{ Aerospace Incongruity }

[ASHFORD SYNCAIDIUS]

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[atrb=style,text-align: justify; padding-bottom: 20px] HANGAR SLUMBER PARTEHHH Just one last tweak to this errant gear… And… Done. Ashford leant back from his chair and sighed, pushing the magnifying loupes away from his face. This small trinket he had been working on for about two hours was a locket, one with a watch face in its interior. A locket was already small, making the timer for it ridiculously miniscule. Finding the batteries for this ancient thing was bad enough, but according to his contact, the noblewoman was distressed that she had dropped it into a fountain… And left it there for two days before searching for it. How the locket survived water, he’d never know, but whatever it was and after a few vacuums, it was fixed now. He could pass it back to his client later. His azure blue eyes drifted back and forth , trying to accustom itself back to reality’s unmagnified vision, eventually settling onto the clock in his workshop. Three in the morning... It was later than he had expected. About to clean up his work table and leave, he noticed a clipboard lying in the small chute that was connected to his place, a kind of substitute for an ‘In’ tray. The engineer groaned inwardly. Seriously? Work at this time? Ah, to hell with it. An all-nighter wouldn’t kill him. Dressing in casual slacks, a jacket and grabbing his toolbox, Ashford pulled open his workshop’s door, locking it tight as a few pelts of snow started to pelt him. He’d only left after putting everything back into place, picture-perfect. The wind blew at his ash-blonde hair as he walked, making sloshing sounds as he stepped into the dirty snow. Damn, maybe he should have called for a buggy or a car in this weather. Spring was around the corner, but it didn’t make it any less colder yet. Glancing at the clipboard, it was yet another routine maintenance. Stupid snow made these things creak so easy. For a… Berénger, Cyril. Cyril? It took him a couple of seconds to recall the face, but he could reasonably remember him once he’d slotted his keycard and shut the hangar’s personnel door, very much thankful for the warmth. How could he forget someone like him? A happy person, a top flier despite his… Shortcomings of handgrabbing his tools, but overall rather likable. Ashford could guess what was missing, probably yet another major part missing due to his tendencies of taking things. The blueprints of his plane were uniform, this shouldn’t take long. Ashford’s footsteps echoed loudly in the large hangar, passing by all the planes owned by other pilots. He didn’t need a map, his mind was his guide and this place was like the back of his hand. Sure enough, Cyril’s plane was just to the side, where he had remembered. Turning on the lights and going underneath the aircraft with a creeper, (Rolling board thingy) he started to unscrew the bolts, locating the missing wire. Why Cyril would take a copper wire was beyond him, but maybe it was shiny or something. About to replace the wiring, Ashford stopped short as he heard something rumble. Was it the aircraft? No, it was surely off. Pushing the sound to the back of his mind, he continued his work, forcefully ripping out some of the already-fused wires and causing the plane to shake a little. But the rumbling was still very much audible, but nothing was actually happening… … What was that noise? It was starting to bother him... There was also the occasional sound from the darker bits of the hangar, but that was mostly for the higher-ups... ♣ tagged CY-RYS ♣ word count 582 werds. ♣ notes Ash needs another template. This one's too girl. ♣ ♣ credits template by jawn of AA, OTE, DMB and TC ♣

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[CYRIL BÉRENGER]

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Let it not be said that Cyril Bérenger made a regular habit of camping in his plane. He didn’t really. tHere were better places, like other people’s fancier planes with real leather cushions, or other people’s rooms with soft pillows and satiny silk bedsheets. No, if he had a choice, Cyril Bérenger would certainly not have chosen to crouch it out in his plane. That is not to imply that there is anything fundamentially wrong with his plane, or sleeping in his plane. To be honest, he didn’t really mind it at all. It was just that most of the time he’d rather not. Stuffing himself in there for more than 5 hours tended to leave a crick in his neck. If at all possible, he would rather have remembered to wake up, exit the cockpit, and sleep on the plane. Flat serfaces are much better for the back. It is highly unfortunate, then, that he found himself, guess what, camping in his plane. It was no fault of his, surely. He just needed to spend some time apart from Laskaris; it was that time of year and she just wouldn’t lay off with her nagging and her whining and her scratching and the constant demand for food that Cyril would much rather eat himself and not share with anyone thank you very much. He loved her, true, but as with all things female, she was unreasonably overbearing more often than not. And anyways, his mistress and beloved plane needed some alone time, too. What better than a late night visit to show his appreciation? He even made her a trinket out of some wires, bolts, and the oddest trispiral screw. It was a work of art, if he did say so himself. When he got too old to pilot, no doubt he’d become an amazing jeweler and life in happy, overflowing wealth. Anyways, this gift was currently hanging from the roof of the plane; it glinted prettily every now and then. As for Cyril himself, well, he’d made himself quite the nest. At the center was of course him, swathed in a large blanket pilfered from some laundry room or another. There wasn’t much room in there; he’d just barely managed to properly situate his large astrology tome on his lap and angle his superLED flashlight so that he could read. It was a very nice nest, warm without being stuffy, although his text was a bit dry. And dull. And lacking in prose. Whoever wrote this obviously did not want to be famous, as his book was near impossible to read for more than 10 minutes at a time. Gradually, of course, Cyril felt himself growing just a bit sleepy. The books fault, no doubt. Although his all nighter the previous evening and consumption of more tryptophan accompanied with carbohydrates than medically recommended. But it was very, very tasty. And cy had no regrets. No regrets at all… One may observe that Cyril Bérenger can sleep anywhere. This is true. It would be fictitious, though, to say that he was a heavy sleeper or a snorer. While not the sort to jump up at any loud noise, he is able to arrive at awareness at astonishing speed, and thus give off the impression that no, he was not sleeping in class or in the café or any public space, no just resting his eyes for a few hours, the pilot squinting thing makes them tired. And snoring was so conspicuous! Any good sleeper knows better to snore. That’s like advertising “I’m asleep! Come chuck ramifications at me!” No. But, well… the tryptophan and carbs, they’re powerful things. Even one as mighty as Cy will eventually succumb. And rather dramatically, at that. In less than a second, Cyril slumped brokenly from his semi-alert position to a sort of floppy dangle reminiscent of what an egg looks like if you drop it off a cliff. His light tumbled to who knows where, probably the ground, forgotten. And he may have snored. Just a bit.

TAGGED : IDK WHOEVER NEEDS TO GO NEXT. WORD COUNT : More than I needed to say "cy is sleeping in his plane"? 674 hurr. NOTES : idek, man. It's late and I'm tired and this post seemed like a good idea at the time?

[ASHFORD SYNCAIDIUS]

Feb 14, 2011 21:45:22 GMT -5 ASHFORD SYNCAIDIUS said:

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[atrb=style,text-align: justify; padding-bottom: 20px] It was kind awkward writing this. I don't know Rysin's preference types! OH MAN. Ashford was getting a little bit more disturbed by the minute. Or second, whichever applicable. The Gear was still below the aircraft, trying in vain to glare at the vehicle’s dashboard and expecting a light to magically present itself, but soon gave up and reached for a flashlight, letting an exasperated sigh escape from him. His hands were getting greasy again, the previous technician didn’t clean up that well. The light from the torch was rather bright, and too often Ashford wondered when he would have to get spectacles. That would make his work very inconvenient. Replacing new parts with the old ones, Ashford let his hands move on their own as he thought, attempting to block out that incessant rumbling from somewhere in the hangar. When was the last time he’d worked on something new? Sure, he blew up one of his more resistant fuses, but that was a small test to see if he could make a quantum reactor from some scraps. He had made lightning rods out of twine, and received some rather angry messages from the top brass. If he made those things, could he at least practice in the lab? The people below were wondering why New Avalon was getting hit by lightning strikes so much, and particularly at the air base. Geez. Touchy. The laboratory scientists wouldn’t let him near the blast-proof room anyway, those pricks. A loud thump resounded from somewhere above him, and that broke the daydreamer out of his thoughts. Deciding that he could just finish his work and get out of the hangar, Ashford stared at another one of the plane’s blinking lights. The cockpit was half open? Sometimes, he wondered how Cyril ever passed flight school if it wasn’t for his very slinky ways. Ashford grumbled audibly, using the creeper to roll himself out from below, where he took the chance to stretch and pull the cricks in his neck before climbing onto the portable stairwell. There was a… Blob-like shape. A grey blob, to be exact. Ashford couldn’t see that well since the glass was tinted, but he manually pressed a switch on the top and pulled it open… Only to reveal a sleeping Cyril, an LED light on the floor, book on lap and snoring like the world should hear it. “What the… Cy, what are you doing here?? Go back and sleep in your own proper quarters!” About to haul his friend’s sleeping sorry ass from the cockpit, the engineer stopped once more. There was something else aside from the concussive rumbling that was Cyril’s mouth. Moaning. Actually, not the ‘ohgod,someone’s-kidnapped-me’ kind of moan, but not exactly the kind that he WANTED to hear, either. Ashford wanted to slap himself. Why was someone pleasuring themselves in the damn hangar?! This place was certifiably crazy at night. He would make it a point not to take night shifts anymore. As soon as his brain conceived this very idea, the very audible cry of a lady’s voice racked through the place, making Ashford’s eyes go rather wide. Whoever that person was, she was loud. Great. A trainee taking a snooze and some other pilot having the time of his life. Just. Freaking. Great. ♣ tagged CY-RYS ♣ word count 407 werds. ♣ notes BWAHAHHAA.. ♣ ♣ credits template by jawn of AA, OTE, DMB and TC ♣

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[RYSIN MARCHELLIS]

eyes are blinding, blinding, blinding;

breath is stifled, stifled, stifled; i'm going crazy crazy - !

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,460,true][atrb=style, background: url(http://i53.tinypic.com/a2vuas.png); padding: 5px; text-align: justify; color: #202020;] It is suggested that…pay more attention…needs to take a crap… Wait. That couldn’t be right. Pausing for a moment to rub the sleep out of his steel grey eyes, Rysin grunted softly as he took a second look at the paper in his hand. Even though being a General had its perks (such as not having to listen to other higher ups spew nonsense about how he was supposed to do something), the sheer amount of paperwork that he had to fill out by the end of the month was a drawback, to say the least. Budget costs, psychological evaluations or, in this case, performance reports, all needed to be taken care of and signed off on. Something that he had been tackling for the past few hours. Needs to stop taking naps. Now that was more like it. It also seemed to fit better with someone he considered a close friend, to say the least. Cyrus could be…interesting, when it came to his sleeping habits. Rysin tended to be much more irregular with his sleeping routine, even pulling off a few all-nighters every now and then. Not like it bothered him, but nevertheless. Rysin looked at the slowly diminishing number of reports with a critical gaze, trying to gauge how much longer it would take to him finish them. He also eyed the few sheets that protruded from the stack with disdain and quickly returned them to their former place. It shouldn’t’ take him that much longer, if he kept at it, and so he did. Reaching for the next report, he nodded once he recognized the name on the report. Ashford was a good, dedicated gear; despite his verbal spats with the fair-haired man, he also respected him quite a bit. And he was much less trouble than dealing with Cy, so long as he and citrus were not involved. Which, unfortunately for the blond, Rysin made a note of to always bring up or mention. After all, his verbal harassment always gave opportunity for some livelihood in the barracks, something that normally doesn’t happen when you’re preparing for a full scale war that no body even knows about. Skimming through the notes on the Gear, he meticulously corrected any errors and signed on the dotted line where applicable; he also fixed up any spelling errors which, apparently, were common within the people gathering this information. Putting the mechanic’s report aside, he made his way page by page through the pile of papers that occupied a corner of his desk. The quill pen that he used to sign off with (one that he personally sharpened to a point before every use) danced across the table as he made notes and marks across the sheets and he eventually lost track of time. At least, until he was almost finishing his last signature and his stomach growled. No, rumbled. No, shook. No, threatened to eat him alive from the inside out. As he signed his name one last time, he pushed all the papers neatly to the side, set his pen in his stand and stood up. Time to go home and take a nice, long sleep. --- This, however, was not the type of sleeping he had in mind, though it wasn’t like he didn’t think about it…all the time. He had honestly checked out of work, slung on his jacket and headed towards the nearest restaurant because it was 11 at night and he had yet to eat something. It wasn’t his fault that the waitress had those big blue eyes, shimmery blond hair and had offered to escort him to the door. So what if he slipped in a pick up line every now and then and placed a sticker or two or twenty on the back of her hand whenever he got the chance? She had giggled at the ones that said ‘Hi Cutie’ and he took it as a good sign, so he invited her back to the bunkers and she said yes. When they had arrived at the Airforce base, it was already 1 in the morning and to be courteous, he took her up to the hanger so as to not wake his men. To describe what he did afterwards would be similar to kissing and telling, something Rysin personally advocated from. Of course, that didn’t mean that it didn’t feel good. They had been going at it for a while now and God, could she keep up with him! Most of his female companions didn’t have the stamina to keep pace with him, but she was fairing the best out of all of them. It helped that she was a rather pretty one as well. But well, if she was willing and had the right looks to her, then he wouldn’t have minded if she had passed out on the first round. This woman was a moaner though, and a rather loud one at that. Not like he minded, but he did enjoy the way that she was panting at the moment. And saying his name. And making him feel that special feeling that you can only get from a situation like this. Logically, the faster he went, the stronger her cries got and at the pace he was going now, it was no surprise that she was crying out in ecstasy. There was a rather loud exclamation as she reached the point where all you could see were stars and Rysin had to hold back a wince; those were some big lungs the woman had. He wondered how many people could have heard the cry, but dismissed the thought seeing as only a few, select crazies would be in the hanger in the middle of the morning. As his partner came down from her high, she laid back on the bed in the hanger’s private chambers. The room was reserved generally for the higher-ups, so the General had recently been given permission to use it as he saw fit. Though the space was nothing special, decorated with the same shades of blue, brown and white, it was an adequate substitute for his bedroom even though – Hey wait, what was that? Rysin stilled for a moment as he strained his ears to listen for the strange sound. And there it was again; the tell-tale, tinkering sound that a Gear made whenever they worked on something. Was there really someone here? Before he could put much thought into the notion, however, a soft, manicured hand slowly snaked its was up his bare chest, flitting and stroking the muscles lining it. Looking down at the blond, her sultry grin was all it took to divert his attention back to her and start those moans all over again.

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words 1123 tags Ashie and Cyrus ~ notes Sorry it’s so long…length makes up for failure? credits rinne songsorry sorry - super junior

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[CYRIL BÉRENGER]

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The LED based flashlight thumped once, perhaps twice, before rolling loudly to a stop, with a resounding bump against the side of the ship. Of course, Cy, blissfully away in dreamland, didn’t notice any of this. He was having the most interesting prophetic vision, of him captaining a spacecraft to places far, far away, where no man has gone before, traversing the final frontier of space. In this dream, the crew had spotted a most interesting system, and upon closer examination, found the system to be made up of a large collection of planets circling a triple star system. The most fascinating aspect, though, was the planets. They ere made out of cookies. Each planet, and there were many, seemed to be of a different sort, from macadamia nut to triple white chocolate to pumpkin pie. So many cookies. So, Cy had just taken a landing party down to planet Chocolate Chip Deliciousness, and was exploring the many landforms of the planet, like Mount Chip, when there was a most peculiar sound. Could it be enraged natives, furious at their desecration/consumption of the holy fatherland? Or maybe it was the pilot, who was holed up in an off cavern and smoking… a bong filled with chocolate? Whatever the case, the sound was loud. And encompassing. The crew quickly took up a defensive stance, eyes on all possible sneaky attack points. But nothing stirred, it just seemed like a giant, barren, delicious cookie. Focusing his hearing, he tried to figure out exactly what sort of language this species was speaking. It was oddly high pitched, in a feminine manner, and drawn out in long strains. There were often distinct pauses, as though they were taking breathes, so he felt it safe to presume the aliens had mouths or some sort of orifice where sound exited and air entered. Cy could recognize a distinction in pitch, low and high, even if half the time it really sounded just like the same voice alternating tone. Furthermore, there were apparently no distinct syllables. In all honesty, it reminded him of that time he visited Ry’s place to borrow a cufflink or something to that effect, and was greeted by…. Coitus. Wait. What? Hyped up sex aliens? No. This was not the sort of dream he wanted to have. This was Rys dream and he had been captured, and it was absolutely awful. And then, a wailing cry. Loud, piercing, and definitely enough to bring Cy back to the land of the conscious, destroying his dream with a sudden dimension warping flip and spin. Just barely enough, though, and he flickered his eyes slowly open. Only to see a distinctly male figure staring down at him. He may be bi, but Cy was pretty sure that he could do without waking up with mechanics hovering over his defenseless body in the middle of the night, thank you very much. “If you wanted to wake me up, you could have managed it just fine without fake moaning,” a pause here “How did you make a woman’s sound, anyways—” Before he could finish, a deep, male groan filtered through the hangar. Hey… he knew this moan. He knew after many unfortunate incidences of walking in on this moan or seeing it all over his desk or – he wisely stopped thinking, then, so as to not risk an aneurysm. “I-is… is that Rys? It must be, what is going on oh mon dieu what –” Cy’s head swiveled eerily back towards the mechanic’s still nearby face, a dilapidated and failing to be sultry grin forming across his face, “Why helLO there, Ashie~ Wanna have some fun~?” Without waiting for a response, he snatched the poor, hapless Gear, and dragged him into the cockpit, firmly shutting it this time. “We have to outdo him, okay?” he gestured wildly, “Like this.” With that, Cy rolled as best he could in the limited space, making a reasonably loud thunking noise with a few creaks, and groaned lowly, as though particularly pleased with what had passed. Think about cake, think thoughts about cake… Without thinking, he grabbed at Ashford, , tugging him along for the rude, so as to have more mass for more thumping. Yeah, their copulation was totally winning, it had 60% more acrobatics and athletic activities. A sudden brilliant idea flashed across his mind: skin on skin effect. To emphasize his epiphany, he smacked Ashie, interposing a drawn out moan of his own. “You make the girl noises, okay? I know you have it in you.” He hissed conspiratorily, with another smack for effect and… “Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, just like that~~~!”

TAGGED : ASHEI AND THEN RYS? WORD COUNT : 771~ NOTES : Ashie is totally a woman DEEP DOWN INSIDE. i bet he likes it. c: