#Assault Transport

[rainintheevening]

So the LAATs? The Low Altitude Assault Transports? These babies?

They should be nicknamed 'Ladies'.

Like it goes from 'Laaties' (long a), to 'Laties' (short a), to the natural 'Ladies'.

"Here come the Ladies!"

"It's a Lady! We're saved!"

"Sending a couple Ladies to pick us up."

Just seems like the most military thing they would do.

[nocternalrandomness]

A US Marine Corps MV-22B Osprey parked at Luke AFB, Arizona

[haileys-dreamland]

If you think about it, the LAAT/i was the original down with CIS bus.

[jeffcross5000]

Would you fly in this?

[swagyna]

she's not even in the top 10 of polluters. iirc she's no. 55

why is she being dragged for this right after having had men create mass amounts of AI rape-fantasy porn of her?

that being swept under the rug so everyone can feel like what was done to her was justified screams misogyny and coomer.

[mysterioushimachal]

HRTC Conductor Assaulted Near Pinjore – FIR Registered, Safety Concerns Rise

[skylordhorus]

something that baffles me about the whole ‘hhhblhghh if you let trans women in womens bathrooms etc then men will start dressing as women to get in there!!!!!’ is, transphobia aside, the idea that a fucking sign would stop a male predator from entering anyway?? it’s a sign, not a magical barrier. if he was already thinking of doing something that despicable, he’s not going to go ‘oh my bad this is a women’s room so i won’t go in there~’

[grouperhq]

[nocternalrandomness]

Bell V-280 Valor demonstrating it's high speed cruise at the 2019 Fort Worth Alliance Air Show in Texas

[swtechspecs]

Rothana Heavy Engineering Low Altitude Assault Transport (LAAT / "Republic Gunship")

Source: The New Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels (Del Rey, 2003)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"CONVICTS ESCAPE EN ROUTE TO REFORMATORY," Toronto Star. July 11, 1933. Page 1. ---- James T. Raem (1) and Cecil Black (2), Toronto men, who escaped from custody early to-day, while en route to Burwash industrial farm to serve their sentences. ///

"CONVICTS SLIP HEAVY MANACLES FLEE FROM GUARD," Toronto Star. July 11, 1933. Page 1 & 2. ---- Two Toronto Men Bound for Burwash Elude Provincial Bailiff ---- REPORTS MEAGRE ---- Provincial Police Spread Net Over Washago Area as Couple Vanish ---- Police throughout the province were warned early to-day to be on the look-out for two convicts, Cecil Black, alias Baker, and James Raem, who escaped from a bailiff's officer on C.N.R. train number 2 at Washago, Ontario, at 1.30 a.m. Both prisoners had been picked up by the provincial bailiff at the Toronto jail at 10.30 last night and were on their way to Burwash prison when they made their escape.

How they managed to free them- selves of their handcuffs and chains and make good their escape, jail officials and Toronto police headquarters have not yet learned. Very meagre information regarding the escape of the prisoners arrived at detective headquarters after 3 a.m. All the wire said was that two men being taken to Burwash to serve 2 years less a day had escaped from the train when it stopped at Washago. The wire, signed by a J. H. Fink, requested the Toronto police to notify provincial police headquarters.

Sergt. of Detectives Arthur Levitt informed The Star Cecil Black, alias Baker, was arrested some time ago in York township on an assault charge. He was sentenced to two years less a day. The other man, James Raem, arrested in Toronto by Detective-Sergt. Albert Johns, on a theft charge, had been sentenced to two years less a day plus 12 months.

From Toronto Jail officials The Star was informed that there may have been anywhere from 10 to 20 prisoners under the care of the one provincial bailiff, being taken to Burwash last night.

The bailiff picked the two men up last night and set out for Burwash. "All along the line," a jail official stated, "he picks up prisoners - sometimes he'll have as many as 18 or 20. I don't know how many he had last night. They are usually handcuffed to one another and placed on a long chain."

While the C.N.R. station agent at Washago had heard of the escape, he could not give The Star any details.

"They escaped all right from the train here, but how they did it I didn't hear."

Asked if there had been a fight and if the bailiff's officer had been injured, he stated that nothing like that occurred.

Deputy Governor of the Toronto jail, Clifford Blackburn told The Star to-day that J. Fiske, provincial bailiff, left the Toronto jail last night with eleven prisoners for Burwash.

"They left here in good order. The prisoners are handcuffed and attached to a chain. How they effected their escape I do not know. Fiske is a very competent officer," said the deputy governor.

[Raem would be recaptured in late 1933 and sentenced to the penitentiary in January 1934. Black was arrested in Halifax and given a sentence there.]

[nemesisthetoy]

Star Wars fans of Tumblr, I call on your knowledge!

[abbotjack]

I Can’t Protect You From Everything

pairing: jack abbot x nurse!reader (fem!reader, no physical description)

summary : You’re assaulted in the ER. Jack sees red. But it’s not just the rage—it’s the fallout, the quiet after, the grief, the guilt, the way he holds you like his own body can bring you back to life.

content: medical trauma, assault aftermath, blood, concussion, strong emotional themes, PTSD undertones, canon-level violence, smut (established marriage), soft dom!Jack, comfort sex, hurt/comfort, healing arc

word count: ~3K , not beta read (this is just a hobby <3)

18+ ONLY

You hear the voice before you see him.

Low. Sharp. Controlled like a lit match held too close to a fuse.

“Move.”

The nurses part without a word. Not because they recognize the attending. But because they feel the shift in the air.

Jack Abbot is in motion. And he’s not stopping.

You’re still on the floor of Room 12. Head spinning. The tile’s cold under your cheek, but everything else burns—your skull, your vision, the jagged pulse in your throat.

The patient—drunk, belligerent—just laughs.

“She got in my face, man,” he slurs to no one. “Shoulda stayed outta it.”

The next sound is a crash. A metal tray sent flying.

Jack doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. One look at your body on the ground, your hair matted with blood—and he’s on the guy in seconds.

“Jack—Jack!” Robby grabs him from behind, arms locked around his chest. “She’s down—she needs you, not this.”

“Let me go,” Jack growls, low and lethal.

“You touch him, you’re done. You hear me? She’s bleeding. Focus, man.”

Jack’s breathing hard, jaw clenched so tight you think it might snap. But his eyes are locked on you now. Not the patient. Not the shouting.

Just you.

He drops to his knees beside you. Gently turns your face toward him with trembling fingers.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Too soft for a man who just looked ready to kill. “Stay with me, sweetheart. C’mon.”

You try to smile.

“Didn’t like that, huh?” you whisper, lips barely moving.

His eyes go dark. “I’m gonna kill him.”

“No you’re not.”

“He touched you.”

You blink. Everything spins.

“Jack—my head hurts.”

His breath catches. All that fury folds into fear. And you know—if your heart stopped right now, his would go with it.

“You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

He always says that. And you always believe him.

Your fingers twitch weakly against his scrubs, barely a brush.

"…Don’t go anywhere,” you breathe, eyelids fluttering shut.

You're out before your head even hits the pillow of the gurney.

Jack doesn’t move from your side. Blood—your blood—dries tacky and rust-colored on your temple.

“Let’s go,” he barks at the transport tech. His voice is too sharp, but no one challenges him. Not now. Not when the calm, collected attending has cracked.

Robby walks beside him, clipboard clutched tight. “She needs a non-contrast head CT, stat. LOC, blunt force trauma, disorientation. I already paged neuro.”

Jack doesn't respond. Doesn’t blink. His eyes are fixed on your face as they wheel you through the fluorescent-lit hall.

In the CT bay, he’s forced to stop outside the radiation line.

“I’ll be five minutes,” the tech promises. “You can see her again once she’s cleared.”

Jack doesn’t nod. Just stands there, like a soldier on post, watching through the glass as your body is slid into the machine like it’s a coffin.

Later.

“Concussion,” Robby says quietly, handing Jack the annotated imaging results. “No hemorrhage. No skull fracture. She is lucky.”

Jack doesn’t feel lucky. He feels like he's going to throw up.

Robby gives him a look. One Jack doesn’t like.

“Maybe don’t start a war in the trauma bay next time someone touches her.”

You wake slowly, brain fogged, heart pounding. For a second, the disorientation pulls you under—you're sure you're still in the trauma bay. The smell of antiseptic, the beeping, the chaos.

But then you feel it.

A warm hand curled around yours. The scent of Jack’s cologne. The distant hum of your house’s old heating unit.

You’re not in the hospital anymore.

You’re home.

The small home you share with Jack—the one he remodeled himself, every corner touched by his hands, from the creaking floorboards to the stubborn cabinet hinges. Medical journals are stacked high on the coffee table, dog-eared and covered in notes, like neither of you quite know how to leave work behind. It's lived-in and quiet and yours—built like a fortress to keep the world out.

Jack’s sitting beside the bed, one hand cradling your wrist, thumb brushing your pulse point.

“You’re awake,” he says.

You blink slowly. “Am I supposed to be?”

He exhales like it hurt to hold in. “You scared the shit out of me.”

You smile faintly. “Don’t I always?”

He doesn’t laugh. His eyes are rimmed red—and it kills you to see it.

“You didn’t say anything when I went down,” you whisper.

“I couldn’t,” he says, voice cracked and raw.

You reach for his face. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it.

“I was going to kill him,” he murmurs. “If Robby hadn’t pulled me off—I was gone. I saw red.”

You stroke his hair. “You didn’t. That’s what matters.”

He shakes his head. “No. What matters is that you were hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I don’t care.”

“Come here,” you whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You never do.”

He slides into bed, quiet and heavy beside you.

“Why’d you marry me?” you ask.

Jack flinches. “Because no one’s ever looked at me the way you do. Like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

He kisses you then.

And when you say, "Show me I’m still here," he pulls back just enough to search your face. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, like he still doesn’t trust what he sees.

Then he nods, just once. Like he’s made up his mind.

His hands shake as they trail down your sides, memorizing the feel of you again. He looks like he’s on the edge of breaking open entirely.

Still half-dressed, the soft stretch of sweatpants low on his hips, he leans down slowly. His shirt’s already gone. His breath is warm against your collarbone.

He shifts his position like he’s not sure he’s allowed. Like he’s still that eighteen-year-old kid who enlisted too young, carried too much, and learned how to weaponize silence before he ever understood how to ask for comfort. Still moving like he’s made of edges—too strong, too fast, too sharp.

He’s always been gentle with you. But tonight, he’s something else entirely.

He kisses you like it hurts. Like every inch of skin he touches could vanish. His lips are hot and searching, pulling at yours with need, like he's starving and you’re the only thing that will bring him back.

You reach for his waistband and push his sweatpants down, his breath catching when your fingers graze him—thick, heavy, already hard.

“Please,” you whisper. “I need to feel you. All of you.”

He exhales harshly, like it’s killing him to take his time, but he does.

Jack kisses his way down your neck, slow and reverent, his hands now slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He peels them down with slow, careful movements, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. Only when they’re off does he lower himself between your thighs. His breath ghosts across your skin before his tongue follows—warm, wet, devastating. He licks into you like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this is the only proof you’re still here.

Your hips buck, but his hands pin you in place, steady on your thighs. The stubble on his jaw scrapes softly against sensitive skin, the contrast enough to make your vision blur.

"You taste like home," he groans, eyes dark. "I needed this—needed you—more than I want to admit."

He cuts himself off with a moan as you tangle your fingers in his hair.

Your climax builds fast. It feels too good. Too much. You try to warn him, but he groans against you, and it tips you over—your whole body arching off the bed as you cry out his name.

He doesn’t stop until your thighs are trembling and you’re panting for air.

Only then does he crawl back up, mouth slick, pupils blown wide.

You pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, and reach between you to guide him into place.

He lines up, breath ragged, and you feel the blunt pressure of him at your entrance.

“Look at me, Y/N”.

You do.

And then he pushes in.

Slow. So goddamn slow. Stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried deep, forehead pressed to yours like the contact is the only thing anchoring him.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe. “More than okay.”

Then he starts to move.

Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he’s checking your pulse with his body. The slide of skin on skin. The soft drag of his mouth along your throat. The way he groans when your nails rake down his back.

“I missed this,” he chokes out. “Missed you.”

“I’m right here.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You grip his face. “So fuck me like it matters.”

Something in him breaks.

He shifts, grabs your hips, and starts to thrust harder, deeper. The bed creaks under the rhythm, sweat building where your bodies meet, breath punching out of you with every stroke.

You meet him thrust for thrust, your gasps syncing with his groans until you’re both unraveling.

When you come again, it rips through you—louder this time, body shuddering beneath him. He follows with a hoarse shout of your name, hips stuttering as he spills inside you.

But even then, he doesn’t let go.

His arms stay locked around you. His face buried in your neck. His chest rising and falling against yours as he stays inside you, warm and still.

After a moment, he shifts—just slightly—and you feel him stir again. Still hard. Still aching. But this time, there’s a tension in his body that feels less like hesitation and more like possession.

He doesn’t speak. Just kisses you—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hand sliding down your side to pull your leg around his waist. You feel it in the way he grabs your thigh, in the low growl that escapes when he sinks into you again without warning.

The pace is different this time. Less reverent. More raw. His thrusts are deeper, heavier, his body pressing you into the mattress with every stroke. You whimper his name and he groans—head falling to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin.

It’s all slick heat and friction. The sound of skin meeting skin, the rasp of his breath in your ear. He fucks you like he needs to burn out the fear, chase away the image of your blood on tile. Like your body is the only thing tethering him to the present.

Your nails rake down his back. He hisses, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head.

“Jack—”

“You’re mine,” he grits out. “Still mine.”

He leans in, kissing you hard, sloppy, teeth clashing. His hips piston into you harder, faster, building to the edge with brutal precision.

You come with a cry, your entire body curling around him as your walls clamp down, trembling and wet and perfect.

He follows with a low, broken moan, collapsing into you as he spills deep inside, every inch of him wrapped around you like a shield.

And when he finally stops shaking, he doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just holds you there, sweat and heat and breath shared between you.

This time, when he whispers, “You’re okay,” it sounds less like a question.

And more like the truth.

He kisses the corners of your eyes. Your jaw. The inside of your wrist.

"I’m here, Jack.”

You wake up alone.

The panic is immediate. But then you hear the soft clang of a mug in the kitchen.

You find him by the stove, shirtless. Dog tags dangling against his chest.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t turn. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

You come up behind him, wrap your arms around his waist.

He sinks into it. Finally exhales.

“I keep seeing it,” he murmurs. “The blood. Your eyes. I thought I lost you… I felt it. Just like I did overseas. That second where it all slows down, and you just know."

You press your cheek to his back. "You're here. I'm here. That's what matters."

He turns then. Cups your face. And this time, when he kisses you, it's not frantic. Not heavy.

It's soft.

And finally—it's peace.

The peace doesn’t last.

By 7:03 a.m., Jack’s badge is clipped back to his scrubs, his jaw freshly shaved, and his eyes—still bruised at the edges from lack of sleep—are locked on the hallway leading to trauma intake.

You’re behind him. Walking slower than usual, sure. But walking.

The minute you swipe into the main ER pod, it’s like someone hit pause. Heads lift. Conversations stop. A nurse stops mid-sentence and stares at the dried red line still barely visible at your temple.

Jack says nothing. Keeps walking.

You’re used to the way the ER stares. What you’re not used to is the way they stare at him.

Whispers follow.

"Did you hear he nearly decked that guy?"

"Dr. Robby had to physically restrain him."

"Jack's lucky he still has a license."

Jack doesn’t flinch, but you see it. The way his knuckles go white holding the patient chart. The way he refuses to make eye contact with anyone.

Robby catches up to Jack just outside the nurses station. He leans against the wall beside him, quite a beat before he speaks.

"You holding up?"

Jack huffs out a breath. "Define 'holding up.'"

Robby studies him. "Everyone’s talking. You know that, right? About what happened. About you."

"Let them talk."

Robby nods slowly. "They will. But for what it's worth, people know you didn't lose it. Not really. You stopped yourself. That matters."

Jack doesn’t say anything, but the line of his jaw softens—barely. He looks over at you down the hall, where you're laughing quietly with another nurse, a clipboard in your hands.

Robby claps Jack gently on the back. “Get back out there. But maybe… don’t take the guy in Room 9.”

Jack stiffens.

He knows who’s in Room 9.

It’s another combative drunk. Came in swinging at EMS. Male, mid-40s, belligerent as hell, already yelling at a med student for trying to take vitals. It’s not the same guy—but it’s close enough. Same profile. Same energy. Same trigger.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Jack mutters, voice low.

Robby just nods. “Didn’t think so.”

You head back to your rounds, trying to pretend like it’s a normal day. But you feel Jack’s eyes on you like a second shadow.

Every time you so much as check a patient’s IV or lean in to auscultate a chest, you can feel the weight of his stare across the room.

By the time you step out of Room 4 with a vitals chart in hand, Jack intercepts you mid-hallway and drags you to the nearest supply closet.

“You’re done,” he says quietly. “For today.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re not ready to be back. You shouldn’t even be on the floor. Let me talk to–.”

You cross your arms. “I passed neuro eval. Twice. I’m cleared.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re safe.”

His voice is low but firm, eyes darting toward passing residents. You pull him into the side med supply closet before someone catches the tail end of his tone.

Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzing.

“I need to be here,” you say. “For my own head. I need to prove to myself that I’m okay.”

Jack leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He looks at you like it’s killing him to hear that. “I almost lost you on the floor you’re walking back into like nothing happened.”

“I’m not walking in like nothing happened,” you snap.

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “What if it happens again?”

“Then it does. And I deal with it. And you deal with it. But you can’t wrap me in gauze and keep me behind the nurses’ station just because you’re scared.”

He closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them, his voice is softer. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever cared about more than this job.”

You step toward him. Let your fingers hook in the front of his scrubs.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring,” you whisper. “I’m asking you to trust me. The same way I trust you every time we walk into the emergency room together.”

His jaw works, eyes closing again. He leans forward, rests his forehead to yours.

“I’m trying,” he murmurs. “I’m really fucking trying.”

And you believe him.

But when you step out of the closet and head toward your next patient, you don’t need to turn around to know he’s still watching you. Still waiting for the worst.

Still holding his breath.

That night, you don’t talk much on the drive home.

The hospital faded in the rearview, but the weight of the day hasn’t.

You both pretend to wind down—but everything feels like if either of you speak too loudly, you both might crack.

So you turn off the lights.

You crawl into bed.

And Jack follows.

It’s only when you’re curled together under the covers, his chest to your back, that he finally says it:

“I can’t protect you from everything.”

You nod, fingers wrapped around his. “I don’t want you to. I just want you to be there. Like you always are. That's why I married you.”

“I was scared,” he murmurs. “Like full-body, I-don’t-know-who-I-am scared. I haven’t felt like that in a long time.”

“I know,” you whisper. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. He exhales, the air leaving him slow and steady.

He holds you closer.

And for the first time in two days, he sleeps.

And so do you.

[northgazaupdates]

URGENT: Family of 5 trapped under IOF fire without food or water!!

Ayah does not have internet access right now and cannot post about her situation, so she contacted a friend who reached out to me.

Ayah, her husband, and their 3 small children are currently trapped under IOF assault. They are besieged in their north Gaza home as IOF tanks move in. They have no food left, and their meager water ration will only last them another 2 days!! A fire has broken out nearby and their neighborhood is in complete chaos.

We have posted previously about Ayah’s son Osama, whose health remains very fragile. This siege and deprivation could kill him even if the fire and IOF death squads do not!

They urgently need $1000 USD to hire transportation out of the area!! Friends of Osama's family on the ground in Gaza are extremely concerned for their wellbeing!!

Ayah is vetted by nabulsi

Current: €3,609 EUR

Need to raise: €882 EUR (about $1,000 USD)

[g-k444]

hmm what about a pause button - some sort of remote that you realise actually pauses... people

we're friends, and so when you realise what it does, having accidentally paused your dog - you ask whether you could try it on me, to see whether it works on humans, whether the person paused is still conscious and alert, whether they could still feel things... those logistical questions.

so i let you trial it on me - press the button and have me freeze on the very spot, unable to more a single limb

and you walk through the statements and questions we pre-planned: okay, first test is whether you're conscious and can hear me... now can you feel this pinch? can i move your hand, or are you locked in that position?

it's deduced that you can move me and my limbs - it's just the person frozen with no control of their body.

all the tests and questions are run through, and you put the clipboard down - walking out of my field of view before returning with the remote in your hand.

and naturally, i was to get un-paused and regain autonomy over my body

yet holding it in your hand, you look down at the remote pensively before realising... you know what? i think i have a few more tests i'd like to try before we finish here

again, you walked out of my field of view - yet i could hear your footsteps, and you didn't walk far - in fast, you only walked until you were stood directly behind me

and this time, i could've gasped as i felt you pick me up and my world began moving around me, as you transported me through your house - dropping me in front of a mirror so that i could see you behind me in the reflection

and then?

i watched you pull my shorts down to my ankles, feeling my heartrate accelerate as i watched the grin begin forming on your face

shouldve given me more rules to play by, you spoke cheekily, your hand between my legs forcing me to watch how you petted my clothes pussy over the material, fingers brushing and strumming over my clit, pulling back and feeling over my vulva, pinching my lips and pulling at them

i was defenseless to your touch - unable to scream, to fight back, to run away

well and truly frozen

frozen, as you pulled my panties down and dropped to your knees - tasting my hole pussy and muttering about how i could still get all wet n gushy when frozen, sucking at my lips and forcing your tongue into my hole

frozen, as you proceeded to rise up and pull my top down to expose my tits - slapping them harshly and commenting about how nicely they still recoiled, and how they'd look bouncing up and down with you fucking me

frozen as you manipulated each of my limbs, from ankles to knees to body to neck, as you took me to my knees and forced my jaw open, trying to enjoy a blowjob and slapping me when no saliva came to my mouth and i couldn't do it properly - so you instead rubbed your cock over my face - balls plodding in my mouth as you smeared your phallus over my cheeks and nose and tapped it over my lips as if teasing me - as if i wanted this

and then forcing your cock into me, making me watch in the mirror as a tear rolled down my cheek whilst you fucked em back and forth over my cock, with me completely powerless and unable to stop the assault to my body as you pinched my nipples and slapped my ass, sticking your thumb in my ass and spanking my clit too

and your favourite part, then watching as your cum dribbled from my hole and dropped to the floor, forcing my tongue out of my mouth and using me like a mop to eat all of your spilled cum so that it was in me one way or another

then what?

would you shatter the remote so that i could never leave - be your sentient sex doll forever?

or rather would you fill me up with cum again and leave me out in public somwhere for others to defile me

or stick me in a gloryhole to make money for my work ethic; never taking a break or taking a day off, simply being stuck in the box with cum dripping down my lips 24/7

it's my body, but i dont get that choice anymore.

[sw5w]

Anakin Speeds Past the Landing Craft

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:58:47