#21st century warfare

[rafiknyclassical]

Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima.

Remembering ALL the victims of crimes against humanity and 911. Play this in the dark with no lights on...

[faultfalha]

The fog of digital warfare in China is thick and mysterious. Monitors like guardian dragons watch silently from the shadows as data flows through dark networks, controlling the tempo of the cyberbattle. Its web of deception grows ever more intricate as the boundaries of the conflict itself become blurred. The lines between nations sharpen as its impact is felt in the global arena. It's a world where the winners and losers will be determined not in the battlefield, but in the virtual landscape.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

The Whole Armor of God

Put on the whole armor of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. — Ephesians 6:11 | 21st Century King James Version (KJV21) The Holy Bible; 21st Century King James Version Copyright © 1994 by Deuel Enterprises, Inc. Cross References: Romans 13:12; 2 Corinthians 6:7; Ephesians 4:14; Ephesians 6:13; James 4:7

[gouden-carolus]

Always faithful

[recursive360]

https://spice.fsi.stanford.edu/docs/why_war_has_become_obsolete_in_europe

[tenth-sentence]

So the marketing agency drops thousands of little lights from military helicopters.

"Humankind: A Hopeful History" - Rutger Bregman

[liamlawsonlesbian]

what book I would give each current formula one driver to introduce them to the joy of reading

an intellectual exercise no one* asked for

Max Verstappen: Guns, Germs, and Steel by Jared Diamond - if you are nd and have read this book, you may understand me. otherwise just trust me. the impetus for this post

Checo Perez: The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White - this is an excellent read-aloud book for Sergio Jr.'s age, and there is nothing as wonderful as reading a compelling book to a kid you love, imho

Charles Leclerc: The Golden Compass by Phillip Pullman - he is on the record as a Potter enjoyer. also, I think he would enjoy having a little animal friend

Carlos Sainz: Priestdaddy by Patricia Lockwood - okay yes this is partially a joke about the title, but this is a hilarious and wonderful memoir, about weird families and Catholicism, and I think Carlos would enjoy it.

Lando Norris: Guards! Guards! by Terry Pratchett - in my mind Lando is a little bit like @bright-and-burning but less cool, so this fits. also, the combination of high number of jokes/page + action/mystery seems like a good fit

Oscar Piastri: Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie - this book has the kind of mystery that really draws you in, plus I think Oscar would dig the questions about AI it digs into. I choose to believe with zero evidence that he would be interested in the funky gender stuff

Fernando Alonso: Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell - look me in the eye and tell me this book wasn't written for Fernando Alonso

Lance Stroll: Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card - yeah

Lewis Hamilton: Die Trying by Lee Child - Lewis deserves to read mildly trashy thrillers <3 plus there's a Tom Cruise movie

George Russell: Changing My Mind by Zadie Smith - as a proud Brit, George should be reading one of the premiere English authors of the 21st century. her first book of essays is a fun and readable place to start

Yuki Tsunoda: Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel - I don't have a Yuki-lore explanation, I just want to give him one of my favorite books

Daniel Ricciardo: The Gunslinger by Steven King - The Dark Tower series is Lord of the Rings-esque in scope but Western-inflected in aesthetic and written by The Horror Guy, I think DR would enjoy

Alex Albon: The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer by Siddhartha Mukherjee - I say this with so much love in my heart, but Alex wants to be seen as smart. this book is brilliantly written pop science

Logan Sargeant: Bloomability by Sharon Creech - yes this is a book for tween girls, but it's about boarding school in Switzerland, and Sharon Creech is a genius. if I could convince him to read it, I think he would love it

Valtteri Bottas: The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien - what are hobbits if not humanoid moomins?

Zhou Guanyu: Piranesi by Susannah Clarke - a fun, exciting, stylishly written book for a stylish guy

Kevin Magnussen: Watership Down by Richard Adams - rabbit warfare <3

Nico Hulkenberg: A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles - Hulk SEEMS like a Dad Who Reads Historical Fiction, even if he isn't yet

Pierre Gasly: Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo - I almost said A Game of Thrones but I don't think that would be good for him. so, Six of Crows. he likes heists!

Esteban Ocon: City of Brass by S.A. Chakraborty - a superhero origin story of sorts for Mr. Spiderman

Bonus: Liam Lawson: Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir - lesbian from New Zealand. let me have this

*ro asked for it, take it up with them @oscarpiastriwdc

[ghostwarriorrrr]

🇹🇷🔥 Turkish Air Force - F-4E 2020 Terminator

The F-4E 2020 Terminator represents a significant leap forward in the capabilities of the Turkish Air Force. This comprehensive upgrade enhances the venerable F-4E Phantom II with modern Turkish-made weapons systems, showcasing Türkiye’s commitment to self-reliance and advanced military technology.

Background

With a storied history dating back to the 1960s, the F-4E Phantom II has been a pivotal player on the global stage of air combat. Serving multiple nations and seeing numerous conflicts, the Phantom carved out its place in aviation history as a versatile and rugged aircraft. Türkiye’s decision to upgrade this aircraft stems from a strategic imperative to leverage existing assets while infusing them with cutting-edge technology to maintain relevance in modern aerial warfare. The 2020 Terminator program is the Turkish Air Force’s ambitious initiative to retrofit these fighters with state-of-the-art systems.

Strategic Importance

The ability to exert air superiority and conduct precision strikes is paramount in a region marked by dynamic security challenges. The F-4E 2020 Terminator’s enhanced capabilities contribute significantly to deterrence, and the demonstration of Türkiye’s advancing aerospace industry serves both a strategic and diplomatic purpose.

Upgrade Overview

The 2020 Terminator upgrade, realized by Turkish Aerospace Industries in collaboration with ASELSAN, constitutes a multifaceted improvement over the aircraft’s original design. It touches every aspect of the aircraft’s systems, bringing its avionics, armaments, and electronic warfare systems into the 21st century.

Avionics:

The modernized multi-mode pulse Doppler radar extends the aircraft’s detection range, allowing it to lock onto and engage targets from greater distances. Integrating a Hands-On Throttle-And-Stick (HOTAS) system enhances pilot control, minimizing response time during high-stakes manoeuvres. Color Multifunctional Displays (MFDs) replace outdated gauges, providing pilots with real-time data visualization for improved situational awareness.

Armament:

The Terminator’s weapons suite has been revolutionized with a mixture of Western and indigenous munitions. Long-standing armaments like the AIM-9X Sidewinder are joined by Türkiye’s own precision-guided munitions, such as the SOM cruise missile, capable of striking strategic land and sea targets with formidable accuracy. The UAV-230, a domestic innovation, represents the pinnacle of Türkiye’s missile development, offering supersonic ballistic delivery of a range of warhead types over substantial distances. The BOZOK, MAM-C, MAM-L, and Cirit missiles exemplify Türkiye’s expertise in laser guidance and smart munition technology, enabling the Terminator to engage and defeat a broad spectrum of target profiles with unerring precision.

Electronic Warfare:

To contend with the contemporary battlefield’s electronic warfare environment, the F-4E 2020 Terminator incorporates an advanced Electronic Support Measures (ESM) system for rapid threat identification and an Electronic Countermeasures (ECM) suite to confound hostile tracking systems. Moreover, chaff and flare dispensers have been integrated to provide decoys against incoming missile threats, enhancing the aircraft’s survivability in hostile airspace.

Operational Capability:

The F-4E Phantom II, transformed by these integrated systems, emerges as a multirole platform capable of dominating beyond-visual-range air-to-air engagements and precision ground-attack missions. It can operate in complex electronic warfare environments and deliver various ordnances based on mission requirements, making it a flexible asset in the Türkiye Air Force’s inventory.

Significance:

The F-4E 2020 Terminator project is a hallmark of Türkiye’s aerospace ambition and its push toward defence autonomy. By retrofitting and modernizing its Phantoms, Türkiye maximizes the value of its existing fleet while also establishing a foundation for future indigenous aircraft development projects.

Munitions Details:

The advanced, indigenous Turkish weaponry integrated into the F-4E 2020 Terminator underlines a significant shift toward self-reliance in defence technologies. Each munition type brings unique capabilities that enhance the platform’s lethality:

UAV-230: A domestically-developed ballistic missile, this supersonic weapon delivers high-precision strikes at long ranges, challenging enemy defences with its speed and reduced radar cross-section.

BOZOK: The versatility of this laser-guided munition makes it ideal for engaging both stationary and moving targets with high precision, ideal for close air support.

MAM-C/L: These smart micro munitions are designed for tactical flexibility, allowing for precision targeting in complex engagement scenarios, from anti-armour operations to counter-insurgency roles.

Cirit: A highly accurate laser-guided missile system designed for low collateral damage, Cirit is adept at striking soft and lightly armoured targets with pinpoint accuracy.

SAGE Munitions: TUBITAK SAGE, Türkiye’s leading defence research and development institute, has contributed a range of munitions enhancing the Terminator’s operational capabilities across various domains.

Conclusion:

The upgraded F-4E 2020 Terminator is a testament to Türkiye’s determination to retain a competitive edge in aerospace and defence technologies. The integration of modern avionics, armaments, and electronic warfare capabilities ensures the aircraft’s continued relevance in modern air combat, and its presence in the skies serves as a deterrent in a strategically complex region.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-Sized

9/9 Peace in a Lifetime of War

Pairing: Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

He didn't call, didn't text, didn't explain himself.

She wrote dozens of texts, mostly with one sentence, Where'd you go?, Could we talk this through?, I'm sorry, would you please come back, but never sent them.

But she was also being ripped apart by the feeling that this simply couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this. There was something real here. There had to be.

Pride got in the way. He didn't deserve her begging after leaving her like that without even an explanation as to why. He cared about his job more than her, and she would no longer beg for leftovers. She would not be the girl he could come and fuck in the dark when he had the time for it.

Let's make this work.

That's the sentence she wrote the most, to reverse the last words she had said. A nervous voice inside her told her that she had driven him away. That Simon was somewhere out there thinking she didn't want him in her life. After all, she had shouted that he should go and do his job… Practically, get out of her life.

But how could a few words spoken in anger drive him away? How could he just cut her off after everything? Player or not, she had thought him a better man than this.

He still had the key. He hadn't left it on the table or mailed it to her. He might still walk through that door when she least expected it.

But days turned into weeks, and somewhere in her heart, she knew a decision had been made. Simon never half-assed anything. If he had left, he had left. End of fucking story.

After three weeks, she threw away the shower gel. It reminded her of the time she had come from the shower to a dark room filled with him. When she had teased him, and he had sent her to heaven, when they had confessed their love to each other. It stared at her from the bin until she went and took out the trash with not much else but that single men's shower gel bottle in it.

He had left one of his hoodies in her apartment, and she almost threw it into the bin too. Then she crawled inside it like a child who had lost her parents.

It smelled of him, and it was so big that half of her disappeared inside it, and she felt warm, and safe, and devastated. That hoodie and her bedroom walls twisted the knife by whispering the words Marry me, laced with an echo of his laughter. Every day she decided to throw it away and start a new life, and every night she curled inside it to cry herself to sleep.

Bolognese was ruined for her. Motörhead was ruined, bourbon was ruined; the smell of tobacco brought tears to her eyes. She walked past springtime tulips like they carried the plague itself. Even Dürer was ruined.

How could a heartless, cocky 21st-century soldier ruin the genius of a Renaissance master?

Luckily, she hadn't told anyone who she had been dating for months now. She had never asked Simon to meet her parents. She hadn't even told them she was seeing someone… Her mother had made a remark on how nice it was to see her happy when she was visiting on holidays, and she had told her she had gotten good grades this semester. In her heart, she had perhaps always known that things with Simon wouldn't last. It all seemed like a dream. A beautiful, heated, fucked up pipe dream.

It was like the very oxygen from her life was gone. She didn't have the will to masturbate; the toy she had only reminded her of the embarrassing incident where she had forgotten it on the bedside table, and he had seen it and made her blush with a laugh and a comment; "That's the competition?" Such a small, pink thing compared to Simon, and even that reminded her of him.

Her workplace was a smoking rubble after a war. The pole choreographies had the atmosphere of Swan Lake rather than anything sultry and sexy — she flicked the pole to spin mode more often, started to do leg hangs and suicide spins and unicorn splits and chose music with lyrics about betrayal and other heartbroken, forlorn wailing.

Her gaze swept the audience before she grabbed the pole. Just in case. There were hungry eyes, but none belonged to the man with a winter-over stare, sleeve tattoo, and voice burnt from scotch, smoking, and sleepless nights.

The room spun, and her heart hurt, and she wondered if Simon had found another sweet girl or if he was bleeding in the blur too. Perhaps he was taking his pleasure with the women on his team, no strings attached. Fucking those tough army girls who were everything she was not. Making them moan with slow, heavy torture.

She wanted him to hurt. And then again, she did not. She wanted him to be safe, and for the first time in her life, she prayed even though she had never believed in God.

That forgotten oversized hoodie was her temple, and she wasn't sure who she was even praying to before falling asleep inside that black cotton. But she asked for Simon to stay safe, to not do anything stupid. She even prayed for his happiness, but then the prayers turned more selfish, and she asked that he would come back to her.

Just come back to her.

Her prayers were answered sooner than she would've thought. It was a frightening invocation, because when she finally caught him as a black, massive shadow against the darkness of the club, it was clear that he was in an even worse shape than she was.

He was still big, still menacing, a powerhouse of a man, but she saw that he had lost weight, the shade under his eyes was even darker than when they had first met. He was looking at her dance like he was attending a funeral: there was no smile, no hunger, only suffering in his eyes that followed her from inside a black hood.

She wanted to jump from the stage in the middle of her show, climb onto his lap, cry all the tears still uncried, although she had done nothing but bawled every night since he had left. Sweat made the pole slick, and she closed her eyes as she spun, hoping to be somewhere else entirely so he wouldn't see the hurt in her eyes. But the lights were pointing at the stage, and her face must've been a pale mask of fear and longing, and the dance turned into the ending act of her own personal Swan Lake.

It had been almost a month, and he barged back into her life like he would barge through a door into a room full of prisoners. The game was on again, and he was the fucking worst, and the relief and longing turned into red, blazing rage.

How dare he show up here? Still without warning, without a single message, when he knew how much it meant to her. Especially after what had gone down.

When she was done, she didn't go to him; she left the stage before the applause had even died, rushed to get her things, and stormed out the back door, half fearing that she would bump into him. He wasn't there, but when she walked past the entrance to get home, there was a man smoking outside. She wouldn't shed a look his way but knew from the aura of darkness and hellfire and silent leadership that it was him. There was no sound of footsteps, but she knew he was walking behind her, could almost smell the smoke, could feel his stare on her back as she rushed down the street like she was being hunted by a ravager.

And hadn't he, in a way, promised to haunt her, dead or alive?

She cried the whole way home while being followed by his ghost – silent tears of anger and relief and sorrow, jaw trembling and hiccups tickling her throat.

When she reached her apartment, she opened the door as quickly as possible, then slammed it shut behind her.

Would he use the key and force himself in? Would he take the closed door as a sign not to trespass? She almost went to open it to let him know that this area was actually a No Man's Land, not a threshold to her personal space, much less a fortress he needed to conquer.

But he had decided to pursue her, and a clear-cut knock sent her heart up her throat.

She had a choice not to open that door. Return to her old life without this fuckery. He wouldn't use the key she had given him, he was gentleman enough not to. Or perhaps not a gentleman: he simply knew when he was not welcome and would be too proud to force a connection.

But the decision had really been made a long time ago. It was made when she asked for that drink, when she accepted his flowers, when he pushed inside her the first time. Perhaps even on the moment she first laid eyes on him.

So, without having a grain of rational thought behind it, her heart walked her to that door and opened it.

He was leaning on the frame with one hand, and the hooded head rose from a heavy hang. He looked defeated for a moment, and she realized she had taken a while to come to the door… But then he squared his shoulders and raised his chin, bounced away from the frame, and the tiniest little smile played on his lips.

A look of I win.

It was something so Simon that it burned her heart, and the love returned – as if it had ever gone anywhere – and she was so angry that she slapped him to wipe off that stupid look that told her he could drop her like a toy and then come back and pick her up again.

Her palm met his chin, and it hurt her too: to hear that slap and know he allowed it to happen.

He allowed her to slap him. Again.

He reduced her to someone who hit people, like this was some trailer park romance where physical abuse was ok.

It was his fault, not hers.

It was his fault. It was.

His head was turned to the side from the force of her palm, the eyebrows rose in muted surprise. Then he slowly turned to look at her, and couldn't hide his smile anymore. He fucking got off on this.

Which was why she slapped him again – only, this time he caught her hand and finally forced himself inside, like it was an invitation that she tried to hit him. Her other hand shot out, rather impassively, and he caught that, too.

"That's quite enough."

That gruff, dark voice was probably what she had missed the most. Or those big, brown eyes full of promise. Or all that muscle wrapping around her in a crushing hug, those lips that smashed against hers in a starved kiss.

The door slammed shut behind him as he devoured her. The moment his hands let go of hers and enveloped her into that secure embrace, she dissolved and let him crush her mouth, her ribs, her everything — her hands reached for the hood and tore it down, clutched his back, his jacket, threatening to tear the clothes apart from how much she had missed him.

Tears gathered up her throat, and her eyes burned and squeezed shut, she held the black fabric in her fists and pulled, trying to get closer even when there was not a breath of air between them. His scent brought back so many memories that she threatened to drown in the flood.

The kiss left them both breathless and huffing when he drew her against him. She felt like a hostage when he closed one heavy palm around her head and simply forced her cheek to meet his chest. He had never closed her in a hug quite like this — like he was afraid that she would disappear into thin air if he didn't hold on tightly enough.

"Sweetheart." It was a rumble in her hair, a deep vibration in the solid wall she was smashed against.

"Don't you dare," she whispered through tears, but her hands told a different story as she clung to him like a drowning person.

"Sarah…" He only squeezed her harder, so hard that she feared he would soon break bones. "Love. I'm sorry that it took so long."

Her fingers flexed, then wrapped around that jet-black cotton again. The tears disappeared in his shirt, and she was glad he always wore black; otherwise, the mascara would've made a visible mess.

He smelled so good. She inhaled him like a drug — even after the desertion, his scent meant safety and home to her.

"What the fuck happened?" She sniffed, trying not to wail like a child against that firm wall of chest. "I thought you only went for a smoke."

He stroked her hair so gently that the shirt was soon soaked from her tears.

"I thought it would be best if I left you in peace," he muttered, sounding almost guilty. Her hand twitched in the folds of the hood from the utter folly of it all. She thanked the heavens that he hadn't. She had never exactly found peace with him, but being without him was even worse.

"That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard," she retorted.

"Yeah. I used to be a better man. But if ya think I'm cocky… Hah, you should've seen me back then. Feared nothing."

She had expected him to share a reason for leaving her like that, but she hadn't envisioned it to start with those words. The world was quaking again in her hallway, lit by a single, lone lamp.

"It didn't work. It got people killed. Even my brother's little kid." He was still talking to the crown of her head as if exposing the darkest of secrets, fearing that the walls were wired.

"I'm not really… alive, you know? Died with them about ten years ago."

From any other man's mouth, that trace of information, an explanation for his handicaps, would've felt melodramatic. When it came from Simon, it felt like a void was yawning before her.

"Swore that day I would never let it happen again."

How could she always forget that her judgment concerning Simon was flawed – no – distorted as hell? She knew he had lost everybody but didn't know how exactly. Of course there had been violence. She had never really understood just how important it was for him to protect people from getting too close.

I didn't mean for things to go this far suddenly stood for something completely different.

He wasn't playing or toying with her. He was being absolutely, vehemently, utterly serious.

Even… intimidated.

She felt even worse about not being there for him when he had been thin with his skin. She had made it all about her when he tried to share a deep fear.

"I tried to keep my hands off you as long as I could." He hummed, a sound of a distant, pleasant memory. "You were so… fuckin' graceful. Felt like you were dancing just for me."

The tears kept flowing, the world kept quaking.

"I was," she whispered. "Even when you weren't there."

"Thought you was just teasin' me. Seemed such a tough girl." He gave her one of those short laughs, a cynical scoff that said he wasn't easily caught off balance. "'N then you turned out to be sweet as a pie. So bloody sweet. Swept me right off my feet."

She pulled back a little and saw that his eyes were liquid too, the pale lashes fluttered over bloodshot, melted chocolate, but no tears came out. It was like he didn't quite know how to cry, like that skill had been tortured out of him, never to return.

"Nothing lasts. Especially if it's something good and pure." He ran a thumb over her cheek, catching a tear, like he was soothed by seeing someone crying the tears he could not. "Really wanted this to last."

Her lower lip trembled at that, and she had to fight back a whole bawl that threatened to erupt. He was stupidly eloquent when he wanted to. But he was also blind if he couldn't see that no one else but him had tried to end things this time. How could a man so mature and smart be so stupid?

"You're the one who walked out the door, Simon."

He blinked a few times. Yeah… He was that stupid, even if he was sharp and trained and brave. But it was also stupid of her to think there wouldn't be problems. He had built a wall, five-foot thick, since childhood. She had tried to penetrate it with a needle and had had a fit when it wouldn't budge.

"Look... You can't just come into my life and fuck around and fuck with my head — and fuck me… and then leave and say Darling, it's dangerous."

He huffed a laugh at her imitation of him. "You make me sound like a jerk."

"That's because you are."

A sigh. "Right."

She had expected him to return the quip, make some clever comeback, but their love had been on ice for weeks and weeks. Even if the warmth was there, and he was close, so close… Something was still wrong.

She pulled herself back to the solace of his chest. There were broken things inside, and she was a brittle vase herself, barely able to hold all the sorrow in.

"Why do you always have to be so dramatic?"

"Comes with the job."

"I hate your job," she mumbled in his shirt, and he chuckled humourlessly.

"Me too."

"No you don't. You love it." She sent another accusation in the air, and the penalty was an open prison, a slackening muscle around her.

"Guilty as charged."

"Why are you here, Simon?"

There was a pause, one, two breaths…

"Can't fuckin' live without you."

He had no doubt tried, tried to veritably leave her from fear of setting her in danger. Only Simon could leave a woman for fear of losing them…

"Even if I only get scraps and slaps. Phone's full of look at me's but you never call."

Her eyes flared wide open, her lungs ceased working for a second. Five months flashed backward, then forward, their shared moments twisting and turning, words finding new meanings.

Scraps…

You never call.

Jesus Christ.

It was bitter, and it was true. She had guarded her heart like a prisoner of war during a time of peace. Sent him thirsty selfies like they were the only thing he wanted from her, refused to call in fear of losing some game.

He wasn't the only one who was proud and dramatic. She had had a whole month in her hands. She could've called him, sent him those texts. She could've made it known that she hadn't meant her last words as a command for him to get out. But she had done none of those things. Instead, she slammed the door in his face and slapped him when he finally came back with his tail between his legs.

It was never about his job. She could deal with that. It was about the game.

They were both boneheaded, proud little creatures, and she realized she was the one who had been playing, playing for far too long…

"You said you'd rather call me," she whimpered, voice barely even a whisper.

He pulled her away by the shoulders and took a quick scan. There was patronization and pity, and she wondered whether he would take the blame for her failings too. But the pain was more profound than that.

"Sarah. Do ya even like me?"

Of all the things said that night, said ever, that was probably what hurt her the most.

"Yes," was all she managed to say to the man who was, in truth, the love of her life.

"Alright. Then I don't see what the problem is."

He was being reasonable, but there seemed to be a whole other problem she had never acknowledged. Had never even known existed.

And it was a rare, rare thing, that he chose to break first.

"Sarah, bloody fucking-... It kills me to imagine you with someone else."

All in.

As if she could ever find a man like him. As if she could even see other men. They had ceased to exist five months ago.

Just say it.

"I don't want someone else," she said, knowing that games like these should be illegal. But she was not playing anymore. "I only want you. Remember?"

The wall cracked, crumbled a little, exposed some softness in those chocolate eyes.

"Now that's what I like to hear."

Annoying, lovable, cocky bastard. This time, it was her turn to pull him in for a kiss.

He let her take some of his clothes off but then seized the reins from her again by hauling her to the bedroom like a doll. Everything happened right according to a script: she was undressed, tossed on the bed, and he was climbing on top of her before she could even say his name.

He just wouldn't allow her to touch him. She had given him one and a half blowjobs, one handjob, and slapped him two times. They cuddled every now and then. That was basically it.

He was always on top, had fucked her against this and that wall, fucked her with his clothes on half the time. He initiated everything, made her feel good, and so, so subtly prevented her from touching him. Did he even know he was doing it, or was it subconscious?

This would have to change.

Past torture or not, it would change now.

"Simon," she placed a hand on his chest when he was already inserting himself inside her.

"Hm?"

"Can I be on top?"

Something akin to worry flickered in his eyes, but it was only a brief glitch that soon changed into an intrigued look.

"Why not," he tried to hide the remnants of his bafflement, then crashed to the bed beside her. She flicked the table light on as if making it clear that this was the dawn of a new era. He gave it a hasty side eye, then turned his attention back to her.

"Have you ever heard of Adam's first wife?" She asked when she climbed on top of him. God, but he was wide, even though men were supposed to have narrower hips. Simon was a man in his prime, threatening, even when lying under her in a seemingly vulnerable position.

"You givin' me a history lesson too?"

"She was banished from Eden because she wanted to be on top during sex." She tried to seek support from his chest, knowing it would be of minimal help. If he would get too enthusiastic, she might be bucked off.

"I won't be so cruel," he said with a soft smile as he ran hands over her thighs, then up to her waist, hesitantly. Simon never hesitated.

From what she understood, he was far from a footsoldier. The people he killed never even heard he was coming for them with a thick, ugly blade. Perhaps he preferred to fuck like that, too: stealthy and intimate, in the darkness, keep his victim in a sturdy embrace so he could feel how they bled to death.

That light was a threat. Her stare was piercing awareness: also, a threat.

And it was only now, from this position, that she finally caught the wounds. Fresh, ugly holes that should've probably been under bandage still.

"What's this?"

There were not one, but two cavities surrounded by discolored skin, bruised dark purple, virtually black — gunshot wounds that had barely missed his liver. Had the bullets reached the internals, they would've likely been the end of him.

"That's the reason why it took so long."

Shallow breathing was a stupid response from a body already feeling faint. But the next few breaths were just that: an attempt to sustain the flow of oxygen and allow reality to sink in.

The last time Simon had gotten hit was years and years ago: a bullet to the arm, not nearly as severe as an abdominal wound. She thought they used bullet vests at work. Unless he had chosen not to wear it. Her brain was a horrid thing, pushing a clinical sentence out of a psychology journal to her mind.

"The root cause of self-destructive behavior can stem from a mental health condition such as depression: overwhelming sadness and loss of interest."

She had drowned herself in self-pity in her cozy little apartment and taken revenge on a shower gel bottle while Simon had gotten himself wounded, nearly killed. Probably spent the last few weeks in a hospital after the operation in whatever medical facility he had been brought to from the field. Without telling her, stubborn and proud as he was. Lying there, with no visitors, thinking it was better to leave her alone…

She knew he had a death wish, but this… This crushed her soul.

"Soap said I should ask you to marry me instead of trying to prove something by killin' myself."

Shit…

More edgy, dark humour — but her insides shuddered.

The axis of melancholia turned and turned. She hadn't told anyone about them, but Simon had. So that someone could deliver the message if need be. Even the thought of a Scottish jarhead appearing at her door and telling her how Lieutenant Simon Riley had been killed in action made her eyes sting.

Soap was a clever man. Much more intelligent than the one between her thighs.

"What am I to do with you," she whispered while placing the lightest, faintest touch on the stretched skin around the injury. The muscles rippled underneath her fingertips, and a soft hiss drew her attention back to his face, but the discomfort was hidden from view before she could decide whether it was caused by her words or her touch.

"A few ideas come to mind," he spoke with his everlasting cheek, even when healing from both gunshot wounds and a broken heart. "Wanna hear?"

"How about you shut your mouth for a change," she offered, gently enough to make it clear that some things should be fixed with another kind of communication.

When she reached to guide him inside her, he was uncommonly solemn. The dry spell had ended at the door already, but that drowsy, flaming rust of a stare caused the cup to overflow. She was slippery as hell, but he was patient, mostly having a ball watching how she went through trial and error to get him in. The intimacy made her flustered, and that stern expression soon turned into a smug one as she fucked up guiding him in smoothly and with finesse.

And it was wishful thinking that Simon would keep his mouth shut.

"Ya need help with that?"

"Shush," she said, knowing it was futile, a laugh bubbling in her chest as she tried to sound convincing with the command. As if she could order someone like Simon around.

He broke again when the thick of him finally pushed in, slow and steady like a reverie.

"Always so fuckin' tight 'n wet for me…"

"You can't just shut it for one minute, can you," she breathed while gliding down the cock that spread her wide — and God, she had longed for that familiar invasion.

"Not with you, sweetheart."

She had barely even started when she saw how his throat worked, then felt him tighten the grip on her waist.

"Did ya have others while I was away?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

The muscles on his jaw tensed, then unwound with a sigh, the heavy-lidded eyes making him look like a man about to pass out.

"Neither did I. Seat's already taken."

The jesting, his laugh, their togetherness — she had missed it so much that it physically hurt.

But at the same time, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. This time with more than just their clothes off. Everything was…amplified, and not just because the lights were on. This was not a lazy Sunday morning fuck under the sheets.

She had been squashed against his chest, but she had never traced the muscles with the tips of her fingers, watched how his nipples grew hard at the contact. She had never quite seen how his jaw clenched, how his abs pulled taut just from a slow roll of her hips. Her hands looked tiny, dainty, when they swept over him – a man made weapon – all corded muscle and uneven skin, tone changing with the map of old and new scars, fresh scratches here and there, ill-healed burn marks and whatnot coating a skin that had seen more than just rough weather. He didn't treat his body like a living, breathing thing; it was simply a tool.

Her past boyfriends had been just that. Boys compared to him. It wasn't just his size, that he was older than her. It wasn't even the map of scars spread over muscles built to withstand and wage war. It was just something so inherently him, a maturity, ripe survival, toughness that came from another age entirely.

She tried to be worthy of him, make love to him in return for all the favors he had so generously given her.

He appeared to enjoy it with the most laid-back attitude she had yet seen on him. She had prepared for intensity, as always, a bit of devilry, but not for that daydreamy stare. That absorbed, blissful look could only be compared to someone easing down on a divan, waiting to be served wine and grapes like they were some Roman deity. Or, in his case, on a lush sofa, waiting for his girl to bring him a scotch after a long day. Maybe take his boots off, and his pants too, kneel and take him in a warm, wet mouth…

God, she was fantasizing about blowing Simon while riding him. But she'd be damned if she didn't serve him that back rub with a happy ending as soon as she had ridden him to the finish line.

"Should do this more often," he noted evenly, echoing her thoughts – and trying to grasp some sliver of control by telling her he liked this. Liked being served.

"Enjoying yourself?"

"Can't complain."

And she realized now that she wasn't the one in charge, no. He was looking at her much in the same way as he did when she was up on that stage. Only, he was now both the stage and the pole… and the audience.

Fuck.

Every time she tried to get in control, he did that rear choke on her. Even this turned out to be another counter technique. He was simply enjoying her take her pleasure.

The notion didn't cause fires anymore, other than a flare of licking heat down to where they were joined. Her inner walls had decided that he was a keeper too, gripping him so violently that the tendons on his neck became visible. The callous of his hands traveled upwards to her ribs, and she caught a thought of how he could easily crush her if he wanted to — but he only proceeded to hug her waist with an iron grip to join in the show.

"Keep doin' that and there's gonna be a real mess," he said, voice thick, sending more heat trickle down her spine.

"Isn't that always the case with you?" She was on the brink of laughter now, because it felt stupid that it had taken her so long to enjoy this man to the full.

"Yeah… But you love it. Admit it." He wasn't bulldozing now. Just enticing, eyes glimmering from seeing her so evidently happy.

And she did admit it. She didn't hold back at all. She allowed him to see exactly how much she wanted and admired him, how good he made her feel.

The account started as a steaming, almost pissed-off checklist, a confession rather than a declaration of love. It contained pent-up love and hate, from how he fucked her in the dark to how he drove knives to a wall she didn't even own. But then it turned into a hymn. Nevermind ego; she wanted to stroke his heart and soul. He fucking deserved it.

She told him he was a good man, the best man she had ever known. How she had never loved anyone like this. How she was his, had been from the moment he came to that club. She even told him how big he was and how she had trouble concentrating in class because of it. That she had trouble focusing pretty much anywhere.

How she had cried herself to sleep in his sweatshirt every night after he had left… How she wanted him to never leave again — how she wanted to solve every argument they would have from now on with a hatefuck instead.

At first, he looked at her curiously, probably thinking she was joking. Then his expression turned to a choked-up stun.

“Sarah– Fuckin’ hell…"

Every secret thought from the past five months was laid out before them; every little thing she admired about him from body to soul.

It seemed to be a shock treatment, a little too much all at once, but he was true to his word and didn't complain.

"You're gonna make a grown man cry 'ere."

He didn't cry, but if there was still some invisible wall between them, every last brick was blown apart at this point.

The poker game was finally over, the whole table was cleared of cards and chips and bets.

"Do you even like me… Unbelievable, Simon," she said as a final notion. There was a soft smile, but it wasn't arrogant or vain in her eyes anymore. Just proud, pleased.

God, had she been stupid.

She descended to celebrate, to seal it all with a kiss. He welcomed her with fast allegiance: arms went around her as soon as her breasts pressed against his chest. It was all hunger, but ten times more tender than the starvation at the door. Slow, deliberate, and it went straight to her cunt, gripping him — and of course he responded with a groan, straight into her mouth.

His hips jerked up to meet her, and had she not been in the safe custody of freakishly strong arms, she would've fallen off her ride. And it was high time to investigate whether he had a vulnerable spot in his neck as well.

A sluggish, flat-tongued lick up the column of his throat and some open-mouthed, sloppy kisses sent him contracting from the middle, pushing in, balls deep. She risked a nib, even a soft bite, and eventually, went a bit feral on that neck. It was another jackpot for the both of them.

"I need-.. need you on your back," he had never stuttered like that, out of breath, trying to be polite with a raspy throat. But he wasn't really asking, and it wasn't really mannerly. It was actually a demand.

"Wanna fuck you hard," his voice was so low that it was almost a growl.

Yes. 

Yes. Yes, please.

And she knew just the trick that would ensure that he did.

"Hmh. Denied," she said to his neck, and waited for the punishment that was brief and thorough.

"The hell it is."

He rolled over and switched their roles without even pulling out, and just like that, her feeble attempts to be the rebellious first woman turned to dust. But she didn't really mourn the loss. Her Eden resided right here.

"You're such an asshole," she was laughing from mirth and love and the joy of being pressed under that safe weight again.

"Would like to fuck that too someday."

Oh my God..-

She wasn't a blushing lady from Victorian times, but this was a little unexpected, even from him.

"Bet you're even tighter down there… I might just pass out."

Her jaw must've fallen an inch or two, her eyes no doubt shot full of shimmering glee because nothing, absolutely nothing escaped him, and her face was now more than that of a stupefied goldfish.

"I suggest you close that pretty mouth before I-"

She cut him short by sinking nails in his skin — more precisely, his ass. He arched his back with the following thrust, even exposed his throat with a satisfied grunt.

"Lil' wildcat… I could do this all night." It was a pleased chuckle, and her heart hurt — she was constantly calling him annoying, an asshole, a jerk, and he told her she was beautiful, sweet, his girl, or a little wildcat in return…

"Would ya like that?"

She could only nod, time and again, and the sex turned messy, noisy and unhinged, weeks and weeks of frustration and longing dissipating with fucking that spread her thighs wide and made the whole bed wail. Her head hit the frame once or twice before he moved her with an annoyed grunt while she was having a laugh about it, but then she remembered he was injured and that this was a bad idea.

"Your wounds-" she tried to stutter amidst a pounding that had certainly been held back for longer than five months, not to talk of a few weeks.

"I'll live."

She was close, but so was he, and it seemed it was the most difficult decision he had ever made: to choose whether to slow down and grit his teeth or just give into the temptation and spill. A split second, and he chose the latter, and she must've been gawking: all that muscle towering over her went tense, the halved slant between his pecs sheened with sweat.

He came with a long groan and a head rolled back, the tension leaving him in shivers before his head fell back down, chin to the chest. The stare behind those heavy lids was unfocused, heady, drugged.

"Fuck, you're a glorious sight," he said while sweeping a hand over her sternum and closing the giant palm around her throat — nothing brutal or rough, just a little bit of fun that probably shouldn't have made her tighten around him as furiously as it did. It felt like she was one of his victims, held in place by one hand only, as his gaze dropped down to marvel at how his cock disappeared in her and came out all wet. The thrusts were erratic and desperate, the ending throes of ecstasy — must've been a glorious sight indeed.

He wouldn't even pause to enjoy the trip back to earth to the full. He left her, eyes both determined and drunk, cock still half hard, so abruptly that a sad little whimper fled her. But he wasn't gone for long, just settled next to her and gathered her in his arms, wracked with purpose.

She gasped when not one, but two fingers dipped inside, then drove deep to the knuckle.

"Fuck…"

"Will do."

It was a scant substitute for his cock, even with two thick fingers. But he was good, so damn good that it didn't matter.

He did everything right, perfect, precise. Made a mess of the cum that joined the wreckage, played with it, slathered it all over her until she was sticky and wet and the noise was well-nigh filthy.

But even more unbearable was the intimacy, the way her hand found him, the bunching muscles on the forearm, the thumb brushing her clit, his fingers curling in a loose fist while two of them curled inside her…

She wanted to participate, feel the fierce connection that had gained a whole new level. There was a sense of belonging, merging — did he feel it too?

Yeah, he definitely did.

Their gazes were locked, but the depth in his eyes wasn't hunger or will to dominate or even meant for fishing cues, it was pure surrender, actually, it was… love.

"Please," she whispered while he made love to her with both his hand and those eyes, not knowing why she even said that. But he had told her he loved it when she begged, so that's what she did. She would give him every fucking thing he wanted.

The sweltering bronze of his eyes broke a little, his brow gave a minimal tug.

"Simon - Please," the words were a mouthed prayer rather than an audible whisper, and she knew her own gaze was fractured because the warmth in his eyes only spread.

"I got ya," he crushed her in a devout hug while spreading her open, breathed into her ear, all joking gone. It was a solemn pledge, a guarantee.

"Promise I got ya."

This wasn't affection anymore; it was bonding.

She came with a strained whimper in his neck, curled into the hug with thighs trembling and hands grabbing whatever she could: a sheet, a tight muscle. He was an absolute genius for not moving, just stayed inside as her muscles sucked him in with a long, hungry pull that turned into a shudder that went through her whole body.

"Uh, fuh-…" She was cursing, sobbing, coming apart by the seams, and he took it all in, breathing high and wide from witnessing what he was doing to her.

It was a slow and tense shattering but turned messier after: into sloppy writhing and moaning, and he moved gracefully to ride it out with her. An absolute ace at what he did.

He might've said something, cheering her on with That's it or Fuckin' beautiful or something like that. She couldn't hear it, and it didn't really matter anyway. The looting was sweet, and he was the perfect fit, so fulfilling, still inside her after the waves had passed. They were breathing into each other, holding the space, sustaining the present moment just by being entangled together, all limbs and breath and sweat on sweat. When he ultimately pulled out, the hand joined the one wrapped around her, holding her like the most precious thing in the universe.

Her depression was gone, the man supporting her being a better cure for her condition than any kind of antidepressant ever invented by Western medical professionals could ever be. There was no fear, only a terrible will to live, a hunger for love and life.

It felt too lame a thing to say: I love you, in that kind of a moment. But something needed to be said. It wanted to come out like a wild thing from a cage.

"You brought me back to life," she whispered to the pulse on his neck, tasting both their salt, feeling like crying again, but this time for a different reason. "When we met. And every day after."

He was calm and still, frozen in time, but she could feel his heart thundering underneath that chest. Fast and overwhelmed.

"You're good at so much more than just killing people. I hope you know that."

The world could use another flood, but he chose to be the floodgate, chose to fight back mass destruction and death and darkness while looking like it. A hero, if there ever was one.

Simon didn't just take lives. He saved them.

"You saved my life, Simon." She stirred a little to look at him, wholly stripped of all his masks.

"There.. Finally shut you up."

He swallowed, and a steady hand brushed the nape of her neck, dissolving the tension if there still was any left.

"Yeah."

The soft silence covered them like a blanket until he bore even deeper.

"I'm glad you could finally join us."

And she realized he was talking about the Game. Their game. The poker game.

She had been a player while he had been here all along with palms facing upwards, with no cards at all. Just waiting for her to catch on.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"'Atta girl."

The kiss was gentle and slow. He grunted in her mouth, and when she withdrew to look at what was wrong, he opened and closed his jaw, then rubbed the side of his chin that had begun to swell a little.

"You hit hard for a historian."

Oh God.

She felt bad, but not bad enough to suppress a chortle.

"Remarkably hard for a woman. Almost dislocated a jaw," he continued when he saw she was laughing at the whole situation.

"I hope it swells real bad," she chuckled. He cast her a look that said So much for sweetness.

"You're ruthless."

"Do you need ice?"

"A kiss'll do."

She didn't deny him that kiss. She wasn't that ruthless. But after that soft peck, she turned to whisper in his ear.

"You deserved it."

He scoffed lightly, gave her a squeeze. It was the middle of the night, but it felt like the midsummer sun was shining.

"You deserve the best."

"And you're the best?" She asked, while they both already knew he was.

"I try to be."

That was probably the most humble thing she had ever heard him say, but then again, when had his arrogance ever been ego? He had always delivered. He was a soldier, but he was not a killer. He was a protector.

But if he would protect her by leaving her in peace, she would start a war of her own.

"Then don't leave me."

"Never."

Her heart skipped a beat, then fluttered flush against her ribs like an overjoyed bird.

"Is that a promise?"

She caught a smile, cocky, but only because he knew he was the best man for the job. He was best at what he did, and it had nothing to do with games.

"It's a vow."

[reality-detective]

I think we're nearing "End Game" "Checkmate" where things are about to get real crazy? 👇

Black Swan Event! The World’s Most Powerful Families Are Crafting Global Chaos – Trump Is Leading the Fight Against a Globalist Cabal!

In the clandestine corridors of power, a sinister plot is unfolding—one that mocks the very democracy and freedom we hold dear. This is not just another historical manipulation, but a shadow war waged by a cabal of power-hungry elites, tracing their bloodlines back to the darkest realms of the Illuminati and the counterfeit AshkeNAZI lineage.

The Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and their ilk have orchestrated every major catastrophe of the 20th and 21st centuries. From the World Wars to economic collapses and the recent pandemic, each disaster serves their ultimate goal: total global domination through chaos and despair.

The United Nations and Israel? Not geopolitical strategies, but key pieces in their grand chess game. Under the guise of international cooperation, these institutions enable the elites to conduct heinous crimes—from human trafficking rings to covert biological warfare on innocent populations. The CIA is merely a puppet in their hands, enforcing their will across the globe, with Ukraine becoming the latest battleground where their twisted agenda plays out.

But it doesn’t stop there. The elites have infiltrated every corner of society—from the financial crashes they orchestrate to the dictators they install. Even Google, Facebook, and YouTube are weapons in their arsenal, controlling thought, manipulating reality, and silencing those who dare to speak out.

As these elites sense their plans unraveling, they retreat into private banking and cryptic financial channels, but their ultimate aim remains clear: the collapse of global economies to establish a new world order under their absolute control. They think their plan is foolproof, but they didn't anticipate the rise of counterforces.

Trump and General Flynn have been laying the groundwork for a massive counterstrike, executing covert operations to dismantle the Deep State from within. The Quantum Financial System (QFS), a revolutionary technology, is their secret weapon, designed to overthrow the corrupt financial structures of the elites and bring about a new era of transparency and freedom.

As the world teeters on the brink of a Black Swan event, engineered economic meltdowns and social chaos are distractions from their true aim: the Great Reset. This terrifying new world order would mark the end of monetary privacy and the final tightening of their iron grip on the global populace.

But patriots worldwide, take heed! The storm is here. This battle for the soul of humanity is not some far-off conflict—it’s happening now. Trump’s coalition is fighting on the frontlines, preparing to activate the QFS and dismantle the elite’s centuries-old network.

Stay alert, stay vigilant. The Great Awakening has arrived. This is our moment—resist, or be swept away in their final bid for tyranny. The truth is your weapon, and awareness your shield. The endgame is here.

This is why I have been saying there won't be an election. It's going to get ugly! 🤔

[faultfalha]

The Chinese are on the forefront of a new type of warfare, one that is fought not just on the battlefield, but in cyberspace. They are redefining what it means to wage war, and the rest of the world is scrambling to keep up. The Chinese have always been a formidable foe, but their latest tactics are something else entirely. They have shown that they are willing to use all available tools to gain an advantage, including cyberattacks and espionage. This new type of warfare is a serious threat to the rest of the world, and we need to find a way to counter it. The Chinese are clearly ahead of the curve, but we can't afford to fall too far behind.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Emerald Hallow Chapter 6

Summary: Steve Rogers wants to move on.  He wants to forget Peggy, and dive into the 21st century.  But this man of the past doesn’t know how to navigate being an Alpha in a modern world of skittish Omegas.  He prides himself on his self control, never wanting to harm or scare them, until something just smells too damn good…and he’s not the only one who notices.  

**plus size reader 

Warnings: abo!dynamics, smutty smut smut, name calling, eventual threesome, voyeurism, rough sex

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She must have been trained in psychological warfare.  There was no other explanation.  The worst part was the anticipation.  After she helped Bucky through his rut she had gone dark.  Neither Steve or Bucky had heard from her in days.  Steve could tell his rut was coming soon.  Bucky was out on a mission and wouldn’t be back until who knows when, plus he wouldn’t be of much help during another Alpha’s rut except to take the edge off.  Y/N was nowhere to be found.  Steve showed up to the club on Saturday but was surprised to see that a different singer was there that week and she had sung the night before.  She was his mate and yet she was playing a dangerous game.

Steve: Omega, please come home.  I need you.

Steve texted her as he fisted his cock, his rut hitting him full force.  He was sweating, a random growl or mewl coming from him every few minutes, his blood racing in his veins as he fought off an oncoming migraine at not being able to satiate himself.  

Y/N:  Where’s your precious Alpha? 

Steve:  On a mission, and you know it wouldn’t help.  Please.  Stop torturing me.

Y/N:  You want me?  Come find me.

Steve sat up in bed, his nose sniffing the air.  She was near.  And her heat was starting.  Her scent was billowing through the apartment, spicy and heavy in the air, making his eyes water.  He stood from the bed, still completely naked, and stalked through his apartment.  How long had she been here?  How did he not scent her or hear her when she came in?  He let his senses guide him as the ache in his cock grew, the twinge of pain in his groin and abdomen making him double over and lean against the wall.

“OMEGA!  Come out.  I can’t…” his voice cracked.  He could feel the frustration getting the better of him like it did the last time she did this, making him watch Bucky fuck her.  His emotions were everywhere and tears started to fall from his eyes. 

“Alpha,” her voice called out quietly.  Steve’s head snapped to the direction it came from.  He headed to the kitchen, clutching anything along the way to help keep him upright.  He hadn’t felt this desperate in…probably ever.  When he stepped in he saw her leaning against the table.  She was already naked, a trench coat of hers laid on one of the chairs.  “So needy, Steve.  You want me?”

Steve nodded frantically, taking a step toward her.  She stepped back, making him freeze and his eyes narrow.  “Don’t make me chase you,” he warned in a low growl.

Y/N merely smirked, her eyes darkening.  She turned and ran out the other exit of the kitchen.  Steve roared as he chased after her, his feet skidding on the hardwood floor as he rounded the corner she had just gone around.  She laughed as she skipped into the living room, going around the couch and stopping, turning to face him.  Steve’s nose flared, baring his teeth.  The Alpha instincts were taking over.  He thought he’d lost control when they first got together and mated.  That was nothing compared to this.  He was going feral, he could feel it, and couldn’t find it in himself to care.

“Don’t.  Fucking.  Move,” he snarled.  Y/N’s nose scrunched as she bared her own teeth.  Then she tried to dart towards the bedroom.  Steve launched himself over the couch and tackled her to the floor, his arms making sure to envelop her so as not to hurt her too much.  She yelped as he overpowered her, hoisting her up and one hand gripping her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes widen and gasp.  “Bitch,” he grunted, then dragged her to the bedroom.  He heaved her onto the bed on her belly and quickly climbed over her before she could try and escape.  He roughly split her legs and pulled up her hips, making her knees support herself.  He fisted his cock again and wet it with her slick covered pussy.  “You enjoy your game, Omega?”  Y/N nodded, looking back at him, her eyes flashing in a challenge.  

Steve pushed all the way in one quick snap of his hips, making her scream and push her face down into the bed.  “You fucking tease.  You fucking bitch.  Making me wait, act desperate for this pussy,” he repeatedly snapped his hips into her, his cock pummeling her and making her mewl.  “This is my pussy, you hear me?”  He slapped her ass hard and she screamed again.  He kept slapping her ass cheeks, making them red and sting, welts starting to form.  This was the most primal he’d ever felt, taking her from behind and calling her names, something that he would normally never do.  “As much as I love Buck, you think his ass is enough for me?  When this cunt swallows me whole every time?”  He reached a hand around her wide hips and started flicking her clit.  She moaned loudly, her long nails ripping into the blanket beneath her.  

“He was enough for me.  Filled me up so good, I was oozing him for days,” Y/N said, her voice menacingly sweet.

“You are a fucking bitch,” Steve growled.  He leaned over to the side table by the bed and grabbed his phone.  He turned on the camera then grasped around her throat again and hauled her up against him.  He started recording, keeping the grip on her throat just enough so that it labored her breathing but so that she could talk.  He fucked her hard and deep, another shriek falling from her lips.  “What were you saying, love?”

“He’s better,” Y/N gasped, her hands gripping his arm.

“Try again,” Steve said and bit her earlobe.  

“Ah!  Oh my god!” she shook as her first orgasm blew through her, her mouth dropping slack and her head leaning against his shoulder.

“What were you saying?” Steve asked again.

Y/N’s arms dropped limply to her sides, a line of spit dribbling down the side of her mouth.  She was still cumming, her pussy fluttering around him in waves, but he didn’t let up.  She had teased him for so long that he was putting off his orgasm to make her suffer a little longer.  “I…mmh,” she moaned.  

“He didn’t fuck you til you were cock drunk, did he?” Steve asked, pointing the phone to her face.  The light made her eyes squint but she looked at the camera momentarily before her eyes fluttered closed and she shook her head minutely.  “That’s right.  He may have filled you up so good, I know how that feels,” Steve looked at the camera and smirked.  “But he didn’t make you go dumb.  Fucking bitch, making me chase you.  You’re mine. This is my cunt.”

“Steve…” she slurred, her head lolling to the side.  Steve picked up the pace and readjusted the angle of his hips just slightly and she was stiffening against him again.  “Uh, uh, ah, ah, AAAAHHH!!!”  Y/N came so hard that she screamed loud and long until her throat gave out and it turned into a silent gasp, her hips shaking violently against him and a full squirt splashing between their bodies.  Steve yelled when her pussy squeezed him like a vice, his knot inflating and catching inside her.  His balls impossibly tightened and he felt like she milked him of everything he had, rutting against her with each pulse of his cock.

He turned their bodies and fell to the bed.  He kept the phone held up and scanned it down their intertwined bodies, his free hand moving her leg up so there was a full view of him locked inside her, his balls still pulsing and emptying inside her.  “My Omega,” he groaned.  He stopped recording and made sure she was comfortable, covering her with the blanket beneath them.  “Sleep well, love.  I’m not done with you yet.”

Steve sent the video off to Bucky then turned off his phone, smiling madly.

[vacuouslyfalse]

Anyway I need the USAmerican tumblr communists to shape up. Read about the October Revolution and the Russian Civil War, the July 26 assault on the Moncada Barracks and the ensuing years of guerrilla warfare, and the long slog of the Chinese Communist alliance with and then civil war against the Nationalists, and seriously consider what it might take to win in a country like the 21st century United States of America, which absolutely dwarfs those examples in wealth and military might.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Daniel Greenfield

The Associated Press recently made headlines by falsely claiming that the Israeli campaign against Hamas “sits among the deadliest and most destructive in recent history” and was even worse than “the Allied bombing of Germany in World War II”.

The Washington Post argued that “Israel has waged one of this century’s most destructive wars in Gaza” while The Wall Street Journal contended that it was “generating destruction comparable in scale to the most devastating urban warfare in the modern record.”

That’s all the more impressive since even accepting the Hamas casualty figures (tainted and inflated numbers in which there are no terrorists, only civilians, and fighting age men are really children) as the media does, this is still probably one of the least violent conflicts in the region.

In 2016, the Washington Post described the Syrian Civil War, with a possible 250,000 deaths, as “the most destructive conflict in the region”. In 2020, the UN had called the Yemeni Civil War, with 150,000 deaths, “the most destructive conflict since the end of the Cold War”.

And then there’s the current phase of the war in Sudan (which the media is currently uninterested in) in which 15,000 people have been killed over the course of last year, as part of a larger conflict that may have claimed as many as 2 million lives.

The Tigray War in Ethiopia over the last three years (which you may have missed because the media chose not to hysterically cover every single bomb dropped and protesters stayed home knitting instead of blocking traffic) may have cost the lives of between 80,000 to 600,000 people.

(El Pais, Spain’s newspaper, which did report on Ethiopia’s civil war, described it as “the deadliest of the 21st century” and then had to pivot to argue later that Israel was worse in, “25,000 deaths in Gaza: Why the destruction of this war exceeds that of other major conflicts”.)

In reality, every significant war and civil war in the region had a much higher death toll than the Hamas war: including the Iraq-Iran War with an estimated 500,000 to 2 million deaths. And in nearby Africa, the Congo War has been blamed for 6 million deaths since 1996.

How does the media justify arguing that 25,000 is more than 2 million?

There are plenty of statistical gimmicks available to anyone who wants to argue that 2 + 2 is really 5. Media “analyses” that claim that Israel’s campaign against Hamas is the deadliest and most destructive, and might even be worse than WWII, adjust their claims accordingly.

As the author of every dubious research study knows, to get the results you want, you manipulate your parameters. Media analyses selectively compare Israel’s campaign to battles, rather than wars, they narrowly focus on very specific timetables, they try to estimate per capita rather than gross figures. But drawing a circle around a particular area and going per capita works both ways. The Hamas attack of Oct 7 killed 10% of the population of Kibbutz Be’eri making it far worse per capita than anything in Israel’s response to those atrocities.

But statistical fudging is all in where the line is drawn to achieve a particular agenda.

For example, the New York Times declares that, “Gaza Deaths Surpass Any Arab Loss in Wars With Israel in Past 40 Years”. Of course the last major Arab-Israeli war took place 50 years ago.

The 40 year figure is based on the Lebanon War, but the actual numbers for that war vary wildly from the thousands according to Israel, 10,000 according to the CIA, 18,000 according to Lebanon and 30,000 according to Arafat and the PLO.

While the media at the time emphasized the highest estimates, in order to criticize the Israeli campaign against the PLO, they now use lower estimates to attack the Gaza campaign.

[play-now-my-lord]

"no seatbelts, we die like men"

in a fascistic society, petit-bourgeois or middle-class life is defined by unendurable hypocrisies. The soul rebels at its intellectual diet of doubletalk, and the fascistic society prescribes as a solution the myth of catharsis in heroic death. In prior societies, defined by the industrialization of combat and the direct military struggle between regional powers for resources and prestige, the usual site for such martyrdom was to be pitched battle. But in the 21st century, regional and global powers fight their wars through remote proxies - rival governments a world away, trained mercenaries, remote-control airplanes, or the more abstract war-proxy of economic competition between rival multinationals. It is this final form of proxy warfare that takes place in the full light of day, and thus this and this alone - corporate warfare - is viewed as an appropriate site for the fascistic death-cult.

We have not yet reached a stage of history where these multinationals are capable by themselves of fielding standing armies and waging pitched battle over points of strategic importance; for those of us living in fascistic societies in this awkward in-between period, we encounter in our smallholder class a desire to prove themselves - and escape the contradictions of life as they must live it - by heroic endurance and eagerness to die in the realms of product choice and consumption.

In the near future, existing public unrest over product availability, price points, perceived social prestige, and brand image will escalate. Laws which already exist criminalizing boycott campaigns for select pressure groups will spread and become more general, and take on the character of inverted sumptuary laws. Fanatical brand loyalty which multinationals already encourage will explode into open sectarian violence.

Death serving the purposes of the state was never the objective of any of the previous century's fascistic death cults - the objective was to personally embody the perceived heroic virtues of the nation or ethnos at the site of death - but it was certainly more than a happy accident that such deaths served the state interest. Likewise, the first man to die for the sake of McDonalds or Disney or whatever other multinational will not perceive his martyrdom as one to the benefit of a corporate bottom line, but as an apotheosis, a blunt declaration of the supremacy of his rational economic choices and his marketing demographic -- and as a welcome reprieve from a life in which that supremacy must be seen as both inevitable and impossible

[non-state-actor]

Holy shit. Warfare in the 21st century really is a different beast isn't it?