Alright, so I'm never sure if it makes more sense to put the advertisement bit at the start or the end but this one turned out pretty long so I think I'm going to put it at the start so you don't have to go looking for it. Hi! First off, if nothing else I hope you enjoy reading what I wrote. I rarely find partners from these, but I enjoy the writing part so if this doesn't inspire you to write with me I'm also happy just to chat. Or you're free to look through all my other prompts for something more your taste, or to propose some mix of ideas if you were inspired in some way.

That said, I'm happy with just about any kind of response, even comments. If you do message me and want to know what I am like a roleplayer well: I am a bit wordy, but not a snob about it in the slightest. Spelling mistakes are fine, I actually know nothing about grammar so that won't bother me, and I typically match in length my partner's responses. How often? I try for once a day, but maybe every other day is more likely. That's my fastest, but being in lock down and all maybe I'll be faster, and if you're slower I'll settle down to that pace too. Kinks? Eh you can find them in earlier prompts. I really don't think it's helpful to read them because I feel that if you're like me your read it like a checklist and if you find one thing that you don't think you can satisfy you'll use it as an excuse not to respond rather than know that I at least am always flexible except about the most hardcore limits, the ones I don't imagine I have to tell you I have and if you do have them as kinks you probably know to ask about it.

Has my attitude scared you off yet? If not let me give you some key points of the story and where I see it going, all this to see if you care to read on. I see this as probably a series of scenes rather than a continuous story, each where a woman provides comfort to a soldier on the battlefield. In my head I see this as taking on a forbidden romance deal, the woman is doing this on her job, but what if she starts to think of as more than her job and the soldier starts to decide his loyalty is with her rather than his army? It could also go darker, with the woman reveling in her power, her dominance over these strong men, or these strong men in their wild adrenaline fueled fervor could rough her up a bit. Like I said, I'm flexible and switchy so we can take it either way.

Is there anything else I'm missing? Platforms... I use PMs when necessary, email normally, and increasingly often: discord. We can sort that out later if you decide to chat me up. If not, well... have a nice night and hopefully at least enjoy the read!

When you flick back on the terminal to your shipboard computer, immediately there is a flood of information. At the top there's a battle clock, a timer that's ticking steadily past the seventy-six hour mark. Immediately below that is a percentage counter with a progress bar included; it would have been readily at home on any software's start page, but here it indicates the progress of something physical: It's what percentage of military goals that have been achieved. Success is typically mission dependent, with an average of eighty percent being the minimum requirement with one-hundred being the best case scenario, which of course rarely happens. As you watch the number ticks down just below seventy percent, a trend that cannot be allowed to continue.

From this you enter a menu, a diagnostic screen at the top of which is a low resolution image of the planetary surface, of a continent upon which dozens of markers and lines are drawn, some of which flash between red and green indicating active battle. Tactical display is not yours to focus on, but the general review of the situation can be useful at times as it provides context to what each soldier is going through.

This leads you to the list below the tactical layout: the fighting readiness statistics, which are many-fold and include munition numbers, estimated enemy strength, available vehicles, and dozens of other values which are of little concern to you at the moment. You navigate down to the flashing red value labeled “morale,” which has been identified as the main cause of the reduction in fighting effectiveness and brought you here. You enter the menu with which you are so familiar with.

Within the morale menu are military groups, armies, divisions, corps... You work your way down the tree to the smaller subgroups, following the flashing red indicators that will take you to where the morale problem has been identified., When you hit the platoon level you expand it into a list of names. Each name has alongside it more information, the first of which is “status” which is color coded and has a letter designation. Red labels read “RM” which is “removed” indicating that that soldier had to be withdrawn due to injuries, insubordination; if that happened someone in your job will hear about it, or that soldier has dead. It could mean a lot of things, but you're not charged with dealing with that status. You scroll through the reds looking for amber colored statuses which read “SC” or “status critical” and each time you locate one of these you flick right along the columns. You begin to see personally diagnostic information: There's value for blood ATP available, for times since last adrenaline dosage, for blood oxygen, body temperature... These you're familiar with, although most aren't yours to handle directly, but the expert you are you know from experience which of these soldiers are on the brink of collapse, which are dead and just don't know it yet, and which are in need of you. When you locate those among this last group you check the last data field: morale. This is a number from one to ten, and anything below a six is a trigger for you to act.

You locate a soldier whose physical status is operable, someone who isn't about to die immediately, and then you search in that subgroup for who has a morale value from two to six, six being the minimum for operation and two being essentially a lost cause. You could override a two if you wanted, but general protocol was to work more on cases which had a better chance of being successful. Raising one soldier's morale could help raise the others and so you were better off getting one man to an eight, nine, or ten, than to try and bring a two up to a four.

Once you identified your selection, you bring up more details such as current location and exo-suit actions. If a soldier is currently firing their gun, it's very rarely a good time to barge in. If their comm channel is busy it's also generally not. If their location is deep behind enemy lines you'll need more information on their current mission requirements, which can be read as short paragraph alongside a body schematic showing wounds being currently mended. After you're sure that this candidate is, or will soon be in a situation that is receptive to your intrusion, you hit the “sync” button and push the monitor away from you; you're on your back, laying on communication couch where your bare spine rests along an induction line and a magnetic resonance activation cover can be pulled down over your head. You do so and will yourself to relax as a prick on your arm enters the sedatives that will keep your body from physically following the commands to move you'll soon give it. When a military officer sees your pip light up on that soldier, they will approve it based on their better understanding of the tactical situation and you'll enter in the fray.

Through the exo-suit I can hear it: the sound the affectionately called “super-gatling” orbital bombardment. The ship above is currently attempting to shake loose a deeply dug defensive sight we must invade and to do so two things must happen. First, it will seismically and thermodynamically incapacitate the target by dropping solid tungsten “bullets” on it, each of which is the size of a small motor vehicle and traveling at about escape velocity; I'm told this is an intentional calibration for each planet such that if anything happens to throw off the gatling's aim, the projectile will whiz past the surface and continue on without orbiting back around the planet to potentially hit either the gatling itself, or some other unintended target.

The bullets drop at about twenty hertz frequency and hit with more energy than an atomic blast, although atomic projectiles are actually an alternate firing mode for the super-gatling, I think with some amusement at the absurdity of it. I'm told also that the rate of fire has also been chosen because it's just barely on the edge of human hearing. The vibration is felt and heard and it invades the mind of everyone within several thousand miles just like it is to me at this very instant; it feels like someone keeps squeezing my brain, my heart, and my lungs.

Second, when the super-gatling finishes its bombardment and when the very last shock wave hits us, we are to rush the target. Even under this sort of fire, the position we're attacking won't be destroyed, but it will be hunkered down and exposed. Their soldiers will have to be inside, all their external weaponry destroyed, and hopefully their minds a bit frazzled. This didn't last forever though and time was going to be of the essence. As such we were ordered to minimum safe distance from the target: about five kilometers. This was close enough that the exo-suit had to be hardened locking my body in place, the visor had to be shut against the blinding light, and stability pillars driven down from the hands and feet a meter into the ground. An opaque oil was circulated up across the suit's skin which engineered to be an ideal black body, or close it; it took the heat and circled it into the suit where an electric charge altered it and dumped that heat suddenly. This would recharge the suit and its weapons. Some of that energy would also be chemically converted to ATP to fuel me, injected in at regular intervals like a healthy meal. Whatever was left was stored under pressure as steam from my waste moistuer that would help propel me soon enough.

Thinking about all this helped me settle my nerves, but I was, as literally as possible, painfully aware of my posture. We were basically forced to be animals, down on our hands and feet to expose as little surface area to the shock waves as possible; it was terribly uncomfortable. Before this, adrenaline had kept moving for... seventy-six hours, and every time I began to feel the screaming ache of my muscles another shot went into the back of my neck and killed it; I'm never sure if this is adrenaline, or a pain killer, but it's probably a bit of both. I got one such injection now.

Worse yet is the effect of the super-gatling, the sound that despite all the suit dampeners gets in, and despite all my knowledge of what it really is, frightens me; though I must say that knowing what it is may actually be a perfectly reasonable reason to be afraid of it.

I feel like I can hear it, but it's more like a ripple through my body. It makes the hair on the back of my neck want to stand up, if the suit weren't holding them down. Every second feels like an eternity and I can begin to feel the sound of it driving me insane in combination with the pain of my posture and the cocktail of chemicals that have been forcing me past my limits since this battle began. Why am I made to do this? Why are we even fighting? Some renegade planetary governor wants to have a planet to himself outside of the kingdom? So what? Let him have it, why do I have to endure this just to dig this rat out of his hole?

Suddenly I felt my eyes going shut. The injection, it wasn't adrenaline or painkiller this time... or at least, it wasn't the former. Things began to go dark and quiet and when I blinked awake again I was in a dream world, a comfortable place that looked like a cabin during a snow storm. The space had an orange warmth that could only be Earthy timbers, and a crackling fireplace. I was also nude and I felt myself drop from the brace posture to my knees and almost onto my face. I shook and panted, and laughed perhaps a bit manically at this sensation of freedom.

Then she was there. I hadn't seen her at first because there had been the blurring wetness of relief in my eyes, but she slipped out from a blanket on one of the luxurious looking couches and smiled while tucking black hair back behind her ear. I didn't know her, not her specifically, but I knew what she was: one of the angels they sent when we needed them most. She was naked, her hips wide as her breasts were round and her face had the sharp angles of maturity but with warm smoothness of youth. She knelt to my level where I crouched, and I began willing myself to recognize that I could move here unlike where I really was in my suit; this was of course just in my head, but that didn't mean it wasn't real in a different sense and I was meant to take it as reality for... well time wasn't the same here as it was out there; but it would end eventually.

Still, it felt real when she cupped my face and kissed me. It felt real when I could smell her breath, taste it on my tongue as she welcomed it into her mouth. It felt real too when she pulled back, smiled and flashed me bright blue eyes, then leaned on her back and turned over and began crawling playfully away from me with those wide hips wiggling, tempting me to follow and eat of her in the most wicked of ways. They assured us these were real women on the other end, and I believed it because no machine could simulate the way she acted when she beckoned me inside her, when she screamed, moaned, shivered and clutched my body.

If this was going to be the last thing I did before I died, well... there were worse ways to send myself off, and if I didn't die maybe she would visit me again for the post battle sleep I knew we would be given, even if that sleep was just the shipping to the next battlefield.