#or a tilt-rotor

[nautical-nauticals]

g1 purists saying megatron should always be a gun is like if a wfc video game fan said that megatron should have been a tank in prime bc it’s a sequel to the games

[humanoidhistory]

Bell XV-15 Tiltrotor aircraft at NASA's Ames Research Center, 1978.

[spockvarietyhour]

Vertibird in Fallout episodes 1 & 2

[theswordofdamntheseknees]

China's new 6-ton tilt-rotor UAV doing ground testing

The video is from Weibo. The R6000 was first announced back in February last year. The first production unit was announced in October, and this is the first time it's been caught on video.

It was announced with the promise of up to 4,000 km range, a cruising speed of 550 km/h, and the ability to carry up to 10 passengers with a payload capacity of 2 tonnes.

[researchgroupreports]

The global tilt rotor aircraft market size reached US$ 1.6 Billion in 2023. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach US$ 6.7 Billion by 2032, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 17.4% during 2024-2032. 

[ebodebo]

Ghost Garage

—mechanic!simon riley fucking you in his car garage because you couldn’t afford to pay for his services:(( MDNI ofc

“You’re lookin’ at six thousand for a new engine,” Simon says thoughtfully, scribbling a collection of messy additions in his notebook. “And if you’re lookin’ to do just one set of brake pads and rotors,” he says, scribbling some more, “lookin’ at six hundred even for those.”

Your eyes widen at his words because how the fuck were you ever going to be able to afford this? You swallow hard, pondering your following words. “Do you do discounts or something?” You’re sure you sound like an idiot, but you’re desperate.

The corner of his lip quirks at your question as his eyes stay glued to the notebook paper, still scribbling. “No. Still no discounts ere’,” he says, capping his pen, finally looking at you.

You fidget with your hands, eyes on his. “I—um…there’s no way I can…” you begin, turning your gaze away from him, feeling bashful, “…afford that.” Even though you had come to Simon’s garage before, this was just the first time you outwardly told him you couldn’t afford his services.

He leans back in his chair, the base squeaking a little. “Do ya’know how dangerous it is to drive with worn-out brake pads?” he states, placing the pen in his mouth, awaiting your response.

“Yes. I’m aware, but—” you begin, only for him to interrupt.

“But nothin’,” he calmly says, shifty in the chair, eyes shamelessly dragging down your body. You pretend not to notice even though it invokes an immeasurable amount of wetness to gather in your panties.

He can tell you’re nervous—your body language says it all. Clammy hands you wipe off on your jeans every so often, you’re avoiding direct eye contact with him, and the fact he can hear your heartbeat from where he sits.

He shouldn’t even have unholy thoughts of you come across his mind. But, shocker, he did. Every night from the time you first went to the shop all of those four months ago, he would fist himself in the shower thinking about you.

You, who always had that doe-eyed, glossed-over expression. You, who always had to bring Simon a sweet treat when you came, whether it be candy or some fresh-baked cookies you prepared. Oh, and you, who would hug him after he did your car inspections. Ya, he thought about that one a lot.

He considers your predicament. He has a solution, but it’s risky—perhaps too risky?

Eh, Fuck it. What’s he got to lose?

“Tell ya what,” he starts, standing up from his chair and grabbing the notebook paper with the numbers. “I’ll throw this ere’ piece of paper in the trash—hell, I’ll burn it,” he cocks a brow, “If you do somethin’ for me.” He hovers the small, intimidating piece of paper over a small trash can.

“Anything,” you say, desperation coating your voice. He hums, ducking his head to stare at the trashcan.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he says, followed by a gravelly laugh. You gulp, waiting for him to explain.

“I want somethin’ from ya,” he finally looks up at you, wiping his mask-less jaw with his hand. “Somethin’ that isn’t…money.”

You slightly confound your head. “Like I said…anything,” you amend.

He sticks his tongue in his cheek, drops the tainted paper into the trash, and then takes slow, deliberate steps towards you.

You inhale as he stands before you, unsure of his intentions. Exhaling sharply only when he brings his thumb up, dragging it delicately across your jaw, tilting it up so you are looking at him.

“I think we could figure out a way for you to get that work paid in full,” he rumbles, brushing his thumb against your bottom lip. “And a way I could feel that pretty pussy around me.”

Your eyes widen at his words, dumbfounded by his sheer bluntness and vulgarity. Though you admit, you feel a knot start to form in your lower stomach and more wetness pool between your thighs.

“Unless you don’t want to?” His tone his monotone, no signs of resentment as he drops his hand from your face.

“No—I do,” you affirm, even grabbing his hand and then dropping it from embarrassment. “I just didn’t think…you, uh, liked me like that,” you mutter, shifting on your feet and shifting your gaze to the concrete floor you both stand on.

“Oh, trust me. I like you like that,” he laughs lowly, stepping closer to you, bringing his hand back to the same spot to brush his finger against your pouty lip. “Can I?” He questions his gaze on your lips. You nod, standing on your tiptoes, gripping his neck, and bringing his lips to yours. You could taste remnants of cigarette smoke and the icy tang of Nicorette mint gum.

The kiss quickly became full of fervent urgency. Sloppy lips sucking your own, hands aimlessly gripping any piece of flesh it could, and teeth frantically clashing with your own.

“You do this with all your clientele?” you tease as Simon grips the bottom of your shirt and quickly pulls it off your head.

“Nah,” he coolly says, hands palming your breasts over your bra. “Just the ones I jerk off to.” You gasp at not only his hands on such a sensitive part of you but also his confession.

“You jerk off to me?” you tentatively ask, bringing your hands to grip the hem of his shirt, slipping it off his head. His lips instantly connect with your neck.

“What about it?” he murmurs against your skin, dragging his tongue from the side of your neck to your lips.

“I just…I finger myself thinking about you,” you admit in between his feverish kisses, which are apparently taking away your sense of shame. He pulls back only a little.

“You’re tellin’ me…” he reaches down to bring your hand up, grazing your fingers with his own. “You plunge these in your pussy, thinkin’ about me?” he stares at your fingers, unable to comprehend what he’s hearing. He darts his eyes to yours. “I get you off?”

“Of course you do,” you attest, dragging your hand so it rests on his cock that is tucked away in his greased stained jeans. He groans at your touch.

“Now let me see what I’ve been imagining.”

He wastes no time stripping you bare, throwing your bra and panties off to the side, before he unlatches his belt, roughly yanking his jeans and boxers down just below his thighs.

He grips the back of your thighs before hauling you over to a wood table that currently holds some pens and a toolbox. His lips connect with your collarbone, then to the fat of your breast, as you lazily stroke his cock.

“Little smaller than I imagined,” you cheekily say before Simon lightly nips at your nipple with his teeth, making you moan. He laughs against your skin, sending vibrations throughout your entire body.

“And yet it still makes you fuckin’ wet,” he cockily says as his hand slips to graze your glistening cunt. You don’t even talk; you have no breath left to speak. So, you let out a pathetic noise instead—somewhere between a moan and whine.

“Let me play with ya for a minute,” he murmurs into your ribs, pointer finger brushing against your labia. You squirm at his touch.

“Simon. I just…I need you in me,” you beg, pulling him by the hair so his ear is by your mouth, rocking your hips against his finger in you.

“I’m gonna come as soon as I’m in you, Sweetheart,” he says honestly, pointer plunging into your cunt, gently touching your clit.

“I don’t care…just…just,” you rasp, unable to speak with his hand plunging into you.

“Fine, fine,” he says. He gives his cock a tug before he pokes your entrance with the head, gripping your hips before he pushes inside you a little. He grits his teeth at the sensation, and you whine at the slight pain.

“Open up for me. Come on,” he hisses, throwing his head back as he sinks deeper into you. “There she goes,” he praises, gripping one of your legs and positioning it so it lies straight up against his body. You both groan at the deeper contact.

“Shit,” you curse as Simon starts up a good pace. His cock managed to graze you in all of the right spots—reaching places you didn’t even know was possible.

You knew you both wouldn’t last long at this pace—you’re honestly not so sure he would have lasted at any pace. He was painfully hard when you hadn’t even whipped your tits out.

Though you thought the jokes were on him, as soon as he brought his thumb to stimulate your clit, you were skewing curses, tightening around his cock.

“Fuck. That’s it…that’s—” he panted out as he felt you clamp around him, hearing you yell, ‘Coming,” before he followed with his orgasm.

Once both of your orgasms have subsided, he helps you off the table to grab your clothing. You gently tug on your lip before you speak.

“Also…about the payment?” You shyly question as he pulls his jeans up.

“Consider it handled,” he says with a smirk as he zips up his jeans.

a/n: bye once again i abused the italicized button

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[supplyside]

tilt rotor

[usagii-bun]

someone to protect — b. Reynolds [part 1]

𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 彡 you only came to the grocery store for bread. you didn’t expect to run into the man who once broke into your apartment, stole your tv, and fled through your window with second-degree ramen burns. and you definitely didn’t expect that same man—now shaggy, awkward, and uncomfortably familiar—to be dragged into your life again by a booming russian in a red tracksuit who insists on borscht and redemption dinners.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 彡attempt at comedy, mentions of past drug addiction (meth use and overdose), violence, language, and mature content in future chapters (including trauma-related themes and emotional intimacy). Please read with care !

if you prefer to read it on wattpad 🔗

word count: 6.1k

enjoy !

The grocery store’s air-conditioning blasted cold enough to raise goosebumps on your arms, a sharp contrast to the muggy New York summer outside. You shivered, rubbing your forearms as you grabbed a basket and drifted through the isles. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a bright, sterile hum that matched the strained pulse in your temple. You needed to focus. Just stick to the list. Get in, get out.

First on the list: bread. You turned down the bakery aisle, weaving through a pair of kids wrestling over a trolley like it was a prized race car. You wondered, just briefly, if one of them might suddenly turn into a super-soldier and crash into the shelves. You caught yourself. That paranoia had been creeping up ever since that day, and you had to admit it was exhausting.

Two months. Two months since the floor beneath your desk had cracked open like a jaw, spilling glass and drywall onto the street below. Two months since you had stumbled through the smoke and the alarms, clutching your laptop and half-eaten sandwich, your brain caught in a vicious loop of your worst memory, replaying over and over like a scratched CD.

You gripped the handle of your basket tighter, nails digging into the cheap plastic. You’d made it out just in time to watch a helicopter tilt sideways into the third floor, shattering the windows of the office you’d been sitting in minutes earlier. You remembered the heat, the blinding white flash of the rotors slicing through glass and steel, the rush of air that had nearly pulled you back into the chaos. You hadn’t been able to process it then, and you weren’t sure you could now.

You drew in a slow, steady breath, blinking back to the present as you grabbed a loaf of sourdough. Focus. You had more pressing problems than intrusive memories. Like rent. Or the fact that your employer had declared bankruptcy two days after the incident, leaving you and the rest of your department with nothing but a final, pitying group email about “unprecedented circumstances.” You scoffed, shoving the bread into your basket a bit too hard.

Moving into the canned goods aisle, you scanned the shelves for soup, your eyes lingering on the discount labels. You were still trying to convince yourself that this whole unemployment thing would be a short-term inconvenience, but your bank account said otherwise. You hadn’t even had the energy to look for a new job yet. The idea of sitting in another sterile, glass-panelled office, tapping away at spreadsheets while waiting for the next disaster to strike, felt like a cruel joke.

You turned the corner, debating the merits of tomato versus chicken noodle, when you nearly crashed into a broad chest that felt as solid as a concrete pillar. You jerked back, your basket swinging dangerously close to clipping your own hip and looked up.

The man you’d almost barrelled into towered over you, his shaggy, overgrown hair brushing the collar of his thick, grey cardigan. It hung loose on his frame, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing surprisingly defined, sinewy muscles that stretched the wool in a way that suggested he was used to lifting more than just grocery bags. His eyes, a stormy mix of grey and blue, blinked down at you with a hint of surprise, like he hadn’t expected to be standing here either.

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft and unsure, like someone who rarely spoke first. His hand reached out instinctively as if to steady you, fingers hovering just a breath away from your shoulder before he hesitated, withdrawing his arm like it might burn him.

You blinked up at him, something niggling at the back of your mind. He looked… familiar. Not just in the ‘guy you pass on the street every day’ kind of way, but in a way that prickled at the edges of an old, half-forgotten memory. You stared at his face, the scruffy jawline, the faint scar along his cheekbone, the haunted, cautious eyes that flicked away the second they met yours.

You knew this face.

You knew his face.

Your pulse stuttered.

Then it hit you. The flicker of a greasy hoodie pulled tight around a gaunt, desperate face, a figure silhouetted in the light of your open fridge, a whispered, frantic apology cut off by a steaming cup of ramen splattering across a narrow, bony back.

“Oh my god,” you said, your voice coming out more breathless than you intended.

His eyes widened, a deer-in-headlights kind of terror flashing across his face.

“It’s you.”

“Uh…” He took a half-step back, one hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It’s… me?”

“Yeah, you.” You jabbed a finger into his chest, immediately regretting it as your finger hit something disturbingly solid beneath the wool. You winced, pulling your hand back quickly, masking the sharp sting with a tight scowl. “You’re the one who broke into my apartment and stole my TV a few years back!”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He blinked once, twice, then seemed to shrink a little into his cardigan, eyes flicking to the side as if he might find an escape route between the rows of chicken noodle and tomato soup.

“Oh. Oh.” He grimaced, his ears turning an impressive shade of pink. “Uh, yeah. I’m… I’m really sorry about that.” He stammered, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “I-I told you I’d replace it.”

You scoffed as you remembered his desperate face twisted with pain from the hot noodles that was thrown at his back, his words barely coming out coherent. “Yeah, well, that’s hard to believe from the guy who bolted out my window with a 43-inch flatscreen and a bad case of ramen burns.”

He flinched, a guilty look crossing his face as he glanced down at his shoes. “Yeah… I deserved that.” You were about to snap back, something cutting and cathartic, when a booming, heavily accented voice echoed down the aisle.

“Bob! There you are my friend!”

You turned, just in time to see a massive, bear-like figure stomping toward you, arms outstretched like he was about to crush the both of you in a bone-cracking bear hug.

Bob turned a little, his head dropping like a guilty puppy. “Oh no…”

The mountain of a man, dressed in a bright red tracksuit and sporting a bushy beard, clapped a meaty hand down on Bob’s shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees. “I have been looking for you everywhere! What are you doing here, hiding among the soup cans like a little mouse?”

You blinked, your mind struggling to keep up. You do know now that the man who stole your TV is named Bob, such a peculiar name.

Alexei’s grip on Bob’s shoulder tightened, his thick fingers nearly disappearing into the oversized grey cardigan, and for a moment, you almost felt a little sorry for the guy. Almost. The big Russian’s bearded face split into a grin, his eyes twinkling like he’d just found an old friend in the canned soup aisle.

“Ah, Bob! Did you find the canned corn ?” he boomed, his deep, accented voice carrying down the aisle and probably into the frozen foods section.

You took a small, instinctive step back, watching as Bob visibly shrank beneath the older man’s enthusiastic grasp.  Alexei’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, almost childlike excitement. Without warning, he released Bob’s shoulder, reaching into his shopping basket as he brought it up, the box crinkling slightly in his massive hand.

“Look, look!” He leaned in towards you, jabbing a thick finger at the front of the box. “You recognize this?”

You blinked, leaning in despite yourself. The box was a generic-looking brand, the kind that’s always on sale but no one actually buys unless they’re desperate or trying to save a few dollars. The front featured a group of people, posing – Alexei’s finger pointing at a specific man.

You glanced at the person he was pointing at on the box, then back at him. Then back at the box. Then at Bob, who had gone a peculiar shade of pink beneath his scruffy, overgrown hair, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor like he wished he could disappear into it.

The Red Guardian’s grin only grew wider as he watched your confused expression, his finger tapping insistently on the printed image.

“See? See? You recognize, yes?” He straightened, puffing out his chest as if to match the image on the box. You blinked again, torn between second-hand embarrassment and a bizarre kind of awe. “Uh… yeah.” You muttered out, fingers awkwardly playing with the handle of your shopping basket.

His eyes sparkled, clearly thrilled by the recognition. “Yes, yes! You know me!” throwing his hands up causing you and Bob to flinch at the sudden burst of movement.

You tilted your head, watching as he posed with one fist on his hip, the cereal box still clutched in his other hand like it was the Olympic torch. “Red… something?”

He leaned in closer, his beard twitching with anticipation, like a giant, overeager bear.

“Red… Guardian?” you finished, half-question, half-statement.

He slammed the box down onto the edge of the nearest shelf, the impact making the metal rattle and the box to tremble. “Yes! Red Guardian!” he roared, clearly pleased with himself. You took a step back, fingers tightening around your grocery basket. This guy had the energy of a particularly loud uncle at a family barbecue, the kind that smacks you on the back hard enough to make you lose your breath.

“And you?” He pointed at you now, his massive hand blocking out half your vision. “You, what is your name?”

You hesitated, glancing at Bob, who was now staring resolutely at the floor tiles, his shoulders hunched like a child expecting a scolding. You felt a strange, uncomfortable twist in your gut, that same old unease from the ramen incident years ago prickling at the back of your mind.

“It’s, uh…” You cleared your throat, feeling oddly exposed under the Red Guardian’s intense, expectant stare. You croaked out your name, this also catching Bob’s attention, the both of you making eye contact but he quickly broke it off when you glared at him.

Alexei beamed your name out loud, rolling the name around in his mouth like a fine wine. “Beautiful name! Strong name!” He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing down the aisle, his gaze now falling on Bob

“And how do you know our Bob here?” he asks, the grin on his face not disappearing.

Your eyes slid back to Bob, who was now shuffling his feet, his hair falling into his eyes as he fidgeted with the fraying edge of his cardigan sleeve. You squinted at him, a sudden flash of irritation tightening your jaw. Right. You remembered exactly how you knew this guy.

“Oh, Bob here,” you said, making sure to put a lot of emphasis on his name long with letting a hint of your old anger creep into your tone, “stole my TV a few years back.” You scoffed out, you did not have a TV for a good few months and you was just a struggling college student.

Red Guardian’s smile froze, his thick eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. His gaze snapped to Bob, who winced, his ears turning an even deeper shade of red.

“Bob,” Red Guardian said slowly, his thick, bushy eyebrows knitting together in a mock expression of fatherly disappointment. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a loud, exaggerated whisper that still echoed down the aisle. “You did this?”

Bob flinched, his head jerking up as he stammered, “I-I, uh, I told her I’d replace it!” He shot you a panicked, pleading look, his hands wringing the hem of his cardigan like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, yeah. Right before you dove out my window with my flatscreen under your arm!” you pointed your index finger towards him in an excusing manner watching as he flinched at his, your brows furrow at this…he seemed like someone who is always on edge.

Red Guardian made a deep, disapproving sound in his throat, his head shaking slowly as he clapped a heavy hand down on Bob’s shoulder once again, making the man visibly wince.

“Tsk, tsk, Bob. This is no good.” He turned back to you, his eyes sparkling with a kind of mischievous, paternal glee. “He must make this right, yes? Repay his debt. Prove he is a good man! And no longer bad chicken Bob!” he exclaims out loud, your even more confused now.

‘Chicken Bob?’

Before you could protest, the Red Guardian’s grip tightened on Bob’s shoulder, his other hand sweeping towards you in a grand, magnanimous gesture. “Bob, you must invite this fine woman to dinner. Show her that you are reformed, yes?”

“W-wait, what?” Bob’s eyes shot wide, his face blanching beneath his scruffy beard.

“Yes, yes!” Red Guardian barrelled on, clearly delighted with his own idea. “You will come to dinner with us, yes?” He turned to you, his eyes bright, his grin nearly splitting his face in two. “It will be great honour to have such a strong, brave woman in our home. We make great borscht! Very delicious!”

You opened your mouth to object, to point out that you still had half a grocery list to get through, not to mention a few years of lingering resentment towards the man who had once made off with your only decent piece of electronics, but the Red Guardian’s booming voice cut you off.

“Come, come! Do not worry about groceries. I will make you borscht. Bob will show you he is a good man. Yes, Bob?”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking between you and the Red Guardian like a trapped animal.

“Uh… y-yeah?” he managed, his voice so small it was almost swallowed by the grocery store’s humming lights.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the Red Guardian was already steering you and Bob towards the exit, the cereal box abandoned on the shelf behind you, his booming voice echoing through the aisles.

“Come, come, we will have great feast! You will see, Bob is very good man now!”

You shot Bob a sharp, exasperated look as you stumbled along beside them, your brain still scrambling to catch up. How the hell had this become your life?

⊹

The walk to the  Watch Tower – the tower that now housed the ‘new’ avengers - was mercifully short, though it felt longer than it was with the Red Guardian practically booming with every step, his heavy boots clapping against the pavement like a small parade. The morning air was crisp, the sun cutting through the towering glass and steel around you, casting long, sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. You managed to get your groceries- Alexei insisting to pay for them as you clutched the bag tighter, the contents rustling softly against your leg as you tried to keep pace with the oversized man beside you.

Every few steps, you felt Bob’s presence behind you, shuffling quietly, his cardigan sleeves pulled down over his hands like a nervous schoolboy. You caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glossy glass doors as they reached the base of the tower, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before darting away again.

He still looked like a ghost of a man, all messy, unkempt hair and slouched shoulders, you almost felt bad for him, but the memory of your missing TV kept you firmly on the side of irritated.

Alexei, however, was in a world of his own, practically vibrating with energy as he slapped his massive palm against the sleek, polished metal of the tower’s entrance, his voice echoing off the glass.

“Come, come! We are home now!” He gestured grandly for you to enter, his broad, calloused hand sweeping towards the sliding glass doors.

You hesitated, glancing up at the towering structure. The sleek, reflective surface stretched up into the cloudless sky, the sunlight catching on the edges of a large A near the top. You swallowed, feeling a flicker of nervousness and nostalgia – you had been here before, long ago – work purposes, memories you just wanted to tuck away.

Before you could fully process the absurdity of the situation, the Red Guardian had already marched through the doors, his heavy boots clanking against the marble floors inside, leaving you and Bob to awkwardly shuffle in behind him.

The lobby was cavernous, the high ceilings stretching upwards like a cathedral, glass and steel arching around you in a way that felt both futuristic and oppressive. Soft, ambient music hummed through hidden speakers, the faint, sterile scent of air conditioning tingling in your nose. You glanced over at Bob, who was still staring at his shoes, his long, bony fingers twisting into the frayed edges of his cardigan sleeves.

You shifted your grocery bag to your other hand, your fingers starting to ache from the weight. Alexei was already jabbing at the elevator button with one thick, impatient finger, muttering something in rapid Russian under his breath as he waited for the doors to open.

With a soft ding, the elevator slid open, its brushed steel doors parting like the jaws of some enormous, metallic beast.  Alexei stepped inside without hesitation, gesturing for you and Bob to follow.

You stepped in, feeling the air turn colder as the doors slid shut behind you. The soft, mechanical whirr of the elevator filled the silence as Alexei punched in the floor number, his massive knuckles practically dwarfing the tiny, glowing buttons.

For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle hum of the elevator and the faint rustle of your grocery bag as you adjusted it against your hip. You glanced sideways at Bob, who was staring intently at the corner of the elevator, his face a study in nervous concentration.

You tightened your grip on the bag, the plastic cutting into your fingers as you felt a fresh wave of irritation bubble up. How the hell had this guy gone from petty TV thief to… whatever the hell this was? You eyed him again, trying to reconcile the image of the jittery, scrawny man beside you with the half-forgotten memory of him scrambling out your window, your flatscreen clutched awkwardly in his arms.

The Red Guardian’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the silence like a hammer on glass. “Ah, Yelena will be so happy to meet you! Maybe you and her can be friends, yes? She needs more friends” He gave you a broad, toothy grin, his beard twitching as he chuckled to himself. “And you, Bob, you should also make more friends. You are too quiet, like a little ghost.”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for the briefest of moments before darting away again. You scowled, your fingers tightening around the grocery bag handle.

You shifted awkwardly, your eyes darting around the room as the uncomfortable silence stretched on. You felt Bob’s presence beside you, his hand twitching slightly as if he wanted to shove his hands into his pockets but was too nervous to move.

The elevator ride felt long- longer then you remembered. Finally, you shot him a sharp, sideways glance, Alexei was humming something in Russian lost in his own world as you lowered your voice to a harsh whisper. “How the hell did you end up here?”

Bob’s eyes widened, his head jerking up like a startled deer. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stammered, “I-I… it’s a long story.”

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the weight of the forgotten ramen incident settling heavily in your chest. “I did not know the b-vengers also took on petty thieves”  you muttered, your grip tightening on your grocery bag.

Bob’s head tilted slightly, the harsh white light casting faint shadows across the sharp lines of his face. Your words stung like a bandit aid being ripped, his hair hung loose around his shoulders, a little too long, a little too messy, and his jaw tightened at your words. He tried his best to block memories of his past, breaking into peoples homes- stealing their valuables- all in order to buy meth – to get high.

“It’s… complicated,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking down to his scuffed boots.

You huffed, eyes narrowing further. “Complicated? You broke into my apartment and stole my TV. That’s not complicated, that’s just petty crime.”

Before Bob could sputter out a response, the elevator gave a soft chime and the doors slid open, revealing the sprawling lounge of the Avengers Tower. The space was sleek and modern, polished floors reflecting the city lights streaming in from the tall glass windows. Low, comfortable couches were scattered around, and a massive screen dominated one wall, currently flashing muted news headlines.

A lady with short blonde hair spots the three of you her sharp, curious eyes immediately locked onto the three of you as she crossed the room, her genie pig clutched in one hand, its tiny paws scrabbling against her fingers. She cocked her head, blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she sized you up, her expression unreadable before she turned to look towards Bob and Alexei.

“You do know you need to inform me first before you go anywhere with Bob, dad ?” she asked her voice laced with annoyance as Alexei gives her a sheepish grin.

“The boy needed the fresh air; thought grocery shopping will help him out.” He states, Bob just nervously standing next to him – Yelena gives the two a small smile – her dad was with Bob, she should not worry that much but at the same time her father has a blabber mouth and says things a bit too quickly before he thinks- which could trigger Bob.

Her gave now falls back on you as you were standing awkwardly through that little conversation, the urge to just run out, to disappear was becoming greater as her eyes locked with yours- stern.

“Dad,” she said, her tone clipped, her gaze still not leaving you. “You know you can’t just bring strangers in here.” Alexei’s face brightened, as if this was exactly the response he’d been hoping for. He clasped his large hands together, making the genie pig in Yelena’s grip flinch.

“Relax, Yelena. Bob here needs to make up for a mistake,” he said, clapping a massive hand down on Bob’s shoulder, making him flinch slightly. “And I thought, what better way than a dinner? A little easier on the champ.” He gave Bob a hearty shake, his bicep bulging as he grinned before he says he needs to prepare dinner in an excited tone, rushing to what you assume is the kitchen.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed further, her suspicion deepening as she looked from you and then to the clearly mortified Bob, who was steadily turning a deep shade of pink.

“What did he do?” she asked, eyes locking onto you, clearly expecting some explanation for this odd little reunion.

You didn’t miss the way Bob’s shoulders tightened, his jaw clenching as if bracing for impact. For a second, you considered letting him squirm a little longer, but the memory of your old, second-hand TV, the one you’d scrimped and saved for, flashed through your mind.

“He stole my TV a few years back,” you said, keeping your tone as casual as you could, but not quite managing to keep the bite out of your voice.

Yelena did not seem phased by what you had said as if its something of the normal as she turns towards him. ‘Did he steal her TV too ? is this a normal ? why are these ‘avengers’ so casual with a petty thief ?’ you thought, you must wanted to go home now.

“Bob,” she said, her voice soft and calm as if she switched off her scary demeanour to calm and soft one- just for him, just for Bob.

“You stole a TV?”

Bob shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his face a deep, blotchy red. He muttered something under his breath, eyes firmly fixed on the floor, his broad shoulders almost curling in on themselves.

“Wow,” Yelena said, leaning back, clearly enjoying this. “You really are full of surprises, Bob”

Bob’s head dropped lower, and you could practically feel the waves of embarrassment radiating off him.

“ It was when I was on meth!” he quickly justifies, your eyes widen slightly at this new found information, that actually explains a lot. “I-I needed cash so I used to steal stuf-f” he stammered out his eyes now locking with yours, a guilty expression on his face but his eyes were soft and sincere “and I’m really sorry I stole your TV, I did not want to but the voic-” “Okay Bob, that’s enough you don’t need to explain yourself anymore, what has been done in the past is in the past, you don’t have to worry, right?” Yelena had caught him off, her gaze now hard on you, trying to intimidate you into saying right- you looked at her as she wrapped a hand around his wrist- not in a forceful manner but in a way to comfort him ? then you looked at him, his eyes seemed distant, he seemed to be drifting – something was not right as you gazed back to Yelena, her gaze still cold and hard on you as if telling you to go along with her.

You took a deep breath in; a small smile stretches on your face. “Right, the past in the past” you said as sweet as you could , Yelena letting out a breath she did not even know she was holding, Bob’s eyes flickering towards you, a slight shine to them.

What is wrong with him ?

“After all, to be here with the new avengers means you have done something super good” you said, you tried not to sound sarcastic, but Bob seemed to be like a deer caught in headlights, his mind slightly spiralling.

‘You are only here so that you don’t become a threat to others’ a voice, no- its voiced whispered in his ear – his breath hitching, eyes turning glassy. Yelena noticed this quickly, a hand wrapping around his shoulder.

“Why don’t we go and sit down ? huh ? Bob? Lets go have a seat, you can pet Cucumber!” she says all of this out quickly as she lead Bob to the couch, your gaze followed them, next to the couch was a guinea pig – ginger and white, it was lazily seated on a mini pillow before being gently grabbed by Yelena- the guinea pig let out a small ‘pip’ before it was placed in Bob’s hands.

“Here pet Cucumber – think happy thoughts!” Yelena says, you just watched all of this happen awkwardly with your grocery bag making your fingers red, why the hell was this woman babying this grown ass man ? was the first thought that came to mind – Yelena’s gaze snapped towards you, her head cocking towards the couch.

“Sit.” Her voice was stern, this caused you to gulp as you made your way almost tripping on the rug towards the couch. ‘God, did I do something wrong?’ you really wanted to go home now, your heart was beating fast.

You sink into the far end of the couch, the soft cushions sagging beneath you as the worn fabric creaks under your weight. Your grocery bags rustle as you set them down beside you, the thin plastic crinkling sharply in the quiet room. Bob hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking to you, then quickly away, before his gaze falls back on cucumber – who was happily sat on his lap. His knees bend stiffly, his limbs too long for the small space, and the fabric of his oversized cardigan bunches awkwardly around his wrists, the sleeves slipping down to cover his knuckles as he gently brushes his thumb on the animal.

For a moment, he just stares at his fingers, his thumbs rubbing slow, nervous rhythm on Cucumbers head, his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. You catch a faint tremble in his hands, the slight, uneven twitch of his fingers - it’s a small thing, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention, but you catch it – the subtle, constant fidgeting, the way his breath hitches slightly whenever you glance his way.

Yelena sighs a breath of relief as if she had just stopped a bomb from exploding - she perches herself on the armrest, her arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly scratching at a threadbare patch in the upholstery. The tiny guinea pig in Bob’s lap, sniffs at the air, its tiny pink nose twitching as it detects the faint, salty scent of your groceries.

Yelena tilts her head, her sharp green eyes flicking between you and Bob, catching the tension that crackles faintly in the air. Her gaze now falling on the paperwork that was scattered on the desk, a groan escaping past her lips “I thought Bucky was going to handle this” she sighs out annoyedly – it was mission reports that Valentina wanted back. Yelena thumbed through them, she knew her dad would want to do it but she don’t really trust him because he will say he is going to do it but ends up doing something else, Ava does not want to do them by choice, Walker – well he will straight up say no, and Bucky offers to do it but is also busy with his congress stuff and her? Well, it’s just tedious.  

Yelena’s accent thick but her tone light, as if she’s trying to ease the awkwardness settling around you, “we really should get a personal assistant. Valentina keeps dumping more and more crap on us.” She mutters more so to herself, feeling a headache forming while she stares at the cluttered coffee table, where stacks of mission reports and loose paperwork spill over the edges, threatening to slide onto the floor. One particularly crumpled page still bears the faint outline of tiny teeth marks – Cucumber’s latest snack, no doubt.

You heard what she had said, the need for a personal assistant, maybe you could just add your little two cents as you let out a soft, bitter chuckle, your fingers curling tightly around the thin plastic handles of your grocery bags. “A personal assistant, huh?” you murmur, leaning back into the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot among the lumpy cushions. You catch Bob’s shoulders tensing slightly, his head ducking lower.

“Well,” you continue, tilting your head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at your lips as you glance at Bob, trying to break the awkward tension “I could assist you with that.” You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “And maybe Bob can help me get the job, you know, as a favour. Since he did steal my TV.” You still did not want to let go of the whole TV stealing incident, this seemed to irk Yelena now.

“I don’t think we would need a girl plucked from the grocery store to be our personal assistant, especially one still hung up on a stolen TV from years ago.” She states, her voice clipped, each word a precise cut. “ Besides, I highly doubt you have the …mindset for such fields”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back a little “Depends on the field” you reply, tone light but your eyes sharp, catching the subtle shift in Yelena’s posture. “You’d be surprised what some of us pick up along the way”

Bob’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to find his voice. For a moment, he looks like a cornered animal, his dark eyes flicking nervously between you and Yelena, his fingers twisting together with renewed urgency.

Before Yelena could respond – her eyes held suspicion, Alexei bursts through the kitchen doors – the smell of food, seeping through as he grins widely.

“The dinner is ready!”

The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall, glass walls of the penthouse, casting long, slanting beams across the polished marble floors. The city below pulsed with life, a distant hum of engines and faint, echoing car horns rising from the streets, muffled by the thick, soundproof glass. The air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of ozone from the tower’s advanced air filtration system.

Mel leaned against the glass railing, a sleek, black tablet balanced on her forearm, the screen flickering with a steady stream of security alerts. Valentina stood beside her, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of dark coffee, her expression sharp and slightly irritated, her eyes locked on the swirling security feed.

“Please tell me it’s not another one of Alexei’s weird karaoke nights,” Valentina muttered, her voice low, the edges of her words sharpened by a hint of annoyance. “Last time, it was that poor Pizza guy, and I still don’t know how he ended up in a Spider-Man onesie, belting out ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me’ at three in the morning.”

Mel smiled slightly, tilting the tablet slightly to catch the glint of the overhead lights. “No, nothing like that. But… well, we might have a situation. Look at this.” She tapped the screen, the security footage flickering as the camera angles shifted, closing in on the lounge below.

Valentina’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene – Yelena’s wary posture, Bob’s hunched shoulders, and you, perched awkwardly at the end of the couch, your fingers still curled tightly around the crinkling plastic handles of your grocery bag, the faint sheen of sweat dotting your hairline despite the cool, climate-controlled air.

Valentina watched the security camera, a scoff leaving past her lips at Yelena complain about simple paperwork and you talking about being their personal assistant.  Your face away from the camera, your hair obscuring your face.

“why does Alexei bring random civilians to the tower? Gosh, Mel please add that I need to give them a warning on that – especially to that Red Guardian” she could feel a headache forming, ever since she announced the bunch of morally grey ‘heroes’ as the new avengers, her days of peace had been short – needing to cater to every single one of their demands.

She was just about to tell Mel, that she did not want to see anymore until your face came into view - Valentina’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly as she took in the scene, her pulse quickening, a faint, instinctive prickle of suspicion tightening the muscles along the back of her neck.

“Wait,” she said, her voice low, her fingers tightening around the edge of her coffee mug. “Zoom in on the girl. Let me see her face.”

Mel hesitated, then swiped a finger across the screen, the pixels tightening around your face, capturing the faint crease between your brows, the annoyed twist of your lips, the dark, smudged shadows beneath your eyes.

Valentina’s breath hitched, her sharp eyes locking onto your face, the faintest flicker of recognition sparking in her gaze.

“Run facial recognition,” she snapped, her tone low, the sharp, edge creeping back into her voice.

The screen flickered, the system processing the command, the dull, mechanical hum of the tablet filling the brief, breathless silence. Then, with a soft chime, the results flashed across the glass, lines of text scrolling rapidly, the bright red banner of a classified file pulsing at the top with your picture on the left-hand side.

NAME: [Your Name]

ROLE: Strategic Planner, Stark Industries

PROJECT: [REDACTED] - Experimental Weapon Development (Scrapped)

STATUS: Resigned, Position Vacated

Valentina’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips, her fingers curling around the edge of the tablet.

“Well, well,” she murmured, her eyes still locked on your face, frozen in a moment of nervous laughter beside Yelena.

 “Maybe the New Avengers do need a personal assistant after all.”

Author’s note

I’m so sorry if this feels rusheddd, I just wanted to get my ideas out uahajw but but I’m excited – reader is slightly a beech but but she will redeem herself!! I promise hehe

Please do leave a like, comment, reblog - would very much appreciate

Also if you would like to be added to the tag list comment below !!

[theclassifiedfan]

HI TOP GUN FIC WRITERS!

So I’ve got some inside knowledge on the workings of Top Gun or more so the military in general (specifically SD military) as I’ve been lucky to work at both Miramar and North Island as well as been deployed on a ship. So thought I’d share for anyone writing their stories and wanting to use it when thinking of ideas or even getting into the writing phase:

DISCLAIMER - I am a civilian and I mostly worked with the marine corps, but I’ve got 13 years with the USMC and 1.5 with USN along with a lifetime of San Diego Navy Brat in me. While I would love to think I’m an expert always feel free to fact check some things.

I’ve made sure all information shared below is public information to not allow for any CUI to be mistakenly released in accordance with OPSEC.

Use what you want & ignore what you don’t want, love reading your stories either way you creative people!

MIRAMAR INFO

Quick History:

Formerly NAS Miramar (est. 1952) and now MCAS Miramar (est. 1997), this is the main hub for Fighter Jet aviation in the San Diego area but strictly Marine Corps Aviation now. Of course some branches touchdown and fly through but there are no active navy squads. This base is relatively close to the water cause it’s San Diego but it’s 4 miles inland so it is land locked and depending on traffic about 30-45 minutes from NASNI (not 4 hours like I read somewhere once). This is the OG Top Gun base, a lot of the places in that original movie are still there but VERY different because it’s been updated quite a bit and the marines own it now.

Their aircraft on base are:

F/A 18 Super Hornet - Very cool, TGM jets

F-35 B&C Lightning - EXTREMELY COOL JETS, these babies are very top secret but are publicly known for their vertical landing capability. Can technically takeoff vertical (but limited in that aspect)

KC-130 Hercules - big support planes used for aerial refueling and other support missions

CH-53E Super Stallion - Awesome Cargo helicopters that move large loads and equipment

MV-22 Osprey - If a plane and a helicopter had a baby! These incredible fixed wings use tilt rotors to vertically take off/land and then tilt those propellers forward for flight (If you haven’t seen one transform check it out they’re amazing). Used for troop transport, special operations, and humanitarian aid.

NAS NORTH ISLAND INFO

Quick History:

Commissioned in 1917 and recognized as the birthplace of Naval Aviation in 1963 it’s a beacon of navy pride. Now, time to mess with some Top Gun Movie canon: this base has never had USN Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor Program (aka Top Gun). Maverick was filmed here, but the program lived on Miramar when it was founded in 1969 and then was relocated to NAS Fallon in 1996 (shoutout Fallon, and they filmed out there BUT Nevada is boring why base their story out there when it could be based here). NASNI is now a master helicopter base, there are no active fighter jet squadrons on north island - but I believe they host them across branches here and there!

Their aircraft on base are:

MH-60 Seahawks - Incredible helicopters that are used in so many missions such as anti-submarine warfare, anti-surface warfare, vertical replenishment, passenger and cargo transfer, and search and rescue capability

V-22 Osprey - the same the Marines use but now being adapted into North Island. Again very cool aircraft with the best (and worst) of both worlds as a fixed wing and a rotary.

Learjet 35 - comfortable transportation aircraft

C-40A Clipper - basically a military 737

NAS LEMOORE

I won’t put too much info in here because I know it’s not the “cool canon movie base” but I will note this is the navy’s west coast Master Jet base since its commission in 1961! It’s in Kings County/Fresno County.

OK NOW LET’S ‘FACT CHECK’

Again take what you want from my ramblings these are just some things I notice in fics that contradict actual military policy and life. But even the movies don’t follow that, so just take these as tools for writing ideas!

Navy = Sailors (Pilots = Naval Aviator)

Marines = Marines

Army = Soldier

Air Force = Airman

Mix these up and someone could get annoyed with you and they’ll often correct you on the spot. Think of the branches like fraternities or sports teams - yes they’re playing the same game but they love to compete against each other. Plus they’re high key frenemies.

There’s a strict dress code on base including in the Gyms

Attire should be conservative and modest, with no revealing clothing, undergarments visible, or items designed for undergarments at all times. For the girls it’s even more rules because of course it is so no mini skirts, no cleavage, no crop tops. Some bases take this more seriously than others and you can get in trouble for it.

In the gym you have to have shirts on at all times, no booty shorts, absolutely no wearing only sports bras, no stringer tank tops and all that jazz.

Beach is fine though cause it’s the beach, and don’t worry I get it people wanna like good in their fics so slay away lol

Fightertown is not an actual town

It’s also not north island, it’s still Miramar. That was the nickname for the base itself so it stayed there with the marines that took it on in 1996. Plus a good way to keep the history of Fightertown united and in its OG place.

You cannot be permanently stationed anywhere in the US Navy.

You go where they want and need you. Some fics talk about the daggers becoming a full time squadron which honestly could happen, as squadrons come and go all the time however from my experience pilots have to move every 2-3 years and the daggers would be changed out. There’s some cases where they can request to “fleet up” to stay in that squadron or even bounce to another squadron and stay in the same spot but that’s a wish that cannot always be granted.

Dating in your squadron has consequences

In the U.S. Navy, while dating another sailor in your unit is generally not prohibited, it could potentially lead to a transfer or other issues if certain conditions are met. There’s a very strict fraternization policy which prohibits relationships that compromise the chain of command, good order, and discipline.

One aviator dating another aviator sounds fine because they’re two officers who tf cares, but there’s a very high chance one of you will be sent away if they feel it risks the unit/squad. Note how I say if they feel, you might be fine with it and it might be you two get along great but if a higher up says no - someone’s gotta go.

Also no officer enlisted, there’s technically ways around this like if they were married before or dating before but in the same command? Forget about it. BIG no. Could be a cute Romeo and Juliet thing forbidden love - this is just talking on the reality of it.

Civilians are not allowed on base

Unless they are directly being escorted on base by a service member or they are a dependent/civilian employee with their own credentials they are not coming on base. Even if they ask nicely and say you know so and so, this has been even tighter since 9/11 but in the past few years it’s gotten much more strict. There are Air Shows on bases which open them to the public but without that there’s pretty much no chance you’re getting on base. If you did then someone is getting their ass beat.

The Hard Deck is based on the I Bar

While the Hard Deck is fictional (although the set they made which is very real and somewhere locked away on north island) the I Bar is very real! Amazing place and they have someone who’s their version of Penny and has been working there for a very long time that the aviators love along with their other awesome bartenders.

Those rules in the bar are pretty close to the real ones which are:

“He who enters covered here buys the bar a round of cheer” (you aren’t supposed to wear a uniform cover or hat anywhere inside although some places let hats slide not here though they will ring you)

No phones on the bar

No hats/covers on the bar

Don’t touch the planes! It’s in the movie as well but the real bar has authentic donated model planes that they added this rule to make sure they live a long life without being broken.

There’s no official “disrespect a lady or the navy..” but it’s unspoken - the guys in there will call you out and there’s some very high ranking people who go frequently and you don’t want them catching you pulling that in their bar.

Now another new thing is that they can’t “make you pay” anymore so if you violate a rule they’ll ask if you’d like to. That being said they added this rule because of the influx of people wanting to see the bar because of Top Gun but the pilots HATED THIS and you will piss off a lot of aviators for not following their traditions. But if you do pay up? So many new friends lmao

Used to be an officers/aviators only bar, but it’s open for everyone who has access to the base.

North Island is not its own Island

NAS North island is a base located on the island Coronado. It’s a navy heavy island mixed with a lot of very rich people. Houses are not cheap and neither are apartments, so there’s not a high chance you’ll see anyone O4 and below living on the island unless they have roommates or they’re a chief that’s been in the navy for a long time. They’d probably live downtown or off island if they wanted to live alone or TRY to buy a home. (Houses here sell for at least around a milly in most places)

There’s some bars on the island as well including one bar called “Danny’s” which is a well known Navy Seal bar because there’s a Seal Base also located on the island more toward the long strip that connects the island to Imperial Beach.

The Naval Academy is not where pilots are made

I’ve found a few fics where they talk about Bradley going to UVA and then the Naval Academy but the USNA is a college in itself. It’s not typically transfer in type of school because if you go that route you start from the bottom as a freshman.

But to be an aviator you do not need the academy. There’s two other routes to becoming an officer which is ROTC and OCS:

The way I suspect Rooster went is to go to a normal university that has an ROTC program and complete it which leads straight to commissioning right-after graduation.

OR graduate any school like normal and then apply to officer candidacy school (OCS) where if accepted you’ll do an officer version of basic training. Which to be fair if that’s the route he took I’d be pissed at Maverick too because that means completing school in 4 years plus whatever amount of time it takes to apply to OCS with the preference of aviator (which is super compact) and can take anywhere from about a year to multiple vs into the academy and good to go.

Once they complete one of the three and are qualified via testing to be an aviator they’re off to flight schools, of which there are many to come.

(Also you could make it to flight school and get dumped out because of maybe not hitting the mark, or even medical stuff that they missed/skipped before - then get transferred to a different type of officer job)

Gold Star kids - AKA Rooster

Gold star kids are those like Bradley who lost a parent due to death during their service, and they do not get to stay on base once their loved one passes. They’ll have a certain amount of time to find a home then move off to make space for another active duty family. BUT the surviving spouse if they’re civilian usually (I believe) retain their benefits for the rest of their life. Not the kids though they get kicked off healthcare at 21 unless they’re still in school enrolled full time and their parents are more than 50% financially taking care of them. It’s all kind of intense and very sad but it’s true.

Dependants are not all nice

NOTE HOW I SAID NOT ALL. There’s some fantastic people but it’s not all sunny and perfect. I’ve worked in the recreational, support, and retail aspect of military bases and the horror stories I could tell you about certain military dependents. Crazy, some of them are literally insane. But could be used for some interesting dramatic aspects of your stories. I’d put examples but I have too many to name.

Pilots don’t fix their planes

Yes they have to learn the ins and outs of their planes and they’re absolutely tech savvy as well as extremely smart. BUT you will not see a naval aviator working on a plane, they have enlisted sailors who work hard and go through a lot of training/school to do that and they deserve their roses. They’d probably kick their officers ass if they saw them taking a wrench or tool of any type to those planes. Pre flight inspections are different to maintenance. That reminds me…

ENLISTED SAILORS EXIST IN AVIATION

I feel sad that fics/stories leave them out in the workplace. They have really great bonds with pilots because pilots can’t fly without them and put all of their trust into them. The sailors and chiefs are the best in their fields and often are credited for being the ones who teach officers because it’s true - think like this:

An officer commissions to O1 (ensign) after earning a bachelors degree which is on average around 21/22. Depending on how they commissioned they may not have worked any college jobs (some have never worked a job at all) so this is their first job and they are in charge of people plus millions of dollars worth of equipment. That’s not including the 2-3 years it takes to pass flight schools.

Enlisted sailors can start service at 17. They’ve been in their jobs going to schools and mastering their trade for a hot minute. They’d often can be the same age of their officer (let’s say 23 for an aviator who went through flight schools) and have 6 years of service in their belts, they know the game.

The best leaders I’ve met in the military know how to be that leader while also learning from their sailors. That bond of trust both ways is crucial for success.

Some ships have WiFi

But it can be limited, it also can get turned off for any reason at any time if it means keeping the ship safe. So could they text and call/FaceTime? On a carrier for sure UNLESS they’re in need of turning it off for a while. Super great for sailors to stay connected honestly wish they’d had that when my dad was in.

Call signs often are not a cool brag

Usually it’s from a time you fucked up and now it’s stuck with you so everyone can have a laugh. You can’t change it and you can’t pick one yourself. That’s not to say that can’t be from cool moments but the ones I’ve met it’s been from funny moments with their squad.

I think the only way it could get changed is if it was really bad like one you couldn’t say in front of an admiral without getting in trouble. I think they usually change those to ‘redacted’ or try to make it an abbreviation so it’s not immediately obvious it’s a fucked up nick name. The ones from back in the day were super messed up. Or maybe you ranked up high enough to change it cause who’s going to tell a Captain what they can or can’t do.

ADDED FACT CHECKS:

It’s Naval Air Station (NAS) North Island NOT Navy Air Force Base/Station North Island/North Island Air Force Base/Air Force Naval Base

Two different branches completely. I do understand why people would put this and this is not me attacking people but I would very much suggest not combing the two because a naval aviator is capable of something Air Force pilots aren’t:

Landing a plane/helicopter on a ship in the middle of the ocean.

They train like crazy to have this skill and let me tell you landing on that thing is no easy feat. Naval Aviators (and Marines they get qualified in this too!) deserve that hype because the risk that takes comes from so many people in a plane and on deck to succeed in? INSANE. I’ve been in Tower (primary flight control or ‘pri-fly’ for short) and there’s so much that goes into this process including collaborating with the people driving the ship. I wasn’t even in an active combat zone so idk how this legends do it with people shooting at them.

All love Air Force Pilots, they could probably be trained to do it - however they aren’t soooo… FLY NAVY 😈

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Oh man that was A LOT of info. If you’re reading this? How’d you make it this far? Also hope it helped in someway or another to spark some ideas. I’ve debated writing some kind of story haven’t gotten the courage up but YOU ALL ARE AND YOU ARE AMAZING AT IT!

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 AMC AMX

408-Powered 1968 AMC AMX 4-Speed

1968 AMC AMX

This 1968 AMC AMX was modified under previous ownership during a refurbishment that is said to have been conducted over the course of 10 years and was completed in 2013. Refinished in black over red vinyl upholstery, the car is powered by a 408ci V8 paired with a four-speed manual transmission. Refurbishment work reportedly involved resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator, cross-drilled front brake rotors, and lowering springs. Additional equipment includes 15″ Vision wheels, aftermarket headlights, chrome bumpers, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and a push-button AM radio. The seller acquired the vehicle in 2015. This modified AMX is now offered with a service manual, books, a model kit, unused Go Package–style stripe decals, spare and removed parts, and a Nevada title in the seller’s name.

1968 AMC AMX

The car was refinished in black as part of the aforementioned refurbishment. Additional work is said to have included repainting the wheel wells and the floors along with replacing the bumpers, door handles, grille, mirrors, headlights, weatherstripping, and bright trim on the window and headlight surrounds. The “AMX” badging on the exterior features red letter Xs.

1968 AMC AMX

Aftermarket 15″ Vision wheels are mounted with 215/60 front and 265/50 rear Cooper Cobra Radial G/T tires. A space-saver spare is located in the trunk. The car is equipped with lowering springs, and braking is provided by cross-drilled front discs and rear drums.

1968 AMC AMX

The split front bench seat is trimmed in red vinyl upholstery complemented by a color-coordinated dashboard, door panels, and carpeting. Other features include crank windows, a fold-down armrest, a Hurst shifter, tilt steering, and an American Motors–branded push-button AM radio. The headliner, carpets, and sill plates were replaced under previous ownership.

1968 AMC AMX

The three-spoke steering wheel fronts a 120-mph speedometer, a tachometer, and a combination gauge for fuel level and coolant temperature. An AutoMeter tachometer is mounted to the steering column, and a trio of smaller AutoMeter gauges affixed beneath the dashboard monitors oil temperature, coolant temperature, and oil pressure. The five-digit odometer shows 13k miles, less than 500 of which have been added by the seller; true mileage is unknown. The seller notes that the clock and the factory tachometer do not work.

1968 AMC AMX

The engine is said to be an AMC 390ci V8 that was bored and stroked to displace 408ci. Additional work during the refurbishment included resurfacing the cylinder heads as well as installing forged engine internals, an Edelbrock intake manifold, a performance camshaft, ceramic-coated Hooker long-tube exhaust headers, billet pulleys, an aluminum radiator with electric fans, and an aftermarket exhaust system. An oil change and coolant flush were performed in preparation for the sale. The car’s chassis number indicates that it was originally equipped with a 360ci V8 topped by a two-barrel carburetor.

1968 AMC AMX

Power is sent to the rear wheels through a four-speed manual transmission and a Twin-Grip rear axle with 3.55:1 gearing. An Ace Racing Powerforce clutch was fitted during the refurbishment.

1968 AMC AMX

A 1968 AMC service manual, books and magazines, an AMT model kit, unused Go Package–style red stripe decals, and spare and removed parts will accompany the vehicle.

The Nevada title notes the odometer brand “Exempt.”

[siratonin]

fic prompt! Since I just landed on a flight home, how about Buck and Tommy fly somewhere and this is the time that Buck gets to really see Tommy being a nerd about flying, even if he's not flying the plane himself. If it sparks joy. 😊

Sarah i know i'm so late, but I've been thinking about this since you sent it.. finally, an idea came by lol (hope you like it 🥰)

Buck was mid-ramble about the aerodynamics of commercial planes—something he'd picked up during a late-night internet deep dive before their trip—when he paused, noticing Tommy sitting rigidly beside him.

Tommy’s hand gripped the armrest tightly, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm as though he couldn’t quite keep them still. His jaw was set, lips pressed into a thin line, and his gaze flickered back and forth between the window and the seat in front of him.

“You okay?” Buck asked, tilting his head toward him.

“Yeah, fine,” Tommy replied quickly, his voice clipped. His eyes didn’t meet Buck’s, and his grip on the armrest tightened slightly as the plane jolted, turning onto the main runway.

Buck didn’t press him. Instead, he shifted in his seat, leaning just a little closer.

As the plane accelerated for takeoff, Tommy exhaled sharply, his foot bouncing lightly against the floor. His fingers tapped the armrest before curling tightly, knuckles pale. His breathing was shallow—measured, as if keeping himself in check. Buck noticed without a word, his gaze flicking briefly to Tommy’s hand before sliding his own over it. His thumb brushed lightly against Tommy’s wrist, a quiet reassurance.

Tommy didn’t react at first, but then Buck shifted his hand, gently coaxing Tommy’s fingers to relax. Tommy hesitated, glancing at Buck out of the corner of his eye, but the tension in his grip eased. Slowly, almost shyly, his fingers relaxing enough for Buck to intertwine them with his own.

Buck didn’t say anything, didn’t even glance at him, just kept talking about the mechanics of lift-off as though nothing was out of the ordinary. His voice was steady and warm, grounding in a way that pulled Tommy’s focus from the roaring engines and the tilt of the plane as it left the ground.

Tommy’s grip tightened briefly around Buck’s hand, but this time it wasn’t out of nervousness—it was something quieter, steadier. Buck’s faint smile grew as he felt the shift, his thumb brushing lightly along the side of Tommy’s hand.

By the time the plane leveled out, Tommy had regained his composure. His usual confidence returned, and Buck could see it in the way he subtly shifted in his seat, reclaiming his space.

And their fingers stayed intertwined, neither of them letting go.

“Sorry about that,” Tommy muttered, finally looking at Buck. “Guess I do not like flying unless I’m the one in control.”

Buck shrugged, giving him an easy grin. “Makes sense. You’re used to being the guy behind the stick. Kind of weird to trust someone else to do the job.”

Tommy let out a soft laugh, nodding. “Exactly.”

Buck leaned closer, his eyes lighting up. “But you’ve got to admit, it’s kind of amazing to just sit back and think about how all this works. I mean, did you know that commercial planes—”

“—can fly even if one engine goes out?” Tommy interrupted; his tone slightly smug. He gave Buck a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a grin. “Come on, Evan. I’ve been flying helicopters long enough to know a thing or two about rotors and wings—definitely more than you.”

Buck feigned offense, his hand still resting lightly in Tommy’s. “First of all, rude. Second of all, helicopters are completely different from planes. And third, this is my thing. You don’t get to outdo me in rambling about cool stuff.”

Tommy chuckled, leaning his head back against the seat. “Fine. You get this one. But only because I already know all the facts.”

“Oh, do you?” Buck shot back, leaning forward in challenge.

Tommy’s face lit up in a way Buck rarely saw. “Okay, look, I’ll give you this,” Tommy began, his tone shifting into the cadence of someone who truly loved what they were talking about. “Planes are efficient and all, but helicopters? They’re the real magic. Think about it—rotor blades generate lift, but they’re also responsible for propulsion. You’re balancing pitch, yaw, and roll all at the same time. It’s like juggling while standing on a tightrope during a windstorm.”

Tommy kept going, now diving into the mechanics of different flight systems and the nuances between military and civilian helicopters. “And then there’s autorotation recovery—people think it’s impossible, but if you’ve got the skill and focus—”

He suddenly trailed off, catching Buck’s gaze. Buck was staring at him, eyes twinkling and a soft smile curling his lips.

Tommy froze, blinking. “What?”

“What what?” Buck asked, his smile widening innocently.

Tommy’s cheeks turned pink. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Buck chuckled. “Nothing, I’m just listening.”

“Oh…” Tommy hesitated, his blush deepening. “Uh, yeah. Sorry.”

“Sorry? No, I like it. Come on, tell me more!” Buck urged, grinning. “But also, don’t be so biased about helicopters. I also need to know more about planes in general!”

Tommy’s lips twitched into a bashful smile before he nodded, launching back into his explanation with renewed enthusiasm. He gestured with his hands as he spoke, describing the differences in flight dynamics between fixed-wing and rotary-wing aircraft, his voice growing more animated with each passing second.

Buck watched him, mesmerized by the way Tommy’s eyes lit up, the way his hands moved as though he could hardly contain his excitement. Finally, Buck raised a hand, halting Tommy mid-sentence.

“Wait a minute,” Buck said, leaning in. Before Tommy could ask why, Buck kissed him—a brief, warm press of lips that left Tommy blinking in surprise.

Buck pulled back just enough to grin at him. “I might be starting to understand why you never stop me when I ramble.”

Tommy’s smile grew, wide and unrestrained, and before Buck could say another word, Tommy leaned in and kissed him again—a quick, joyful press of lips that made Buck’s heart flip.

When Tommy pulled back, his voice was soft and full of warmth. “I love you.”

Buck blinked, his grin spreading even wider. And he said in a mock-surprise “You do?”

Tommy rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth tugged upward despite himself.

“Just making sure,” Buck teased, his tone light, as if he wasn’t already beaming. “Because I love you too.”

Tommy let out a laugh and without thinking, he brought their intertwined hands up, pressing a quick kiss to the back of Buck’s hand. The small gesture made Buck’s heart skip, but before he could say anything, Tommy leaned back, his grin turning playful. “Okay, so… does this mean I get to win the argument about helicopters being better?”

“Absolutely not,” Buck said, laughing as he bumped his shoulder against Tommy’s. “But I’ll let you try and convince me.”

He glanced at Buck, hesitant for a beat, then took a breath and continued where he left off. “Okay, fine. But since you’re so determined to make this a debate, let me explain why helicopters still have the edge—”

Buck interrupted with a mock groan, throwing his head back. “Oh, here we go again.”

Tommy just laughed, a bright, happy sound that filled the small space between them, and Buck couldn’t help but think that this—this—was his favorite sound in the world.

[hatsbuckets]

Wood Chopping | NikPrice

Totally self-indulgent... Muhahaha this got longer than I meant for it to over the week :)

Pairings: Nik x Price WC: ~2800 Warnings: None? Short Vers: Literally just based on the scene (this and this at :45) from Avengers Age of Ultron where they go to Clint's house. Ao3 Link

Nik's Black Hawk thunders low over the Highlands, kicking up loose dirt, shaking the tall grass. The sky is overcast, deep grey with streaks of dying light, the sharp chill of the evening settling in.

The MacTavish property rolls into view—old, stone-built, sturdy, unmoved by time or war. Surrounded by green, plenty of room for landing, a woodpile stacked near the house, a chimney spilling thin trails of smoke into the crisp air. The house itself is warm and lived-in, golden light flickering in the windows, the outline of figures shifting behind the curtains.

By the time Nikolai sets them down, the engine’s roar consumes everything, shaking the bones of the house itself. The door bursts open and out comes two tiny figures—bundled up in knit jumpers, shrieking in delight.

Soap’s niece and nephew, Eva and James.

They sprint across the yard, unbothered by the wind whipping at their clothes. Their mother stands in the doorway, arms crossed, bracing against the cold.

The rotors slow. The engine winds down. The Black Hawk settles, the weight of it sinking into the earth.

The team inside doesn’t move at first.

Exhaustion sits heavy.

It had been a long mission. A bloody one.

But the second Soap hears the unmistakable sound of his niece yelling his name, he peels off his headset and hauls himself up.

The doors swing open and the cold rushes in.

Soap’s boots hit solid ground. He’s tired, aching, still feeling the phantom sting of bruises under his gear. But when Eva hurls herself at him, arms spread wide, hair a mess from the wind he catches her with fervor.

"There’s my lass!" Soap lifts her effortlessly, despite the burn in his ribs, spinning her in an arch. She giggles, clinging to his shoulders. James crashes into his leg, gripping him in a fierce hug.

"Uncle John! You brought your mates!"

Behind him, the others climb out.

Gaz first, looking half-dead but smiling, his gear hanging off him in a little too haphazardly. Ghost moves slower, stiff, posture wound tight. Price steps down last, rolling his shoulders, pressing his hat onto his head. The kids eye the group like they’re seeing legends step out of a storybook.

Eva, still in her uncle's arms, peers over at Ghost. "You still don’t talk much?"

Ghost tilts his head, eyebrow arched just for her to see, voice dry. "Still don’t."

Jamie nudges Gaz’s knee. "Did you bring me anything?"

Gaz, half a breath from collapsing, smirks. "Only a Black Hawk in your front yard, mate. That enough?"

James beams.

But the second Nikolai steps out of the bird, a hush falls. He’s the only unfamiliar face. He looks it too.

Tall, broad-shouldered, built almost more bear than man. His coat whips in the wind, sleeves rolled up just enough. His hair is a mess from the headset, streaks of silver catching in the dim light. He pulls off his gloves slow.

Soap’s sister, still standing at the doorway, finally steps forward.

Her eyes rake over them—taking in the injuries, the exhaustion, the bruises they won’t talk about.

She exhales, mutters, "Christ, John."

Soap grins, still holding Eva. "Missed me?"

"Not when you land a military aircraft in my yard, I don’t."

Price huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing a hand over his face, then the back of his neck. "Soap—John, thought you might be able to spare some space, if you'll have us."

"I'm supposed to deny my brother and the lost band of pups he brings to my porch? Of course you're welcome to stay for a bit, Captain."

She looks past him, eyes landing on Nikolai.

"And you are?"

Nikolai, shoving his gloves into his cargo pockets, simply inclines his head. "Nikolai."

There’s a long pause. She crosses her arms, glancing at Price again. "That supposed to mean something to me?"

Soap snorts. "He’s the reason we’re here in one piece."

That earns Nikolai a once-over, slow and thorough.

Then, with a reluctant sigh and half compliant jerk of her head toward the door, "Aye, well. You lot look like hell. Get inside before you freeze to death."

Gaz is the only one immediately polite enough to thank her.

Soap sets Eva down as his sister leads them towards the door.

Gaz hums, patting Soap's shoulder. "You're sister's an angel, Tav."

Soap shoves him toward the door. "Don’t be weird."

Nik lingers for a moment before following. But Price doesn’t move. Not right away.

Instead, he stands there, looking at the house, the hills behind it, the warmth spilling from the open door in the haze of a cloudy midafternoon.

A place untouched by war. A place that shouldn't have a giant craft with rotor blades making crude indents in the soil.

Nikolai, watching him, exhales slow. "Coming, John?"

Price finally looks over, his breath curling in the cold. He holds Nikolai’s gaze for just a second too long.

Then he steps forward, muttering, "Yeah. Let’s go."

And with that, they make their way up the porch, into the house, and the door swings shut behind them.

...

Inside, the house is warm, the air thick with the scent of stew on the stove, and the faintest trace of burning wood. The fire crackles in the hearth, its golden glow stretching into the cozy, well-worn kitchen and beyond.

The team filters in, shedding gear, loosening jackets, rolling sore shoulders.

Soap’s sister moves through the space with ease, knowing exactly how to handle them—not coddling, not hovering, but keeping things moving. She's practiced enough, mostly just with Ghost and Soap, sometimes with all four of them, sometimes it's like dealing with her kids... A hand on Soap's shoulder here, a sharp look at Gaz when he tries to sneak a bite of bread before dinner, a gentle nod when Ghost silently requests her permission, just a look from him, to go upstairs to a spare bedroom he knows well now.

The kids still orbit Nikolai, barely containing their excitement. He entertains them with just enough patience to keep them from running wild, letting James hold his gloves, allowing Eva to inspect his patch with curious fingers.

Soap, leaning against the counter, just watches with a bemused smirk.

"You’re in deep now, mate."

Nikolai lifts a brow. "Mhm."

James tugs his sleeve. "You can fly anything, yeah?"

Nik nods, solemn. "Anything."

Jamie gasps, looking up at his sister. "I bet he could even fly a spaceship!"

Eva narrows her eyes, calculating. "You ever flown a spaceship?"

Nik strokes his beard, thoughtful. "Not yet."

They gasp again.

Soap’s sister snorts, shaking her head. "Jesus, he’s worse than John."

Soap laughs and gives his sister a squeeze and a kiss on her temple, then heads upstairs.

Gaz—the charming bastard—finds himself helping Soap’s sister in the kitchen, easily slipping into conversation, trading stories like they’ve known each other forever.

Price watches all of it, still lingering near the front door, comfortably leaning on the wall, a fresh mug of tea cradled between battered hands. He’s listening—half to the chatter, half to the way the fire crackles, the way his own muscles ache beneath his clothes.

He could stay here for a while, but his body doesn’t know how to rest.

Soap’s sister, moving past, sighs as she glances out the window.

"Still got some wood to chop." It’s not directed at anyone in particular, but Price glances up.

Nik, seated nearby, meets his gaze. Blue eyes shifting from those browns back to the mug. Something unspoken passes between them.

They both need to move and work off whatever tension still lingers in their bones.

Price sets his mug down with a quiet thud, rolling his shoulders. "We’ll handle it."

She hums pleasantly, convincing Eva and James to come along and help her and Kyle in the kitchen.

Nikolai stands, stretching slightly, rolling his sleeves back up. His movements are easy, fluid, but there’s an edge of something restless beneath them.

Price smiles, lips pressed together, as he and Nik head out the door. And just like that, Price and Nikolai step out into the cold. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them out into the quiet, biting air of the Highland evening.

The firewood is stacked neatly, waiting.

The wind stirs through the trees, the distant baa of a sheep carrying across the land.

The afternoon is crisp and cold, the wind rolling down from the hills, carrying the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke. Their breath curls in the air, mingling with the faint wisp of steam rising from their bodies—the warmth of exhaustion meeting the bite of the Highland chill.

The woodpile sits a few meters from the house, stacked neatly beside a worn chopping block. The setting sun casts long shadows over them. The distant murmur of conversation leaks from the house, muffled by thick stone walls, but out here, it’s just them.

The quiet should be easy. But it isn’t.

Price rolls his shoulders, testing the stiffness in his back, then plants his boots, grabs a log, and sets it onto the block.

He doesn’t say anything at first—just lifts the axe, grips it tight, and swings.

THWACK.

The log splits clean, toppling in two.

Nikolai watches. Silent. Measured.

He follows suit, stepping forward, rolling his sleeves higher, exposing thick, scarred forearms. He picks up another log, sets it down with quiet precision, grips the axe with unhurried ease, and—

THWACK.

Price exhales slow, grabs another log. They fall into a rhythm.

Axe. Wood. The cold. The quiet.

But it doesn’t last, because it couldn't.

"You shouldn’t have gone in." Nikolai’s voice cuts through the night. Low. Even.

Price scoffs under his breath. He sets another log. "I wasn’t waiting on more intel, Nik."

THWACK.

The axe bites into wood, splitting it clean.

Nikolai doesn’t argue. Just picks up another log. Waits.

Price exhales, wiping a hand down his face. "The window was closing. If I’d waited, we’d have lost them."

Nikolai sets the log down, grips the axe, but doesn’t swing yet.

Price tightens his jaw. Grabs another log. "I made a call."

THWACK.

The words come sharper now, spilling out between strikes. "Somebody had to go in. We were out of time."

THWACK.

Nik lifts another log.

Price keeps going. Longer winded now, breath coming heavier, voice raw. "I was the only one up there with Gaz. I wasn’t waiting on more; wasn’t sending the Sergeant alone. That’s my job—that’s why—"

CRACK.

A sharp, splintering sound shatters the night.

"You think I don't know why you went in there?"

Price stops, watching the way the two halves thud on the ground next to Nik. Nikolai stands there, breathing steady.

The air between them stills. The wind drags through the trees. Somewhere, far away, a sheep bleats.

Price’s heartbeat is thick in his throat. His fingers flex against the axe handle, muscles tight, breath heaving.

Nikolai exhales slow, gaze never leaving Price.

There’s something in his gaze. Something heavy, deep-seated. Not just frustration. Not just anger. Dark, knowing.

Price swallows, dragging a hand over his mouth. "Jesus Christ, Nik."

Nikolai tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable. "You are not the only person who has lost soldiers and brothers in battle."

Price holds his gaze. "I know."

"Then stop acting like that wasn't a dumb decision."

"It was the only decision, Nik."

Nik scoffs.

Price steps forward dropping his axe and grabs Nik's hand. He makes Nik's palm press flat against his chest, stepping close, hardly a breath between them.

"I'm alive, Nik. I'm fine. And we got out because of you."

Nikolai doesn’t move at first. His palm is broad, rough, still warm from the heat of exertion. It rests firm against Price’s chest, over the steady, heavy thrum of his heartbeat.

But his fingers twitch. Not a full flinch. Just a fraction of hesitation. The moment is too much, too close, too raw.

And then, he yanks his hand away.

Not harshly, not violently, but enough to make the space between them cold. His jaw tightens as he steps back, shaking his head, a scoff just barely escaping under his breath.

"You’re fine?" Nikolai echoes, voice lower now, rougher. He scrubs a hand through his hair, exhales sharp. "You nearly got yourself killed in there, Jonathan. There were—" He cuts himself off, jaw working, teeth clenched tight.

Price’s breath is slow. Jonathan. He takes a breath, exhales. He steps forward again, refusing to let that distance stay, his voice quieter now. "And I made it out."

"This time."

The wind stirs, cutting sharp between them. The firewood sits, forgotten.

Nik’s breath is unsteady. His arms are tense at his sides, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His lips part like he wants to say something else, something worse, something he can’t take back—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales, tilting his head slightly, gaze cutting down—landing where his own hand had been, pressed against Price’s chest, as if he can still feel it.

And when he looks up again, there’s something darker in his eyes.

Something Price recognizes.

The space between them thins again, but this time, Nik doesn’t step away.

"I know you’re alive, John," Nik murmurs, voice quieter now, rough like the edge of a blade. "But you do not act like you want to be."

That one lands. Price exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. His fists curl at his sides, fingers pressing against calloused palms. He doesn’t say anything at first. But his breath comes deeper now, chest rising and falling slow and heavy.

Nik watches him, unreadable. His own breath a little too even, a little too measured—like he’s waiting for something. Like waiting for Price to do something reckless.

Price steps forward again, closing the last bit of space, the scent of damp earth and firewood between them. Their shoulders almost brush, the tension thick enough to drown in.

And then Nik does it.

He reaches. Not hesitant. Not soft. Deliberate.

He fists his hand in the front of Price’s shirt, tugging just enough to make him feel it.

"Do you even know how to stop?" Nik murmurs, voice lower now, just a fraction above a whisper.

Price shrugs, but it’s a slow thing. His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, to play it off, but the air between them is too charged, too thick, too damn heavy.

Nik still has his fist clenched in Price’s shirt, holding him there—not pulling, not pushing, just holding. Like he’s testing how far this will go, how much Price will take before he pulls away.

But he doesn’t pull away. Not even when Nik tugs, just slightly, like he wants an answer to the question still hanging between them.

"Do you?" Price asks, voice quieter now. Not taunting. Not amused. Just… there.

Nik exhales sharply, shaking his head, lips pressing into a thin line. "You are deflecting," he mutters, but his voice is different now. Lower. Rougher.

Price tilts his head, that same unreadable look in his eyes. "Maybe."

He moves. It’s not slow. It’s not careful.

Price steps in—not a hesitant thing, but something certain, something decisive. He fists Nik’s shirt in return, mirroring the grip that’s still tight against his own chest, and drags him in.

Nik lets him.

Their mouths meet in a clash of breath and heat and something that's been waiting to happen since the moment they stepped out here, since the first argument in the field, since Price nearly got himself killed and Nik had to watch it unfold.

It’s rough, frustrated, laced with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from caring too much.

Nik exhales into it, his hand finally unfurling from Price’s shirt so he can cup the back of his neck instead, fingers pressing firm against his skin. Price shudders, not enough to be obvious, just enough that Nik feels it.

The grip between them tightens. The space between them disappears.

Price kisses like he fights—unyielding, with a kind of quiet, focused intensity. Nik matches it. Challenges it. Teeth scrape, fingers dig in, and the cold doesn’t seem to matter anymore, not when there’s warmth coiling between. Something neither of them really know how to stop.

Eventually, they have to breathe. Price is the one to break away first, forehead barely resting against Nik’s, their breath mixing in the frigid air.

Nik swallows, eyes flicking over Price’s face, still close enough that their noses almost brush. His voice is quieter now, steadier. "You are impossible."

Price huffs a soft laugh, the tension not quite gone, but something in his shoulders easing. "Yeah."

Nik’s thumb brushes absently over the side of his neck. It's barely a touch, hardly noticeable, but Price feels it everywhere.

"Inside," Nik mutters, voice raw. "Before they come looking for us."

Price lingers for half a second longer, like he wants to push his luck, like he could kiss him again, but he steps back.

Nikolai lets him go.

For now.

Thanks for Reading

[meridasblog]

The White's Rabbit Promise

Chapter 3

It’s been two hours since the bad moment with the Carson brothers. Both kids have been slowly rebuilding the helicopter piece by piece.

“Can you pass me the screwdriver, please?”

“Sure.”

Y/N smiles and hands over the tool.

“Hey, how do you connect these?” she asks, holding up some black wires with copper ends.

“Oh, you just have to line them up with their plugs on the small panel near the tail.”

“And how do you know where each one goes?”

“Look—” he sets the half-finished body of the helicopter on his desk and walks over to the bed where she sits. He picks up one of the wires and shows her a thin red strip of tape on it. “I marked them all with different colored tapes. The panel has matching marks on the plugs.”

“Oh, right,” she exclaims with a smile, grabbing the one with yellow tape and connecting it to its slot. “I guess I still have a lot to learn about tech.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t know much either,” he shrugs. “It’s not as hard as it looks. You just have to be patient.”

He sits back down in front of the helicopter and carefully begins screwing the blades into place. Y/N stays quiet for a few seconds, watching him work.

“How did you learn all this?” she asks eventually, sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling.

He doesn’t look up at first. He keeps screwing with focused care, brows furrowed in concentration, making sure he doesn’t damage the rotor. Then he sighs and answers, his voice low, not too emotional.

“I learned by doing stuff at the orphanage I was in. Old radios, broken fans… sometimes even the TV in the living room. The repair guys would let me mess with things, and sometimes they let me help. I guess I liked the idea that if I could fix something, then maybe the bad stuff wasn’t permanent.”

Y/N nods slowly, saying nothing. She pulls one knee up to her chest and hugs it, resting her chin on top. The warm light of the sun filters through the window, illuminating the dust floating in the air like tiny stars in a paused world. The only sound is the soft click-click of the screwdriver turning.

“I’ve always liked drawing,” Y/N says suddenly, her voice small, as if unsure whether she should share it. “But… I usually do it in secret. Ever since I got here, I feel like the desire’s been fading. Mr. Carson says art is a waste of time, that I should focus on helping around the house.”

He stops and looks at her. His eyes don’t hold judgment or pity—just quiet understanding.

“I think a gift like drawing, especially drawings as amazing as yours, should never be silenced.”

She smiles faintly, tilting her head.

They fall silent again, but it’s not an awkward one. It’s the kind of silence that feels warm, where nothing needs to be said to improve it. The kind of silence that could stretch on for hours in peace. She lowers her leg, gets to her feet, grabs her part of the helicopter, and walks over to sit beside him. She smiles at him.

He smiles back. No words needed.

“Well,” he says eventually, glancing back at the helicopter, “if we’re going to finish this thing, maybe we should build it a secret hangar too.”

Y/N laughs softly.

“And a secret landing strip,” she adds, thinking for a moment. “We can build it… on top of the wardrobe.”

“Perfect,” he nods, picking up the screwdriver again. “Then we better hurry before Bruce finds it and decides to throw it at our heads.”

Y/N doesn’t reply, but her smile lingers. She focuses again on connecting the wires—until her face suddenly shifts, like a thought crashes into her.

“Wait—what time is it?” she asks, her voice tight with worry.

He blinks, startled by the sudden change, and sets the screwdriver aside to check the clock on the desk.

“It’s 5:10 p.m. Why?”

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

Y/N stands, body stiff, hands trembling as she turns to the door.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, but she’s already rushing out, her footsteps clumsy and fast down the hallway. He hesitates for a second, then runs after her.

She takes the stairs as if they’re burning her feet, reaching the dining room breathless. What she finds hits her like a slap: the table still covered with dirty dishes from earlier, glasses scattered, napkins a mess, and the wooden surface sticky with juice and sauces. "This is bad; it's terrible," she thinks. Mrs. Carson had made it clear: everything needed to be set before Mr. Carson got home. And that wasn’t far off.

“No, no, no…” she mutters, eyes wide. She can’t panic now. She rushes to clear the table, carries the dishes and glasses to the dishwasher, and wipes the surface with a wet rag. She sets clean plates, grabs fresh napkins from the cupboard, but spills some water as she fills the glasses. Her whole body is shaking.

“Y/N? What’s going on?” the boy asks softly from the doorway.

“The table has to be ready before they get back,” she answers without looking, her voice automatic, like she’s repeating a rule she’s been forced to learn.

“But… do you really have to set it so perfectly?” he asks, concerned, but moves closer to help her arrange the silverware. “We can do it together. It'll be okay.”

“You don’t get it. Mrs. Carson is really particular about every little detail. If something’s off…”

And then, the unmistakable creak of the front door opening cuts her off. He freezes. Y/N goes pale, her eyes fixed on the drop of water she spilled on the table.

Tap, tap, tap.

The sound of heels approaching makes both of them tremble.

“You need to go,” she says, eyes locked ahead.

“What? But Y/N…”

“Please.” She looks at him with a plea, full of fear. He glances at the door, then at her, takes two steps back, and slips quietly upstairs.

Y/N takes a deep breath, tries to smooth her blouse, and adjusts her braid.

Tap. Tap, tap.

Mrs. Carson’s footsteps land like soft, calculated hammers. She walks into the dining room, her eyes scanning the table. Her gaze hardens at one spot. She steps to the corner and touches the little trail of water.

Y/N feels the air freeze. Her body tenses like a rope about to snap. And the woman’s voice is the blade.

“What is this?” she asks softly, sweet as poison, dragging her fingers through the water. Then she walks slowly toward the girl, wearing a crooked smile that never touches her eyes.

“I… I spilled a little when pouring the glasses… b-but I was going to clean it,” Y/N murmurs, eyes downcast.

“Was going to? ‘Was going to’?” the woman repeats with a soft laugh. “You think in this house we accept ‘I was going to’? No, child. We don’t leave things for later. We do them now.”

Y/N lowers her head.

“I’m sorry…”

The woman steps closer. Slowly. No rush. She lifts a hand and lays her fingers on Y/N’s arm. The touch is almost maternal. A soft stroke.

“Look, sweetheart,” she says gently, “you’re here because I chose to let you be. Understand? You and that other brat, you’re our charity.”

Y/N barely lifts her eyes.

“You have a roof over your head because of us,” the woman continues, tightening her grip. “Food on your plate. Clean clothes. And this is how you show gratitude? With carelessness and laziness?”

The grip is no longer gentle. Her hand feels like a claw pressing through the girl’s fragile skin. Y/N’s eyes fill with tears.

“If I wanted to, I could pack your things tonight and send you back to that miserable place I found you,” the woman whispers through clenched teeth. “Is that what you want? Do you want that?”

“…no…”

“No what?”

“No, Mrs. Carson.”

The woman holds her grip for a few more seconds, then shoves her back lightly, making her stumble. She turns sharply and walks to the next room, sitting gracefully in her favorite armchair as if nothing had happened.

“Good. You’ll eat last tonight. You’ll serve everyone. That’ll give you time to reflect on what it means to pay attention.”

Y/N doesn’t move. She just breathes fast, cheeks flushed, throat tied in knots. She can’t cry. Not here. Not now.

At the top of the stairs, hidden behind the banister, he saw everything. His hands clutch the wood so hard his knuckles go white. He pulls away, heart pounding. Every part of him wants to run down there and do something. But he knows… if he does, things will only get worse—for both of them.

That’s just how things work in this house.

Dinner begins with a calm so forced it only holds thanks to the stiffness in the air. The adults sit at the head of the table; the lady cuts her food with quiet precision, while Mr. Carson stares at his plate with disinterest. The three sons take their usual spots. Michael eats in silence, barely touching his food, distracted by his spoon. Ross chews fast and without appetite, a slight frown on his brow. And Bruce wears that unpleasant grin on his face—amused by everything happening around them.

Y/N moves around the table. With a damp cloth, she wipes up the food stains. And every time someone lifts an empty glass, she refills it with cold water. Her tired eyes drift over the plates of steaming, appetizing food. Her stomach lets out a faint growl; she presses her right hand over it and holds her breath. She ignores the hunger and keeps serving the others.

At the table, the boy eats in silence. His head hangs low, shoulders slightly hunched.

He takes small bites, and occasionally, his gaze flickers toward Y/N—watching her with quiet sadness.

Then Bruce reaches out and takes a portion of his food straight from his plate.

“Hey, share a little, orphan boy,” Bruce says, chuckling under his breath. Michael lets out a short laugh. Ross just raises an eyebrow.

The boy clenches his jaw but says nothing at first. He keeps eating, now with tension in every bite. Bruce, seeing he got no reaction, does it again—this time more blatantly.

“Strange. I thought strays were good at defending what’s theirs.”

That’s when the boy lifts his head. His eyes flash with irritation. He raises his fork to reclaim the food stolen from him. The problem is, in that sudden motion—and just as Y/N walks by with the water jug—he accidentally knocks over his glass. Water spills everywhere.

Everything freezes. He and Y/N turn to look at Mrs. Carson, worried. She stares back at them with restrained fury, and the silence hanging in the air is more terrifying than any scream.

“You…” she begins in a soft, icy tone, “you spoiled brat!”

The boy opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t get the chance. Unexpectedly, the woman slaps him so hard he’s thrown sideways, crashing to the floor with the chair. The sound echoes through the dining room.

He lands with a muffled gasp, one hand clutching his reddened cheek, his eyes wide. Michael drops his spoon. Ross lowers his gaze. Bruce crosses his arms, satisfied.

“How many times do I have to tell you to eat with respect in this house?!” Mrs. Carson shouts, storming toward the boy.

And just as she’s about to raise her voice—or perhaps her hand—again, a figure steps in between them. Y/N, arms stretched to each side, plants herself there with her heart pounding in her chest. Her eyes stay on the floor, her voice nervous but steady.

“It was my fault.”

Everyone stares at her. The boy, too, still on the floor, eyes wide.

“I… I accidentally bumped the glass when I was about to refill it. It wobbled, and that’s why it fell. He barely touched it accidentally… I swear. It wasn’t his fault. I’m sorry.”

She says it with such firm conviction that even the air seems to hesitate. Mrs. Carson blinks, then narrows her eyes. She slowly steps toward Y/N.

“What did you say?”

“That it was my fault… Mrs. Carson,” Y/N repeats, a bit less sure now.

The woman takes another step and stops right in front of her. The silence is so intense that even Bruce lowers his fork mid-bite. Ross stares, unblinking. Michael swallows hard.

“Say it again,” Mrs. Carson demands. “But this time, look me in the eyes.”

Y/N feels something tighten in her stomach. It’s the perfect trap. If she looks away, if she stammers, if she shows even the slightest hint of doubt… the punishment will be worse. For both of them.

Her hands ball into tense fists. She slowly lifts her head until she meets the icy gaze of her tormentor. Just holding that stare feels like looking into the sun—but more painful.

“It was my fault. Mrs. Carson,” she says, her voice clearer now. No blinking. No flinching.

The tension lasts exactly five seconds. But they feel like five hours. Then the woman lets out a dry, short laugh.

“So you’re brave now? Or just stupid?”

She grabs Y/N by the chin with cold, claw-like fingers. Pulls her close, as if trying to rip the truth from her skin.

“Don’t test my patience, girl. I don’t give third chances,” she whispers, her voice dripping with venom that makes everyone’s skin crawl.

Then she lets go of her, as if disgusted by the contact.

“To your room. No dinner tonight.”

“But I—”

“To your room, now!”

Y/N steps back at the shout. She nods quickly, eyes lowered, and without looking at anyone else, she turns and walks toward the stairs with steady steps.

The boy remains on the floor. He says nothing but watches her leave. She lied for him. In front of that woman. In front of everyone.

Mrs. Carson returns to her seat, adjusts her napkin like nothing happened, and snaps her fingers.

“Ross, bring another cloth and clean up this mess. Bruce, if you play with your food again, you’ll be doing the dishes.”

And dinner continues.

Enjoy the chapter.

See you next time. 😄❤️

[researchgroupreports]

The global tilt rotor aircraft market size reached US$ 1.6 Billion in 2023. Looking forward, IMARC Group expects the market to reach US$ 6.7 Billion by 2032, exhibiting a growth rate (CAGR) of 17.4% during 2024-2032

[redwryvernwrites]

Shattered Alloys - SS Requiem Crew!

Here they are, the crew of the long-lost starship, Requiem, that is mentioned/appears in my fic, Shattered Alloys. Oops, (almost) all OCs.

KILOTRONYX FORNAX (♀) – Captain/Head Engineer | Kaon Heavy Tank

MAGMAFLUX (♂) – First Officer | Tarnian Military Cargo Aircraft

SCION FORNAX (♂) – Apprentice Engineer | Kaon Tank

SCORCHLOCK (♀) – Mechanic | Helix Helicopter

CYCLONUS (♂) – Historian | Praxian Jet

MAGNITUDE (♂) – Elite Guard | Kalisian War Rig

TALONSTRIKE (♀) – Doctor (GP) | Vosian Rescue Tilt Rotor Aircraft

GIGATRONUS (♂) – Elite Guard | Kaon Armoured Military Vehicle

HEXUS (⚥) – Chief Scientist | Avian Beastformer

RUNG (♂) – Psychiatrist | Drill

TIGATRON (♀) – Terraformer | Kaon Bulldozer

CODA OCTAVIA (♀) – Technician | Iacon Automobile

TYPHOON (♂) – Professor of Extraterrestrial Life | Vosian Seeker

EMBERCORE (♂) – Engineer | Mammalian Beastformer

VOLTWING (♀) – Communications Officer | Tarnian Stealth Bomber

[obxineedshelp]

Ok. This is Westwind. It is, in fact, Westwinding time. Westwind Origins specifically, won’t go much past his early days

///

Westwind, originally designated simply as Unit W-05 of the Western Wing Air Squadron, was cold constructed as a well oiled machine for calculated destruction. He was also cold constructed bored. He stood with his shoulders slanted and weight skewed and relaxed to one side in a line of faces identical to his own, except where theirs ranged towards contemplative, calculating, confused, or complacent in the lessons that the MTOs were shoved through, his was bored. Bored, bored, bored— the prospect of all of it was remarkably, horrendously understimulating. From lesson to lesson, even the beginnings of hand to hand combat were, ironically, mechanical. Sanitized. Uninteresting, unsatisfying. Their commanders didn’t want their manufactured soldiers beaten in before they could do the same to any Autobots after all. W-05 tilted his head, bored, at projections on a screen, and slid his gaze slowly to W-11’s identical face.

Maybe it was time for something a bit more organic.

///

“What the frag is wrong with you?!” W-11’s high voice shrieks, audial piercing, as they stumble back from the blow to their olfactory. Their voice should’ve been practically the same as his own— it wasn’t, turned stuffed and nasal as bright energon dripped down their faceplates from the crumpled mess of their nose. He watched it drip slowly down off their chin to the floor, a steady patter, and flexed his digits to look down at them. The leading joints between the primary makeup of his servo and each clawed digit were smeared with energon, but barely dented. W-11 bristled at him, rotors clattering, squaring their shoulders that looked just like his— but where they snarled, he smiled, all sharp teeth.

When he hit them again, the force of the impact was hard enough to crumple his own plating, and the shriek that tore out of them paired with the rattling pain up his construct-dull sensor net lit up bright endings in his made-cheap processor that he didn’t even know he had. He swings again, crushing more thick double layer armor under vicious force, delighting in the bright ringing chime of metal on crumpled metal.

When they ripped at the cabling of his wrists to get him off them, he just cackled, delighted and bright.

///

“What the frag is wrong with you?!” His foreman screams in his face in the aftermath, pacing wildly and gesturing wilder. Funny, he’s heard that one before— he’s also heard that W-11 was a lost cause, unsalvageable. They’ll join a pile of spare parts meant to fix the Western Wing after their first actual battle. The thought only strikes mild amusement— he’s sure he would’ve preferred they lived, just so he could see if they flinched whenever he raised a hand near them afterwards. He sits bored and in cuffs in front of a large group of arguing commanders and officers rallying to decide what they were going to do with the ‘clearly defective’ MTO in front of them. His battle processor ticks away sluggishly, cataloguing, bored in a situation where everyone is talking about his decommissioning without talking to him about it.

It’s come up with 14 different ways he could kill his way out of his room when they turn to him, and tell him that he, in fact, is not being decommissioned, but will instead become the lead of the Western Wing. He cocks a brow, fully aware W-01 would be pissed beyond compare, and doesn’t question it with anything but a blasé smirk. They begrudgingly inform him anyways—as they take him out of the cuffs and cautiously ward him at a distance back to the Western Wing’s barracks as though he were a bomb rigged to explode— that his ‘vicious mindset’ and ‘clearly high aptitude for combat’ would be a massive attribute to the Cause in the long run, though it was said with an edge of ‘as long as you stay in line.’

Funny. He was born on a factory line. Should be no problem.

He bites down the sarcastic comment about his existence being against the Cause’s core— Towards Peace was something he only snagged out of the databases after he hacked into them, bored— and smiles wide and sharp toothed, not missing the way his foreman twitches backwards and away, optics flaring bright in alarm. “Of course. Nothing but the best from me…. from now on.”

The stares he gets from all 22 other remaining W units as he enters the barracks range from terrified, to cautious, to offput, to enraged. Not a single one of their faces look like his, in that moment— especially not with his still-split upper lip, a fresh weld that pulls and threatens to break again as he saunters by. The others shift back when he does. He’d be delighted to give them a demonstration on how well that worked for W-11.

He doesn’t. He just waves, cheerily, with an amused greeting, and sways his merry way to his berth.

The unit who recharges in the bunk above him murmured a fearful request to a further away unit to charge with them, that night, just to get away. He smiled, and carved a single line into the underneath of the slab above him with the shriek of a claw into metal.

///

On the day of his Squadron’s very first battle, the wind blew viciously to the west. It nearly stung his plating, throwing up debris from endless wreckage as it did— flying into it in alt mode felt distinctly unsafe. It was delightful— it paled in comparison to the fight that ensued. He did as commanded, leading his fleet as air support to a raging battle below, remaining high in the air. He did as commanded, watching carnage he ensued far from a distance, progressively more bored. He did as commanded, until one of his units was clumsy in an attempted dodge of a massive, piercing shot from below— and he watched out of his rear optical feed as they fell in pieces to the ground below. There was no sense of loss. There was this itch of an excuse, though.

Ignoring the shouts of his unit, he turned his nose down, cut his rotors, and he fell too.

The Autobot’s terrified shout as he twisted into root mode alone was enough to make it worth it. He deflected each comm that pinged against his network, firing back a quick designation of W-01 as the fleet head until he returned to the skies, and then detached one of his rotors and grinned wide and delighted as the Autobot tried to flip them over. It was almost too easy, ripping into them with sharp claws and a sharper blade— their own blaster singed his plating and their fists punched dents into his armor, and it sang with the rending shriek of him peeling off a section of their facial plating like a discordant version of one of the symphonies he had heard some of his unit listening to in supposed secret, in the dead of night. The Autobot shouts wildly for help, futile in the face of him weaving his fingers into their throat cabling and ripping— and then he severs the main cables of their stabilizers, and leaves them to bleed out puddles of bright blue upon the grimy ground.

A shot singes violently by his helm, missing by a hair, and he tips his helm slowly. The next shot that fires off as he turns hits— and the agony of it rings in jittering waves through his sensory net. He twists his sword out of the offlining Autobot, energon flecking, and sways into the pain like a tangible dance partner with a grin. Expressions twist from disgruntled to horrified, and then to agonized when he flings himself at the next Autobot, and the next, laughing. It feels like living, for the first time since he had one of his own unit’s internals sliding slippery-hot through the gaps between his digits . It is nothing but vicious base sensation— it is honest, lacking sanitization. This is the realest something as artificial as him has ever felt, and he grins manically wide as he skewers another Autobot through the shoulder and to a mostly-fallen wall.

“Who the— who—“ they stutter, coughing up purged energon and scrabbling to fight back, and he considers. Considers the unit he has no love for, the air high above where missile fire still rains down from, the sharp veering breeze cut through by his rotors, his rotors that cut through metal with a shriek like the wind, and he answers a different answer to that question than ever before.

“Hey, sweetspark. I’m Westwind.”

It’s an introduction to a corpse— their spark chamber feels like fireworks in his palm when he crushes it in his claws.

///

When he gets back, he is splattered with filtered energon, spiced on his tongue, and earns both a reprimand and a commendation from downturned mouths that stare at him as if in shock .

He lost count of the sparks that guttered due to his intervention, so in the night, alone, instead of adding tallies to the underside of a bunk, he just carves a newfound designation.

Westwind.

///

Ok i’m done for now this is all very early westwind. like first 100,000 years of his 3.8 million year long life westwind . just wanted to establish how he picked his name. Maybe will post more later to get to how he joined up with interrogation squad.