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januaryembrs · 2 months

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HOT UNDER THE HELMET | Poe Dameron x Mechanic!Reader

Request: Hi, would you mind writing for Poe Dameron where Poe accidentally injures the reader (whose a mechanic), which is how they meet for the first time. And would you mind using the dialogue prompt “Oh, oh my god! It was an accident! I’m so sorry!”?

Description: Poe finds out the hard way the best mechanic in the resistance is also most beautiful woman he’s ever seen; too bad you’re so hot headed.

word count: 1.5k

trigger warnings: sexism, fire, women in stem facing problems even in space (because ofcourse they do).

main masterlist

As much as you would love to admit times of war made people more benevolent towards each other, you’d be dead wrong. Not only had you been one of the only females in the resistance who knew her way around a wrench, but as it also turned out, not even the risk of dying could pull a males head out of his arse.

You heard snickering before you saw them. The other three mechanics in your squadron crowded around a starfighter, laughing to themselves as they watched you tinker with a leaky engine, your body strewn across a lying board as you worked above yourself, your tools against your foot.

Rolling out from underneath the ship, you paid them no mind as you searched for a screwdriver small enough to fit the flathead you needed removing. Scanning your work area, that you were proud to say you kept much neater than the blaster brained males you shared a space with, your brow furrowed when you saw your equipment nowhere to be seen.

“Looking for something?” You heard Zagg, one of the males, say, and you felt a rage boil up inside you at the smug look on their faces as you regarded them with a sweaty, pissed off expression.

“Where’d you boneheads put it?” You snapped, hauling yourself to your feet as you approached them hotly, your scowl only growing as they burst out laughing, “Real mature. The galaxy is going to bantha fodder, and you guys are hiding my tools,”

“You know, if you need help from someone who knows what they’re doing, you could just ask,” The tallest of the trio, Bran, goaded you, a smarmy smile on his face as he watched your cheeks puff with exhaustion, whirling around to charge up to him, no matter if you did have to turn your neck upwards to confront the pig of a male.

“Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, instead of going after little girls who make you look like rookies,” You hissed, eying up the other two who seemed to exchange a sneer, “Leia chose me herself, handpicked me from the academy. You three nerf herders got through on sheer size alone, and it’s obvious you feel the need to compensate everywhere else possible,”

You sauntered away, back towards the rear of the workshop where spare apparatus was kept, banging around the drawers with a foul mood, muttering about how useless the opposite sex was in times of crisis.

As if he had heard the call of a siren, Poe strolled into the hangar, fully suited with his helmet under his arm, an all too cheery smile on his face for the belly of the beast he was unknowingly heading straight for.

Catching the eye of one of the mechanics, a freakishly tall man that seemed to be chatting to the other two as they stood around an X-wing with a huge hole ripped into the body of it, he watched the worker drop his bitter face and regard him with raised eyebrows when he saw the chirpy pilot approach.

“General,” He nodded respectfully, though there was not a single trace of regard on his face. “You’ve come for your ship?”

“Leia said you had your best guy on it?” He said, almost missing the way the three of them nodded hesitantly, “She said it should be ready today,”

“Right this way, General Dameron,” The shorter, beefy one said, leading him away to a pristine looking starfighter, by far in the best shape he could see it being without it being brand new. He thought he caught a snigger behind him as the mechanic, whose oiled badge read as Kripply, took him over to the ship, “Why don’t you give her a whirl? As you said, we had our very best on the case,”

Poe looked at him with an odd mix of a smile and wariness as he couldn’t miss the devilish excitement the man looked at him with. Had he sat in paint again, he wondered. Finn had had a field day walking him around the entire compound with two white ass cheek marks on his suit, he wouldn’t put it past his co-pilot to try his luck again seeing as Poe had been the one to win at cards last night and had not so graciously rubbed his credits in the man’s face.

“Sure, let’s give this baby a whirl,” He said after a moment, his hair falling all over the place as he shoved his helmet over his thick, sable locks.

Maybe he had a case of bedhead, he wondered. Afterall, he’d not exactly been sober as he’d stumbled back to his room last night, his winnings buying him round after round of smuggled Corellian Whiskey.

He hopped up onto the wing, yanking himself into the cockpit that had been cleaned thoroughly, and he didn’t know why he ever doubted his repair team if this was the condition they left their vehicles in. The engine hummed to life as he flicked the tiny lever, and he couldn’t help but appreciate the oddly floral smell inside the small flight deck, and he wondered if they had gone so far as to spray freshener in there.

You had found a spare tightener that would fit the screw, the last thing that needed fastening up before the engine should be good to run, Leia’s general would be by any second now.

Rolling back under the vehicle, you tuned out the way Zagg cackled over the sound of an engine springing to life, you assumed their own, focusing on the tiny panel you had yet to cover the machinery with to protect the pilot from any stray blaster fire cutting the engine.

But no sooner had you settled on your back beneath the jet, your hand reaching up for the metal sheet, you heard the familiar rumble of oil being fired through the motor, the drums whirling as the ignition started and a short blast of heat hit you in the face.

You blanched as you knew that meant, knew what would come shooting out any second now. Heat always got kicked out of the engine first, the left over energy dishcharged out of the bottom grate. Because then came the fire as it sprung to life.

Your hand came up before you could think through what you were doing, the hard work you were unravelling in the interest of keeping your face intact, your brain from turning to crispy mush, as you yanked the oil pipe from where you’d connected it to the drum, the thick black liquid pouring over your entire body as you stumbled from out beneath the plane, just incase your plan hadn’t worked.

You heard the engine cut, the sound of the cockpit sliding open as someone cursed from above, and you were filled with a new wave of rage as two feet jumped from the wing above you, turning to the three men who watched with entertained chuckles.

“What happened, I thought you said-” Poe had started chewing out the males who didn’t seem to care all too much about the fact the jet had broken down, when he felt two hands shove him from behind, and he spun on his heel with annoyance.

His face dropped entirely when he saw you, covered head to toe in a thick, gunky oil, your nostrils flaring as you glared at him with a heat he had yet to see from a woman before.

Usually women were so receptive to his charming good looks. Not this one it seemed.

“What the kriff was that, man,” You yelled, shoving his chest again with your slimy hands, and he quickly put it together what had been the problem.

“What that me?” His brows flew into his hair line as you looked at him like he’d just learned there were stars in the sky, “Oh, maker! It was an accident! I’m so sorry!”

“Oh he’s sorry. Thank goodness he’s sorry,” You threw your arms up, wiping the oil away from your eyes with slippy hands, and Poe had no idea what to say for the best.

Though, he supposed telling you you were by far the prettiest woman he’d seen in moons was not the correct thing to go for, despite the fact it was the first thing he’d thought.

“I’m a decorated pilot, I would never intentionally-” He spluttered, but you had already turned away, heading towards a small work bench where a bunch of old, dirty rags lay, supposedly for hands only.

“You can decorate my ass, general. You’re waiting another week for that plane,” You seethed, barely regarding him over your shoulder.

And he stood there, speechless, because what was he supposed to say. No one had ever spoken down to him like that, not since he’d grown into his good looks and had women falling at his feet to be near him. Certainly not since he’d become leader.

You huffed past him, as he was rooted to the spot, jaw hung slack as you left the workshop, cursing him out clearly to yourself, and it was only then that he turned to the other three males who had watched him get his ass served to him with another round of sniggers. “Who in the maker was she?”

#poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x you

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milleneumfulcrum · 2 months

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16 Psyche

for @sanzosin once again, keeping the ship alive one day after another!!!

crossposted to ao3

Pairing | Handsome Jack x Nisha Kadam

Word Count | 3,647

Warnings | they get steamy

When Nisha Kadam had enlisted in Jack's ragtag team of so-called heroes, she'd really been looking for a challenge. The money was trivial, the renown useless, and the Vault entirely uninteresting. Zarpedon had been a disappointment; she'd challenged them right after the destruction of the laser, idiotic bitch, when Nisha's rage was running higher than the sun at noon.

Because how dare that clown slut Moxxi try to blow her up?

The Vault was better; Nisha had savored each stinging cut from the Sentinel's otherworldly glaive, laughing with damn near glee as her body broke like waves against the arena walls. And when it came from the floor, seemingly undefeated, Nisha (et al.) trounced it again.

The riflewoman was knee-deep in rubble by the time Jack arrived, sorting through the explosion of strange crystals and leftover arms from when Zarpedon's squadron first arrived. She only made slow, languid steps toward her employer once everyone else had already crowded around- perhaps more notably once she had her arms around a few new rifles- her boots clicking on the lustrous, splintered ground.

And Nisha, hands full of shiny new loot and not her trusty Jakobs, only made it halfway to Jack's seated, maniacal figure before it happened.

A flash of red hair heralded the bitch in second place on Nisha's kill list, but her fist colliding with the Vault's treasure- and Jack's handsome face- quickly pushed Lilith to number one. Nisha tossed her loot aside and drew her pistols with frightening speed, but the Siren phased off without so much as a scratch. How was it that she got past all those damn guardians so silently? Nisha barely had time to snarl before Jack was screaming, and holy hell was it like nothing she'd ever heard before. She watched with a mixture of boiling rage and rising arousal as he writhed on the ground, the barest hint of a manic grin creeping across her lips. In the distance, Athena turned away.

"FUCK!" Jack howled, just barely able to stagger to his feet. He fumbled blindly for the rocky throne, one hand pressed to the red-hot burn that Nisha could practically taste. "I'm gonna kill her! I'm... I'm gonna kill them all!"

If Nisha was just a little more feral, she might've stuck her hand down her pants right then and there.

"First, you're gonna find me a doctor," He snarled. Not as hot, but probably more necessary. "Then we're gonna wipe those bandit bastards off the face of Pandora."

Bingo.

Jack was still ranting and raving even as Nisha hauled him to his feet, ducking under the wild swings he was making to prove his sincerity. He was heavy like this, incoherent and psychotic and so unbelievably sexy. Wilhelm came to double her efforts, and they shared a brief, puzzled look as he spouted some shit about a warrior. Yep, definitely delirious now, Nisha decided. She could smell Jack's scorched flesh as they made slow, measured progress back to the fast-travel station they'd planted upon entering the final depths of the Vault. By the time Nisha jammed in the codes to Helios, he'd lost most of his steam, slumping against her shoulder wiltingly.

"Does it hurt?" She hissed into his ear. Of course it did. Jack moaned in response, and her vision went white.

God, she wished her ECHO had been recording. It was harder to get off on those noises when they were from memory.

Nisha was certain she wouldn't have to wait, though. Jack was the kind of man who needed his wounds licked, and he was not patient. But as the days started to bleed into weeks without so much as a word from the great big H in the sky, an unfamiliar feeling began to creep into Nisha's gut. She watched the atmosphere from a new perspective each night, aiming down the sights of her sniper as if it were powerful enough to zero on to the giant glass windows of Helios. Nisha would have to tell him that one later- something along the lines of needing a scope to see Jack's dick. Served him right for ignoring her.

It was early when she awoke face up on the roof with dust in her mouth and an ache in her spine. Her ECHO communicator was chirping in the room below, and Nisha was quick to swing back through the window and snatch it up. It was Jack, and an insidious amount of anticipation curled in her gut. Except he wasn't calling.

"The fuck?" Nisha said aloud, looking at the device like it had personally offended her. It simply blinked back, displaying a dollar amount she previously thought unreal. That made it all the more official; her contract with Jack had concluded, and he'd just paid her without a word. Bastard.

Nisha wasn't often one for making the first move, preferring her men desperate, but Jack seemed hellbent on ignoring her now that the deed was done. Even if she didn't burn for him, her raging curiosity drew Nisha to the teleporter, her fingers itching to touch the nasty scar she knew must've formed. She just hoped he hadn't lasered it away before she'd gotten the good sense to come up.

Helios wasn't quite fully operational yet; it had only been a few weeks since they'd reclaimed it from Zarpedon, after all, and Hyperion hadn't quite shipped out enough engineers and code monkeys to fill the sprawling, shining halls. In fact, Nisha remembered hearing from some tinny news broadcast that Tassiter himself would be coming to assess the situation, as it was, before deciding on whether it was worth it to continue the Helios project. Dumbass, Nisha thought. He didn't have an inkling of who Jack had become.

No one tried to stop her as she marched through the shining halls; no one was there to do so. She imagined both man and robot alike were stuck working on Helios' scaffolding, preparing the space station for Tassiter's ill-timed arrival. Nisha's mission was unimpeded, and she slipped into the elevator that would take her to Jack's office without a hitch. Just in case, though, one shiny Jakobs waited in hand, the sterile light reflecting gaudily off the burnished metal. When the doors opened again, Nisha had to blink as her eyes adjusted to the darkness of Jack's office, lit only by thin rails along the floor and the glow of Elpis beyond. If it weren't for the rhythmic, pacing footfalls, she might've thought he wasn't there at all. Cautiously, the lawbringer stepped inside, the elevator doors hissing shut behind her- taking the last of the sterile white light with it.

Jack's figure was silhouetted against the stars as he paced back and forth in front of the window, muttering hoarsely to himself. He didn't notice Nisha at first, but when she slipped from the shadows, emerging into the light of Elpis, he nearly jumped out of his skin. She couldn't get a good look at his face, but he seemed... normal. Nisha was almost disappointed.

"Fuck!" Jack spat, his expression souring at her sudden intrusion. "What the hell are you doing here?"

That tone... Nisha clicked her tongue disapprovingly, and to her immense pleasure, Jack looked immediately chastised. This had to be a record for her; it had only taken a few fumbling quickies in the back of Moxxie's bar before she'd tamed him well. Despite his arrogance and inherently adolescent disposition... Jack had some real potential.

"Movin' onto bigger things, cowboy?" Nisha hummed, holstering her gun as she stepped forward. Her spurs clicked with each predatory step as she circled Jack, scrutinizing his apparently perfect face. "Don't have time to skip a drink with little old me?"

Jack faltered.

"C'mon Nish," He began slowly, sounding rather unconvincing. "Don't be like that- I've had my hands full rebuilding Helios and expanding my freakin' robot army. I paid you, right? You're not mad because I-"

Nisha stopped dead in front of Jack, causing his speech to sputter out. Her fingers were on his face before he could stop her, tracing the line of his jaw with rampant curiosity.

"Like it?" He supplied. "Designed it myself. Sorta."

What Nisha had thought was his face, healed and sculpted, was actually a mask, a soft, plastic-y feeling thing that made her lips purse in curiosity. It moved as Jack did, imitating muscle and flesh as he blinked and grinned. Though it was surprisingly lifelike, the effect was somewhat ruined by the three steel clasps that pinned it to his real face. She thumbed over the one at his chin, but Jack's fingers had her wrist in a vice-like grip before she could flick it open.

"Don't," He blurted quickly, prying her curious hand away before composing himself. "It's, uh, it's still healing. Stings like a bitch to get it on and off, y'know?"

Nisha raised her brows, intending him to wilt under her gaze. Instead, Jack seemed to perk up, a slow grin lighting his countenance. It must've hurt to smile.

"Like I said- designed this baby myself," He continued, waving his hands enthusiastically. "Moves like the real thing, and it's suuuuuper comfortable. Tassiter's gonna be so fucking weirded out when he sees me. And then-" Jack paused, looking savagely at Nisha. "I'm gonna kill him, Nish. Hyperion is gonna be mine."

A little thrill ran down her spine, one that was becoming so familiar. She hadn't been able to do anything about it when he shot the Meriff and airlocked those nerds, surrounded by idiots as they were, but Jack's office was blissfully and entirely empty. They were alone, for once, and Nisha didn't have to stow away this little moment to save for later.

"...yeah?" She hummed, her palm sliding up Jack's infuriatingly yellow sweater. "Is that what you were so busy with, handsome? Not rebuilding Helios- you've got engineers for that. You were luring Tassiter in, weren't you?"

Jack swallowed thickly under her palm, but his shit-eating grin never wavered.

"'Course," He rasped, looking down at Nisha with a gaze that could burn. "He's coming in three days. I'm gonna put my fingers around his greasy little neck and-"

Nisha's lips were on his before he could finish, bruising and insistent. Her fingers twined around his collar, pulling Jack close as his mouth parted readily for her. A little whine escaped him, and suddenly, Nisha found herself nearly toppled by Jack's weight as his knees buckled. She pulled away as he grasped for the edge of his desk, his fingers scrabbling at the polished surface before he inevitably slumped to the floor. Nisha grinned, her tongue sharp with a joke when she realized Jack had gone wickedly pale. She was on her knees beside him before she could think, reaching for his face.

"Jack?" She hissed, tilting his chin up sharply. He groaned, squeezing his eyes shut with a sudden lurch forward. "What the hell?"

"R-Room's... fuckin' spinning..." Jack managed to spit out. Before she could stop him, he dropped his face into the crook of her neck, pressing greedily into the exposed skin. Nisha tried to shove him off, but he moaned in pain. "Don't. I'll barf."

And she believed him. Jack was panting like some beast of burden, cold sweat dotted along the back of his neck as Nisha gingerly circled her arms around him. She'd never known how to comfort- never been taught- but somehow, it was the most natural thing in the world when her fingers landed in Jack's hair, combing through his dark locks. He shuddered when her nails ran over his scalp, whining half in pleasure and pain.

"Does this happen often?" Nisha asked after a moment, finding her voice had gone soft and low. "That why you got the lights off, handsome?"

Jack didn't answer for a long time, his breathing ragged and heavy against her skin. Nisha felt like she was drowning under his weight.

"It w-was..." He rasped, licking his lips. "...worse, at first. Couldn't keep anything down. And it wouldn't stop... f-fucking burning, god! Fucking mark ate right through all the goddamn skin grafts and r-reconstructions, and... and-"

"Hey," Nisha interjected sharply. "Easy, Jack. Easy. Let it pass."

Eventually, his trembling stopped and his breathing steadied. Jack didn't resist this time when Nisha peeled him off of her, refusing to hold her gaze as she hauled him to his feet. Together, they stumbled over to one of Jack's plush velvet couches, where Nisha deposited him unceremoniously onto the cushions. For once, he didn't complain at her rough treatment, only tugging his knees up when Nisha tumbled down beside him.

"Don't be like that," She chided, shaking her head. "When I first saw you, you were on your hands and knees- one punch by a Dahl soldier was all it took. I'm not surprised this knocked you down a few pegs too."

Jack scowled, but even her little jab didn't provoke him to speak, his eyes thunderous as he looked away from her. Nisha sighed, cupping his jaw as she scooted closer. He leaned into her touch, pressing his cheek into her palm, but yelped when she manhandled him back to meet her gaze.

"That fuckin' hurts!" He snapped.

"Well, that damn mask isn't helping!" Nisha hissed back. She was trying to be gentle, but Jack was thinning her patience. "For fuck's sake, just take it off, Jack. It's nothing I haven't seen before."

What she had meant to be comforting- to a certain extent- only fed the flames, now. Jack's annoyed expression turned to seething rage, and one by one, he tore at the clasps lining his face until they were undone. The mask was sent flying across the room- rigid, without his facial structure to mold it. Nisha was momentarily enraptured.

"Well?" Jack spat. "Well?"

The scar was... enormous. Lilith's brand stretched from Jack's jaw to his forehead and back down again- only narrowly missing his right eye. His left, however, was completely destroyed; a pale, milky sphere blinked back at her where she should've seen green. She could've sworn he'd just had that eye- perhaps the mask was more impressive than she'd thought.

One-eyed or not, he was still staring at her, fiery and ashamed. Nisha could've laughed- so this is why he hadn't called for her? Jack seemed to have a hard time tracking her fingers as she reached out, brushing her thumb over the edge of his scar. No depth perception, she imagined. Not without the mask.

"Not so bad," Nisha said after a long moment. "It's turning blue."

Jack looked baffled as she leaned in to kiss him again, just as bruising as before. She relished in the pained whine that escaped his lips but eased up nonetheless. The last thing she wanted was to bring on another bout of vertigo, lest he puke on her leathers.

"Blue?" Jack breathed when they broke apart, his hands hovering tentatively over her hips. He opened his legs for her and she slotted in instantly, straddling his waist as his head fell back against the cushioned arm of the couch.

"Yup," Nisha replied, grinning triumphantly as she settled her hips against his. "Blue. Really clashes with this sweater."

Jack looked dumbfounded for a moment, watching as Nisha drew the hem up to his stomach. When she bent down to kiss along his exposed waist, he jolted to life, leaning up with a groan and yanking the sweater over his head.

"Watch the face," He whined, watching with a mix of arousal and unease as Nisha drew close again. She merely rolled her eyes, tucking against his neck as she scraped her teeth over his throat. Jack turned, instinctively trying to bury his moan into the back of the couch- only to have the noise turn into a yelp as he pressed against his scar once again.

"Watch the face, huh?" Nisha teased, drawing back just enough to savor his pain. Jack's eyes were wet with the sudden sensation, prickles of moisture that he tried desperately to blink back under her gaze.

"Shut up," He grumbled, his fingers squeezing her hips wantonly. Nisha bristled, a surge of arousal stinging her spine.

"Don't tell me what to do," She purred, tracing his throat with one broken, violet nail. "It's kind of pathetic."

Jack's spluttered response made her grin. Nisha calmed him with a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing just under the jagged edge of his scar as he took in a shaky breath.

"I can't wait until this thing's healed," She hummed, pressing down just hard enough to make Jack hiss. "How do you think it'll taste? D'you think it'll burn my tongue?"

He shivered beneath her fingertips, pressing his lips together to stifle another startled moan. That wouldn't do.

In one swift movement, Nisha hooked Jack's waist with her leg, twisting sharply. They fell to the ground in a heap, and finally, Nisha had enough room to reach back and kick off her shoes. Before he could complain, she guided Jack's hands to her waist, watching in faint amusement as he fumbled with her button.

"You a virgin or somethin'?" Nisha teased. Jack growled, his good eye trying desperately to focus.

"Fuck you," He spat. Nisha peeled off her vest and shirt in response, basking in his rapt attention.

"That's the idea."

They'd done this countless times before, stealing little moments of passion when time was short and Elpis needed saving. Now that they were alone, with all the time in the world, Nisha felt strangely generous. She had his pants off quickly, but she took her time tracing the lines of his chest and the scars that broke them apart. Most of them were new; she'd always teased Jack for his easygoing lifestyle, but these recent weeks had upended his world. She traced a graze on his shoulder, almost reverant in the way her lips followed.

The Meriff had given him this scar, shit aim and all. Jack had never turned his back on anyone again.

"So... are we gonna fuck or not?" Jack complained, impatient as ever between her thighs. He'd gotten too used to the instant gratification that came with a lack of time- too many quickies in Moxxi's back room, Nisha supposed. The memory of that greasy little bar made her grimace.

"I dunno," Nisha hummed, brushing her finger down to his navel as she pulled back to look at him. "Maybe I just want to enjoy the view, pretty boy."

As expected, Jack focused on the compliment, flushing with pleasure as she rolled her hips experimentally. He was always beautiful beneath her, but the expression of bliss he wore at her praise was unmatched. Perhaps she'd need to be nicer more often.

"Don't look so surprised," Nisha continued. "Did you really think that little scar could cancel out so much handsome?"

"No," Jack whined. "But-"

"As far as I'm concerned," She interrupted sharply, taking in his startled, pleased expression. "As long as that dick works, nothing's wrong."

Jack was always easy to please, but this was something else entirely. His good eye widened, a cold fire burning within as he bucked up sharply against her in an attempt to flip the roles. Nisha was a cowgirl, though, and a rowdy mount was nothing outside her expertise. She dug her heels into him as she might've a skag, a fierce look in her liquid gold eyes.

"You'd best behave now," Nisha scolded, her gaze shifting to the whip tangled around her belt on the floor beside them. "I've been lenient today, you know. If it wasn't for the fact you might hurl all over me, I probably would've put my fingers in that scar already for how much of a bastard you've been. Did you really think you could just pay me off and be done with it? Finish what you started, Jack. Be a man."

"Fuck," He grunted, breathless. "Usually girls like it when it takes a bit longer to fi-"

Nisha's fingers were a vice around his throat before he could finish. Jack choked, spluttering on his own words as she slammed his head back against the ground. He looked dazed when his good eye managed to open again, but Nisha wasn't worried. It had little to do with the blow.

In, out. In, out. Jack's stuttering breaths matched her pace as she bounced against his hips, unraveling any complaints he might've had. He did a fair job, she had to admit, until his hips fell out of rhythm and his throat bobbled against her palm. She loosened her grip slightly, and he gasped.

"M'so close," Jack heaved, his face twisting in pleasure- and then in pain from the contortions he was pulling his scar into. Nisha felt such a rush at the sight that she didn't even stop him, her own pleasure whiting her vision like snow as they toppled over each other. She rolled her hips once, twice- Jack's muffled whine of complaint stopped the third, and they fell still.

Nisha moved first, crawling off of Jack's spent body and hauling herself up to the couch. She was dressed by the time he managed to sit up, smirking down at his languid figure. He winced.

"You're not going back to Pandora," Jack said hoarsely, with what Nisha assumed was an attempt at authority. It made her grin as she bent down, her hands on her knees as she leveled her gaze to his.

"Contract's up, handsome," Nisha leered. "Sorry, but you don't exactly have any weight to swing around me anymore."

Jack licked his lips. A flash of something dangerous ignited in his eye, the one bluer than any sky Nisha had seen on Pandora.

"Well, Nisha Kadam," He began, and this time, his sharp, candied grin wasn't colored with pain. "I have a proposition for you..."

#jack x nisha #handsome jack x nisha kadam #handsome jack #nisha kadam #nisha the lawbringer #jacknisha #borderlands pre sequel #borderlands

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dameronscopilot · 1 year

Note

ANGRY SEX WITH POE? HOW HOT WILL IT BE? AND THEN THE MAKEUP SEX?? 🥵🥵🥵🥵

While you and Poe may not argue often, the reckless, dangerous, and downright suicidal choices he sometimes makes from the cockpit of his X-wing as he leads Black Squadron never fail to ignite a red-hot fury inside of you.

NSFW 18+ content under the cut.

It’s a fury that finds you dead silent and simmering with anger over the comms as the Resistance squadrons make their way back to the base, ready to boil over the moment you've finished debriefing and return to your shared quarters.

"You don't always need to be the fucking hero, Poe."

"Why can't you just trust that I know what I'm doing?"

"You'd lose your goddamn mind if I pulled even half the shit you do."

"You’re damn right I would.”

The air in the room is thick and stifling, teeming with the thrum of tension that dangles erratically in the crossfire, and your heart’s on the verge of beating its way out of your chest. Your words drip with a venomous tone, a precarious siren song that draws Poe in; like calls to like.

He strides forward and closes what felt like a cavernous distance, leaving but a few scant inches remaining between your face and his, and you can feel his breath caress your cheek as his chest heaves in anger—it’s deceptively soft.

"Fuck you, Dameron."

You can hardly hear yourself over the blood rushing in your ears, but Poe certainly does.

It starts with a clash of lips and teeth.

Poe devours your mouth with determination and frustration—a touch devoid of gentleness, a touch that you meet with equal, furious fervor.

A touch that says what words can’t.

It’s a touch that finds Poe's nose shoved against the hollow of your throat as he mouths at your collarbone, his deft hands nearly tearing the seams of your flight suit in an attempt to get you out of it.

It's a push and pull of power as you firmly tug on his curls, willing yourself to ignore the spike of emotion that grips at your heart as the grey strands amongst the rich black catch in the light while you’re tipping his head backward, taking his bottom lip into your mouth and biting down hard.

With your back firmly against the wall, there’s no time for preamble when Poe’s hands firmly grasp at your thighs, lifting you up as your legs wrap around his waist. The rage still burns when he plunges inside of you, stretching you open in one punishing thrust. Your spine aches in protest as he roughly fucks you up against the hard surface, his fingers digging into your hips, but your cunt relishes in the thick, insistent drag of his cock through your tight, wet channel.

Poe holds fast as his fingers assault your clit, dragging back-to-back orgasms out of you, shaft still pumping into your hot center. It’s not until you’re bent over the desk in the corner of the room—nipples rock hard and sensitive as they rub against the cool metal surface, cunt gushing on his length for the third time—that Poe’s hips begin to stutter. And it’s then that you reach out behind you and roughly drag him by the hair to your mouth, swallowing down the moans that pour of his throat as he drives himself in to the hilt and pumps hot ropes of cum deep inside of you.

Later, when you’re a tired pile of naked, tangled limbs in the sheets—

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.”

“I just...want this war to be over. So we can finally be free.”

“And I’m just terrified of losing you first.”

The rest of your shared apologies are delicate sighs and breathy moans as Poe’s mouth travels a familiar, well-travelled path from your lips to your toes, your body pliant under the caress of his tender touch.

And as you climb into Poe’s lap and sink down onto him once more, he wraps his arms tightly around you, and the reverence in his eyes makes your heart stutter.

“I’ll never leave you,” he murmurs against your lips. “I promise.”

» POE DAMERON MASTERLIST

#Star Wars fanfiction #Poe Dameron #Poe Dameron fanfiction #Poe Dameron smut #Poe Dameron x reader #Oscar Isaac fanfiction #dee writes

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mads-nixon · 4 months

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100th Bomber Boys: Major John 'Bucky' Egan

Here is a little bit about Major John 'Bucky' Egan (played by Callum Turner) from the prologue of Masters of the Air by Donald L. Miller (pg. 3, 7-8)!

John Egan was commander of a squadron of B-17 Flying Fortresses, one of the most fearsome killing machines in the world at that time. He was a bomber boy; destruction was his occupation. And like most other bomber crewmen, he went about his work without a quiver of conscience, convinced he was fighting for a noble cause. He also killed in order not to be killed. Egan had been flying combat missions for five months in the most dangerous air theater of the war, the "Big Leagues," the men called it; and this was his first extended leave from the fight although it hardly felt like a reprieve. That night, the German air force, the Luftwaffe, plastered the city, setting off fires all around his hotel. It was his first time under the bombs and he found it impossible to sleep, with the screaming sirens and the thundering concussions. Egan was attached to the Eighth Air Force, a bomber command formed at Savannah Army Air Base in Georgia in the month after Pearl Harbor to deliver America's first blow against the Nazi homeland. From its unpromising beginnings, it was fast becoming one of the greatest striking forces in history. Egan had arrived in England in the spring of 1943, a year after the first men and machines of the Eighth had begun occupying bases handed over to them by the RAF-the Royal Air Force-whose bombers had been hammering German cities since 1940. Each numbered Bombardment Group (BG)-his was the 100th-was made up of four squadrons of eight to twelve four-engine bombers, called "heavies," and occupied its own air station, either in East Anglia or the Midlands, directly north of London, around the town of Bedford.

pg. 7-8

As commander of the Hundredth's 418th Squadron, Johnny Egan flew with his men on all the tough missions. When his boys went into danger, he wanted to face it with them. "Anyone who flies operationally is crazy," Egan confided to Sgt. Saul Levitt, a radioman in his squadron who was later injured in a base accident and transferred to the staff of Yank magazine, an army publication. "And then," says Levitt, "he proceeded to be crazy and fly operationally. And no milk runs..." When his "boy-men," as Egan called them, went down in flaming planes, he wrote home to their wives and mothers. "These were not file letters," Levitt remembered. "It was the Major's idea they should be written in long-hand to indicate a personal touch, and there are no copies of these letters. He never said anything much about that. The letters were between him and the families involved." Major Egan was short and skinny as a stick, barely 140 pounds, with thick black hair, combed into a pompadour, black eyes, and a pencil-thin mustache. His trademarks were a white fleece-lined flying jacket and an idiomatic manner of speaking, a street-wise style borrowed from writer Damon Runyon. At twenty-seven, he was one of the "ancients" of the outfit, but "I can out-drink any of you children,'" he would tease the fresh-faced members of his squadron. On nights that he wasn't scheduled to fly the next day, he would jump into a jeep and head for his "local," where he'd gather at the bar with a gang of Irish laborers and sing ballads until the taps ran dry or the tired publican tossed them out."

In Master's of the Air, Major John Egan is sometimes called, "Bucky," "Honest John," and "Johnny." The men of his squadrons loved his leadership style, which was leading by example, as seen in the excerpt above.

John Archer, a long-time British friend of the 100th & its veterans, described Egan in his story, One Man and His Dog:

"The Major was a lean, dark young man with a wisp of moustache. He was 27, but looked older. He could turn on the charm and turn it off whenever he liked. It’s the kind of thing one experiences in foreman of construction gangs and traffic managers at airports, in jobs where contact and participation with the men is the prime factor." Major Egan was involved in the case of “Meatball vs the Pullet” a few days before he went down on a raid over Germany. Now Meatball was a half-grown husky dog which the crew of the B-17 brought over from Labrador on their way to Thorpe Abbotts during the summer of 1943. It seemed that Meatball was a bad dog, and all of a sudden turned into a chicken killer. And when did he decide to become a chicken killer? At a time when the personnel were involved in the toughest flying missions the group had yet undertaken. Deep raids as far as Danzig against desperate opposition. And in this tense atmosphere Meatball got playful one morning and mangled a chicken dead. The nearby farmer went bustling up to the orderly room to see the Major. Major Egan was sitting in with his pilots having an informal briefing with the men about new tactics in aerial combat. It was the afternoon following a raid on Emden, October 3, 1943. The farmer from down the road described “a light brown dog” that had killed a pullet. “Light brown. That’s Meatball, all right,” said the Major. “And you say he got a pullet?” asked the Major sympathetically. “Well, a pullet is pretty important, isn’t it?” “It is,” said the farmer, calming down by this time. Where did you ever hear of a Major who knew anything about pullets, and what is more, who would talk about loss sympathetically in the middle of a grim military operation? Clearly the Major was now pulling out the charm act. He could, of course, have turned the whole matter of Meatball, pullet and payment over to the Adjutant. But the affair seemed right down the Major’s alley. All the new crews who had just arrived at Thorpe Abbotts were by that time listening with amazement. “That pullet, did she look like a layer?” asked the Major. You could see by his face that he was rather tired, after all, it was only an hour or so since the raid was over. “She did, Sir, for a fact,” said the farmer.

“Well, what would you say she’s worth?” asked the Major. “Twenty bob,” said the farmer. “All right,” said the Major. “I think that’s a pretty reasonable sum for a good pullet, don’t you?” he inquired looking around at the crews who flew the big bombers. They looked at him quite dumbfounded, not quite figuring it out, and wondering who was pulling whose leg. And the Major was aware he had everyone right there in front of him. He was the actor and the rest were the audience. The farmer had departed by this time, very pleased, and the Major was rocking back and forth on his chair and looking around. And from the subject of the Germans using rockets and guns, the conversation was not on pullets. One of the young officers piped up and remarked, “A pullet, isn’t that some kind of… a rooster… like…” The Major glared at him and the officer’s face grew red. By now the class was sitting quite quietly. “A pullet,” said the Major patiently, “is a half-grown female chicken which lays a small egg with a very small yolk.” And he showed them just how big with his fingers. “Then,” continued the Major, “the machinery inside the pullet goes to work and all of a sudden – one fine day it lays an egg twice as big as the usual and it is no longer a pullet.” The briefing closed at that point. A few days later, Major Egan said goodbye for the last time to Meatball before climbing into his B-17. On October 10th, during a raid on Munster, the Major became a guest of the German forces, spending the rest of the war in a prison camp.

There was a certain pub in Dickleburgh that missed Major Egan. Sometimes he drove down in a jeep and sang songs in the bar with the locals and Irish laborers. With the affair of Meatball and the pullet, and the grim task of flying missions, Major Egan rounds out into a real example of an American who once walked the lonely lanes at Thorpe Abbotts. Egan served as Air Exec for the 100th, as Commander of the 418th Squadron, and on the Munster raid flew as Command Pilot on John Brady’s lead crew. After being shot down, all but one of Brady’s crew survived as POWs. (you can find more about this story here)

Egan was best friends with fellow 100th Bomb Group squadron commander, Maj. Gale "Buck" Cleven, whom he went to flight school with back in the States. The pair were roommates back in training, and little did they know they'd be roommates once again when they became German POWs in October of 1943. Buck after getting shot down over Bremen, and Egan in a retaliatory raid to get back at the Germans after they shot down his friend.

Egan was leaving for his first leave to London from Thorpe-Abbotts on October 8th when Buck Cleven and the rest of the 13th Combat Wing took off for Bremen. The next morning over breakfast, Egan saw the London Times headline: Eighth Air Force Loses 30 Fortresses Over Bremen," and sprang out of his chair to a phone. Due to wartime security, he had to speak in code.

Masters of the Air, pg. 10:

"How did the game go," he asked. Cleven had gone down swinging, he was told. Silence. Pulling himself together, Egan asked, "Does the team have a game scheduled for tomorrow?" "Yes," came the reply. "I want to pitch." He was back at Thorpe Abbotts that afternoon in time to "sweat out" a long mission the group flew to Marienburg, a combat strike led by the Hundredth's Commander, Col. Neil B. "Chick" Harding, a former West Point football hero. As soon as the squadrons returned, Egan got Harding's permission to lead the Hundredth's formation on the next day's mission.

This mission was set for Münster, just southwest of Bremen where Buck was shot down. Egan flew with Captain John D. Brady on the M’lle Zig Zig to Münster, and the heavy, along with all other planes but Royal Flush (Rosenthal's replacement B-17) in the 100th went down over the target. The crew of the M'lle Zig Zig bailed, parachuting through the flack-filled air. Hambone Hamilton was among the 'Zig's crew, and suffered multiple wounds from shrapnel. When found by Germans, he was taken to the hospital and stayed there recovering for a good while.

Egan, unlike the rest of the 'Zig's crew, was able to evade capture a few days before finally being taken prisoner. The aviators were first sent to Dulag Luft, the Luftwaffe's POW transit center. Egan and the other officers were kept separate from their men in cold and flea-infested solitary cells. Egan and Cleven were just a few cells apart, but neither knew the other was there. After a few weeks, Cleven and the men who were brought in with him were sent to Stalag Luft III, another POW camp just outside the town of Sagan, some 300 miles from their previous location. They were transported by train cars used for livestock, and they reported that "the smell of manure was overwhelming (Miller, 2007, pg. 23)." The trip took them three days. Three days after Cleven got to Stalag Luft III, Egan and his men arrived.

Masters of the Air, pg. 23:

Cleven watched them file into a neighboring stockade. Spotting Johnny Egan, he called out to him, "What the hell took you so long?" "Well, that's what you get for being sentimental," Egan shouted back.

Both Egan and Cleven remained POWs until the end of the war. Cleven, however, managed to escape on a march in 1945. The pair remained good friends until John's death from a sudden heart attack in 1961. Egan served as Buck's best man in his wedding when he married his sweetheart Marge in 1945 once they returned home.

John married his own sweetheart, Lt Josephine "Doty" Pitz (WASP) in late 1945. They had two beautiful daughters together.

tag list: @lena-basilone @luckynumber4

let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!!

#masters of the air #this is for everyone who doesn't have access to the book but wants more info on the guys!!!#major john egan #100 bombardment group #bloody hundredth #major gale cleven #donald miller #mota #hbo war #hbowar #callum turner #austin butler

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girlactionfigure · 27 days

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🔅Wed morning - ISRAEL REALTIME - Connecting to Israel in Realtime

( Update 1 of 2 )

🔻AIR ATTACKS..

.. North - Hezbollah

ROCKETS at Gesher HaZiv, Nahariya, Sa'ar, Hanita, Ya'ara, Metzuba, Shlomi, Betzet, Lehman

ROCKETS at Margaliot

ROCKETS at Even Menachem, Zarit, Netua, Fassuta, Shomera, Shtula

ROCKETS at Alkosh, Matat, Netua, Fassuta, Hurfeish

Interceptions without alarm reported over the Kinerret

.. South East - Iranian Shia Militias of Iraq

SUICIDE DRONE at Kushi Rimon

.. South West - Hamas

ROCKETS at Kissufim

▪️TERROR - KOCHAV YAIR.. ramming attack - 4 policemen were injured and the terrorist was shot dead.

▪️VIOLENT ANTI-GOVT PROTESTS JERUSALEM.. MK Zeev Elkin: Hard pictures in Jerusalem. There is no place for breaking the law and harming the police! There is no place for police violence and excessive use of force! Please stop! We are not enemies to each other. Hamas, Hezbollah, Iran are the enemies! We are in the middle of a war against a murderous enemy who wants to destroy all of us, the supporters of the government and its opponents.

Head of Shin Bet.. “The violent discourse on the Internet and some of the scenes we saw tonight in Jerusalem, go beyond the accepted rules of protest, harm the ability to maintain public order, may lead to violent friction with the security forces, hinder them from fulfilling their duties and even harm secure individuals.

There is a clear line between a legitimate protest and a violent and illegal protest. This is a worrisome trend that may lead to dangerous areas that should not be reached."

And our enemy watches Al Jazeera and laughs.

▪️IDEAS.. Head of Yisrael Beitenu, former Minister of Defense, MK Avigdor Lieberman:

"The Israeli government must make two immediate decisions:

1. In the security field, there is no justification for purchasing aircraft for a total amount of approximately NIS 35 billion. It is impossible for militias in sandals to be able to launch cruise missiles and UAVs (suicide drones) towards Israel, while in order to attack in Yemen, the Israel needs to put an entire squadron into the air for a flight thousands of kilometers south.

Therefore, instead of purchasing airplanes for approximately 35 billion shekels, you can purchase airplanes for approximately 20 billion shekels, and invest 10 billion shekels in establishing an effective missile force that will meet the security challenges, and five billion shekels to strengthen the land army.

2. In the economic field, we must immediately bring to Israel about a quarter of a million foreign workers, who are needed in the construction, industry, agriculture and hotel industries.

After almost half a year of war, it's time to change mindsets.”

( Update 2 of 2 )

🔻AIR ATTACKS..

.. North - Hezbollah

ROCKETS at Alkosh, Matat, Netua, Fassuta, Hurfeish

▪️CEASEFIRE LEAKS.. The Lebanese Al Mayadeen from a "senior source in the resistance": The new proposal submitted by Israel today does not provide an answer to the main issues that Hamas insists on and therefore there is no progress in the talks.

Al-Arabiya: Israel showed some flexibility proposing establishing 3 safe crossings to the north of the strip, but demanded health checks on the hostages in return.

▪️MORE INFO ON ARAVAH DRONE ATTACK.. At around 1 a.m., a suspected drone flying from the eastern direction entered Israeli airspace in the Arabah region, just north of Eilat, according to the IDF.

The "suspicious aerial target" set off sirens at a popular roadside store in the area.

The IDF says it fired an interceptor missile at the target, although it is not clear if it was shot down. (Fabien)

▪️MORE INFO ON THE RAMMING ATTACK.. a 26-year-old man from the Arab city of Tira rammed his vehicle into four cops near the town of Kochav Yair, police say. One of the officers was seriously wounded.

The assailant then fled to a nearby West Bank checkpoint, where he allegedly tried to stab the guards there. The guards at the Eliyahu Crossing returned fire, killing the suspect.

His family: our son has mental disorders. It was not on a nationalistic basis.

▪️IRANIAN SHIA MILITIA SAYS ATTACKED HAIFA? The Shia militias in Iraq claim: We attacked the airport in Haifa early in the morning with a UAV. No such attack.

▪️PASSOVER ECONOMY.. Min. Of Economy found a 32% gap between expensive and discount grocery chains on the ‘average basket of Passover foods’. It also noted an overall 4% increase from last year.

#Israel #October 7 #Hamas Massacre #Gaza #Israel/HamasWar #Real Time Updates

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deancasbigbang · 7 months

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Title: Baby's Driver

Author: entropic_saudade

Artist: Sketcheun

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Endgame Dean/Cas, Sam/Eileen, mentioned past Sam/Jessica, past John/Mary, mentioned background Belphegor/Ardat, past Kelly/Lucifer, past Bobby/Karen, implied past Dean/Lee Webb, mentioned past Dean/others, mentioned past Cas/others, Garth/Bess, past Bobby/Crowley, Chuck/Becky, past Chuck/multiple unnamed women

Length: 140000

Warnings: Major Archive Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence Other warnings: ableism, graphic depictions of illness and injury, graphic depictions of medical treatment, childhood cancer and associated diseases, canon-typical violence, canon-typical child neglect, canon-typical childhood trauma, trauma, sexual harassment, minor character death, mentioned sexual assault, kidnapping, alcohol use, mentioned alcoholism, guns.

Tags: Alternate Universe, getaway driving, heists, music, selectively mute Dean, neurodivergent characters, mutual crushes, found family, happy ending, pop culture references.

Posting Date: October 23, 2023

Summary: Dean has been working as a getaway driver for Crowley for the last fourteen years, and has survived by developing a few simple rules: always pick the right music, keep an eye on the time, never give out his real name, and most importantly, make no personal connections with anyone on the job. Making no personal connections with anyone new is easy when he has difficulty talking in his own words. Enter Cas, who, in order to pay for his nephew Jack’s life-saving medical treatment, decides to break bad by joining Crowley’s operations. Unlike most of his brothers, he’s new to the world of crime, but Gabriel’s list of survival tips, and their driver’s skills and quiet demeanor have a way of reassuring him. Throughout the course of several months, their rules fall to the wayside as they fall for each other, each unable to say the words ‘I love you’ for differing reasons. Cas’ past family life complicates things when Lucifer comes around, wanting to know how Cas is getting the money to pay for Jack’s treatment. Everything comes to a head, and they realize just how connected their world is when Dean is kidnapped. A Baby Driver-inspired AU.

Excerpt: With little over four minutes counted on his internal clock, a trilling alarm pierced the air as three figures ran out, each with stuffed bags in tow. Right on time. While the other two piled in the back, one of the masked figures frantically pounded on the passenger side window with the butt of his shotgun. “Open the door!” he yelled, voice muffled. Dean rolled his eyes, popping the handle, showing that it was already unlocked. Dean pressed play, not waiting for him to finish closing the door behind him before tearing off. His tires burned rubber on the pavement. One street, two streets, three streets whizzed by as Dean narrowly avoided red lights, ignoring honks and angry yells from other drivers, racing to get onto the next access road. “Get your motor runnin’, head out on the highway!” Dean weaved between the beats of the music and the cars around him, riding the gas a little harder to try to put as much distance between their car and the bank as he could. The goon in the backseat and Bela, who had played fake hostage, looked behind them and swore. Dean glanced up at the rearview mirror to see that civilian cars had started to part like the Red Sea for a squealing squadron. The sirens chased them down, joining in and almost drowning out the lyrics– “Yeah, darlin’, gonna make it happen”– so Dean cranked it up in response, lowering the rear windows so that they could put their firepower to use. Whether it was intentional or coincidence, if it was set to some kismet choreography by the Powers That Be, or if it happened because Dean had a preternatural sense about timing things like this, Bela and Backseat shot their guns in sync to “Fire all of your guns at once,” popping the tires of two of the closest police cars. The cars skidded sideways and to a halt, causing a pile-up behind them. Dean smoothly ducked under an overpass only to be greeted by a row of road spikes being laid up ahead when he emerged. With a glance to the side, he noticed that some construction workers had graciously left behind a gift for him, and decided to take advantage. Dean made a sharp turn, avoiding the teeth of the spikes. The tempo of the drums picked up pace as Dean picked up speed. Bela put her seatbelt on and held on tight to the grab handle above her, while the guys in the backseat and next to him started begging when they realized what he was doing. “No, no, wait–!” “What are you–?” “We can climb so high, I never wanna die…” Dean went hard on the throttle up the construction ramp, gathering enough momentum so they could soar over a concrete divider. In the few seconds that they were up off the ground, the bags in the backseat lifted off the laps of his accomplices, suspended for a moment — “Born to be wi-ild…”

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

#dcbb 2023 #fic preview #2023 promo #deancas #destiel

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topguncortez · 7 months

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Left a Scar on My Heart || whumptober day 12 - B. Bradshaw

whumptober masterlist

synopsis: in the wake of a tragic death, everyone deals with their grief differently. You thought you'd be able to handle it, but you weren't strong enough.

word count: 3.0k

@ailesswhumptober prompt: self harm, character death

warnings: suicide, mentions of self harm, details about character death, character death, unhealthy coping mechanism, grief

It wasn’t planned. It was heartbreaking and tragic. But how could you ever plan the death of a young person? One minute their heart was beating, pumping warm oxygenated blood through their body. And the next, they were cold, laying in a funeral home basement. There wasn’t any way anyone could prepare for what happened, not your brother, not your squadron, or even the man you loved. You didn’t realize how much you were leaving behind, you could only think of wanting to be in a better place.

Your last mission had left you with more than just a dead wingman. Maverick had given you the Bobe speech he had given Rooster after Phoenix and Bob’s bird strike. You knew that these kinds of things could happen if you flew long enough, but you never wanted it to happen to you. You couldn’t get the sound of your wingman, Chipper’s voice out of your head as he told you to tell his wife he was sorry and to give his child a hug. You couldn’t escape the sounds of bullets hitting your jet and flares tearing apart your wingman’s jet. Every time you close your eyes the image of his jet crashing into the deep blue ocean, taking his body down with it.

Bradley had been at work when he got a strange text from you. You were on leave, for the time being, waiting for a clear mental eval from behavioral health. Bradley agreed that it was for the best that you were taking time away from the squad. Everyone took Chipper’s death hard. The aviator community was small, and everyone knew everyone somehow.

“I’m so sorry, Bradley.”

The message read. He furrowed his eyebrows as he read it over and over, trying to rack his brain on why you would be apologizing. You hadn’t been the nicest to him lately, snapping at him for small things, but he summed that up to you going through the grieving process. Bradley shook his head and started typing back a message to you, telling you that there was nothing to be sorry for, when Jake’s contact photo showed up on the screen. More confusion filled Bradley as he swiped to answer the call.

“Hey, what’s-”

“You need to get here,” Jake said. Bradley could hear the sound of sirens in the background. He stood up abruptly from his desk, not even bothering to grab his bag, taking his keys only.

“What’s going on?” Bradley asked as he jogged out to his car.

“Y/N, she. . . ” Jake’s voice cracked, “She texted me as I was on my way over, and I. . . I found her in the bathtub. . . she slit her wrists, man.”

Bradley halted in the middle of the hallway, Jake’s words registering in his head. He felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest, as his knees began to weaken. Bradley tried to force air into his lungs, as the phone fell from his hand and went crashing to the ground.

“Rooster?” Maverick asked, stepping out of his office as he heard the crashing sound. Bradley lifted his head and looked up at his uncle. Maverick moved quickly as the color drained from Bradley’s face. He barely reached him in time as Bradley’s legs gave out and he went crashing to the ground.

— — —

The news of your death had traveled fast around the aviator world. Everyone took it differently, but Bob took it hard. He hadn’t really been around death. Sure, he grew up on a farm and understood the circle of life. But this was different. You didn’t peacefully die in your sleep with your loved ones around you. You decided to take your own life in a traumatic way.

Bob had seen you two days prior, and he kept trying to reply it, if there were any signs of what were to happen 48 hours later. Bob was angry, angry at the world for being unfair, angry at the birds chirping outside his window, angry that the sun was shining every day, but most importantly angry at you.

He didn’t think he could cry so much, but he felt like he had cried half his body weight out. Bob, in his anger, had deleted all the photos that he had of you on his phone and anything around his barracks room that could remind him of you. If you wanted to erase yourself from the earth, then he was going to erase yourself from his life. Bob would snap at anyone who mentioned your name or any memory of you.

Why should they be telling happy stories and memories from flight school or mission when you weren’t happy? His anger bubbled over when he first got to see you. Your parents had invited some of the Dagger Squad to view your body before the visitation and funeral. Bob looked at you, lying peacefully in the dark brown casket, and cursed you.

“What the fuck were you thinking? Hm? Why do we all get to suffer and you get to just… leave? Your brother found you. Jake found you in the bathtub, and he hasn’t stopped drinking himself into god damn oblivion since. You have always been selfish, and this really just fucking proves it.”

Bob could barely remember your funeral. It wasn’t because he was drunk like Jake was, it was simply from being in pain. The human body is designed to forget pain, and that’s exactly what he was doing. It felt like a blur, one minute he was picking up a flower arrangement that was knocked over, and the next he was helping carry your casket to your gravesite. He had to hold himself back from all but chucking the clump of dirt at your casket in the ground. He had drunk himself into oblivion that night, he didn’t even remember getting into a fight with Jake or punching the hole in Natasha’s wall until the next morning.

It took Bob almost a whole year to come to terms with your death. He had enrolled in anger management and therapy with the help and encouragement of Natasha and Bradley, who were tired of having to order Bob new plates and glasses. He hadn’t apologized for what he said until the first anniversary of your death, and he stood face to face with the black granite stone that was erected over where your body lay. He ran his hand over the smooth, cool, rock and cried.

“I’m so sorry for what I said,” He cried, “I get it now, and you felt like there was no way out. I forgive you, Y/N. I hope you can forgive me. I’ll see you when I get there.”

— — —

Natasha tried her best to keep it together. She felt like if she didn’t hold herself together, everyone around her would fall apart. She’s always felt like she had to hold the group together, one of the main ones who coordinates all the holiday get togethers and makes dinner reservations for “fancy dinner night” (as Fanboy calls it) once a month. To her, you were like the younger sister she never had but always wanted. The news of your death shook Natasha to her core, but she couldn’t let anyone see it.

Javy was the one who told her, having answered Jake’s phone call while she was napping. He had broken down in the kitchen hearing the words leave Jake’s lips. He had gone up to the bedroom and shook Natasha awake slowly. Her first words to him, seeing his bloodshot eyes were,

“Who died?”

When Javy tearfully said your name, all he could do was pull her into a bone-crushing hug. Natasha had taken on the task of going to tell Bob, Jake was trying to get ahold of him, but he wasn’t answering. Natasha held her best friend off the ground as Bob sobbed. Natasha couldn’t let him see her break down. Bob was barely holding it together, Natasha had witnessed his anger firsthand when she mentioned going to see your body. Bob had punched a hole into the wall, and all Natasha did was apologize for mentioning anything. She was quiet during the first viewing as your parents had encouraged them to tell stories about you. Jake, being the talkative one he is, told stories and the group shared a few laughs, but it was hard to find happiness during a time like this. Javy was worried about her, wishing that she would do something; cry, scream, drink. But Natasha pushed down her feelings.

Natasha held Javy during your funeral. Javy had also seen you like a little sister, having been around Jake for so long. Javy had told Natasha countless times that it was okay if she cried, or screamed, or punched holes in his walls like Bob, but she shook her head and said she was okay.

It wasn’t until the end of your funeral, standing over the closed casket, watching it get lowered to the ground that it really started to hit her. Natasha didn’t say anything as she looked at the hole in the ground where your body lay, white roses and clumps of dirt thrown on top of the casket, and tears started escaping her eyes.

“I should… I should’ve brought her blanket,” Natasha said and Javy choked back a sob, “She left it at my house after the last movie night we had. She’s scared of the dark, she hates it. She also hates being cold. And that blanket…” Natasha could picture the wool and fleece blanket that was folded up over the back of her couch, “It was like being in a sauna, she had it everywhere she went. She was like Linus from Snoopy with that thing,”

“I know,” Javy said rubbing her arm.

“She’s cold,” Natasha said looking at him, her brown eyes wet with tears, “She’s cold and in the dark, and that stupid fucking blanket-“

Javy held his girlfriend and rubbed her back as sobs racked through her body and she kept mumbling about your blanket. When they finally got home, Javy laid her down on the couch. Natasha gingerly grabbed the blanket off the couch and cuddled up with it, your scent still lingering on it.

— — —

Jake was drunk, again.

This was how he spent most of his Wednesday nights now. On Wednesdays, you used to beg him to watch the Bachelor and drink wine. He would never admit it, but he loved the stupid reality show as much as you did and would always vote against your favorite. But now, he couldn’t bring himself to turn on the TV. He sat in the silence of his living room, drinking down your favorite wine.

When he got that text from you, he was just getting in his car to go check on you. The whole dagger squad had set up a schedule to make sure you weren’t alone all day every day. But Jake was running late to get to your house. He had sent you a text telling you that he was getting lunch for the two of you and he’d be right over. But then he got that text.

“You have always been my protector, Jake. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

He broke pretty much all traffic laws to get to you before it was too late. Your front door was unlocked as Jake barged right in, yelling your name. He could hear the water running from the bathroom as he ran down the hallway. He had to break down the bathroom door and he was met with a puddle of pink water and your body in the bathtub.

“Oh Y/N,” Jake cried as he rushed to you. He turned the water off and gently ran his hand over your wet hair. He knew better than to mess with a crime scene, but all he wanted to do was pull your body out of the water and hold you.

After Jake called 9-1-1, he called Bradley, telling him to come over. As the police and corner were doing their invstigation, Jake grabbed a bottle of scotch from your liquor cabinet and took a seat on your front porch. He had stayed there until Bradley and Maverick arrived later.

“You just missed her body,” Jake slurred, “They’re trying to dry up all the water now.”

Jake couldn’t remember the last time he was sober since that day he found you. He was even drunk, having to have Rooster drive him to the airport to pick up his parents. Rooster had tried to tell Jake to slow down with the drinking but it resulting in a yelling match between them in the parking lot of the funeral home.

When Jake showed up to your funeral, dressed in all black with sunglasses covering his drunken eyes, Bob rolled his eyes as he slugged into the church. At least his uniform was all squared away and he managed to get a shave and a haircut before showing up. According to Natasha, he was starting to look a little homeless. Jake lazily stood next to his parents, swaying slightly as he greeted people. Bradley grabbed him by his ear and dragged him away from the family.

“Are you serious? You’re drunk?” Bradley said, seething.

“Well done, Columbo,” Jake said as he stumbled over a flower arrangement. It fell to the ground with a clank and all eyes snapped to him. Natasha apologized as Bob bent down to pick it up, “Y/N would’ve thought it was funny. She was the one who was cracking jokes at these things, anyway.”

“The hell is wrong with you?” Natasha asked.

“Well shit Nix, let me start with the fact that my baby sister slit her wrists in a bath tub,” Jake said loudly.

“Shut up,” Bradley seethed, “Clean yourself up.”

Jake just shrugged and pulled out the black flask you had gotten him for his birthday and took a drink of whiskey.

— — —

Bradley hadn’t cried. He didn’t think he could. Much like Natasha, he was busy keeping Jake from alcohol poisoning and Bob from breaking all the plates in his house. He was on the verge of crying when he showed up at your house to confirm the words fell from Jake’s lips. You and Bradley had been together for over two years, and he had planned on proposing to you in a couple of weeks.

Bradley had helped your parents get flights out to North Island as soon as they could. It was supposed to be Jake who went and picked them up, but he was in shape to drive. Your mother’s face had dried tear streaks and your father’s eyes were red. Bradley offered to let them stay at his house so they didn’t have to be in the last place their daughter was alive.

Your mother felt lost, not sure where to begin to plan a funeral for you. Bradley had assured her that the Navy was taking care of most of it and all she had to do was decide on what photos to use for the slide show. Bradley made sure that your parents were eating proper meals and Jake wasn’t killing himself with alcohol.

The second time Bradley thought he was going to cry was when your mom asked him to grab your uniform from your room. She couldn’t bring herself to go in there, so Bradley did. It was just like you had left it, your bed was haphazardly made, and your shoes were kicked off in random spots by the door. Your laptop was open, and your clothes were spilling out of your dresser drawer. It looked like you had just left for the day and were planning on coming back. The only thing was it felt cold, like a frozen time capsule. Bradley shook his head and opened your closet, finding your dress blues. His eyes also fell onto the green bomber jacket he had sworn he lost on deployment. He felt heat rise in his eyes as he ran his fingers over the stitching on the inside of the jacket: ‘Lt Nick ‘Goose’ Bradshaw’

Bradley stood strong during your funeral. Your brother was a mess, showing up smelling like a bar room floor. Bob disassociated the whole funeral, not saying a single thing to anyone, and Natasha was holding Javy. When your mother got up to speak, visibly shaking, Bradley moved from his seat and stood next to her. He put his hand on her back and she handed him the speech. Bradley cleared his throat and looked at the full church and then at the smiling portrait of you.

“I’m not much of a writer, I left that up to Y/N,” He read your mother’s scribbled words, “But, I’m going to try my best.”

Jake watched from the car as Bradley hugged your parents after the luncheon following your burial. He admired Bradley’s strength and wish he could be there for his parents like he had. He had yet to see him break, and that was cause Bradley had yet to break. That night they all had spent the night drinking at Bradley’s house. Countless stories of how you had gotten them out of trouble, or into less trouble were shared. As the night dwindled down, Jake had asked the man who was going to be his brother-in-law:

“You cry yet?”

Bradley sighed and shook his head, “I’m scared if I start… I won’t ever stop.”

Jake agreed and opened the fridge. He at first grabbed a beer, but placed it back and grabbed a water instead. He said goodnight to his friend and headed into one of the guest rooms. Bradley finished wiping down the kitchen table and then trudged down to his bedroom. He stripped out of his dress blues he was wearing and his eyes fell onto a box that wasn’t on his bed this morning. He looked around his room and then walked over to the box, that was wrapped in your favorite wrapping paper with a big pastel yellow bow on it. A handwritten note laid on top of some tissue paper. He opened the card, and in your handwriting it read:

‘Please, return to Bradley’

Bradley tore the tissue paper open and sucked in a deep breath looking at the bomber jacket. He gingerly pulled it out and sniffed it, and it still smelled like your perfume. Bradley’s eyes clouded with tears and he sat down on the couch. He pulled it into his chest, burying his face in it, and cried.

taglist: @els-marvelvsp @sarahsmi13s @topgun-imagines @cassiemitchell @xoxabs88xox @seitmai @a-reader-and-a-writer @bradleybeachbabe @kmc1989 @senawashere @beautifulandvoid @ohtobeleah @rogersbarnesxx @oatmealisweird @dempy @devil-angel-winchester @gillybear17

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gamie99 · 2 months

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Hey, Skibidi Tumblr! Let's do another writing exercise!

I posted the first of these a few months ago on Christmas Day, and I absolutely loved all the responses you guys made! I had so much fun reading your additions, that I just had to do another one! In fact, I've had this exact prompt brewing in the back of my mind for forever! I think y'all will really like it!

(I wanted to add concept doodles to this prompt too, but I'm tired rn and can't be bothered lmao. Maybe I'll add them later ^^;)

In case you missed it, here's the gist!:

Under the cut, I've written a little scene with dialogue involving some of my OCs (in this case, Skip and Solo!). Anyone that wants to participate can reblog this post with their own characters, reacting and responding to the provided scenario!

If you aren't all that good at writing but still want to participate, then that's alright. Bullet points describing your character's thoughts or actions, or even drawing your OC's response are perfectly fine as well!

Happy writing, everybody! Can't wait to see what you'll make this time! :D

They had them cornered now.

In a dark and tiny alleyway in the heart of an old-world city, two traitors stood against the world. The first of them, a lanky Speakerman, dressed in a gray suit and a rather bold and colorful tie. The second, a scrawny Skibidi, with disheveled dark hair and old scars running down his cheek. The pair huddled together, backs pressed against old brick and mortar. The Skibidi tried his best to ignore the pounding pain in the side of his head, as fresh blood ran down the side of his face and dripped below into his slightly cracked bowl. The Speakerman stood in front of him, attempting to put on a brave face. He couldn't do it very well, unfortunately. Who wouldn't, if practically their entire faction was staring them down?

Blocking the entrance to the alley was a large squadron of Alliance agents - cameras, speakers, TVs and all. Speakermen gave the defector betrayed looks of shame, and Cameramen stood at attention with their guns ready - a few of them were broadcasting, the Speakerman noticed. A few TV Men stood amongst them, their arms crossed and their screens displaying disapproving stares. Their lone large unit stood furthest back with with his sub-screens outstretched, shining blinding spotlights down on the little runaways.

Police sirens suddenly sounded off, and the toilet looked up to see the law enforcement of his kind hovering in the air overhead. Mutants and striders stood on the rooftops, glaring down at him with sharpened fangs and glowing eyes that pierced through the dark. This was it. It was over. They were surrounded on all sides. They well and truly had no chance of escape, they were completely and utterly trapped.

Standing defensively in front of the injured Skibidi, the Speakerman reached into his pocket and shakily pulled out a combat knife, rusted and chipped from months of under-use. Holding it in front of him so amateurishly made him look almost freshly built, like he had just begun basic training.

"P-please!" the Speakerman pleaded, his voice waivering with his confidence . "Don't... don't hurt us! D-don't hurt him!"

#writing exercise #writing prompt #skibidi toilet #oc #skibidi toilet oc #skibidi oc #oops the prompt is slightly angsty dydfbj #couldn't help it lol #i had a vision #anyway i coulda written this better i feel #but i got it down. and that's what matters <3

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jayaorgana · 5 months

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For the ask game what was Lira doing during the Battle Of Endor?

Ooh this is one of my favourites! Lira and Siren Squadron didn't actually end up on Home One after Hoth, so they weren't at the battle of Endor itself. That being said they were involved in a (much) smaller battle the same day, and already riding the high of that Victory were very excited to come back to the news that the Emperor was dead and the second deathstar had been destroyed.

#I think Lira especially was kind of disappointed she didn't get to be there #it's not something huge that haunts her as much but she does definetly wish she could have seen it destroyed herself #thank you for asking!#siren squadron #pippa.txt #oc: Lira Rieekan

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carldoonan · 11 days

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This Sidelined Li’l Squadron says: “Retirement has been a bit antsy for Sailor Dee and I. Rest and relaxation are great and all, but the horizon’s siren song never stops calling a sky sailor…” ⛵️⚓️🦅

#Kirby #Captain Vul #Waddle Dee #Sailor Waddle Dee #Kirby Super Star #Captain #Sailor #Nintendo #Whiteboard #Doodle #Fanart #Carl Doonan Art

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pigeon-projects · 9 months

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A sublime sorority of sensational sirens. Silent, swift sadists seeking sweet suffering of slovenly swine.

A superior squadron of spiteful supervisors sending swarms of sensational soldiers to solicit slaughter, sever sanity, and split spines.

A small selection of subordinate seductresses, showcasing some singular sisters seperately.

And leaving the alliteration behind, I have finished a squad of Daemonettes for both my Emperor's Children and a small Hedonite force. They even had a first game, slicing up a bunch of Orks before being blasted back to the warp by the most Deffkopta Rokkit shots I've ever seen that squad fire.

Overall very happy with the skin. Contrast paint worked well for easy hair, and as I realized just last night, matches the warpfire of my Dark Apostle, so now I picture then as firey haired Banshees. Ghost kind, not space elf kind.

Bonus Apostle, preaching the good word. (That word is Excess).

Mr. Smoke and Speakerface also ready to accompany their lord and hopefully live long enough to be sacrificed for mortal wounds.

#miniature painting #warhammer #warhammer 40k #painting warhammer #minipainting #chaos space marines #chaos daemons #slaanesh

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zablife · 1 year

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Okay you have me, can I please please ask for a Jake Seresin hearing some banging in the locker room and finding the pilot!Reader just smashing her helmet into the lockers while crying? (Basically she got a message that her old wingman (her female bestie, they were basically sisters) got killed during her deployment, in action? The reader is angry at Jake and telling him to leave her alone but he doesn't.

Just some soft!Jake mixed with enemies to lovers :333

Thank you and you are a gem ♡♡♡♡

“What was that about?” Jake asked, pushing off the wall outside Admiral Simpson’s office. Rebecca rolled her eyes at him and kept walking at a brisk pace.

“Hey, I’m talking to you! Why did the admiral want to see you alone?” he asked, stalking after her. He felt it was his business to know since she was his back seater.

Turning on her heel to face him with obvious emotion welling in her chest, she said, “Because it wasn’t about you, ok?” Then quickly swallowing it down, she took a deep breath saying, “Leave me alone, Jake,” and continued on to the locker rooms.

Jake stood staring after her, wondering what she meant. He wasn’t one to wait for answers so he charged ahead, ready to find out. Rebecca could be stubborn and they fought about the best way to do things, but Jake thought their open communication and willingness to push one another made them a good team.

As he rounded the corner to the women’s locker room, Jake heard the unmistakable clang of metal. The reverberations could be heard down the hall echoing loudly off the walls. It sounded as though someone was knocking over an entire row of lockers. “What the hell?” he muttered under his breath. A scream of frustration followed from the other side of the door.

This was unlike any behavior he’d ever witnessed from Rebecca and it was beginning to scare him. She was tougher than most of the men he knew and he’d never seen her crack under pressure. He couldn’t think of anything she’d been through that had shaken her emotionally, including the injury that saw her reassigned to Jake’s squadron.

Deciding to investigate, he barreled through the door, calling out,“Rebecca? Rebecca? Viper!” The clanging stopped and he heard a helmet drop to the floor. He listened as it rolled back and forth on the ground, the only sound in the room until Rebecca breathed a heavy sigh. Jake slowly approached and found his wingman sitting on a bench, head in her hands.

“Hey, hey? What are you doin’?” Jake asked.

“Jesus, I ask you to leave me alone and you follow me in here? What the fuck, Hangman? I’m fine!” she said, kicking her helmet across the floor.

He jumped back dodging the projectile she had launched at him and furrowed his brow. “Yeah, you don’t look fine and if we’re gonna fly together you need to tell me why,” he said pointing a finger in her direction. She shook her head and looked away from, unable to say the words.

“Fine, you wanna get us both killed cause your heads fucked up? Keep being stubborn, Viper,” he said as he began to walk away.

Watching him go, she opened her mouth, finding an uncomfortable lump in her throat and her mouth too dry to say anything except a name. “It's Siren,” she called out through clenched teeth. Then the sobs began.

Jake froze, recognizing the call sign of her previous wingman and best friend. They had flown together until Rebecca’s injury and Siren had been deployed shortly after. Jake didn’t need much more to connect the dots. Their work was inherently dangerous. Everyone accepted the risk that came along with the job, but somehow it never got easier hearing about the loss of a colleague.

Instinctively, Jake went to Rebecca, taking a seat next to her and wrapping his arms around her. To his surprise, she accepted the comfort he provided, burying her head in his shoulder. “I can't believe she’s gone, Jake,” she finally managed to say against the rough material of his flight suit.

He placed a hand to the back of her head, stroking a hand lightly against her hair. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he whispered, rocking her gently. She allowed herself to be held in his strong embrace, finally able to take a deep breath knowing she was safe. However, the nagging guilt would not relent.

“I should’ve been with her,” she said, chewing at her lip.

“No, we don’t get to decide. You know that,” Jake said, running a large hand down her back.

She pulled away from him to look him in the eye. “I understand if you don’t want to fly with me,” she said earnestly.

“Why would you say that?” Jake asked, looking hurt and confused.

“No one wants to fly with someone they don’t trust with their life. You just said as much. And if you think I’m fucked up from this, then maybe you should go talk to the admiral now,” she said, looking down at her hands. She was squeezing them together so tightly, her knuckles were turning white.

Jake slowly reached into her lap, placing a hand over hers and caressing the back of her hand with his thumb. “I was an asshole, alright? The truth is you’re the best pilot here. I’d be crazy not to want you flying with me,” he said reassuringly. “If that’s what you want,” he added hesitantly, looking into her eyes for confirmation. She nodded, throwing her arms around his neck.

“You never hang me out to dry, you know that. You’ve always been there for me,” she whispered in his ear.

He chuckled. “Well that’s cause we got a deal, remember, Viper? You watch my back too with those quick strikes." She nodded with a laugh. He tilted her chin up to look at him, "But you keep that temper to yourself, only strike the enemy, alright?”

“It’s a deal,” she said, capturing his bright green eyes in a longing stare. Without another word, Jake leaned down and placed a soft kiss to her full lips, fulfilling a wish they’d both had for some time.

#Top Gun Maverick fanfic #top Gun Maverick imagine #Jake Hangman Seresin #Jake Seresin fanfic #Jake Seresin imagine #hangman fanfic #Hangman imagine

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tegarrianlore · 7 months

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do you have like, a summary of your oc shipgirls? as in how many there are and how they're related? (maybe even how they look? 👀)

ohhh boi there's a lot of them and for the vast majority i only have small lore bluffs about them (which is intentional as i dont wanna focus on, like. 60 or so OCs. i just wanna have a few be protagonistic). i'm just gonna list some of the OC shipgirls i have below, in no particular order

for the ones who are from completely made-up factions or nations we've got a few interesting ones.

the Pax Tenora-class super-heavy battleships are the epitome of Tenoran shipbuilding. The nation isn't very big nor very populated, so to compensate for that they aim for high-tech. Developed late into the 60s (i just didnt want battleships dying out even if carriers are a thing), Pax Tenora and Oransje Harold are the only members of this class. They are equipped with three quadruple 510mm gun turrets that fire super-heavy shells, have a speed of 31 knots, and a very thick armor belt. This translates into both of them being rather big shipgirls with very noticeable musculature.

the Thule-class battleships are similar in design to the Pax Tenora-class, but overall smaller. Instead of 510mm guns, they have 430mm guns; their armor is weaker and their overall size is much smaller. Despite this, their speed is also 31 knots due to being more antiquated post Great War designs (which ended in 1940). Thule is, usually, the de-facto admiral of the Tenora Basmu fleet; while Mittilagart enjoys being a lone wolf.

DFNV Ulysses is a nuclear-powered super-aircraft carrier, a Priority Research of the Dämmerung Foundation. She is an expert among experts at dealing with the Sirens.

DFNV Irkalla is a heavy cruiser of the Suffragan-class. Despite her hellish appearance - pale skin, deep red eyes, four massive horns sprouting from her head - she is a rather lively and bubbly shipgirl. However, for some reason, the Sirens fear her presence and try to avoid her. Neither Irkalla nor the Foundation knows why.

of the nations every AL player is familiar with (in no particular order)

The Preussen-class is a pair of PR sisters belonging to the Ironblood. Preusen herself is a military genius, single-handledly dealing with all the armed forces of the Ironblood. Großer Kurfürst, however, is not as gifted as her sister; instead prefering to deal with the enemy one-on-one. This is because of the two (in WoWs), Preussen is a decisively better battleship overall, while GK is a brawler first and foremost.

Admiral Nakhimov started as a proposal for converting a Sovetsky Soyuz-class battleship into an aircraft carrier. Like the rest of the Parliament CVs, Nakhimov uses single-attack squadrons that deliver devastating blows; but she's the biggest of the 5 CVs they have (Admiral Serov, Chkalov, Pobeda, Volga and Nakhimov). Nakhimov is an arrogant woman hiding deep self-hatred issues, as she believes herself to be unnecessary among the Parliament fleet.

Kremlin and her sister Slava are a pair of PR battleships. Kremlin utilizes much bigger 457mm guns, while Slava enjoys much more accurate 406mm guns. Kremlin is the right hand of Soyuz, the leader of the fleet when Soyuz can't deploy herself; a bit of a workaholic, she is extremely loyal to the Soyuz-class. Slava is a bit more of an outcast.

Satsuma is part of the larger Yamato-class family. They are all divine kitsunes - Musashi, Yamato, Shinano and Shikishima have massive flooffy tails and all that; however, Satsuma is an oni. A very stupid oni. You can imagine her as female Itto, because that's the main inspiration for her design (yes, with muscles)

CEFV Patrie and CEFV Empereur (you may know her in WoWs as République) are the biggest battleships ever produced by Sarthale, even if they are only PRs. Both are equipped with quadruple 431mm gun turrets, although Patrie is considerably bigger, slower, and more well armored. Empereur is the right hand of the Emperor in many regards, acting as the leader of his anti-anomalous organization. Patrie, however, is a reclusive woman, highly devout to the Church and close to Richelieu.

#tegarrian lore #mrboatface answers #worldbuilding #oc #oc characters #oc shipgirls #azur lane #azur lane oc

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