sit together. You know nothing will be the same again; how can it be? Tom’s dead and you know your boyfriend enough to know that the haunted look on his face won’t fade away any time soon.
You’re still hurt, still angry. Frankie’s home though and he’s alive. That’s something, that’s enough for now.
You move closer to him, let him wrap his arms around you. You can feel his heartbeat through his chest, the warmth of his body and scent of sandalwood shower gel, minty shampoo.
You meet his lips; grateful that the man you love is here, that he is alive.
The last few weeks won’t be forgotten easily, you can’t remember ever seeing Frankie this shaken. You’ve never felt quite this close to losing him before.
He’s home, he’s home now.
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Hours later, you stand out in the back porch with a cup of coffee in your hands. The rain is finally abating and the air smells thick of storms and stories.  You can see thin rivulets of water streaming from the porch roof down to the decking, can hear the trilling sound of the crickets and can see the cracks of sunlight between the crowds.
There’s a long way to go. There will be damage and scars from this trip that Frankie hasn’t shared yet, that he may not even have noticed and there’s no winnings here, no results or money or sense of anything good from this mission.
He is home though. He is home and he is alive and he hasn’t left you.
You look through the kitchen window and see him talking with Sofia, laughing about something as he serves her breakfast. He looks over and meets your gaze with a tentative nod and smile.
 You’ll weather this storm together.
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Text
Hold Me Close
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Pairing: Jake Hangman Seresin x Reader
Summary: Sexiled on the aircraft carrier while they are forcibly docked in a harbor due to an incoming storm is not how she wanted her night to go. Even less so when upon trying to find sleep in one of the break rooms she has an ugly run-in with some disapproving and predatory sailors. Can the night be turned around with Hangman rescuing her?
Warnings: sexual harassment (verbal only), allusions to more but not explicitly stated, some nasty soldiers, ignoring how actual Berthing/Cabins look like on an airplane carrier, just in general highly unrealistic descriptions of how it looks on an aircraft carrier & how the us navy works, while it is never stated it can be imagined that Phoenix's partner could be Rooster or Payback it's up to you to decide who Phoenix coupled up with
Wordcount: 5.9K
It's You - Part 2
I don't allow for my content to be copied, translated or reposted on other websites/apps. Please don't steal my work.
Dividers by @/firefly-graphics
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Rain was pouring down while the wind ripped and tore at everything it could grip. The sky was dark, the clouds angry, covering everything in a somber murkiness. In the distance, the rumbling of thunder could be heard as the storm dragged closer, bringing lightning and a rough sea. The seagulls had fallen silent long before.
The weather change came as no surprise. Warnings for the storm of the season had been aired for days now, both on the local news as well as over the navy’s internal radio frequencies. They were prepared.
The jets had been secured extra safely below deck so that no matter the swell of the waves they wouldn’t even get a scratch. The entire ship had been prepared for the storm, ready to brace the brunt of it out in the open sea, as had been planned. At the last minute however the commands had changed, the storm estimated to be worse than thought, forcing the aircraft carrier to dock overnight in the nearest navy harbor.
Now they were sitting here, waiting to ride out the storm. 
The mood wasn’t great. Y/N thought how she would have rather been anywhere than here at the moment. Yet here they were. The entire dagger team. 
That’s what they were now. All of them had been brought back to top gun separately for one mission. The uranium plant. After its success - ignoring the loss of two very expensive F-18s - their superiors had decided to form a permanent team. A new special unit and thus they had left - or hadn’t truly - as a team.
Which is what had brought them onto the aircraft carrier on this stormy and dark night. On the way to another mission. They were the outsiders on this ship. It wasn’t uncommon for squadrons to be stationed on the aircraft carrier. But they weren’t, the usual squadron exchanged with them, and the sailors were acutely aware of that. 
Especially the senior sailors, who had been soldiers longer than the daggers had been and thought to possess much more experience. There was a certain animosity coming from them, mostly presented through cocky jabs or straight-up condescending quips. The tension between the rather foreign group of aviators and that particular part of the crew was high. Had been high even from the beginning of their stay on the ship.
The storm made it worse. Being docked in the harbor was making it much worse. On a normal docking, soldiers were allowed to leave the ship, explore the bars around the harbor or the city, unwind and stretch their weary limbs. These ships weren’t spacious, they were glorified sardine tins, labyrinths of narrow winding hallways, and twenty-person berths in which the concepts of privacy and personal space didn’t exist. 
Normally that wouldn’t be trouble since everyone was busy with their work, with the many tasks they got assigned, but being forcibly docked in a harbor with an impending storm had halted almost all work. It left them restless and squished together.
Any attempts of Mavericks aviators to stay out of the other sailor's ways were futile. There were only so many times one could go over the mission details and flying routes before going mad. 
Even Maverick himself couldn’t come up with anything new to teach them while grounded. He had smiled at them sympathetically before telling them to spend the rest of the night in one of the common rooms and excused himself to his cabin.
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Now they were here. All assembled in one of the common rooms to pass the time by playing a round of cards or billiard. This particular breakroom was especially popular thanks to the billiard table. A rare sight on a cruiser where any type of free space was sacred. 
In hindsight, it had been a truly awful idea to occupy the same room as the hostile group of sailors but the daggers were bored out of their minds and fed up enough with the snide remarks to dare them to provoke something more. And provoke they did. 
To Y/N it felt like a poor piss contest, a show of who was the bigger macho. Something she didn’t feel the need to compete in. Bob, Phoenix, and her watched from the sidelines as the comments exchanged became increasingly worse and offending.
“We’ll just have to hope they are as good as Maverick's first RIO. They won’t be around for long then.”
It was done the moment Rooster sprung from his chair, the metal legs scraping loudly against the floor. He was seething. He hadn’t even reacted this wildly when Hangman had brought his father and the accident up in their training. 
“Whoa calm down!” “Rooster, hey!” “Ignore them, their words mean nothing.”
Everyone was talking over each other as multiple hands held Rooster back from doing something stupid. He looked ready to kill. Hangman, Coyote, and Payback were restraining him with Fanboy and Phoenix in front of him, to get his attention away from the sailors and back to them. Y/N who had sat beside Bob was now scowling and shooting daggers at the group of grinning sailors. It was entirely below the belt for them to say something like that. They looked triumphant. She would have given everything to be able to wipe the grins from their smug faces.
At last Phoenix and Payback had to herd Rooster out of the room as he wouldn't calm down. Bringing him somewhere else to cool off was necessary. The damage had been done. Had the mood been bad before, now it was entirely soured.
“Shit I can’t wait to be off this damn ship,” Coyote grunted as he and Hangman turned back to the pool table. What had before been an enjoyable game had now lost its appeal. Halfheartedly and lackluster they pushed the balls around.
“What’s their problem,” Y/N mumbled before she sank back into her seat beside Bod, Fanboy joining them again as well. They tried to ignore the further jabs that drifted over from the other side of the room, taking up the cards again.
“They feel threatened,” Bob concluded with a shrug, although he too eyed the sailors discerningly. The distasteful comment had left a bitter feeling in all of their mouths, not just angering Rooster. They were a team now and a team looked after each other. No one messed with one of them without angering the others too
“It’s pitiful and childish. We are here to work, they should be able to be professional,” she huffed and rolled her eyes. For her, the evening had been ruined. The cards they had been all playing were useless, with half of the players gone they couldn't continue, not that any of them were still in the mood to start a new round anyways. 
Even watching the play between Hangmand and Coyote wasn’t entertaining. Normally she enjoyed watching the friendly competitions and skillful tricks with which they liked to battle each other. The laughter and snickering coming from the other side of the room were positively distracting to her and an annoying reminder of the unpleasurable presence looming.
An early evening seemed like the only option left to her, even if being cooped up in the small two-person cabin she shared with Phoenix wouldn’t be a better way to spend her evening. At least she would have her quiet. Maybe going to bed would make the storm go by faster.
“I’ll turn in for the night,” she announced, rubbing her hands over her pants and smoothing the fabric down as she stood up. Bob and Fanboy smiled bleakly at her and nodded. She could see Coyote open his mouth to poke fun at her, but ultimately he didn’t say anything. Not even Hangman had a line to tease her with and no cocky grin on his lips. It wasn’t like it was early evening. Time had ticked by, albeit slowly, but it was late. Later than they normally would have stayed up while deployed on a ship anyways.
A chorus of goodnights followed her, as she waved one last time at them and turned to leave the room. On her way out she had to go by the table of sailors. A feeling of unease washed over her, together with the inexplainable tingling of her nerves and a gut feeling telling her to get her guards up. Something about this group of older soldiers unsettled her and awakened her instincts. It was no wonder why, as the moment they noticed, several pairs of preying eyes lay on her. They reminded her of dangerous animals scoping out their prey, ready to strike. Knots contorted her stomach, making her sick as she saw their lips curl into sick smiles. Stubbornly she avoided all eye contact with them, aiming only for the door.
“Hey, baby,” one called, followed by the low whistle of another. 
They snickered as their eyes undressed her. Female sailors weren’t uncommon anymore but they were still a minority and a lot of the older folks lacked respect and approval towards any woman in a position of power. Being a woman in the military was still rather had. Y/N had experienced some resentment and especially hardships once she had gone for the path of aviator. Top Gun had been a show of testosterone. Female pilots like her and Phoenix were rare and they had to fight extra hard to get to where they were now. Misogyny and sexism were nothing new. She could handle it. Usually. Something was unnerving about being in a tight vessel with a bunch of men like that.
“Where ya going, sweetcheeks? Don’t you wanna keep us company? I bet we are more fun than your band of wannabe pilots.”
“We can show you a much better time.” Bile rose up her throat at the suggestive comment and the way their eyes raked over her. Ignoring them she hastily left the room, weaving her way through the tight corridors deeper into the belly of the gigantic ship.
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“No…” 
To her horror upon arriving at her cabin, Y/N stood in front of a locked door, a sock hanging from the handle.
“No, come on..,” she started pounding against the door, “Phoenix don’t do this to me!” A sliver of hope was left that her roommate would hear and have pity. Nothing happened, even as she continued to pound against the door and call out to the occupants of the room.
“Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?” No avail. There was no response from the other side. The door didn't budge either. 
She had been sexiled.
Now what? A frustrated huff escaped her as she turned away from the door. The hallway was empty. Sliding down the wall right beside the door, she leaned her head against the cool metal. What to do now? Waiting for them to finish and be let back into her room wasn’t an option. There was no way of knowing when that would occur and if, it could be morning by then already. She couldn’t sit here the entire night, blocking the narrow corridor. Besides the point that she wanted to sleep, obstructing the way was also against protocol. Her night didn’t need to end with a reprimand or worse disciplinary action.
She had no other option except to go back to the common room and hope everyone else had left by now. Crashing on one of the metal chairs there was better than not sleeping at all. With a slow groan, she pulled herself up, sending one last glare towards the door. When it still wouldn’t budge she turned around with a huff and stomped along the hallway.
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The room looked empty. But it wasn’t. 
Oh, how she came to regret her decision the moment she stepped foot into the dim space. The silence had been deceptive. She wasn’t even sure if it had actually been quiet or if she had ignored the noises, willing the room to be empty. Tired and in an unhappy mood all she wanted was to find a place to rest and wind down. Whatever had been the traitor, the air, or her hearing. It was too late.
There to the side, directly to the right after entering the room, a little further into the room so as not to be seen from the hallway, the group of sailors sat, around the same table as she had left. And now their attention was on her. 
Frozen after only a couple of steps into the room, the light of the hallway illuminated her silhouette from behind. She considered bolting out of the room. Maybe she could still go back and go somewhere else. Anywhere else really. But luck wasn’t on her side tonight it seemed.
One of them let out a low chuckle. Goosebumps spread over her arms yet she couldn’t place if it was the unsettling feeling pooling in the depths of her stomach or the air in the room that felt to have dropped several degrees. Either way, it made her feel on edge.
There was this predatory gaze that make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Noone had moved yet, neither her nor them. She didn’t dare to make the first move, feeling that anything she would do would activate some sort of hunting drive in them. Having them go after her was the last thing she wanted.
The tallest and biggest one of them stood up. Burly he was, his arms heavily tattooed and no hair on his head. He was the one that had provoked Rooster earlier she recognized. Now he was creeping up to her slowly and menacingly.
“Well hello, sweetheart. Already back? What gives us the pleasure of you returning?” 
She wanted to tell them she wasn’t here for them, to go to hell but the words didn’t come out.
“I bet she came back because she is a desperate little whore. Aren’t ya?” Another one crooned as he dragged his eyes up her body. Disgust filled her, made her take a step back. Don't show any weakness, her mind screamed.
There was that look again, the one that was practically undressing her. They were desperate and underfucked, which was unsurprising on this goddamn steel coffin. A soldier's best friend on a ship was his hand and even that he could rarely indulge. It was like putting a sheep into a cage with a group of starved lions.
“Hell no.” Finally, she found her voice again. Spitting the words, harshly and unwavering, they were entirely the wrong thing to say to them. Before she could react the bald one stalked towards her. Harshly he gripped her arm. A yelp left her mouth as he painfully squeezed her biceps. Tutting quietly he leaned forward.
“Don’t be like that. Playing tough to get,” he growled in her ear, further closing in. Squirming against his hold did exactly nothing. He was too strong, his grip too tight. Y/N's heart started to pound in her chest as fear rose in her. Why was she struggling so much tonight? Normally defending herself against some assholes worked better. She truly felt like a helpless little lamb at that moment and she hated it.
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Suddenly his gaze shifted to something behind her. The light coming from the hallway had dimmed. A long drawn-out shadow had appeared on the floor. It had the form of a person. As she turned her head around, she was overcome with relief. Hangman was standing in the doorframe, his posture relaxed and one eyebrow raised as he surveyed the situation. The attention had shifted towards him, the other sailors sizing him up.
As he stepped further into the room the grip around her arm loosened. Enough for her to pull away. Her arm was throbbing from the way the blood had been cut off, hopefully, there wouldn’t be a bruise left. For now, she concentrated on putting more distance between herself and the menacing man. Never before had she been so happy to see Hangman. Her heart still pounded erratically, the fight-or-flight response had spread like a wildfire over her body, making every nerve-ending in her body come alight.
As she took a step toward him he eyed her silently. Something in his posture had changed. He didn’t look as composed anymore. To the person who didn’t know him, he might have still looked relaxed, but to her the tension in his shoulders was noticeable. Just like the steeliness of his blue eyes. There was a seriousness he normally only possessed during missions. Looking her up and down his jaw ticked at the way her uniform's sleeve was all crumbled before he spoke. 
“I told you you didn’t have to go back,” it surprised her how casual his voice was. He ignored the looming presence of the other men, feeling no threat coming from them or at least pretending to. His eyes were solely on her as he came closer, placing himself between her and the other men. “You didn’t need to get my jacket for me. ‘Thought you agreed it was fine and that I could get it on my own?”
For a moment she was confused, her eyes looked over his shoulder towards the pool table. Indeed. Draped over the side lay a uniform jacket, and as she focused back on him she noticed the lack of a jacket.
“Yeah, well.” She cleared her throat and shrugged, “I wanted to do it.” For a moment her eyes went to the sailors, especially the bald one still standing only a few feet away. He didn’t look happy to have been interrupted. All of them were glaring daggers at the back of Hangman’s head. It almost made her shudder. Hangman didn’t look impressed at all upon turning his attention towards them, his body still strategically placed between her and the aggressors. She could have kissed him for his help.
While he seemed calm outwardly there was an air of tension around him. His body rigid, strong muscles tightly coiled just under his skin, waiting for them to make one wrong move. Letting the situation escalate was the worst that could happen. She had to do something to defuse it and the only way for her to do so was to change the variable she could. So she turned to Hangman.
“Now that we are both here, just let me get it for you,” Y/N told him softly, her hand reaching for his elbow. He looked back at her, contemplating before briefly nodding. And while she made her way over to the pool table, taking a wide curve around the sailors, the serious stare with which he was fixing them never wavered. She felt as if out of the corner of his eyes he was also watching her, making sure she was alright.
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The navy blue fabric felt smooth and cool under her fingers. The foul-weather attire was only used on ships in bad or cold weather conditions, no wonder Hangman hadn’t realized he had left it behind. While it wasn’t technically his - these uniforms weren’t part of their standard equipment and only lent to them - it smelled like him. Softly clinging to the fabric was a mixture of his aftershave, the saltiness of the sea, and the familiarity of jet fuel.
Grasping it in her hands she walked back over. Once again she was taking a big curve to avoid the sailors, even then she couldn’t help but grip the material in her hands stronger, the clamp only loosening as she came up at Hangman’s side.
His hand came up to the middle of her back, softly ushering her out of the room while he kept his glare towards the men until they were both out in the hallway. They walked in silence through the corridors, following the straight path for a while until the nearest branch where they turned the corner. Only then did the press of Hangman's hand on her back let up. Y/N stopped and looked up at him.
“Thank you.” 
She felt angry at herself, upset she couldn’t handle the situation on her own. She was a navy aviator, a top two top gun graduate, one of the best of her craft, a soldier who had seen combat, and yet she wasn’t able to stand against a bunch of sexually frustrated and sexist older men. She couldn’t look at him, she didn’t want to see the pity, she didn’t want to see the way he would now look down on her and think of her as weak. 
So she concentrated on the fabric still clutched in her hands, softly stroking her thumb over it to calm herself. Standing here wouldn’t make the situation better, it was like waiting for the sentence over her head to be carried out. She didn’t want to wait for him to start mocking her. Instead, she held the piece of clothing out.
Hangman didn’t take the jacket from her. His arms were crossed before his chest and just like she had thought he was looking at her. In his eyes was a different look though. There was no pity, just a strange warmth that made her skin tingle.
“What were you doing back there? I thought you wanted to go to sleep.” He asked. No retort, no cockiness. Just a strange seriousness which she could have sworn sounded more like protectiveness.
“Phoenix sexiled me.” She shrugged, letting her hands with the jacket drop to her sides. “I had hoped the common room would be empty by now. So I could crash on one of the chairs.”
Hangman stayed quiet, she could see his brain working, see him thinking hard. With a sigh he unfolded his arms, finally holding out his hand and taking the jacket from her. His fingers grazed hers as he did, and she could have sworn he held his fingers there for a moment longer, even going as far as brushing them back against hers.
“Come on.” Confused, she watched him motion for her to follow him.
“Where to?” She followed him regardless of her confusion down another long corridor. The ship was almost silent now, most of the crew had long gone to bed. There really wasn’t a better way to wait for the storm to end.
“To my cabin. You can sleep there.” His words made her halt.
“That’s against the rules.” Hangman narrowed his eyes, shooting her an incredulous look. It was an open secret that Maverick's students had taken over his habit of going against rules and not listening to orders almost as much as their mentor did. She had bent plenty of rules before, so she could understand his reaction. Slowly huffing, she crossed her arms and added, “Besides, what about your roommate?”
At that one of his infamous and cocky grins spread over his lips. 
“I don’t have one,” he was so smug about it. “Rooster and I have our own cabins as team leaders.” 
Of course, they did. Strange she wasn’t aware of it. Normally he would have rubbed it into all their faces before they had even the chance to board the ship. 
Hangman didn’t leave her any time to contemplate, he turned around and started walking down the corridor again. It didn’t matter. Y/n didn’t budge one bit. He realized it too after looking back to see her stand at the stop he had left her. With another sigh, the cocky pilot turned around and strode back to her. 
Gnawing on her lower lip she examined the blonde, unfairly tanned, and attractive man before her. While most of their group wouldn’t have batted an eye at his offer, hell normally she wouldn’t have said no to an offered sleeping place either, she couldn’t this time. 
“What about you?”, she asked him instead. If she took his bed, where would he sleep? Hangman looked surprised for only a moment before his relaxed stance returned together with the confident smirk that once again held something she believed to be an unusually warm tone.
“I’ll take the floor. It’s fine,” he reassured, nudging her forward with his elbow. 
With a huff she agreed, “Fine. You won’t stop bothering me anyway,” and trudged along the corridor. Hangman who held her pace, walking along beside her, laughed. He placed one hand on his chest in faux hurt.
"Ouch. That’s how you treat your savior? The person offering you a place to sleep?”
“I can go back to the break room,” she taunted. 
All of a sudden he looked somber as he shook his head, firmly telling her “No.”
The way he said it made her heart beat faster in her chest and a certain heat crept up her spine. In any other situation, she would have reprimanded him for giving her essentially an order, but at this moment she wasn’t mad at him for commanding her, she was somehow glad. He wasn’t going to even let her think about going back to that room, to have another possible run-in with these men. He wouldn’t let her, wouldn’t dare to let her get touched or hurt by them.
Silence formed between them. One she couldn’t read entirely but that wasn’t uncomfortable. The comfortable silence between them wasn’t a new concept. Hangman was a complicated personality and hard to get close to, not because he was dismissive but because his cockiness and ego held many people at a distance. They only saw the character he had built himself or they let his jabs get under their skin. 
While she wasn’t entirely immune to them either, he and she got along. There had been a silent understanding between them translating over to a comfortable silence in which they could coexist. Many evenings were spent at the Hard Deck beside each other, nursing a beer each and enjoying the silence, not having to have an act up and simply unwinding from an exhausting day, being content.
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Inside the cabin, which seemed a tiny bit more spacious than the one she shared with Phoenix, but still felt like a sardine can, the silence between them had shifted. Now it felt hesitant and awkward even. Y/N was fidgeting, playing with her fingers as her eyes restlessly combed the room. Hangman was in the corner digging through his locker until he pulled out a shirt and some of his sports shorts.
“Here.” He gave her the clothing items before he averted his eyes, looking around the cabin and then eventually back to her. Seconds went by in which they just stared at each other until Hangman was the first to carve. 
“I’ll just turn around,” he muttered and did as he said, staring at the wall, waiting for her to change out of her uniform. She was surprised at how cautious and polite he was. Not one cocky joke about her stripping down or if he could watch. 
Mumbling a small thank you, she quickly stripped out of the clothes. Much space wasn't available in here, still, she attempt to fold them as neatly as she could, placing them somewhere where they would be kept at least somewhat tidy and proper until the next morning. Having to get up extra early to sneak back to her cabin didn't sound very fun, but it was what needed to be done. At least if she wanted to look like regulations demanded it. When she was finished changing she cleared her throat. Hangman turned back around to her and motioned for the bunk beside them.
“There ya go.”
Looking from the bunk towards the floor she cringed. Metal. Battered and dented. Even though she knew everything got cleaned regularly and religiously the floor felt dirty to her. Not to mention the discolored and unidentifiable spots on the floor that seemed to have withstood the last cleaning. Did he really want to sleep on that tonight? How could she let him sleep there, it didn’t feel right.
So she asked him again, “Are you sure?”, uncertain about the offer. “You need the sleep, more than I do Jake.” It surprised her, the use of his first name. There wasn’t a time before she could remember ever calling him that instead of Seresin or Hangman. Surprised as well he raised one eyebrow and leaned his arm against the bunk over them.
“Well, what do you propose otherwise?” He smiled at her furrowed brows and the way she bit her lip. It warmed his heart to see her so thoughtful and truly concerned for him. Felt really good, he noted.
“It might be a tight fit but…we could share?”
Surprise was written all over his face. All cockiness washed from him. Jake swallowed barely noticeable before he found his words and his cocky attitude again. Grinning he leaned towards her, nose almost on nose, his breath fanning over her lips.
“If you had wanted to get me into bed you could have just asked.” The teasing made her roll her eyes.
“I can take the offer back,” she warned. 
Quietly laughing Jake shook his head, “No need to, princess.”
“Ladies first.”
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It was surprisingly easy to pull up onto the bunk, even under Jake’s watchful eyes. She could feel him hovering behind her as if he wanted to help lift her up. Scooting towards the wall was almost useless, the bunk was so narrow. Still trying, she shimmied around a bit, attempting to make space and settle herself when she felt the tug on the mattress as Jake pulled himself up. It was a much tighter fit than she had anticipated, which made her wonder how the hell Phoenix and her lover managed to get anything going in the cabin. 
Jake and her shoulders were pressing against each other, they didn’t even fit if they were to lay on their backs. Side Sleeping it was then. Laying on opposite sides she faced the wall. Behind her, she could feel Hangman’s back to hers.
“Goodnight,” she told him shyly. It felt awkward again, weird to share such close space and intimacy. Jake grunted his goodnight wish back to her. 
The quiet settled over them. In the darkness, they both lay wide awake. Y/N’s mind was going a mile a minute, with no sight of quieting down anytime soon. She could feel the warmth radiate from the body beside her, worsening her restlessness. Something felt off to her yet she couldn’t put her finger on it. Behind her, Hangman shifted slightly causing his back to briefly rub against hers. She froze, holding her breath, and waited. He froze too for a moment, waiting a couple of seconds before he shifted more.
It occurred to her then. Hangman didn’t sleep on that side. He never had. She could remember the conversation vividly from one of the nights the daggers had spent in the Hard Deck. Already happily buzzed the conversation had drifted towards the topic of sleep. Probably because Fanboy hadn’t been able to stop yawning. They had talked about everything from how fast each of them could fall asleep to where they were able to sleep and a bragging contest of the most unusual places they had slept before. Somehow they had then jumped to sleeping positions. The debate had been passionate. Hangman had gotten some jabs. She had never seen him get heated in a discussion but that evening he had been very offended about the claim sleeping on the right side was superior. It was then he had also claimed to only ever sleep on his left side. He had been so adamant there was a difference between the sides and that the right side simply didn’t feel right.
With the memories of this night coming back to her she wondered why he wasn’t lying on his preferred side. It would mean he would be facing the wall…which in turn meant he had to face her. Did he feel uncomfortable facing her? Did he not want to be so close to her? No...that couldn’t be. Could it be? Could he be doing it so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable? Her heart started to speed up once more. What a sweet, heartwarming gesture of him, yet she couldn’t help but be deeply bothered by it as well.
So bothered that it made her turn around. Jake wasn’t asleep, just like she had thought. He lifted his head slightly, squinting at her over his shoulder. There was no way he could sleep on that side, yet he was laying like that, trying to. For her. Pressing her lips tightly together she put her hand on his biceps, tugging on the thick muscles. It made him turn slightly towards her but not enough. 
Huffing she reached over him until she found his other arm. Tugging on this one much harder than before he finally turned to lay on his back. His side was pressed against her front, his elbow slightly digging into her stomach as she glowered at him in the dark.
“Y/N? Is everything okay?” He asked, confused but she didn’t answer him. Light was sparse in the dark cabin and even less in the bunk. It didn’t stop her from squinting at him as she kept tugging until he got the hint. Huffing she could feel him go slack, his arm turning pliant and following her directions how she wanted.
Letting out a satisfied hum she turned back to face the wall, pulling him with her. Finally, she draped his arm over her waist. Hangman had frozen behind her.
“This way we can both sleep properly,” she whispered into the dark, almost embarrassed by her actions now that she realized how it might have looked to him. But she stood by it, wanting for him to be able to sleep.
He didn’t move behind her which made her heart beat with such ferocity. Nervous about how this might take a very embarrassing, awkward turn. They had to be able to look each other in the eyes and fly together come morning.
After what felt like an eternity to her he let out a puff. It sounded like a chuckle. His arm slid around her middle, making her release the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. Jake scooted closer to her, pressing softly against her back. 
Her breath hitched as his nose nuzzled at her shoulder, the warmth of every blow of air from his mouth so clear on her shoulder as if she wasn’t wearing his shirt.
Just feeling for a moment, she held still. In the end, she concluded she liked it and relaxed into the embrace, even snuggling a little more against him. She could feel there were some words on the tip of his tongue. Some cheeky comments. The atmosphere at that moment felt so nice, she feared he’d ruin it with a comment. So she shushed him before he could open his mouth, snuggling more against his chest.
“Sleep,” her voice was barely about a whisper and broken off at the end through a jawn. She felt him nodding against her shoulder, nuzzling against it one more and softly nosing her neck too. It felt natural to lie there with him like that. Finding his arm with her hand, she pulled it a little higher so it was sprawled against her stomach and she would be able to comfortably hold it in her sleep.
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magz · 9 days
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(Alternatively: march 11 to 17, 2024 week summary for palestine on instagram)
March 15 to March 19, 2024 Palestine Summary. From "Let's Talk Palestine" (instagram broadcast channel). Quote,
March 15, 2024.
Day 161
• UNICEF: 1 in 3 children (31%) under the age of 2 in northern Gaza suffer from acute malnutrition, an escalation from 15.6% in January
• 149 Palestinians killed, 300 injured in Gaza in the past 24 hours
• Netanyahu dismisses Hamas’s ceasefire proposal, despite US stating that it is “within the bounds” of what was discussed + announces war cabinet approved plans for Rafah ground invasion. Israel continues to send mixed signals as they are also set to send delegates for truce talks in Qatar
⚖️ ICJ to begin hearings in early April on Nicaragua’s case against Germany for complicity in genocide in Gaza, per Nicaragua’s request for emergency rulings
🇦🇺 Australia to resume UNRWA funding of $6 million, following internal determination that “UNRWA is not a terrorist organization” despite Israel’s accusations
🔻 Hamas claims 4 Israeli soldiers killed in central Gaza + ground fighting continues in Khan Younis (south Gaza) & targeting of an Israeli armored troop carrier and tank
March 16, 2024.
🗞️ The Palestinian Authority (PA) Prime Minister and his cabinet resigned on Feb 26, while PA President Abbas will stay; a move towards a post-genocide plan to create a ‘unity’ PA gov’t across West Bank & Gaza.
Set up in the 90s, the PA operates as a subcontractor of Israel’s occupation, lessening its financial and political burdens. Today, PA is controlled by Abbas’s US-backed Fatah party, after Gaza split from its control under Hamas in 2007.
Since Oct, US has pushed for Gaza’s return to the governance of a reformed PA, but without elections, as Fatah would likely lose. Rather Abbas claims he’ll appoint a “technocratic government of officials & experts”. He chose a new PM 2 days ago.
But the rhetoric of “Palestinian unity” covers up the plan’s dismissal of popular demands for representative leadership. Palestinians doubt the reforms, overwhelmingly demanding the PA’s dissolution, Abbas’ resignation & PLO elections.
👩‍🏫 Confused about the PA? Read our post: tinyurl.com/4yhr7k67
Day 162
• 1st aid shipment departing Cyprus arrived in Gaza yesterday carrying 200 tons of food, marking 1st Gaza sea shipment since 2005 + planned 2nd ship coordinated by US, UAE, Spain & Japan; but unclear on distribution of aid across Gaza
• Massacre in central Gaza as Israel destroys home, killing 36 Palestinians, incl. kids & pregnant women
🔻 Senior Hamas & Houthi officials hold rare meeting to discuss coordinated action against an Israeli Rafah ground invasion
• Israeli settlers attack homes in Nablus (West Bank), throwing stones & shooting the air + 20 Palestinians abducted in West Bank, incl. some released in Nov. hostage exchange deal
•⁠ ⁠Palestinian Authority (PA) president Abbas accuses Hamas of causing “return of Israeli occupation of Gaza”, essentially blaming Hamas for the ongoing genocide. Was prompted by Hamas criticism of ‘unilateral’ appointment of new PM of the PA (see our last broadcast)
• 63 Palestinians killed, 112 injured in Gaza in past 24 hours
March 17, 2024:
Day 163
🇺🇸⁠ NBC: Biden frustrated over drop in poll numbers in swing states Michigan & Georgia due to his handling of Gaza genocide. Shouting and swearing in a White House meeting, saying he’s doing what is right
•⁠ 19 aid trucks arrive in north Gaza — first convoys to reach the north without incident in 4 months. But aid remains scarce as Israel keeps blocking entry of aid as trucks pile outside Rafah crossing + rate of malnutrition among children under 2 in north doubles in past month
•⁠ 14th Palestinian dies since Oct 7 in Israeli prison following multiple allegations of extreme abusive conditions for Palestinian hostages
🇪🇺⁠ ⁠EU President condemns an Israeli Rafah invasion, joining countless nations to do so like the US & Arab countries
•⁠ Israeli forces abduct 25 Palestinians, incl. a woman with cancer from Gaza & a child in overnight raids in West Bank
•⁠ ⁠92 Palestinians killed, 130 injured in Gaza in past 24 hours
March 18, 2024
Day 164
🚨⁠ Israeli forces raid al-Shifa Hospital, where 30,000 Palestinians are sheltering, shooting snipers at those fleeing despite ordering an evacuation. Al-Shifa has regained minimal functionality since Nov seige, but now unable to treat the injured due to siege. 200+ civilians abducted, incl. Al Jazeera journalist Ismail al-Ghoul & his crew — stripped, blindfolded & taken to unknown location, reporting abuse & beatings
•⁠ 81 Palestinians killed, 116 injured in Gaza in past 24 hours
•⁠ Integrated Food Security Phase Classification (IPC): Famine imminent, expected in north Gaza by May as 70% of its population subject to “catastrophic” starvation; while famine in Khan Yunis, Rafah & Deir Balah by July
•⁠ ⁠Israel recaptures Rawda Abu Ajmiyeh, previously released in Nov hostage exchange deal; 13 Palestinians recaptured, a clear violation of the deal
•⁠ West Bank: 300 homes demolished + 1,640 Palestinians displaced since Oct 7
🇪🇺 EU announces plans to sanction Israeli settlers
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👆 Graphic from IPC report on the levels of starvation and food insecurity in Gaza. On the left: current levels of food insecurity in Gaza; on the right: projected food insecurity levels by July
March 19, 2024
📣 We’ve just launched a dedicated page to fundraising for Gazans via our linktr.ee/fundsforgaza initiative. We’ve already facilitated tens of thousands of dollars in donations in the past weeks to families in Gaza.
The people we’re helping fundraise for are not numbers. This is a matter of life or death for people with dreams, passions, and stories like you.
Follow the new page @ fundsforgaza (instagram) to get updates on the fundraisers, share content with others to help fundraisers, and support people in Gaza ❤️🇵🇸
Https://instagram.com/fundsforgaza
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witchofthesouls · 30 days
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You know that one video of those elephants from a elephant sanctuary that literally run to meat and greet a new orphaned baby elephant?
That’s how I imagine the first meeting between Starscream’s trine and or Soundwave and his cassettes and Megatron’s newborn/young daughter/s went 🥰
Starscream will literally shank anyone else and bury their corpse in the deepest grotto that dared be the first to greet the newsparks outside of Megatron's direct kinship-ties. This is due to Vosian-style of Seekerkin propriety, which has strict guidelines on what is and isn't acceptable within the shifting hierarchy.
Starscream may enact assassination attempts on Megatron, but that can be taken as an extension of his duties since the Decepticon SIC aligns enough to be the most prominent Ring-Wing as it encompasses internal defense of the faction/flock. Newsparks are an immense life-event to Seekerkin. Who is and isn't allowed to interact with them, especially during the initial exchange outside the carrier and sires, is a highly telling social cue to other Seekerkin. Starscream would be absolutely furious if Megatron didn't let him and his trine meet the newspark since keeping them away would cause strife with the other Decepticon Seekerkin and destabilize Starscream's authority among them.
Because Starscream is almost genial as he only done three scathing comments to Megatron, the miner thought the congratulatory Energon-wine from Thundercracker had been poisoned. The blue Seeker holds the newspark with practiced hands as Skywarp vibrates everywhere, crooning at the blind, wiggling infant. Starscream leaves a thoughtful set of training daggers, but Megatron has no idea what to do with the gruesome etchings of distorted faces done by Skywarp...
(The rest of the Air Force are hungrily waiting to start preparations for a very belated baby shower. Megatron will be up to his helmet in gifts.)
Soundwave's cassettes are the ones that actually stampede their way to coo at the newest bitty. Ratbat is enamored that he's no longer the smallest on the ship. Frenzy and Rumble jostle each other and actually have the ball-bearings to comment how tiny she is with Megatron's coding. Laserbeak enjoys a peek-a-boo game by dipping her beak down for the bitty grab, whereas Buzzsaw prefers to clean the infant. Ravage may act cool and collected compared to the rest of them, but Megatron shifts his gaze whenever the cougaraider dips her tail into the cradle-pod to play with his infant daughter.
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runwayrunway · 2 months
Text
No. 55 - British Airways, Part One - British (European) Airways and British (Overseas) Airways (Corporation)
British Airways.
Starting this post was harder than actually writing it. It's hard to start a post about British Airways, because it's a deceptively weird airline. If you very precisely altered my memory, kept my knowledge of the United Kingdom and of flag carriers but erased all I knew about British Airways and asked me to speculate about the UK's flag carrier, what I came up with would look absolutely nothing like British Airways. British Airways is weird. It was weird when it came into existence in 1974. It's weird now. It's a completely typical airline in terms of things like...routes and safety and in-flight meals and...I don't know...contribution to human rights abuses. But that's not what I talk about here.
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The story of British Airways' livery is interesting. It's messy. It's political. All of that comes in due time. More than most other airlines, it just can't keep to a livery for too long - and that's when it even has a livery. In its early youth, British Airways couldn't really figure itself out at all. And in its even earlier youth...well, actually, British Airways isn't that old. It's also not the UK's first flag carrier.
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image: British Airways
There is a reason that two of British Airways' fleet of retro liveries wear wordmarks that say other names. To discuss the history of the British Airways livery, I have to first begin by discussing the fact that British Airways...is a weird airline.
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British Airways. IATA code BA, ICAO code BAW, callsign SPEEDBIRD. Flag carrier of the United Kingdom.
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Honestly a better logo than at least 40% of actual airlines.
Well, it's actually a subsidiary of the unimaginatively named International Airlines Group, Europe's third-largest airline holding company, below Ryanair and the Lufthansa Group but ahead of Air France-KLM. IAG is a member of the oneworld alliance and is the parent company of British Airways, Iberia, Aer Lingus, Vueling, and LEVEL, and just last year acquired Air Europa and began the process of absorbing it away from SkyTeam. To anyone who may have had the thought enter their head: yes, they do now basically have a monopoly on Spanish airlines. To any Spaniards reading, my condolences. At least you still have EasyJet.
Their largest shareholder is Qatar Airways, so when you really think about it British Airways is kind of a subsidiary of Qatar Airways a little bit. Their share is still only 25%, though, so that actually just completely isn't true, but in a vibes sense it feels that way from the outside looking in. Of course, all these airlines have maintained their own identities and operate independently. This is not a LATAM situation. British Airways adopted its present-day livery long before it merged with Iberia to form the IAG in 2011. I'm still not totally sure why they did that. Maybe they wanted to one-up Air France. Iberia's not exactly KLM, but - no, this is not that post.
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British Airways. I've always thought it was a little bit strange that it was called that. Few places love reminding the world they're at least nominally still a monarchy more than England. KLM isn't the only airline with 'Royal' in the name - Royal Air Maroc, Royal Jordanian Airlines, and Royal Brunei Airlines are just a few other examples. And yet the United Kingdom has never had an airline, at least not a major one, named anything like The Queen's Royal Air Fleet, which is what I would have expected of them. No. British Airways.
There's not much gravitas to that, is there? Not really any punch. Nothing making it better than Air France. 'British Airways' is a pretty sterile name for a flag carrier.
Their callsign is SPEEDBIRD, though. And that's not sterile. That's awesome. That's Europe's equivalent to Pan Am's CLIPPER or China Airlines' DYNASTY, just pure style. But what is a speedbird, other than a really cool name for a jet?
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This is a speedbird. Rather, this is the logo for Imperial Airways. Not to be confused with the very strangely named 1964-1986 Californian commuter airline Imperial Airlines, Imperial Airways was a very early precursor to what British Airways is now. In the inter-war years it served destinations like South Africa, Hong Kong, and Australia - the sorts of places two dozen or so wealthy individuals of power might have reason to go quickly. Unlike Imperial Airlines, Imperial Airways had a very fitting name.
So here's another weird thing about British Airways: it's young. Really young for what it is. Most flag carriers are pretty old, and the few exceptions are airlines founded in the 21st century to replace flag carriers which went defunct in the 90s and on, like Brussels Airlines or ITA Airways. Even when you discount centenarians like KLM and Finnair, most of the names you'd recognize in the rest of the world (and plenty you probably haven't heard of) existed by the 1940s, with the major Axis powers being forced to reboot theirs in the 50s. Even the places Imperial Airways served, despite not having the resources of an empire at their disposal, have far older flag carriers. British Airways didn't exist until 1974, making it younger than my mother, the Boeing 747, the Twin Towers, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the moon landing.
The primary reason for this was, as far as I can tell, bureaucratic shuffling about, but I'm not especially well-versed or interested in the history of UK corporations so that's where I'll leave this bit off. It is possible, and indeed likely, that someone reading this has the urge to say that I'm being uncharitable and that British Airways is functionally just BOAC or BOAC is just functionally Imperial Airways (or maybe nobody thinks that - I simply don't know enough about the corporate side of it to confidently dismiss the possibility of this indeed being the case). It's just not relevant because I'm ultimately here to talk about the airline as an entity in the public eye that has a livery, and in this sense Imperial Airways, British Airways, and the intermediate steps are fully distinct. So, for my taste, British Airways began operations less than a month before the release of the novel "Carrie". That's strange. British Airways is strange.
Still, even though in most other cases the process was significantly faster, very few flag carriers we'd recognize today were founded outright in their current state.
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This timeline, compiled by Yesterday's Airlines, documents the 'family tree' of airline mergers that has built up today's British Airways. It actually goes back far earlier. Debatably it began with manufacturer Airco and its subsidiary airline Aircraft Transport and Travel, founded in 1916. Though it went under in 1920, its assets were repurposed by Daimler Airway (singular), which was one of the four airlines (mostly all subsidiaries of aircraft manufacturers) which in 1924 became Imperial Airways. That's right, even the building blocks on this chart are themselves built from blocks!
There are plenty more long-forgotten airline mergers beneath where this graphic cuts off, but this is all to say that the speedbird emblem originated with Imperial Airways, and it has floated to the top of this soup of assorted vaguely British brands, many of which nobody has thought about in decades. Speedbird aside, British Airways resembles basically none of its component parts in any ways that aren't just explained by them both being British, and Airways.
The speedbird was created by notable art deco designer Theyre Lee-Elliott, who created several pieces of iconography and many graphics and posters for the UK government, among other things, like the first-edition cover of "A Farewell to Arms" that an English teacher of mine once had as a poster on her wall. Much of his early work was for airlines, and the speedbird happened to stick.
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Left poster isn't anachronistic - 'British Airways' was the name of a late-30s airline, itself merged from three other airlines, which would go on to join Imperial Airways as one of the components of BOAC.
Airlines didn't really have liveries as we know them now back when the speedbird was invented, so it would lie dormant as an emblem used on posters and signage for a little while. It was the only part of Imperial Airways' identity which survived when, in 1939, it merged into the British Overseas Airways Corporation.
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'British Overseas Airways Corporation' has the same nostalgic punch to it as 'Pan American World Airways'. It was almost always just called BOAC, though, even in the wordmarks of its airplanes. When BOAC came into being the airplane livery was not what it is today. They began with just a painted tail and cheatline, scarcely worth showing or commenting on.
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image: RuthAS Okay, I'll show it, but I don't think it needs any further comment.
There's only one BOAC livery that was really recognizable a BOAC livery. It was still fairly boring. More like BOA(rin)C(g). (That one needs work.)
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The only interesting thing about the BOAC livery, to me, is the way that sort of face mask shape combined with the tail almost gives it a sort of diagonal symmetry - the front with a blue dip below the white center, the end with a peak above it. It is a very efficient and deceptively effective, potentially unintentionally, use of geometry. I also appreciate the restraint of sticking to blue and white and leaving out red. The minimal nature of it increases the geometric feeling, really saving this livery from my complete disdain. The speedbird logo is really well-centered on the tail, feeling almost like a diagonal slash cut right through it, and I like the use of greyish gold instead of white, which makes it appear less jarring while still being clearly visible. For its day, these positives are certainly not to be fully ignored, though saying that this is a pretty alright 60s white-and-blue cheatline livery is not that high of a compliment. It is cleanly done but in no way exceptional, with a neat bit of art deco angularity to it that you really only notice if you stare at pictures of airplanes as a hobby.
On the other hand, it has a nothing wordmark that honestly just irritates me by breaking up that big clean white block in the same way an old scratch breaks up the flatness of an iPhone screen and it does that thing I hate where a cheatline sort of just...trails off under the tailplane that a fair number of 747 liveries do. It feels like they just couldn't think of anything to do with the end of the plane, which is never what you want from a livery, especially not from an airline that takes itself as seriously as BOAC did. It also uses the isolated tail block, which is a design feature I dislike. At least the extreme matteness of BOAC's midnight-blue-on-white makes it a bit less awful, and the white forward trim is a nice touch.
On balance, I'll give it a BOAC-. That is referring, of course, to the face mask livery, which I think is straddling the fence between 'adequate' and 'forgettable'. I truly have so little to say about the earlier liveries that I'm not going to even give them a grade.
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The BOAC livery briefly flew again in 2019 (which British Airways claims to be centenary based on the foundation of Aircraft Transport and Travel, except I've mainly seen that said to be 1916 and most people's consensus is that British Airways was founded in 1974 and no earlier) when it was painted on the 747-400 registered G-BYGC. She was the last 747 to fly for British Airways, just a year after the livery was applied, and there were plans to preserve her in the heritage livery which never materialized. Sadly, she was scrapped in late 2023.
But there was that speedbird on the tail! The speedbird was so damn iconic that it was even BOAC's callsign. So where did it go?
We'll get to that. There's more to British Airways than BOAC.
BOAC was state-owned, and it held a place of national prominence...so it was the flag carrier, right?
Sort of. It was a flag carrier. BOAC was the UK's Pan Am, specializing in long-distance international flights (hence 'overseas' in the name). There was also British South American Airways, a short-lived national carrier which was absorbed into BOAC after two years, with its most notable contributions to history being the disappearances of its planes Star Tiger and Star Ariel, but a significantly more enduring brand was BEA.
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This initial logo, also the work of Theyre Lee-Elliott, had a key motif to accompany BEA's slogan, 'the key to Europe'. I adore it. I like BEA a lot.
While initially founded as an offshoot of BOAC (which I suppose was the singular flag carrier from 1939 to 1946), British European Airways Corporation specialized in, as the name implied, flights within Europe (and other relatively nearby destinations). It was something of a VASP-and-VARIG situation. Nobody ever called it BEAC, though, even though it sounds like 'beak' and birds are a whole thing, because...flying...well, look, we can all understand, in retrospect, that one of the great tragedies of aviation history is that I wasn't there to have ideas. That said, maybe it's a good thing I never planted this seed, because their callsign was BEALINE, which is...just the most adorable thing I think I've ever heard. It genuinely makes me smile. It may be my favorite ever callsign.
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They did eventually change their official name to just British European Airways. Sort of a shame, if you ask me - you could have been twinsies. Ah, well. Also a shame is the perplexing choice to shelve their rather nice and meaningful original logo and replace it with what I can generously describe as 'a square' in 1957. I think SAS did it better. I can't rule out that I just hate it because the old one was so much better, though. I've seen far uglier, but again - this is a square.
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image: Adrian Pingstone
When it's on the livery, it's not even well-aligned! And it's difficult to imagine negotiating this onto an aircraft tail, even when dealing with a generously square fin like the Trident's. (BEA loved their Tridents, which were essentially designed for the airline's operations, and operated 70 of the 117 airframes completed. This makes me like them, because I love the Trident too.) That said, I think that if you're using a logo that is just the name of your airline, putting it on the tail rather than the front side fuselage is a bold move. Today it rarely pays off, but in the era of cheatlines and half-bare planes it actually avoids the issues of legibility and vertical space that a lot of other contemporary liveries struggled with.
Still, the square. It will simply never not look strange to have two straight vertical lines on a fin that's more or less diagonal to them, and I'm not sure how that could be fixed. They did the best they could, I think, but this was just doomed from the start.
On the other hand, I do enjoy its placement within the cheatline. It helps keep a sense of pace but doesn't break up the line, and it just feels like it clicks into place in a way I love. I like the continuity with the black line at the tip of the horizontal stabilizer, and I like that the white paint doesn't extend down as far as on a lot of liveries of the time, leaving the cheatline to taper above the Trident's rear-mounted engines instead of underlying them as many other airlines' did.
This logo and livery were designed by Mary de Saulles, who was trained as an architect rather than a graphic designer. I think it shows in the very simple shapes and lines present here, and it also shows in the fact that despite it technically not doing anything too unusual the BEA livery was very distinctive when actually on the apron.
BEA's liveries weren't terribly more innovative than BOAC's at first glance. But their black-and-red 60s livery was actually, deceptively, a standout of the era.
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images: Ralf Manteufel | Adrian Pingstone
The red wings on BEA's aircraft were absurdly stylish. There are dozens of reasons involving weight and heat and aerodynamic properties that prevent airlines from painting the wings on their airliners anything but a very dull drab, and I despise it, but when even the all-black Air New Zealand plane has white wings it begins to feel like it's just not possible to do anything else. Actually, it is hypothetically possible, though expensive, as long as you avoid the leading edges, though I'm sure the margins for shape and weight of a wing are far more precise on a 787 than they were on a Viscount. Still, I can't help but wish airlines would swallow the costs of painting wings (not like liveries aren't already a needless expense if you're trying to really optimize), because just look at this. It's absolutely stunning. It brings BEA's livery all the way from completely forgettable to by far the most eye-catching in the approach pattern.
And, you know what? I'll give them a BEA for that.
It might seem like a bit of a strange evaluation when I spent two paragraphs complaining about that square, but just imagine being on the ground and seeing a Comet landing, the lack of underwing pylons leaving that big red wing, like the lining of a cloak. That's a real Riyadh Air first impression. So while yes, the square is a square and certain aspects of the livery's implementation on various models range from forgettable to clunky, I am disregarding all of that, because this is like Dracula showing up to a board meeting. They are literally flying Louboutins.
BEA's livery and branding evolved over time in a way BOAC just didn't. BOAC never had anything I would identify as a 'rebranding' - it sprang fully formed from the Queen's (or something) head and stayed in its pristine state until the day it abruptly vanished. This was not quite the case for BEA.
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image: Adrian Pingstone This is a preserved airframe, hence the very anachronistic car models in the foreground. Still, the livery is accurate.
Their final livery, introduced 1968, was this - the 'speedjack' livery. The speedjack is, more specifically, that delightfully pointed Union Jack emblem on the tail. I do like the speedjack itself, being one of the only decent uses of a Union Jack base I've ever seen. It feels obvious yet brilliant to turn the intersecting lines of the flag into an arrow shape. Unfortunately, far more was changed than just the logo.
My beloved flying Louboutin was gone. They still sometimes had the red wings at this point, but in every other way it was a new livery. I actually find that something is lost here, because the old BEA livery had red but not blue, and the BOAC livery had blue but not red, so they were sort of a matching set. Also, um, that wordmark is legitimately hideous.
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It's a bit less horrible when it's not red letters on a white background, at least. And it does have a forward slant, a continuity...but this lacks the brilliance of Lee-Elliott's key or the charm of the de Saulles square.
The speedjack, logo, and livery were created by FHK Henrion, whose work has appeared on this blog before, though I failed to mention it. He designed the KLM crown logo!
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...a logo I used to think was fine until learning about the absolute beauty they had from 1930 to 1938. Henrion designed the totally palatable 1961 version, and further modifications were made by the firm Henrion, Ludlow & Schmidt, with at least the 1991 change being the work of Ludlow. It's certainly gone downhill, but maybe I just think that because of how much I adore the 1930 iteration.
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image: Piergiuliano Chesi
As for BEA - at the very least they kept the red wings. This is sort of a double-edged sword, though. This livery was, overall, far less distinct from its surroundings than the de Saulles livery, and the addition of the lighter blue to the fuselage really dulls the impact of the red against the stark black it used to share the airframe with. It just feels...flat. Neutered. Like an interim livery when one airline has bought out another and the paint jobs are changed out piecemeal. (And I think a red-only speedjack on a black tail would look fantastic, for the record.)
The details aren't much better. The cheatline feels almost too thin for the cockpit windows and the tiny wordmark makes the white fuselage feel as empty as it is without the little BEA logos making sure that isn't what you're focused on. Some models, like the Trident Three and Super One-Eleven, get their status indicated by text on the tail that looks like the default font of a word processor. It's just sloppy. Henrion's effort went to the speedjack, where a firm which specializes in image identity generally would be directed, and some interest was taken in the wordmark, but the livery itself feels like a pieced-together afterthought.
This gets a grade of...please just go back. I want to say D+.
How much of that grade comes from genuine dislike of the Henrion livery versus just thinking it's worse than what came before, I don't know, but it's one of the most immediate downgrades I've ever seen and the attempt to keep the most striking feature of the old livery while sapping it of its power feels almost insulting. It feels messy and pieced-together, and it's angling dangerously close to having the same approximate color layout as the old SAS livery - you know, the only thing that's ever failed the Star Alliance Test.
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And, at least from the side, and from farther away, it really doesn't fail the Star Alliance Test. It's serviceable, and I wouldn't be nearly this harsh on it if I didn't know what came before. But I've committed to a chronology of what would become British Airways, so I have to mention both, and that includes looking at them, reading about their design processes, and forming detailed opinions of them. This livery was just doomed by its predecessor.
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Even British Airways seems to agree with me, given that when they painted an A319 (G-EUPJ) in a BEA retro livery they chose the older black-and-red. Some liveries are simply iconic. Some simply aren't.
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And, yes - the wings are red. At least, the bottom is. The top was forced to remain grey for reasons of 'reflectivity', which is fairly vague. Still, this should be a sign to other airlines - your planes will make an impression from below, and that impression could be as powerful as the one BEA used to make.
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image: Ben Brooksbank
BEA, at its height, flew more passengers than any other airline in Europe. It had subsidiaries, including...Cyprus Airways. (Yes, the same one that's still the flag carrier of Cyprus. That's its own story.) They even operated helicopters.
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image: RuthAS Cursed? You decide.
And then, as the 70s began, the decision was made to merge the two state-owned airlines - something which I would personally have done earlier, and apparently people did try to do earlier but were prevented from doing by...politics. You know, just a couple people with titles that begin with 'Secretary of' passive-aggressively fighting over financial things. In 1974, what was probably inevitable finally became a reality.
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image: Piergiuliano Chesi
It takes a while to repaint a full airframe. When two airlines merge the change is often done bit by bit, making sure the wordmark's right but not bothering with the rest. In 1975, G-AWZA, pictured here, still wore the speedjack, but the wordmark above her cheatline said something new entirely, and a new airline was using the callsign SPEEDBIRD.
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And this is where I will conclude today, thwarted by image limit. Of course, being the person I am, I couldn't help but make my return for the new year not just a two-parter but a three-parter. Having dispensed with the British Airwayses that weren't British Airways, part two will cover the British Airways of the surprisingly recent past.
In the meantime thank you to all readers, old and new. I'm thrilled to be back from my break, and I hope you'll stick around for another year of Runway Runway.
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lonestarflight · 9 months
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Space Shuttle Enterprise on top of the 747 Shuttle Carrier Aircraft, NASA 905, as they land at the Dryden Flight Research Center, Edwards Air Force Base in Kern County, California following the first captive-active flight of the Approach and Landing Tests (ALT-9).
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Commemorative stamp from Rockwell International
Date: June 18, 1977
NASA ID: ECN 6828, C-1977-2303
source
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itshoneywhatever · 9 months
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WIP Wednesday
Anyone remembers this?? Well, I finally started writing it, and wanted to give you a little taste of it
“Well, if it isn’t Bagman.”
After having his conversation with Admiral Simpson about being considered for this upcoming special detachment — which is an odd thing considering he is an instructor on base, but couldn’t argue against the whole “you’re the only naval aviator on active duty with a confirmed air-to-air kill, of course you’re being considered” — he had gone to pick up his kids from the daycare and, after a quick stop by their home, he drove them to the beach to decompress from the sudden sense of dread that had filled his every cell of his body when he left Cyclone’s office.
He hadn’t expected to run into someone he knew.
“Phoenix,” he says in greeting, not looking away from where his twins are playing on the sand a few feet in front of him.
“You know, it’s considered creepy to watch children,” she teases in good nature.
“And here I was, thinking it was considered good parenting to pay attention to your kids.” He teases back, and this time he does turn to look at her so he can catch her processing that tidbit of information.
“They are yours?” The incredulity in her tone is enough for Jake to be honest.
“Yeah.” He admits.
“So where’s their mother?” Nat looks around, trying to find a woman that could be the mother of his children — Jake knows she’s not gonna find anyone.
“Don’t you mean the other father of my children?”
“Other fa—” she cuts herself, understanding finally dawns on her. “You’re a carrier?”
“Yeah.” He’s confused. Isn’t she friends with Bradshaw?
“No shit.”
“Why are you acting all shocked? Like you didn’t know this already.”
“Because I didn’t. Was it meant to be public knowledge?”
“No, but, like, you know about me and Bradley, you know, back in the day.”
“Yeah, of course I know about that, Bradley told me everything about it.” Nat frowns, even more confused now. “Are you sure Rooster knows?”
“I mean, how can he not? The guys literally saw me taking my birth control pills.”
“You’re thinking too highly of his intelligence.” Jake gives her a flat look. “Unless it’s about naval aviation, Bradshaw is incapable of understanding anything else.”
“Yeah, there’s not a lot going on behind those cow eyes,” he concedes.
Nat hums in response, and Jake is not sure if she’s agreeing with him or not. He turns to look back at his kids when he hears her letting out the most dramatic gasp he’s ever heard outside of a sitcom. Jake looks at her again and sees the wild look on her face.
“They are not Rooster’s, are they?”
Jake refrains from laughing at her, thank you very much.
“Not unless he’s fluent in Italian.”
“International, nice.” She sits down next to him on the sand. “Is he in your life?”
Jake shakes his head no. “It was a one night stand, and by the time I found out I was carrying them I was back in the States and five months into it.”
“So you’ve been raising them by yourself?”
“Yeah, but I have a lot of support too, so I can’t really complain.”
“That’s good.” She looks at the kids now chasing each other, running around the mount of sand that they created. Nat thinks it was their attempt to make sand castles. “They say it takes a village.”
“Maybe, but the village has to be willing to help and I’m thankful I have people that want to help me.”
“Coyote?” She guesses, remembering how close they used to be back in their Academy days and then when the three of them were stationed on the same carrier for six months.
“And his family and my own.” Jake looks at her profile before he turns to look at his kids again. “Wanna meet them?”
“Can I?”
“If you can bite your tongue and not say anything bad about me, then yeah, of course you can.” He nudges her slightly, in order to convey that he’s saying that in good nature.
“You run a hard bargain but deal.” She teases back easily too. “What are their names?”
Jake stands up and offers her a hand too as he informs her of their names, “ Tommy and Annie.”
They spend the rest of the afternoon talking and playing with the twins, and Jake can tell that his babies have charmed their way into Phoenix’s heart with their happy laughs and consistent babbler, and calling her auntie Nat.
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workersolidarity · 11 days
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[ 📹 The Zionist occupation army commits yet another massacre of a Palestinian family after bombing a residential home on Al-Jalaa Street in Gaza City on Monday, even as the IOF continued its siege of Al-Shifa Hospital in the Al-Rimal neighborhood.]
🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🚀🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨
ISRAELI VIOLENCE AGAINST PALESTINIANS IN THE GAZA STRIP RAMPS UP ON 164TH DAY OF ONGOING GENOCIDE
On the 164th day of Israel's ongoing war of genocide in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 8 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of at least 81 civilians, mostly women and children, and wounding another 116 others over the previous 24-hours.
According to Gaza's Ministry of Health, a number of bodies of the dead and wounded remain trapped under the debris and rubble, or remain scattered in the streets, as the Israeli occupation army continues to prevent ambulance and civil defense crews from reaching victims.
Meanwhile, IOF tanks, armored bulldozers and armored personnel carriers continue to besiege Al-Shifa Medical Complex, located in the Al-Rimal neighborhood, west of Gaza City, which remains the largest hospital operating in the Gaza Strip.
Local medical sources told the Palestinian news agency, Al-Quds News, that they were unable to save a number of wounded civilians due to the continued bombardment of the complex, while IOF soldiers fire on anyone who approaches the windows of the buildings.
Heavy shelling in the vicinity of the Hospital resulted in a fire near the surgical unit, by the hospital gates, suffocating civilians in the area and trapping them inside the hospital. The Zionist occupation army also cut off communications services to the hospital during the siege, and is currently ordering civilians to evacuate the hospital for the Al-Mawasi area.
At one point, occupation soldiers stormed Al-Shifa Hospital, arresting dozens of Palestinians, while local Resistance forces confront the invading Israeli army in the streets and neighborhoods surrounding the complex. At least one Al-Jazeera journalist, by the name of Ismail Al-Ghoul, was inside the hospital at the time of the Israeli raid, with reports that IOF soldiers beat and assaulted the reporter.
According to the Hebrew media, at least one Zionist soldier was killed during the siege amid intense exchanges of gunfire with Resistance forces operating in the Al-Rimal neighborhood.
Zionist authorities, who claim Hamas operatives were "using the hospital to plan and carry out terror activity," told the Hebrew media that the operation to encircle Al-Shifa Hospital was a joint one between troops with the 401st Armored Brigade, along with special forces units, in conjunction with Shin Bet security agents.
Gaza's Ministry of Health was scathing in its assessment, telling local reporters that “the Israeli occupation is still using its fabricated narratives to deceive the world and to justify the storming of the Shifa Medical Complex, and the Israeli military attack aims to continue destroying the health system in northern Gaza."
The Ministry also called on the International community to reject Israeli practices and asked that United Nations institutions intervene on behalf of the people of Palestine by going to the hospital to protect the civilians inside from the occupation army.
As the siege of Al-Shifa Hospital brought intense battles to the Al-Rimal neighborhood, Zionist air forces bombarded a residential building near the Legislative Council, while simultaneously, occupation gunboats and warships fired artillery shells near the Al-Mashal Foundation, southwest of the Beach Camp, west of Gaza City.
Similarly, the Israeli occupation forces bombed a civilian residence belonging to the Felfel family in the Tal al-Hawa neighborhood, southwest of Gaza City.
In yet another atrocity, Zionist warplanes bombed the Abu Ahjir Family home, located in the Nuseirat Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, killing at least 9 civilians.
Meanwhile, the corpses of those killed by the occupation's army continue to be recovered after the withdrawal of Zionist forces from the Khan Yunis governate, with at least five martyrs found and transported to Rafah city, in the south of the Gaza Strip.
Israeli occupation air forces also launched several air raids on agricultural lands close to the border with Egypt, in the city of Rafah, with a number of casualties reported as a result.
The Zionist massacres seemingly never end, with another new atrocity committed by Israeli occupation forces. This time, IOF soldiers fired live bullets towards civilians near Al-Rashid Street in Al-Zahraa City, in the central Gaza Strip, which resulted in the deaths of four Palestinians.
At the same time, the Israeli slaughter of civilians turned towards Palestinian children once again, with two local children killed in an Israeli airstrike that targeted a civilian residence in Khan Yunis, in the south of the Gaza Strip. The two children were recovered by local rescue crews and taken to Al-Najjar Hospital in Rafah.
As a result of Israel's ongoing war of genocide against the Palestinian population of the Gaza Strip, the endlessly rising death toll has now exceeded 31'726 Palestinians martyred, more than 25'000 of which being women and children according to the United States Pentagon, with another 73'792 civilians wounded since the beginning of the current round of Israeli aggression in Gaza beginning on October 7th, 2023.
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usafphantom2 · 5 months
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Why, 100 years later, the power of aircraft carriers is still incomparable
The U.S. response to the recent attack on Israel highlights the lasting usefulness of aircraft carriers.
Fernando Valduga By Fernando Valduga 12/11/2023 - 18:57in Military, War Zones
On October 8, a few hours after the unprecedented attack on Israel, the Pentagon publicly resorted to its greatest military resource. While the clashes between Israeli forces and Hamas terrorists continued throughout southern Israel, Secretary of Defense Lloyd Austin ordered the aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford to enter the eastern Mediterranean Sea.
The mobilization made it very clear that the U.S. had become aware of the crisis and was preparing to respond. He also made it clear that - despite recent pronouncements that question their value, given their surprising cost and vulnerability - aircraft carriers are still part of modern war.
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HMS Argus, widely considered the first aircraft carrier in the world in the 1920s.
The aircraft carrier is just over a hundred years old. Initially conceived as a warship scout to locate the enemy fleet with its aircraft, the Imperial Japanese Navy demolished this concept during World War II, uniting several aircraft carriers to create an attack force with greater range and heavier attack capacity than a line of warships.
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The attack on Pearl Harbor, when six aircraft carriers attacked the U.S. Pacific Fleet in Hawaii, catapulted the aircraft carrier to the top as the dominant weapons system in the seas.
When a weapon reaches the top of your domain, it is natural to assume that someday your reign will end. The Greek phalanx, the knight, the battleship, the warship and other weapons dominated the land and the sea, only to be set aside - violently and unceremoniously - by a new and innovative weapon. Aircraft carriers have remained at the top of the war in multiple domains for more than 80 years, and not even a new weapon has been designed that could replace them.
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USS Liscome Bay transporting aircraft to San Diego on September 20, 1943. (Photo: U.S. Navy)
Admirals like to point out that a Nimitz or Ford class aircraft carrier represents "4.5 acres of American sovereign territory". Aircraft carriers are owned by the U.S. government and are so large that they are effectively American territory - a floating island of American power that can move anywhere in the world's oceans. In addition, wherever they go, American territory remains, and their actions are not limited by anyone except the U.S. government... and the enemy.
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This advantage is particularly evident in the Israel-Gaza crisis. The U.S. military maintains air bases around the world, but coverage is irregular. The closest American air base to Israel is the Incirlik air base in Turkey, at a distance of 300 miles away. Aircraft flying from Turkey to Israel would also have to fly over Syria, a hostile country with its own air force. Giving Syria ample space would require flying about 160 extra kilometers and fighter escorts, increasing the complexity of reaching Israel. Another layer of complexity is that the Turkish host government may not be politically in agreement with the U.S. government on the mission.
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The aircraft carrier USS Gerald R. Ford, on the other hand, can anchor in international waters off the coast of Israel and get as close as it wants (although not very close, since Hezbollah operates anti-ship missiles). Ford's four F/A-18E/F attack fighter squadrons have a straight and uninterrupted line to any point on the eastern Mediterranean coast. The U.S. government can order Ford to do everything it wants, including ordering it to combat, without the need for coordination with a host government. This ensures that the U.S. government, which is not exactly known for making quick decisions, can quickly take unilateral measures when necessary.
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The current role of aircraft carriers includes the carrying out of air strikes against terrorist groups such as ISIS, Hezbollah and Hamas, and the dropping of guided bombs on enemies who cannot really react. This was true 20 years ago, when the end of the Cold War and September 11 changed the Pentagon's focus from the war between great powers to counter-insurgency. But although the mission has changed, the broad capabilities have remained the same and the aircraft carriers are still able to face threats on a broad spectrum, from ISIS to the People's Liberation Army of China.
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Combat is not the only mission that aircraft carriers can perform. Aircraft carriers can carry out humanitarian assistance and humanitarian aid missions in real time, such as those carried out by the USS Ronald Reagan after the Fukushima earthquake in 2011. While Japan and the United States mobilized to rescue survivors and assess the damage, the Reagan served as a floating helipad for helicopters from both countries in an area where local airports and airfields were destroyed by earthquakes and tsunamis. Nothing else can function as a mobile and disaster-proof airfield as an aircraft carrier.
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The U.S. government uses aircraft carriers to communicate with both friends and enemies, both as an instrument of assurance and intimidation. Although the aircraft carriers had not yet been invented when Teddy Roosevelt first said, "speak softly and carry a big club", they are the great club exemplified. Nothing draws more attention than a full-fledged aircraft carrier attack group arriving in the neighborhood, with 44 attack fighters, a cruiser and two destroyers in tow, and a nuclear-powered attack submarine prowling somewhere nearby.
Aircraft carriers can signal the intention like no other weapons system. If an attack submarine appears on your shore, you will probably have no idea that it is there. If a B-2 stealth bomber crew is training to attack targets in your country, you won't know unless they execute the mission. But if an aircraft carrier appears on your coast, it's impossible not to know. It is also a clear sign that you are on Washington's radar - and not in a good way.
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From time to time the usefulness of aircraft carriers is questioned. Usually, it is only a matter of months before something, such as the ongoing crisis in Israel and Gaza, proves its usefulness again.
Aircraft carriers have their problems: they are expensive to buy, expensive to operate and expensive to discard when they end their useful life. Still, in a crisis, there is no other weapon system that can do so much before even firing a shot. Someday, something will replace the aircraft carrier - but that day is not today.
Source: Popular Mechanics
Tags: Military Aviationaircraft carrierUSN - United States Navy/U.S. NavyWar Zones - Middle East
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Fernando Valduga
Fernando Valduga
Aviation photographer and pilot since 1992, has participated in several events and air operations, such as Cruzex, AirVenture, Dayton Airshow and FIDAE. He has work published in specialized aviation magazines in Brazil and abroad. Uses Canon equipment during his photographic work in the world of aviation.
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mychlapci · 2 months
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Im back again with more Rescue bots <3 i dub myself the chase / or Rescue bots anon because i will be sending more of this, or maybe some Pax <3
Heatwave eager to fuck chase the moment blades says he’s allowed to continue ‘facing with them. While on a mission to restore the generator or smthin Chase ends up getting pinned down and Heatwave doesnt hesitate to get the police bot to open his panels, Groping at doorwings and his panels <3
Boulder and Blades too busy to join in because theyre actually doing their jobs until the tell-tale flare of their speedster’s EM field disturbs them both, both of them spinning on their heels to look around- Chief noticing this and automatically being suspicious of where two of the bots are.
Chase on his front, heatwave propping and pounding into his still extremely sensitive valve, running hot the moment Heatwave carefully pulled him away from the team, his doorwings trembling as rough hands stroke over the steams and kibble. Chase digging his fingers into the dirt, trying not to scream, knowing that Boulder, Blades and definitely Chief would be annoyed, he knows that fucking in the middle of a mission is dangerous, they could be seen- be caught. And it just makes the poor policebot beg for more, the thought that they could be caught..Not following the one rule Chief set up for them that was: No sexual behaviour / and or sessions during missions. It just makes his valve clench down on the intruding spike. Heatwave knows this, and only pounds into his pretty bot harder, calling him beautiful, saying that he deserves this after carrying such perfect bitties for the three of them, But he wants some alone time with Chase, and even if he has to pound into the smaller bot’s valve until his valvelips are bruised and his node painfully swollen.
After awhile the two of them meet back with the team, Chase trying his best to hide a limp, his hud keeps on pinging, wanting to open his array so he cant get transfluid from the other two and ease the throbbing of his anterior node. He’d been taking all three of their loads for the last couple months and it’s a habit his frame doesnt intend to break anytime soon.
Does he get pregnant again? probably. Heatwave’s a smug bastard about it. Maybe he does the same to blades and now the team has two cranky carriers with over-protective coding and dealing with Boulder and Heatwave being even worse.
hell yeah, something about Chase, who is such a stickler for rules, getting off of breaking them really just does it for me. Of course he wants to follow the rules, especially if they're coming from chief Burns, but… when Heatwave smirks at him like that, like he's actually in a good mood for once, all his resolve breaks. He can always claim that he's still a little out of it after his carrying cycle, though he's worn that excuse out a little bit. It's not entirely untrue, though, after carrying the bitlets he has been a little distracted by his breeding drive urging him to do it again. Maybe that's why he really can't resist Heatwave. 
Chase with his face in the dirt and his hips in the air, trying to stay quiet as Heatwave pounds into him, tickling his fluttering door wings, slithering his hands over Chase's waist and reaching down to rub his spike… Heatwave is so rough with him, clearly rushing, constantly turning his head to make sure no one's walking towards them, he's hitting every single internal node so hard Chase is pretty sure he's going blind from his vision whiteing out constantly… They manage to overload and put themselves together before anyone finds them, but Chase is now having trouble keeping his panels closed. He's also convinced the transfluid is about to leak out soon and everyone will see...
Okay but… Heatwave knocking all of the rescue bots up. It's like a direct fuck you to the humans telling them to stop, for the love of god, reproducing constantly. Well, it's a fuck you only for a while, but he quickly realizes he might have not been thinking too rationally, as it turns out that he now not only has to do everyone's job, but he has three very horny carriers demanding transfluid. And his transfluid tank suddenly feels far too small to deal with this.
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