#Assault Course Manufacturer

[gemindoorplaygroundmanufacturer]

Top 5 Benefits of Indoor Playgrounds for UAE Schools

Subtitle: How Indoor Play Areas Boost Education and Student Well-Being

In today’s fast-paced, digital-first world, schools in the UAE are embracing innovative ways to support student development. One of the most effective tools? Indoor playgrounds.

Here are the top 5 reasons why more UAE schools are investing in indoor play spaces:

Year-Round Play in Any Weather UAE's climate can limit outdoor play. Indoor playgrounds ensure kids stay active, no matter how hot or dusty it gets.

Improved Focus and Academic Performance Regular physical activity helps children release energy, returning to the classroom refreshed and ready to learn.

Safe, Supervised Environment Designed with safety in mind, indoor playgrounds reduce injury risks and offer a secure space for all ages.

Social Skill Development Cooperative games and role-playing help students learn sharing, teamwork, and empathy in a natural setting.

Boosted School Appeal A well-designed indoor playground adds significant value to a school’s facilities, attracting new enrollments and enhancing reputation.

Conclusion: Indoor playgrounds are more than play areas—they're part of a balanced, enriching school experience. For UAE schools looking to combine safety, fun, and learning, indoor playgrounds are the smart solution.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Two of Them

Requested Here!

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: When Hondo asks you to help catch a car thief, you meet Jim Street. As you get to know one another, you learn that you have a lot in common, but balance each other out perfectly.

Warnings: r loves cars/owns an auto shop & is sarcastic and makes jokes (very similar to Street), mentions of robbery and murder, fluff, softie Street

Word Count: 4.7k+ words

A/N: There's so many things I love about this request and a ton of (personal) references! I hope you all enjoy!🤍

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

Someone wolf whistles as the garage door opens, and you walk faster to see what is worthy of such attention. When you step into the garage if your auto restoration shop, your jaw drops.

“Is that a ’59 Impala?” you ask breathlessly.

“Sure is,” Joel, your righthand man and drivetrain expert, answers. “She’s here for a tune-up. I know you’re busy, boss, so I can handle this one.”

“Yeah, right!” you exclaim. “All of my childhood dreams are under that hood.”

“You dreamt about reconstructed motors as a kid?”

“Do you talk to your wife like this, Joel? Because she’s never going to let you buy a C-10 with that attitude.”

He chuckles before he waves toward the office. “Impala owner is in there. Wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, Joel. Don’t start without me!” you call over your shoulder.

As you enter the lobby, you put on your best customer service smile and straighten your shirt.

“Good afternoon,” you greet. “You must be the owner of that beautiful Impala.”

“Yes, ma’am. My friend Rick Castle told me that you were the person to see. I had the car restored by a guy in Texas, a ground-up rebuild, but it’s not riding as smoothly as it was before. The passenger side – sorry, I’m not very good at explaining these things – it almost feels like it’s bouncing while I drive,” he explains.

“Okay, that’s really helpful. It sounds like it’s probably an alignment issue. We can look at it today and give you a call when we find the issue,” you suggest.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

You review the paperwork he completed with Joel quickly before telling him bye. After putting his contact information into your computer system, you rush back to the garage.

“Let’s find out what’s causing the involuntary hydraulics,” you tell Joel.

“Hondo, get 20 squad in here!” Hicks calls.

As they gather in the situation room, Lieutenant Lynch queues a video pulled from a security camera. Street recognizes the location as the building they raided a few days earlier but remains quiet as she begins speaking.

“This is, of course, the building you raided. If you’ll recall, we hoped to locate an unidentified subject tied to several car robberies, assaults, and more recently, carjacking with deadly force. He killed a driver during a carjacking gone wrong and has continued to get more violent with each crime. We still haven’t identified the perp, courtesy of his never-ending vehicle supply and seeming knowledge of traffic cams. He didn’t seem to think about the security camera across the street from the parking garage before the raid, however.”

She presses a button on the tablet in her hand, and the video begins to play. Several cars come and go, but there’s nothing unusual. Hicks raises his hand to point to the time stamp, and the guys watch, waiting for some smoking gun or clear picture of the guy running from the cops. All that happens, though, is a man leaving in a convertible. Lynch pauses the video again and looks up expectantly.

“Was that a Triumph?” Luca asks excitedly. “Those are still rare in the states, even decades after they stopped manufacturing them.”

“It’s not stock,” Street adds with a shake of his head. “That’s not standard suspension, and the paint is too new to be original. Whoever brought that over had a lot of work done to it.”

“Which is great, makes it easier to find,” Hicks agrees. “Except there’s no plates, no registration, and no one has reported it missing. There’s not even a T3 in that color registered to anyone through the California DMV. We have something to look for, but no more information on who we’re looking for.”

“I know someone who can help,” Hondo says. “Classic cars, new paint, rebuilds…”

“You have a car guy?” Deacon asks. “Why?”

“Of course, I have a car guy,” Hondo scoffs. “My dad may have introduced me.”

“That makes more sense,” Luca says, nodding with Deacon.

“Hold on, guys,” Lynch calls. “The tech team thinks they may have found another lead. Consensus is this video is the same driver.”

She plays a new video, this one taken from a gas station camera. Another newer sports car pulls in, but no one exits the car. It sits for nearly three minutes, then pulls out.

“I’m not as versed as these guys, but that looks like a Lamborghini,” Tan comments. “Can’t be too hard to trace those in Los Angeles.”

“It is when they don’t have the original drivetrain. The back tires spun out way too far in that turn. It’s been modified, too,” Luca points out.

“He’s either got a thing for modified sports cars or he’s someone who’s flipping them to be completely different cars after he steals them,” Street hypothesizes.

“Your car guy gonna be able to help with that?” Hicks asks Hondo.

“Oh, yeah,” he answers. “This case’ll be closed in a week.”

“Then get out of here. You’ve got a rare car to track down.”

“One more thing,” Lynch says. “Really, I promise this is the last thing. None of those cars have been seen again. Seems like he drives them once and then ditches them.”

“He has to have his own garage, then,” Street says. “One that I wish I had.”

“Then it’s a bigger target,” Hondo declares. “Let’s roll.”

The chime connected to the front door of your shop rings loudly and you tell Joel to go check on the customer. You are under a 1977 Chevrolet Nova and elbow-deep in the engine bay. Even if you’d wanted to be the first face they saw, given that it is your business, you wouldn’t be able to get out from under the car before they assumed no one was here.

“Ah ha,” you murmur.

You pull the broken mounting bracket down past the ballast. It falls to the floor with a loud ting before you roll out from under the car. As you sit up and wipe your grease-covered hands on your coveralls, you see Hondo looking at you with his brows raised.

“Hello,” you greet.

“You got a little something right… everywhere,” he jokes.

“Funny,” you reply as you stand. “If your eyesight is that good, it’s no wonder you made SWAT.”

Someone laughs behind him, and you lean to the side. His entire squad waits in the lobby, and you wave before returning your attention to Hondo.

“I take it you’re not here about your dad’s car then,” you muse.

“Not today. We need some help with a case, if you have the time,” he explains.

“Sure. I’ll have Joel take you to my office. Let me clean up and I’ll meet you – all of you, I guess – in there in a minute.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“You owe me an entire car at this point, Hondo,” you call as you walk out of the garage.

Once you’re out of your stained overalls and have washed all of the grease and car-related grime off of your skin, you return to your office. Hondo and three other men wait beside your desk, and you invite them to sit. Hondo introduces you to Tan, Luca, and Street, and you shake each of their hands before you sit across from them. Hondo rolls his eyes when you smile at Street, but you’re not sure why.

“So, what exactly does Metro SWAT need from an auto shop?” you ask.

“Long story short, there’s a guy stealing sports cars; classics, fresh off the floor, and everything in between. Then he’s customizing them, driving them once, and ditching them for a new illegally obtained ride,” Hondo answers.

You nod as you think, then lean on your elbows on your desk. “Why customize them?”

“To make them untraceable, we think,” Luca answers. “You can’t report a car missing if it doesn’t exist anymore.”

“That tracks,” you agree. “But then the question becomes, how do you ditch them? You can’t leave something like that at a chop shop, the parts would bring more issues.”

“Private garage,” Street says. “Or maybe he’s selling them out of the county. Lots of possibilities.”

“It takes an incredibly rich, incredibly dumb person to treat cars like that,” you comment.

“We deal with criminals,” Hondo interrupts. “Rich and dumb is kind of our thing.”

“No, Hondo, cars aren’t like people. They fight back, they don’t just disappear without a trace.”

“She’s right,” Street adds. “These cars are more than property to be stolen.”

“What are you saying?” Hondo asks.

“Ever read Christine?” you joke.

“Or heard of Decepticons?” Street adds.

You smile at him again, and he nods before he winks quickly.

“So, can you help us or not?” Hondo inquires.

“Yeah, of course. What do you need me to do?”

“We’ve got some security cam footage of the cars he’s altered. We need to know where he’s getting the work done, or info on where a private garage big enough for a collection like this would be.”

“I’d be happy to look. I can’t promise anything, though. My clientele is more of the rebuild this classic or fix this issue not the I want to make a rare sports car even more unique off the books.”

“That’s why we’re here.” Hondo looks at his phone quickly and huffs. “Uh, Street, you stay and go over the videos with her. Deac said he and Chris need backup.”

“You got it,” Street answers.

Hondo thanks you quickly before he, Luca, and Tan leave. You’re left alone in your office with Street and aren’t sure how to start a conversation after joking together while Hondo filled you in on the case.

“Uh, here’s the videos. There’s only a few on this, but it should be enough to get an idea of what he’s doing,” Street says as he passes you a memory stick.

You take it from him and insert it into your computer. As the videos begin playing, you rewind it, pause it, and take a few notes. The cars in it don’t have anything in common, other than the fact that they’re stolen and modified.

“Well, I can say for sure that my guys didn’t do this work. Nobody I work with did, either. I’ll ask around and see what I can find,” you tell Street.

“I appreciate that,” he replies. “You know, when Hondo said he had a car guy, I was expecting…”

“A guy?” you guess.

“I mean, yeah. Middle-aged, beer belly, his name on the sign. The usual.”

“Sounds like my shapewear is doing its job if you don’t see a beer belly,” you joke.

“Please, you know how pretty you are,” Street replies.

“Seems like you think so.”

You lean forward and smile as you return the video drive to Street. He returns your smile and opens his mouth, likely to make another joke, before Joel knocks on the door.

“We’ve got another customer, boss. With a ’73 Corolla,” he informs.

“Excellent timing,” you mumble.

Street stands as you do and says, “Call Hondo, or me, whoever, if you find anything. Thanks for helping.”

“I will. Thanks, Street.”

He leaves through the lobby, and you take a deep breath. Joel smiles as he watches you, but you tell him to get back to work before he can comment.

“On what?” he yells behind you.

“Hondo, we’re not even doing anything,” Street groans in HQ the following morning. “Just let me go make sure she doesn’t need help or anything!”

“She knows more about cars than you do,” Hondo answers.

“That’s not what I mean. C’mon, man, she has an auto shop. Are you really going to make me sit here when I could be solving a case in my dream garage?”

“Hondo!” Deacon calls. “We’ve got another video. New car this time, but it doesn’t look modified.”

Street looks toward Hondo expectantly, and nearly cheers when Hondo sighs and tells him to go. He accepts the video and rushes to his motorcycle. Work will be more fun with you, he thinks.

“You’re back,” you say when Street walks into the garage.

“And you’re working on a 1960s Mustang,” he says dreamily.

“1964,” you tell him. “Want to take a look?”

“I’m supposed to be working. We have a new video with a different car.”

“Surely it can wait a few seconds, so you can look at the new 289 sitting pretty under the hood.”

“Yeah, we can wait,” Street agrees as he follows you to the hood of the car.

After Street takes a few minutes to admire the work you’ve done on the Mustang, you lead him to your office and bring up the new video.

“I haven’t seen it, but the people in the lab didn’t think it had been modified,” Street explains.

“Okay. Let’s see,” you say, turning the screen toward him.

Your shoulder presses against his arm as you watch, but you’re both too interested in the sports car on the screen to notice that you’re in shared space.

“I don’t see anything,” Street says.

You drag the video slowly and pause it when the wheels turn.

“That car shouldn’t be all-wheel drive. It’s a minor conversion compared to the other work you’ve shown me.”

“Who makes a Datsun 240z all-wheel drive?” Street murmurs.

“Who steals a Datsun 240z?” you counter. “They stopped making them for a reason. Short of a complete overhaul, they weren’t worth their weight in metal.”

“As right as you are, that doesn’t bring us any closer to finding this guy.”

“No,” you agree. “And none of my friends have heard anything. We’re getting the word out, though, so as soon as it reaches the right person, I’ll have more information for you. It’d be great if he decided to switch garages and was my next customer.”

“It would be easier.” Street leans back in the seat and looks at the pictures on your wall. “Best and worst customer to date, go,” he asks.

“Ooh, okay,” you say excitedly. “Best? A writer who lives up in the hills has brought me over 20 different rare classics to restore from the ground up. The worst was last week. Kid came in with a brand new, stock Lambo Huracan and wanted the double-clutch tranny switched out for a 4-speed automatic.”

“In a Huracan?” Street repeats incredulously. “I… I feel like I just aged twenty years.”

“Tell me about it. I asked him if he could drive it the way it was and never got an answer.”

“Did you do it?”

“Are you kidding? No! I’m in this business for the cars, and that’s just sacrilegious.”

Hondo knocks on your open door, and he’s leaning against it with his brows raised when you look up.

“There’s two of them!” he exclaims dramatically as he looks back at the rest of the guys. “I thought you and Street were bad enough separately, but this isn’t fair.”

“Can I help you Hondo?” you ask, ignoring his comment. Although, you don’t hate him viewing this as you and Street, together, as one.

“I just came to see if anything came of that video,” Hondo says.

“Nothing inherently helpful. Your smoking gun is still lost.”

“Keep looking,” Hondo requests, tapping his knuckles against the doorframe before he leads 20 squad away.

Street watches him leave, shakes his head, and turns back to you to ask, “How’d you get into cars?”

“My, uh, my home life wasn’t great growing up. Cars were my escape. From the time I was old enough to realize that walking out into the driveway to mess with the cars got me away from the fighting, I was out there constantly. Then it became a love for cars and everything they mean to people. This isn’t just my job, it’s my passion.”

“I lived in foster homes for too long,” Street says. “When I met my brother, Noah, he got me into motorcycles, which led to cars. We dreamed about getting a Ducati someday.”

“See? Cars mean something, they’re more than electronics and gas to get you from A to B. They’re life itself for some of us.”

“And you treat them like that. When I get that Ducati, I’ll bring it to you.”

“For what? Those are perfect as is.”

“Maybe it’ll just be an excuse to see you.”

You smile and shake your head, but you know that you’d welcome him in, anytime, with or without a Ducati.

“… And then after the toe, caster, and camber are matched up on both sides, we can move on to complete the diagnostics,” you finish.

“Okay,” the young girl says. “I need to call my dad really fast. Can I come back in and let you know after that?”

“Of course. Take your time.”

As she walks out, you notice Street standing in the doorway to the garage.

“That happen often?” he asks, gesturing toward the girl standing outside.

“Occasionally. Mostly with younger customers,” you answer. “Must be nice to have a parental relationship like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, what can I do for you, Officer Street?”

“Are you ever going to call me Jim?” he asks.

“I like cars, so Street is more fun,” you reply with a shrug.

“I actually came to give you a break. Hondo said you’ve been sending him updates day and night. You have to step back from it all before you burn out,” Street explains.

“I can’t. I have cars to finish, and some of my contacts have leads that seem promising, but they have to go through a chain of different garages, and…”

Street steps to you and lays his hands on your shoulders. He waits until you look into his eyes and relax to say, “You need a break. Trust me.”

“I need to finish with her,” you whisper. “Five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” he agrees. “And then I’m dragging you out of here if you won’t go willingly.”

Five minutes later, you follow Street into the small customer parking area outside the lobby. He walks to a motorcycle, and you eye it in admiration.

“This is your bike? It’s gorgeous, Street,” you say, running your fingers over the smooth metal body.

“It’s fast too,” he replies.

You accept a helmet and put it on as he climbs onto the bike. The Cardo logo on the side of the helmet catches your attention, but as you sit behind him and wrap your arms around him, you’re more than happy to ride in silence and decompress.

When you get back to the garage, you climb off the bike and hug Street before he can swing his leg over.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I did need that.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know,” he jokes as he returns your hug.

“Neither am I. And you shift into fourth too soon. That’s why it revs harder.”

“I knew coming to see you would embarrass me eventually,” Street laments. “But at least you’re pretty and really close to me.”

“I can move,” you say against his shoulder.

“No, thanks. Not until I have to go back to work.”

His phone rings in his pocket and you laugh as he grumbles, “Hondo always has to ruin the moment.”

The phone on your desk rings again as you lower the new L1 engine into a C-10. You roll your eyes at the sound but refuse to answer it.

“Somebody else answer the phone!” you call. “I can’t answer another stupid question today!”

Joel salutes you as he walks through your open door. He returns a moment later with the cordless phone in his hand and smiles.

“It’s Street. Would you like me to pass along your message?”

You extend your cleaner hand and tuck the phone between your ear and shoulder to say, “Hey, Street.”

“Can you remove the hemi from my Charger?” he asks. “It’s too loud when I drive.”

“I will hang up on you,” you threaten.

The line beeps and you pull the phone from your ear with pinched brows.

“Not if I hang up on you first,” Street says from the doorway. “Which is rude, by the way.”

“Have more videos for me to watch?” you ask loudly as you lean into the engine bay of the truck.

“No, just wanted to drop by. Nice body… the truck, I mean.”

“Sure, you did.”

You grunt as you stand and pass a screwdriver to Street.

“I don’t work here.”

“Yet you’re here every day,” Joel says from inside the cab of the truck.

“Not my fault your boss freelances for my boss,” Street replies.

“I told Hondo this morning that I hadn’t heard anything,” you interrupt as you wipe your hands on a rag.

“I know. I just wanted to drop by. I got off early, so, here I am.”

“Hmm. I was hoping you’d say you were undercover or something.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to believe this is how you dress when you’re not in uniform,” you joke.

“You’re covered in-“

“I’m at work,” you defend. “Hazards of the job. And don’t bring up the fact that my laundry room smells like motor oil because you can’t prove that.”

Your phone buzzes on the workbench behind you, and you apologize as you walk past Street to get it. He watches your eyes widen as you press the screen a few times.

“Call Hondo,” you demand.

“But-“

“I know who your car thief is. He’s on his way here right now with the Triumph T3.”

“How? Why?” Street questions.

“The guy he hired to do the work thought they were really his cars. Apparently, my name came up and with the message about him going through the automotive grapevine, his former mechanic recommended me for a modification tune-up,” you explain quickly.

Hondo arrives less than ten minutes later with the rest of 20 Squad. He asks what is so urgent as he looks between you and Street, though there isn’t much room between you.

“He isn’t ditching the cars. He’s still driving the cars because the Triumph slid last night and now he’s bringing it here to be repaired,” you tell Hondo.

“Okay, it slid and he’s bringing in one stolen car. What does that mean for me? And no automotive speak,” Hondo replies.

“Could I interest you in the Cybertronian translation?”

“Tell me what my bad guy did.”

“If I can convince him to list every car he may want me to work on in the future, could you get a warrant? I’ll try to get an address and a name for him, though they may not be legitimate.”

“We can certainly try,” Deacon agrees. “But he doesn’t seem like the type that will answer questions.”

“I have a way of getting people to talk. Especially car people. Guys like him like to brag, so if I one him up, he won’t have a choice but to tell me what you need to know.”

“Just be careful,” Street says. “Don’t let him get so cocky he thinks he has to prove himself in any way except talking about cars.”

“I won’t. But you guys need to get out of sight. He’ll want to see the garage and get a feel for the security.”

“We can pretend to be security,” Street argues.

“Nah, you got a cop face, man,” Joel says from inside the truck.

“Joel, I’m going to marry your boss and ask her to fire you,” Street shoots back.

“I want to hear more about that later,” you interrupt. “But seriously, get out of sight.”

A few minutes later, a Triumph T3 stops outside of the lobby entrance. The man who enters looks like the driver in the security videos, but you have to get more information before anything else can happen.

“Hi,” you greet. “You must be the gentleman Josh told me about. He said you had a classic, but I was not expecting a ‘50s Triumph. That’s a gorgeous car, sir.”

“I appreciate it. She’s my baby, but the steering is a bit off since I hit a wet patch last night and the back end slid.”

“That sounds like a simple enough fix. If you can just fill out some information-“

“Josh said you’d do this off the books for me, like he has. Cash upfront.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you agree. “Go ahead and pull her into the garage.”

He nods and exits the front door. You sigh and move into the garage, planning how to get him to talk about the other cars he has stolen and where he keeps them.

“Nice facility,” he compliments as he enters your garage. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a couple incredibly rare classics that I work on often, and those customers deserve the best.”

“Rarer than a 1953 Triumph T3?” the man asks, defensive and growing insulted.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve had a Model T in here, several European cars, including a T2, plus modern sports cars.”

“I’ve got a garage full of classics that make those seem like Hot Wheels.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur as you lift the hood of the Triumph. “I’ve had my hands in a 1931 Bugatti Type 41. I don’t think it gets much better.”

“My collection is worth a dozen of those outdated bugs!” he exclaims. “The Triumph, a Lamborghini Aventador with custom drivetrains, and I’d bet this car that you haven’t seen a Datsun 240z in mint condition with all-wheel drive. If your little dump of a garage could handle even that! My 25,000 square foot garage has cars you’ve never even heard of.”

“LAPD SWAT!” Hondo calls as he and his team enter the garage. “You’re under arrest for grand theft auto, carjacking, assault and battery, murder, and about fifteen more charges that I don’t have the patience to list. Now, when an arrest warrant goes through without a name, you know that’s a bad person.”

“Do not push him up against this car!” you demand as Hondo grabs his shoulder. “Toolbox, wall, anything other than a pristine T3.”

“Thanks for the help,” Hondo calls over his shoulder as he leads the thief out of the garage.

“It’s a shame such a pretty car has to go into evidence before it returns to its owner,” you tell Street.

“Yeah. Listen-“

“You didn’t hear a word I just said, did you?” you ask.

“Do you want to go out with me?” he asks.

You smile as you answer, “I’d love to.”

“Trust me, you’re gonna love this place,” you promise as you take Street’s hand. “All of the food is served in trays that look like classic cars.”

Street laughs as you bounce excitedly and uses your joined hands to pull you close.

“If you could buy one classic car, what would it be?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation before asking him the same question.

“Car? Probably an Aston Martin or a ‘60s Impala. Something sleek, classic, dangerously fast,” he answers. “Motorcycle is still a Ducati.”

“You’d suit an Aston Martin or an Impala,” you agree. “Or you can just ride shotgun in mine.”

“I was born to drive,” Street says dramatically.

You laugh at him as you slide into a booth in the restaurant. Street follows, setting the tray of food before you as he sits beside you.

“Are all of our dates going to be car-themed?” Street asks.

“You’re the one who already planned our wedding, and I’ll go ahead and tell you now that I’m not firing Joel, so you tell me.”

“I don’t care what we do as long as you’re there,” Street decides.

You smile as you turn toward him, and when you raise your chin, Street kisses you quickly. You momentarily forget about the car-themed trays holding your food, too distracted by his affection to care about which model you got. But then he tells you he got the better one and you push him away from you to check. Street laughs as he pulls you close again, and you’ve never been happier to have so much in common with one person. Maybe there are two of you, but the balance and love Street brings is perfect.

[probablyasocialecologist]

Safety is a real, material set of conditions: a roof over your head and freedom from violence or injury. British politicians aren’t at risk of being bombed or seeing their children dismembered. Yet it was their speculative safety in the spotlight while Palestinians under military assault became a footnote in the vote.    It’s true, of course, that two British MPs have been killed in recent years. But it’s a cheap shot for politicians to invoke their deaths to avoid engaging with the public about an ongoing genocide. When politicians say they feel unsafe in this context, they mean they feel uncomfortable being challenged by their constituents. 

[...]

When discomfort is perceived as danger, protest is seen as harassment. And when political dissent is positioned as a threat to national security, our human rights are at risk. As sure as night follows day, when politicians begin to cite safety concerns, curtailment of democratic freedoms isn’t far behind. Civil liberties will always play second fiddle to securitisation. Judging by Sunak’s doublespeak at the lectern last Friday, the government plans to corrode our democracy under the guise of protecting it. Sunak’s emergency address was an authoritarian wishlist written in Islamophobic ink: curtail protest rights; threaten to remove immigrants’ “right to be here” if they speak what is considered “hate” at protests; reference streets being “hijacked” by “extremists” and “redouble support” for surveillance programme Prevent. It was framed in response to pro-Palestine protests, but entrenches an established anti-Muslim, anti-protest agenda that promotes surveillance in the name of “safety”. The name of Sunak’s “Safety of Rwanda” bill shows us he already has a cynical definition of this word.  It’s curious how the social capital of playing the protector is often afforded to the violent perpetrators. If we use another very British example, the high-profile transphobic lobby that is obsessed with “women’s safety” has, in material terms, driven transphobic hate crimes to historic levels, but done nothing to end violence against women. In the same vein, it’s inevitable that Sunak’s measures to “combat the forces of division” will create even more far-right racism and state violence for Muslims. The dominant force of division is, of course, the state itself. Trans people and Muslims alike are sociological folk devils; minority groups in society positioned as a threat to social order. The government’s self-authorised mandate to marshal these manufactured threats justifies state control for everyone. In reality, the marginalised groups identified as the enemy within face crushing systemic oppression already. If anyone is unsafe, it’s them.

[rallamajoop]

A needlessly detailed analysis of Heisenberg's Conspiracy Board

One of the random details I was most eager to find in the RE8 game assets was Heisenberg's conspiracy board. (It's labeled 'strategy board' in the game files, but I think we all know what we're looking at here.)

The assets consisted of a base layer (below) with separate higher-res photos of Chris, Mia, Rose (with Ethan!) and the other three lords (clean versions of those last three, plus Heisenberg, can be found over here). The actual model is more 3-dimensional than you might think, with many of the photos displayed as separate 'flaps' that stick out from the base board (which does unfortunately make stitching together higher-res screencaps of the full board very difficult).

There are a few reasons why I wanted better pics of the board, but a real big one was catching an in-game glimpse of this one smaller photo on the upper right of some guy in sunglasses and going, wait, is that Wesker?

Having extracted the highest-res version of that photo possible... well, for that to be Wesker, he'd have to have come back to life and aged about 20 years. Which wouldn't entirely be out of character (he's come back from the dead at least once already, and even Chris is looking his age these days) but is really that who it's supposed to be? IDEK, and neither does this one Reddit thread I found discussing the same question.

There are a few other human-faces around the board ‒ mostly some mustachioed dude(s?) ‒ some of them entirely hidden under other photos on the finished board, but none I recognise. Presumably they're meant to be folks who are/were involved with Miranda or other bio-weapons research, past or present, and maybe they're characters set to appear in some future RE installment. But they may just be stock photos, thrown in to fill space.

But having finally posted this thing and come back to it again this morning, I'm looking at that one larger guy in one of those photos and going, wait, isn't that the Duke?

Goddamn, it is, isn't it? You can even see the lapels of his jacket and the curve of the wagon roof over his head. How did I miss that? XD No prizes for guessing why Heisenberg might think he's worth including on a conspiracy board!

Most of the rest of the board is covered with photos of various monstrous bio-weapons. Again, this is probably meant to represent a mix of Miranda's work and that of other bio-weapons manufacturers. Someone more familiar with extended Resi-canon than I am might even be able to identify some of these creatures, but none were immediately familiar to me.

Even the one zombie face below that looks almost exactly like a screencap from that first iconic zombie-reveal-scene from the very first Resident Evil turned out not to be (and yes, I checked both the original version and the remake), though it may still be meant to evoke that moment. The photo behind it, meanwhile, looks to be just a pair of soldats.

The other big 'notice me!' feature is, of course, the big map with 'BSAA Come!!' scribbled on it. The circled target location is the ceremony site, identifiable by the four huge statues, and the date at the bottom (February 10, 2020) is the date of Miranda's planned ceremony (tomorrow morning).

Presumably, this is supposed to be a map the BSAA themselves prepared for troop briefings, but no-one's going to get much out of trying to take this thing too literally. Realistically, the only reason "BSAA Come!!" is written in such big letters here is to let the player know at a glance that Heisenberg is clued in enough to be expecting a BSAA assault.

That's about it for really obvious features. There's not a lot else here that the casual viewer is likely to recognise or find particularly significant. But I'm way past 'casual' in over-analysing this damn game, and I can point out a dozen other features on this board that might (or might not) be awash with implications about all the juicy intel Heisenberg's got his hands on.

Basically, it's time to play my favourite game: Cheaply Reused Asset or Significant Callback?

See, much as I'd love for every last detail on this board to be dense with important lore, the reality is that the player gets barely a few seconds to look at this thing in-game, and so most of what's on it was probably thrown together in a hurry by some overworked member of the asset team without much thought. And nothing demonstrates this better than the fact that two different photo clusters (circled below) from the right edge of the board are duplicated wholesale as you move left across the board.

Someone's just copy-pasted these in their entirety, slightly reduced them in size, and assumed no-one would notice. The asset team is only human, and believes in working smarter not harder as much as anyone.

Then there's the fact that a number of other assets you can find on this board are actually posters advertising fishing equipment, which you can find around the reservoir, near where you pick up the boat key.

Why would Heisenberg include these on his conspiracy board? There's no good reason, they're just a convenient assets to fill in some space.

And then there's my all-time favourite random detail on this board ‒ a completely random photo of a bottle of Dulvey Beer, two bags of Half-Whole flour, and a carton of orange juice.

Now, maybe somewhere in these games, you can find these exact items arranged in this position next to never-before-found coded clue to the future of the series! But more likely, this is just the asset team making an inside-joke about asset recycling, using a picture of some of the most oft-reused assets in the game, on a board that's already covered in reused assets from elsewhere. (Look, I thought it was funny, even if no-one else looking at the board is going to get it.)

So, yeah, a lot of what's on this board means nothing, except that whoever made it had limited time and a lot of space to fill. And That's Okay.

But then we get to the stuff where I do really wanna believe its inclusion means something. For one, the board contains copies of both the mission briefing Chris' team is carrying when they abduct Ethan (the one you find by the overtuned truck), and Rose's BSAA-headered medical checkup report.

I already have this whole theory that that same medical report being leaked to Miranda might just be a major unsung catalyst for how she realised Rose's potential, and thus set all the events of the game in motion. So finding that the same report has made it's way onto Heisenberg's conspiracy board is a lovely bit of potential validation. Similarly, the implication that Heisenberg might have known about Chris' mission to Ethan's home before it even happened has some tantalising implications (or maybe he just found it out by the van where Ethan left it).

Rose's medical report isn't the only BSAA-headered document on the board either ‒ there's another on the top right (outlined in yellow) that doesn't correspond to any in-game asset I can find (presumably it wasn't actually needed for whatever it was created for). There's plenty elsewhere in this game to suggest Miranda has contacts in the BSAA feeding her all their secrets ‒ and whether Heisenberg got these reports from Miranda or independently, the fact he's got them at all suggests one hell of an info-leak.

Speaking of Miranda, you can find a couple of copies of some of her own research notes on Heisenberg's board ‒ this is the same asset used in her lab under the graveyard, where you can find notes about her experiments on 'Alcina D'. So that's another interesting file that it makes total sense Heisenberg might include on his board.

The board also includes a couple of extracts from that issue of The Dulvey Daily from Ethan's home, with the article about the closing of the Baker investigation. Realistically, this is likely to be another case of a random asset being used without much thought, but it does make sense that Heisenberg would have followed that investigation (and I can't help but loved that Heisenberg felt the Horn of Plenty article was worth including in his vast conspiracy-network ‒ I told you they were shady!)

You can find bits of a couple of Heisenberg's own Soldat-x-rays on the board too. Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but they do look nicely sinister, so onto the board they go! (In multiple places again)

That's about it for assets I could identify. However, there are also a few photos from around the village itself on the board ‒ two of which were evidently screenshots taken from Ethan's own point of view, given that his gun is clearly visible in the bottom left of the screen in customary position. Objectively, this makes no sense, but it sure does add to that "someone's been watching you" atmosphere that any good conspiracy board should aspire to.

(I also feel like I should totally be recognising that doorway in the photo about the 'o' in 'mother', but can't place it.)

And for one final, bizarre detail, you may notice this weird photo of someone's feet appears in a few places on the board. And it's definitely the same photo ‒ the details line up perfectly, right down to the pin and that bit of string. But for some reason, someone's added a lace skirt to the feet in the example on the left.

You can't even see that skirt in the finished board (it's under Miranda's picture), but it amused me nonetheless.

Before we finish, have a few more close-ups on some of the other weird photos you can find on the board.

So, what conclusions can we draw here? There's a ton of detail on Heisenberg's conspiracy board to suggest he (or perhaps Miranda) has access to files from the BSAA and whoever Chris is now working with/for, that he's researched what happened at Dulvey and has certainly helped himself to Miranda's own files, if you'd like to read significance into what was included on the board. But there's also a ton of complete nonsense, so, you know, pretty much just RE lore operating as per usual.

I hope you've all enjoyed my little descent-into-madness while picking this thing apart.

[she-who-paints-with-fire]

SPIRIT OF RADIO

AT THE HEIGHT OF THE IPS-N EXPOSÉ, AN UNIDENTIFIED MONARCH PILOT CONDUCTED A SOLO RAID ON CARINA'S PRIMARY COMMUNICATIONS ARRAY. THIS IS THAT STORY.

The spires and antennae of the Yamamoto Communications Array loomed in the near-distance, reaching upwards like lightning rods to heaven from a brutalist concrete base covered in armor plating and turrets. Lux could see guards on patrol in mass-manufactured Drakes and Tortugas, walking along well-trod patrol routes. Prepared trenches and ditches, as well as cleared foliage, spoke to hidden weapons and fortifications; a ground assault would be suicidal.

So, naturally, Lux kept her course and soared directly over the worst of the fortifications, aiming directly for the spires of the Array itself.

Push the envelope. They have no idea anything is going on; they're slow to react. Exploit that.

Her goal was to cut the communications array down, very literally. Half of the communications on Carina ran through the Yamamoto Array, and nearly all of the military communications, with dozens of NHPs working overtime to secure the transmissions against tampering—not to mention it was also the planetary Omninode. Destroying the antennae physically would mean that her tampering would last much longer. Long enough for her to find Jane and get her back to the Assumption of Innocence.

[They've noticed us.] Sacred Symbol's words weren't verbal; more like a buzzing at the back of her mind. [They're confused. Command thinks the outer patrols are hallucinating.]

We'll use that to our advantage, then.

Dawn Always Comes landed on the array's dish with a dancer's grace. Lux sized up the mast in her mind's eye, imagining it in every light, from every direction, in every detail.

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

Then, she crushed it in her mind. It shattered into a million pieces; a perfect thing, ruined.

[GANDIVA MISSILES RELOADING]

Explosions rippled across the surface armor plating, finding loose screws and worn edges and ripping them apart. The superstructure shuddered and groaned as unexpected stresses began to shear and tear and rip.

[An alarm just went up. They've sent a security team to deal with us.]

As expected.

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

She took off again and loosed another barrage, this time into one of the cable guideways that kept the antenna steady. The sudden storm of fire wrenched the heavy ring free--with a satisfying twang the cable snapped back, crashing into the antenna and causing an appreciable amount of damage.

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

[RADAR LOCK WARNING]

Dawn Always Comes danced right and in the next second where she had been was consumed with flame and shot. Magnesium strips simmered, ball bearings scattered, some pinged off her armor; her mech spun around, hovering in the air.

Two Tortugas, armed with their regular war gear. The sigil of IPS-N was emblazoned on their armored pauldrons. Both looked to be factory-fresh.

I don't have time to deal with you.

[SHARANGA MISSILES ARMED]

[JAVELIN ROCKETS ARMED]

Lux closed her eyes again. The Tortuga pilots saw her frame move and braced themselves, preparing to weather a storm of missiles; two solid mountains facing a hurricane.

[SHARANGA MISSILES RELOADING]

[JAVELIN ROCKETS RELOADING]

It never came. Lux opened her eyes and watched as a spiderweb of cracks spread around the two warriors, then with the flick of her finger brought her Javelins down and shattered the ground on which they stood. The two Tortuga pilots would survive--probably, though the fall was long--but they were out of the way for now.

[PROXIMITY WARNING--] She had barely heard the warning before her mech staggered under the weight of a heavy impact and a shot bit into her shoulder. Even with the subjectivity sync dampening the pain, she had to bite her tongue to keep from shouting.

She turned. A shotgun with legs rammed into her chest.

Damn it.

Karateka wavered backwards as the small wrecking ball attempted to ram her again and watched it shoot past her, then turn and rack the slide on its shotgun. The impact of the shell ejecting dented the armor plating of the cable guideway beside it.

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

The world paused for a moment as both combatants sized one another up. Dawn Always Comes, painted in the dull greys and blacks of raid camouflage, hovered in the air beside the main antenna mast.

[SHARANGA MISSILES ARMED]

Across from her, the Caliban, a sword made purely for the purpose of being a sword, took the stance of a sprinter on the starting block.

[JAVELIN ROCKETS ARMED]

The ejected shell fell to the surface of the dish.

The match began.

Karateka didn't close her eyes, didn't hold her breath, didn't shift at all as she let loose with a barrage of Sharanga Missiles that impacted just short of the charging Caliban. The Caliban returned fire and sent a shot wide of Dawn Always Comes, pinging off the antenna's plating. Lux wove right, narrowly avoiding a ram from her opponent, and landed a solid kick on their backside as they hurtled past. Gravity pressed her into her seat as she fired her thrusters and roared upwards, chasing the Caliban with Gandiva Missiles.

Sacred Symbol, take control. Tlaloc Protocol.

[As you command, fair Lancer. Assuming targeting control. Locking to EM signature... oh my. They haven't done a very good job hiding from my sight.]

Electronic strings reached out as Sacred Symbol turned the micromissiles into marionettes, subtly adjusting their approach angles until they slammed one-two-three-four into the Caliban's arm, breaking past the armor and shattering the bone inside the pilot's arm. Auto-deploying pain-blockers prevented the pilot from collapsing.

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

Karateka didn't let up. Immediately, a pair of Gandiva missiles streaked away. The Caliban dodged sideways at the last possible moment, missile maneuvering jets scorching marks onto the armor plating. The pilot within the hardsuit-sized mech almost seemed to smile.

[TLALOC PROTOCOL: RETARGETING]

They quickly stopped smiling as the Gandivas slammed into the guideway holding up the antenna mast, causing the structure to shiver, shake, and topple.

Time to go. Karateka gunned the thrusters—back and away, into the sky, watching as the antenna screamed a metallic death rattle as it tore free, delicate electronics shattering. In an instant, the comms array (and with it half the communications on Carina) shorted out, and Karateka was on the move again, leaving a bloodied Caliban and a confused garrison behind.

Her speed climbed, climbed, climbed—100 meters per second, 200 meters per second, 300 meters per second. A tremendous crack sounded as she broke Mach 1, screaming towards the detainment facility she knew the Intern was being kept in.

I'm coming, Jay.

[subdee]

Project 2025 goons wrote the memos requiring that

all "policy making" positions at federal agencies henceforth be political appointments, AKA filled by Trump loyalists rather than career civil servants;

2. All federal positions be "in office" only - not work from home - in a move Elon Musk has said would lead to a "welcome" voluntary reduction in the federal workforce.

...according to Molly White (they forgot to scrub the metadata from their PDF reports), so all that stuff about how Trump wasn't going to do project 2025 was of course a lie and we should expect them to continue shoving their unpopular agenda down our throats, in many cases illegally and contra the will of Congress.

BUT WHICH PROJECT 2025 GOON WROTE THE MEMO PAUSING ALL FEDERAL GRANT MONEY AS OF 5PM TODAY?

Edit: federal judge blocked the freeze, here's the details of that:

(Gonna tag all these posts "us politics" for anyone who wants to start a blacklist for mental health reasons.

Me personally... well I stopped following the news, and to keep up with all the fuckery I am just reading metafilter and subscribed to https://whatthefuckjusthappenedtoday.com/ for the daily summary of exactly how quickly we are devolving into a fascist, anti-environmental, anti-public health, oligarchical dictatorship in the USA. )

It was definitely a goon because, I mean, look at this:

The American people elected Donald J. Trump to be President of the United States and gave him a mandate to increase the impact of every federal taxpayer dollar. In Fiscal Year 2024, of the nearly $10 trillion that the Federal Government spent, more than $3 trillion was Federal financial assistance, such as grants and loans. Career and political appointees in the Executive Branch have a duty to align Federal spending and action with the will of the American people as expressed through Presidential priorities. Financial assistance should be dedicated to advancing Administration priorities, focusing taxpayer dollars to advance a stronger and safer America, eliminating the financial burden of inflation for citizens, unleashing American energy and manufacturing, ending "wokeness" and the weaponization of government, promoting efficiency in government, and Making America Healthy Again. The use of Federal resources to advance Marxist equity, transgenderism, and green new deal social engineering policies is a waste of taxpayer dollars that does not improve the day-to-day lives of those we serve.

Goon writing through and through. Impacted are programs such as:

the Department of Agriculture’s tribal food sovereignty program,

Head Start,

the Veterans’ Affairs Department’s suicide prevention and legal services grants,

the Low-Income Home Energy Assistance, or LIHEAP, program,

Meals on Wheels,

numerous sexual assault prevention programs within the Department of Justice.

Plus basically all the rest of them via uncertainty... this is money already approved and allocated by Congress incidentally so 100% illegal for Trump to unilaterally block BTW, and there's a bunch of lawsuits pushing back already just as there were for the "birthright citizenship" memo (already temporarily blocked by a Federal judge) and the pause on all new foreign aid.

So now we have to argue, is this sheer incompetence or is it a deliberate attempt to cause mass civil unrest and/or demoralize, kill off or drive out the Democratic voters? Does it matter when people - all kinds of people but mainly poor people - are going to die while this mess, or one of the other many messes of this admin, gets sorted out?

I dunno, but I can tell you that when I worked for a school district that did budgeting like this - acting like every penny was personally coming out of the pocket of the superintendent - it was because said superintendent was stealing money from the budget. So I personally wouldn't discount that the chaos is intentional and a cover for mass theft from the federal budget... they just (illegally) fired all the nonpartisan federal budget inspectors, of course.

Anyway... WTFjusthappenedtoday for your daily summary of exactly how much fuckery is going on today. And in the interests of not depressing anyone further, I'll end it there.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Timothy Snyder at Thinking About...:

Fascism places emotion over reason. Words are to become just tools to achieve the vision of the Leader. In our post-truth world, this takes the very special form of the inversion of meaning: fascists call other people "fascists" and antisemites call other people "antisemites." This is taking place right now, in the United States, before our eyes, at the highest levels of our government. An example from abroad might help us to see what is happening. The notion that all of Russia's enemies are the "fascists" has become more entrenched as the Russian state has become fascist. Putin has for fifteen years justified his actions by reference to the leading Russian fascist thinker. Russian authorities ludicrously justified their full-scale invasion of Ukraine as a struggle against antisemitism. They claimed, absurdly, that it would amount to "denazification" if they overthrew the democratically-elected president of Ukraine, who is of Jewish origin, and installed their own government. This is fascism in the name of "fighting fascism." And it is antisemitism in the name of "fighting antisemitism." Russian officials have handled the contradiction in various ways. Vladimir Putin says that the Ukrainian president is not really Jewish, implying that Putin himself decides who is Jewish and what that means. This is a central trope of modern antisemitism, associated most famously with Karl Lueger, who was mayor of Vienna when young Adolf Hitler arrived there in 1908, and who set the ideological tone of the city. Hitler's Holocaust killed about two million Jews in what is now Ukraine, including members of Zelens'kyi's family. The Russian foreign minister claimed that Hitler was Jewish. The idea was to suggest that the Ukrainian president, because he is of Jewish origin, is like Hitler. The Russian foreign minister has also questioned whether Zelens'kyi is fully human. The point of repeating antisemitic tropes while claiming to fight antisemitism is to evacuate any meaning from the term "antisemitism" and to erase the lessons of the Holocaust. And there can hardly be a more antisemitic action than that. Antisemitism is a terrible problem in our battered world, and it is worse from year to year, moment to moment. There are antisemites among Americans, among American young people, and among college students. This is no reason, however, to attack higher education or undermine the legal and moral basis of the American republic. Antisemites claim that they themselves can make up what they like about history, they can decide who is a real Jew, that the Jews brought suffering upon themselves. Antisemites meanwhile apply the word "antisemitic" to other people who are simply doing things that the actual antisemites do not like. The absurdity is part of the point: the claim that Jewish democrats are the real antisemites or the real Nazis or the real Hitlers is meant to disorient well-meaning people who assume that there must be some logic somewhere, and to provide guidance for malicious people who actually wish to further antisemitism. I remember a certain feeling of confusion from February 2022 and the initial Russian war propaganda. I am afraid that the same confused atmosphere prevails now in the United States. The American government's war on higher education and freedom of expression is proceeding according to the same antisemitic rules of engagement as Russia's war against Ukraine.

[...] "Anti-American activity" is a very broad category of behavior, and of course, when simply defined at a given by the president, perfectly arbitrary. Manufactured fear of Islam and of Palestinians and their allies is being used to justify an assault on the rule of law in the United States. At the same time the word "antisemitism" is also being deployed in a familiar and concerning way. The notion is that antisemitism is such a problem that we should accept obviously authoritarian policies to combat it. But will authoritarianism help Jews? And is this particular policy of deportation in any way designed to support Jewish Americans? This seems unlikely to be the motivation of those who made the policy. Deporting a Muslim who has committed no crime in the name of Jews is not exactly a favor to Jews. It looks more like a provocation by the federal government, designed to generate strife among communities. And making exceptions to constitutional protections of free speech and free assembly in one case undermines the rule of law as a whole. The specific target of the campaign is also revealing. Khalil was a student at Columbia University, now the showpiece of a larger federal assault on higher education. There will be an investigation of sixty American universities for supposedly allowing antisemitic discrimination against their students. This investigation, like Khalil's arrest, is framed as opposing antisemitism and as supporting Jews. (I should say that I have worked for more than two decades at Yale University, one of the targeted institutions, where I have taught the history of the Holocaust, sat on the advisory group of the Yale Program for the Study of Antisemitism, and served as faculty advisor for the Fortunoff Archive of Video Holocaust Testimonies, one of the early initiatives to collect survivor testimony. I say this for transparency about my own affiliations and commitments, not to speak for colleagues at any of these institutions or for these institutions themselves.) But why was Columbia put first? It is in New York. More than twenty percent of its undergraduate students are Jewish. No matter the experiences or attitudes of these students, their university suddenly losing four hundred million dollars is unlikely to improve their education and life chances. Columbia students can speak for themselves. My guess is that Columbia was selected as the symbolic first target less because of the presence of antisemitism than because of the presence of Jews. And I think that this is something that actual American antisemites will immediately have grasped. The city of New York is coded for antisemites as Jewish. The antisemites in America, seeing Columbia and New York punished, will see Jews being punished -- and they will be pleased by this. The same goes for universities as a whole. Universities are often understood by antisemites to be Jewish. The attempt to bring universities to heel will be met by antisemites with approval.

[...] Rulers who deploy the word "antisemitism" can themselves be antisemites or promoters of antisemitism. The abuse of the word "antisemitism" is meant to generate a sense of plausibility, confuse opposition, and create more space for the actual phenomenon of antisemitism. And this misdirection is an integral part of the effort to replace a constitutional order with an authoritarian one. Jews in the United States are being instrumentalized in an effort to build a more authoritarian American system. The real and continuing history of the oppression of Jews is transformed into a bureaucratic tool called "antisemitism" which is used to suppress education and human rights -- and so, in the end, to harm Jews themselves.

Timothy Snyder wrote a solid column calling out the co-opting the term “antisemitism” being used as a cudgel to silence speech that less than 100% deferential to Israel Apartheid while looking the other way or even spread actual instances of antisemitism.

See Also:

Daily Kos: Dozens of colleges now under attack as Trump's racist rampage spreads

[haysplumjam]

you can hear it in the silence

part 12

an: part 12! PLEASE comment/message me suggestions/critiques i can take it and it will make this better!!!

tw: normal hunger games stuff, torture, violence, gun violence, gore, suicide/suicidal thoughts and actions, prostitution, substance abuse

______________________________________________________________

It’s noon before I roll out of bed and head to the orphanage. The woman at the desk has been there for my entire life, but she still asks me my first and last name when I arrive to see the kids. 

The creaky old floors are just the same as they’ve always been, and Mariana is kicking her little legs on the wooden swing when I arrive outside just as she always has. 

“Annie!” She jumps into the grass, landing on her bare feet and running to hug me. This gets Navy’s attention, too, and she lifts her head from the garden, wiping her hands on the grass before coming to greet me. 

“Hey guys,” I tuck a stray piece of Navy’s hair behind her ear. “What do you say we go to the market?” 

Mari is immediately thrilled, but Navy hesitates. 

“Where’s Cas?” I ask her, almost certain she’s worrying that he’ll come back to the two of them gone and worry. 

“He took up some work on the weekends at the docks,” she wipes her hands on her pants, “he usually gets done around five, can we be back before then?” 

“Of course,” I nod. Truthfully, my only plan is to take the girls to buy their fill of sweets and toys and clothes, which will be easier without Caspian’s objections, anyway. 

Navy washes her hands under the water pump before we go back inside. The woman at the desk narrows her eyes at me as I sign them out, but I don’t care. We’re on the path to the town square before too long, and Mariana explains the difference between the different kinds of fish native to our waters for the entire way. She skips a little as she walks, like Navy used to. She’s much more somber, now. More responsible. 

A twelfth birthday is a big deal in Four. You can begin working for real money rather than just what’s slid under the table by less nimble fishermen who need tiny fingers to mend their nets, but Navy’s not one to celebrate. Especially not today. 

“This is pretty,” I pull a dress off of the rack at the clothier’s, swishing it a little bit to watch the blue fabric move in the light. 

Navy stares at the fabric, enamored. It was clearly manufactured in Eight and not made by a local seamstress. It’s expertly stitched and the fabric is too nice for anything we have access to here. “It’s beautiful,” she breathes. She takes the dress from my hands and holds it in her own, rubbing the fine fabric between her fingers for a while before placing it back on the rack. “Dresses are for reapings,” she shakes her head, staring down at the wooden floor. “I have yours, I don’t need anything special.” 

I gave her all of the old clothes I had that didn’t belong to Atty mama or dad the second I returned home from the capitol. I don’t like their clothes much, but their money allows me to buy whatever I desire, and I do. Since the end of the tour, I’ve received nearly a package a month with clothes from the capitol, too, courtesy of Tigris.

“How about these?” I offer her a pair of denim overalls that match the ones I always wear, and this earns a smile. “Better,” she answers, taking them from my hands to examine them. 

We leave the clothing store with Navy’s market bag full of clothing. Practical wear for her, along with a few ribbons and the dress she swears she doesn’t need. Mariana gets a new dress too, along with a pair of overalls that match her sister.

The sweet shop is the next stop, and Navy seems to lose her resolve the second we step inside of the brightly colored room. I feel bad for the poor old man behind the counter, who’s practically assaulted with questions by Mariana. He has everything the girls want, and I buy far too much for the other kids at the orphanage, too, my own bag stuffed to the brim. 

“Anywhere else?” I ask the girls as the bell rings on the slamming chop door. Mari’s tongue is already bright blue from the dyes of a lollipop she insisted on trying as soon as I paid. Navy seems to perk up a bit as our bags fill, but the sugar can’t hurt, either. 

Navy seems to think for a second before speaking up, “Cas is outgrowing his boots. That’s why he started working. Do you think we could…” 

“Absolutely,” I nod, allowing her to lead me to the cobbler’s. 

Navy pulls a little piece of paper from her pocket with measurements scribbled on it, speaking to the man with such poise and directness I could mistake her for an adult if she wasn’t so small. She settles on a pair similar to what he wears now, and I buy a few extra pairs of laces and socks, too.

Our hands are far too full on the walk back to the orphanage, and even Mari has to help carry some of the clothes. 

I take the girls upstairs to what used to be our shared room and sit with them on the floor as they bicker about which candies they’ll share and which they’ll hide from the other kids. 

There’s a new brother and sister that share the corner Atty and I used to occupy. Navy tells me in a hushed voice that their parents worked on the same ship and died in a storm. According to Mariana, they’re nice enough, but she won’t be sharing her peppermints with them. 

We’re discussing a book Navy is reading for school when Cas arrives, silently sitting on the floor with us and popping some of the candies in his mouth. I told Navy not to mention the boots until I was long gone, but I can see that she wants to. 

“Would you like to come to my house for dinner?” I offer. Food at the orphanage is scarce and tasteless. Thankfully for my sake, Navy loves to cook. I can assist her, but she prefers to do it on her own, which is better for all of us. 

“We have to cook tonight,” Cas sighs, clearly disappointed. 

“I have to cook tonight,” Navy corrects him. “You work. I cook.” 

It’s sad how much she’s grown in the past year. She’s taller and her voice is clearer, but that’s not what’s most noticeable. She’s stepped into Cas’ place as Cas stepped into Cove’s, and I hate it. 

“And we need to get started,” Cas glances at the old clock on the little table beside us. 

“I’ll leave you guys be. See you in a couple of weeks?” I rise from my spot on the ground, and so does Mari, clinging to my waist. “You can go to my house whenever you want, okay? Just make sure you’re back by curfew. I leave the back door unlocked. Take whatever you want.” 

Cas nods, standing up, too. “Thank you, Annie.” 

I’m taken by surprise when he hugs me. The last time he did was before I left for the games last year, and I think that was only because I promised I would get Cove home. 

I hug him back. 

I pretend not to notice that Navy is crying when she hugs me, I just hold her body to mine for a little bit longer than the other kids. 

“I’ll be back in a few weeks. If you need anything while I’m gone just take it, okay? Promise you will?” 

Cas nods his head, and Navy murmurs a promise. 

I press a small pouch into Cas’ hands, and he immediately objects. 

“Give it back after if you don’t need it. Just in case, okay?” I interrupt him before he can argue the coins. “For my own sake. Go to the bakery and get something good tomorrow after, okay? The rest of it is just in case there’s an emergency.” 

Caspian sighs, but he nods his head. 

“I love you guys. I’ll see you soon,” I step away from the trio. They all look just like Cove, in their own ways. Caspian is practically a carbon copy, but Navy has his eyes and Mariana his determination. I can’t look at the three of them together for too long, though, not with one so obviously missing. 

“Love you, Anne,” Navy says softly. I almost grimace at the nickname, but I control my face. I can’t do that to her on her birthday. Can’t remind her of the dead the day before the reaping. Mari waves as I leave, but I can’t bring myself to look at Cas, because looking into his eyes is just like looking into Cove’s. 

The walk from the orphanage to Victor’s Village practically spans the entire city, and takes me almost an hour. I pass by dozens of people with a look of dread on their faces. I’m sure I don’t make the feeling any better– a constant reminder that the best thing that could happen to their child if they’re reaped tomorrow is near-insanity. 

I make it home just in time to watch the end of the sunset from the beach directly behind my house. I don’t mind the sound of the crashing waves anymore. Not like I did when I came back from the capitol for the first time— or the second. 

The pills have dulled the nightmares into a distant memory, and it’s Cove’s death that haunts my waking memory, not Jewel’s. Caspian is growing into the spitting image of his brother, and Navy has his eyes. I still haven’t adjusted to spending time with them again, but I try. 

The pills help. 

Mags doesn’t approve, but she can only tell me to stop, as she’s unable to walk upstairs anymore without her cane and a significant amount of time. I hide them when she comes for dinner, anyway. 

We usually eat at her house, which helps my case, and our dinners have slowed to once or twice a week— rarely ever with Finnick. 

He’s in the capitol more now than before the tour, and when he’s home he’s always either holed up in his room or in the water. Mags worries, and so do I, but there’s no speaking to him about it without starting an argument that only hurts her more. 

I can see Mags sitting on her back porch watching the waves and weaving something down the long line of houses, but there’s no sign of Finnick next door. Once the sun descends and the wind picks up, I finally go inside, resenting Mags’ wish to eat alone tonight. I understand, of course, I can’t stomach the thought of food at all. Not when tomorrow night’s dinner will be spent on a train taking two kids to their certain death. 

I watch the night grow darker over the water from the comfort of my dining room table, the only place in the house I’ve been able to make feel like home. I have to force away thoughts of Caspian or Navy being reaped tomorrow. They don’t have to take tessarae, not since I paid the orphanage twice the amount the grain and oil would cost. Their odds are no worse than any other twelve and fourteen year old. 

Still, the thought of them on that train sends my mind in a million different directions. What if it was both of them instead of just one? How do I help both of them when one will certainly die? I swallow hard to push down the bile rising in my throat. There’s no reason to think about it because there’s nothing I can do to change it if it happens. I have to remind myself that over and over and over again until rays of the sun begin to peak over the horizon. 

The sun’s nearly risen when there’s a knock at the door. I’d know the pattern anywhere, but he still takes me by surprise when he enters the house. “Let’s go swim,” he practically demands. 

“Finnick, I thought you were in the–” 

“I was,” he cuts me off, speaking breathlessly, “I’m not anymore, at least for the next twenty hours. Swim with me.” 

 “Were you running?” 

“Sure was. Come swim,” his eyes dart to the water. He’s fidgeting his hands, too, which is incredibly unlike him. Not that I’m really sure what is like him, lately. 

“Sure, fine,” I shake my head, pushing my chair back and meeting him by the door, unsure of why I’m listening to him before five in the morning. “If I was asleep were you just going to wake me up?” I ask as we walk down the beach. “Probably,” he nods, pulling off his shirt and tossing it into the sand. I hate myself for staring, but I do. I toss my own clothes to the ground and thank myself for wearing proper undergarments before following him into the water. He’s gone under in a second, of course. 

We can all swim in Four, but I’m nothing like Finnick. Near the end of his games they sent capitol cameras to the school and asked students about it. ‘Can you swim like that?’ and ‘is this normal for District Four?’ I still remember Callie Westward’s voiceover as they showed shot after shot of Finnick diving into the water, “no, Finnick is just extraordinary.” She said it like she’d just learned that word in school, and she probably had, given her slow wit. 

I lie on my back and allow the waves to push me around as Finnick springs up in different places before diving back under. It must be half an hour later when he finally surfaces beside me, laying back and staring at the sky as it brightens. 

“Are you okay?” I ask him. 

“As okay as anyone is today,” he answers, splashing water onto my face. 

“You’ve been gone a long time.” 

“Six and a half days,” he answers, “and now two more weeks.” 

“I haven’t seen you in a lot longer than six and a half days,” I speak up after a bit. I regret it almost instantly, but I can’t help it. 

“Only two days between that and the time before,” he answers, flipping under water and smoothing his hair back, treading water as he speaks, “I wasn’t feeling well when I was home.” 

“Mags misses you,” I continue, “dinner’s been quiet.” 

“She’ll get enough of me, don’t worry about her.” 

“I worry about everyone,” I allow myself to flip under water, smoothing my own hair back before returning to my floating. 

“I know you do,” Finnick joins me, taking my hand in his and floating beside me. 

I stay quiet, knowing the words I want to say are childish and ridiculous. At 18 years old I shouldn’t be so worried about someone that I can’t sleep even with the help of nearly twice the amount of pills, much less someone who does so well in the capitol. “I’ve got to go. No prep team to get me ready this time,” I allow myself to slip under water, swimming quickly to shore. I slide on my overalls, not bothering with my tank top as I retreat to my house, leaving Finnick bobbing in the water.

[gemindoorplaygroundmanufacturer]

Why GEM Is Jordan’s Most Trusted Indoor Playground Manufacturer

Subtitle: Quality, Customization, and Commitment to Safe Play

When businesses and institutions across Jordan think of reliable indoor playground solutions, GEM is the name that comes to mind. As Jordan’s most trusted indoor playground manufacturer, GEM has become a cornerstone in the development of creative and safe play environments for children of all ages.

So, what makes GEM the top choice?

Unmatched Quality: All materials used are durable, child-safe, and certified to meet international safety standards.

Bespoke Designs: From colorful toddler zones to action-packed ninja courses, GEM tailors every playground to suit its environment.

Comprehensive Service: GEM handles everything—from consultation and design to manufacturing, installation, and after-sales support.

Whether it’s a mall looking to attract families, a school enhancing its activity spaces, or a family entertainment center expanding its offerings, GEM delivers trusted, turnkey indoor play solutions that add value and spark joy.

[i-identify-guns-in-posts]

hey dude can you actually explain like. gun basics(of like identification and like idk 'ranking' or something?)? I don't know jack shit but guns are p cool and I'd like to learn what better than on this wonderful tumblr page. if you can't thats fine I love you bro

Well the very basics of identifying a gun is of course what kind of gun it is. Is it a handgun or a shoulder weapon, there you can keep kind of subdividing, pistol or revolver, smg, assault rifle, carbine, pump action, lever action or bolt action, etc. once you got a good idea of what kind of gun it is, you look for specific identifying marks. like the shape of the handguard, the magazine, the pistol grip or lack thereof, the stock, and, most importantly, writings on the gun, a brand name a model name. And if it something you already know, congrats ! just check and make sure you're right.

If not, then try to find info on the setting. What year it is, what country, what character, how is it used, and it will narrow the list of weapons it will fit. Then using those info, you research.

If the picture you're seeing is from a movie, tv show or video game and that you know the exact piece of media it is, check the imfdb page, chances are it's been identified already. If not, well why not create the page for that movie?

If all of these fail, what i do is i go look for very wide listings of the type of gun i'm looking for. Like online gun stores, some imfdb pages, or even just. google image. You'd be surprised how many times you google something vague only to find one obscure website that talks about precisely the gun you're looking for, and then there we go, you got it.

If i got a specific manufacturer name, their website is often a good place to look for, if the weapon is a modern civilian model of course.

[roetrolls]

New Blood

Prior to discovering his powers, what Bigby hated most about the circus was simple. Even in his time on the streets, the redblood had never seen someplace so loud. The carnival was an endless assault on the senses, manufactured for the wonder of those visiting with no thought spared to the ones who could not leave.

Flashing lights and garish colors, spinning music and roaring crowds, the relentless jostle of bodies passing too close to his–– every waking second was filled with just too much. It was enough to drive a person mad.

The only thing worse than living in the circus was dying there, but he’d seen no shortage of that either.

Were he a more introspective sort, Bigby might have ruminated on how used to the stimulus he had become, how novel the quiet still felt. Not even Maelia’s hive was truly calm, though its bustle was a warmer, welcome sort.

Pleasant as it was, it still meant that Bigby did not often find himself sharing company with silence at home. That luxury was found somewhere else.

Though some nights saw the House of Restoration buzzing with activity, many more saw it quiet and still, so calm not even the crickets dared disturb it.

If one thought on it, they could perhaps see the ways both carnival and church took after their respective leaders… If one thought on it, of course. Which Bigby, naturally, would not. He was not inclined toward such fanciful metaphors. 

Instead, he let his mind wander to what Maelia might be planning for dinner, a most pressing thought indeed. He considered briefly whether to call and ask, but the idea was easily dismissed. The general would be picking him up shortly, after all. 

With that crucial decision made, the boy busied himself rifling through his belongings, making sure he had not left anything behind. It was unlikely he had, given how diligent he was in tracking the things he owned, but it never hurt to check. Especially at a time like this, with the church’s entrance devoid of interlopers and plenty of empty space to himself.

Well.

He should have had the space to himself. But the quiet click of heels on tile seemed to indicate otherwise. Who else was on their way out at this hour? When he lifted his head to check, he found himself bristling at the four-eyed face that greeted him.

“Belbig.” Serafi scowled, disgust tugging at her lips. Whether her disdain was sparked by the boy himself or the life he reminded her of, she was clearly less than pleased to see him sitting in this refuge. 

“Bigby,” he corrected her sharply, tail lashing out his own displeasure behind him. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you,” she countered, peering down her nose at him. “Last I heard you’d become Emarra’s latest plaything.”

Bigby growled at the mention of his former Ringleader, pupils morphing into slits.

What was once the pleasant buzz of quiet had morphed into a thick and heavy silence, strung out between the pair with enough tension to mimic a tightrope. 

Serafi surveyed him thoughtfully, half-lidded eyes somehow walking the line between both daggers and disinterest. How much did she know? She had already escaped by the time Emarra discovered Bigby’s ability to return from death. Somehow, she was aware of the favoritism that followed… Had she learned of his power as well?

The redblood narrowed his eyes at the thought, all too aware of the sadistic streak that had followed Serafi through the fairgrounds. She wasn’t the sort of person who belonged at the House of Restoration.

“What are you doing here?” He hissed again.

“Currently? Speaking to a dirty brat with an attitude problem.”

“You’re the one with the problem. You shouldn’t even be allowed in here.”

“Is that so?” she asked flatly. “And why not?”

Bigby gestured vaguely at the church hall around them, as if that alone was enough of an answer.

“The House of Restoration doesn’t discriminate, Belbig.”

“Bigby.”

“I behave while I’m here. I don’t hurt anyone within these walls. I think I’m more than deserving of the protection this place affords us.”

“You’re not.”

“What is your criteria for what constitutes the deserving poor, then, hm?”

“The people here are nice,” he huffed.

At that, Serafi barked a short, shrill laugh, hand floating just beneath her chin. 

“Look in the mirror, kid.”

Again, Bigby’s tail began to lash, but she paid his irritation little mind.

“You’ve met Ailzea. Do you honestly believe he’d throw me to the wolves just for being a little bitchy?” She scoffed, examining her nails. “I knew you were stunted, but I didn’t realize you were this juvenile.”

“You hurt people.”

“True,” Serafi hummed, finally lifting her eyes back to his. “It’s a shame your abilities never came to light before I left. I would have enjoyed having a turn with you…”

Instantly, Bigby felt his chest tighten. She tilted her head slightly and smirked, soaking in his reaction, and he suddenly realized that his hair was standing on end. 

“Are you scared?” the tealblood purred, ghosting a step closer.

Despite the pounding in his chest, he kept his feet planted, and she advanced no further.

Serafi was dangerous, but she was at least predictable. For all her talk, there was very little chance she would actually hurt him. Even if she were willing to risk the protection of Ailzea and his church, her own haphephobia made it unlikely that she would ever lay a hand on Bigby herself.

“No,” he breathed, left ear flicking once.

“Do I scare you, Belbig?”

He flexed his hand at his side, eyes darting across her face as the storm of an idea began to gather in his head. So occupied by his own thoughts, he almost didn’t notice the hulking shape that had entered his peripheral, its footfall heavy and familiar.

“It’s Bigby,” Maelia growled, drawing Serafi’s attention away from the tiny redblood in front of her. Much to the general’s surprise, however, Bigby raised a hand to stop him before he could intercede further. 

Then, without warning, he dragged his tongue up the length of his palm and stamped it directly on Serafi’s face. 

The shriek she let out was ungodly, but as Maelia’s bellowing laugh joined it in reverberating off the chapel walls, the result was almost harmonious.

[sketchfanda]

Chestnut Stud across the Multiverse: Korra’s senpai.

Satan city locals couldn’t help but turn their heads at the couple walking hand in hand and really, who could blame. It wasn’t everyday you saw a sensational pro fighter and the ceo of a high grade mechanical manufacturing firm thst could compete with against capsule corp out in public. Especially together as a couple, not that it was scandalous or anything mind you, it just wasn’t often you saw out in the open like this, but Damn if they weren’t quite the picture perfect example of opposites attract. A stunning elements high class beauty who you know could live the good life and enjoy the finer things,and a rough tough tumble toned amazonian beauty of a tomboy. Their height difference distinct with the tomboy, Korra at 5 foot 7 and her lover Asami at an even 6 feet tall. If anything the only scandal would be what these two were getting up and the purpose for which was bringing them toeards their pending destination. One of Satan city’s 5 star hotels, with the penthouse suite booked for them and their guests for this little secret get together for the day. Yes sir,Asami Sato and her lovely gal Korra had a spicey side to their love life and this evening woild be no different. Especially for Korra who couldn’t really contain any sense of giddiness or excitement, and with good reason of course. Asami:”I have to say Korra,I don't think I've ever seen you so excited before. makes me feel rather jealous,you naughty girl you...”*walking hand in hand with her girlfriend in satan city,on their way to a high class hotel. Their choice of evening wesr stylish yet casual,her sensual feminine classy elegance in contrast to her lover. A bemused expression her face at how eager her water tribe she-stallion seemed* Korra:”What,really? Silly me,sorry babe, I just can't help it, I mean it's been a while since I’ve seen my old senpai. I Mean you’re the one who asked for the juicy details and arranged this little get together..”*the amazonian to buy teased playfully. A slight blush on her face and a catlike grin of delight on her expression.*

Asami giggled as she gave Korra a kiss on the cheek, curious to get to know this “senpai” quite well herself and likely as intimately. As they entered the hotel,getting their copy of the keycard from reception as the concierge informed them their fellow guests had arrived. Which made their pulses skyrocket as they got into the elevator,passing the time in the steady ascent of the compartment to cop a feel of one another. A simple casual makeout session as they assaulted one another’s bodies with some heavy petting to add fuel to the growing fire of lust and passion, burning between them for each other as well as what they were about to do. Faces flushed red as they stepped out the lift to make their way towards the penthouse suite door. Soon as Asami opened it with the keycard, they were greeted by the sight of a certain 5 foot compact fighter turned cop and his blonde bombshell of a wife, with Korra closing the distance gap between them as she hugged the cue ball. Her 7 inches of height different to him causing his head to be sandwiched between the valley of her bodacious boobs. Asami giggling at Krillin’s expression as did 18, before watching eith sensual delight as Korra planter her lips on his, giving him quite the passionate, lust fuelled kiss.

Korra:*purring as she broke the kiss,a little trail of saliva between them,panting slightly to control her racing heartbeat.* “Mm senpai it’s been way too long,you naughty man…”*she teased,giggling st the deadpan indigntsnt expression Krillin gave her, before she gasped and moaned as Krillin sudden,t gave her denim clad ass a swift slap,followed by grabbing and squeezing it. The well toned booty a lot more bubbly than it seemed.*”ooooh so forceful Sendai…but I’d expect nothing less from the stud who ruined me for other men…”

Krillin:*despite the grimace he wore on his face,he wasn’t hesitating in copping a feel of the tomboy’s amazonian beauty of a work of art of a body.*”There you go again, being so damn impulsive…”*rolling his eyes as Korra playfully stuck her tongue out at him and at the giggles 18 and Asami sent his way.* “but hey let’s not best around the bush huh? You came all this way and what not so let’s get right to it…”

Soon as he finished saying that,he began to strip, Asami humming sensually in approval whole Korra licked her lips with erotic anticipation. 18 herself stripping down to absolute nudity as she let the lair enjoy her compact hubby’s physique on display, a Herculean work of art with only his boxers remaining on as he sat in the edge of the mattress of the queen sized bed. Korra and Asami purring as eyed him up and down. Soon the tomboy found her lover pressing herself to her,as they began to make out. Giving Krillin a little lesbian show to which 18 added herself to the mix,her hands joining theirs in stripping them,as their lips and tongues all danced together in a blurry heat of growing passion. The sight of the erection now pitching a tent in the shirt king’s boxers spurring them on as soon Korra and Asami were now naked,their curvy bodies varying in their muscle tone,Korra’s from an intense workout routine while Asami despite her feminine grace knew her way around working and handling heavy machinery. They alongside 18 striking sensual poses for his enjoyment,before Korra strode over to kiss and make out with her senpai once more,kissing down along his torso with lusty thirst, soon kneeling on the carpeted floor as she tugged down his boxers. Removing them and throwing them aside as she licked her lips with eagerness. Rubbing his balls and grasping his raging hard cock, stroking as it as she looked at Asami like she was presenting and singing the praises of a national treasure.

Korra:*a shameless lewd look on her face,you’d swear pink hearts were glowing in her lust hazed eyes.*”Mmm just look at it asami, this length and girth..this is a real man right here. The feel,the taste, the scent….”*she couldn’t contain herself any more,as she began plant licks and kisses on Krillin’s cock. Soon latching her lips on it to suck and blow, drowning it with her saliva.*

Asami couldn’t find it in her make a witty comeback, too entranced by the sight of her butch tomboy lover acting like such a butch in what as she lavished oral worship on Krillin’s manhood. In the blink of an eye she wasted no time in joining them. Pressing her lips to his as they made out, hands massaging that muscular torso as she kissed her way down along physique, soon joining Korra in tagteaming him with a tandem blowjob. Hands rubbing her slit as she felt how wet she was, arousal skyrocketing at seeing her lover do the same. Now she can see how and why Korra had been so vivid in the details she shared about stories of her old senpai, the man she gave her first time to, a stud so amazing sexually thst it’s small wonder she proclaimed he ruined her for other men. Something she was going to thank him for,as they continued to shower his cock with lusty licks and kisses. Asami leaving red kiss marks thanks to her lip stark, marking his shaft and balls SWAK (sealed with a kiss). 18 of course licked her lips with delight at the display before her, soon joining them as she added her own mouth and tongue to the mix. Krillin could only tilt his head back to groan as the sensation and vision of his wife and two very kinky,horny lesbisexuals (bicurious lesbians) assaulted his manhood with their mouths and tongues. The 3 way blowjob soon rewarding their stunning fellatio skills as he erupted, his dick spraying with white hot scream. Catching it in their mouths and on their faces, making out with each other to clean it off as Krillin lied back on the bed, catching his breath.

Korra:*sensually grinning as she pried herself away from Asami and 18, climbing onto the bed as she straddled her former senpai, mounting him and grinding her slit against his still hard cock.*”Mmm, your protein tastes as good as I remember senpai,but I know you’re not done by a long shot…”*gasps as she felt Krillin grab and squeeze her bubbly booty.*”Oooh there we go…that’s the senpai I remember. Make sure You give Asami your A game,you sex machine you..”

Krillin:”don’t get cocky with me,You cheeky girl…”*h quipped good naturedly,as he pumped snd thrust his cock into Korra’s pussy,making her toes curl and her spine arch,glowing hesrts in her eyes once again as they smacked their loins together in the ancient intimate dance of man and woman. Bouncing her muscular form as she rode that cock,letting her senpai bring them together to the peak of ecstasy. Just like this one glorious night together so long ago..*

Asami looked in with awe and arousal at seeing her proud,powerful Korra scream like the bitch in he’s she was being taken and claimed as. Seeing her and Krillin roll around between a mating and Amazon press, the sigh of their loins connected in that lewd,intimate embrace of sexual mating. 18 sitting behind her,idly making out with her as she squeezed her tits and kissed along her neck and shoulders to lock lips with her. Their tongues dancing together as Sato Corp heiress continued to probe her own pussy with her naughty fingers. The penthouse suit filling with the echoes of erotic moans and the smacking of skin on skin. 18 knew this little get together would be fun, but who knew Krillin’s old training kouhai was such a junkie for her man and his amazing oak tree class cock? Then again this was her husband she was talking about, him having a way with women and leaving an erotic impact on them was his best way of making a first impression for a good reason. Knowing Asami would become just as much of a chestnut junkie soon as she got her turn. Breathing in the scent of her perfume, waiting for thst sweet moment when Korra would get a nice wombfull soon as Krillin blew his load, which was more or less the unofficial signal for switching and changing up.

Asami:”Oooooh fuuuuck!! This is amazing! Aahn I’m losing my mind!! Aah Korra,we should,no we need to marry this man! One night isn’t enough!! More senpai,more,fuck me,fuck me!” *Indeed Asami was hooked the moment that felt that immense length and girth penetrate her. Taking it in missionary as Krillin thrust like a jackhammer,her legs hooked around his shoulders,hands squeezing her ass as he slapped and played it like a bongo drum. Tits bouncing,mouth drooling as a few mere inches from them,Korra and 18 laid atop one another in a 69, making out with one another’s pussies, the blonde cyborg lapping away at thse overflow of excess jizz from Krillin’s prior orgasm. The heiresss experiencing truly first hand why Korra held her former senpai in such high regard.*

18:”Mmm that’s it girls,you want to make this foursome official,earn your keep and show m the effort you’re gonna put in…”*the deadly beauty quipped erotically,riding her husband in reverse cowgirl. Moaning as she rode that sick with intimate familiarity,as she fingered Asami and Korra, who kissed and licked her body with sexual worship. Making out with her with sloppy kisses or suckling away at her bouncing titties. Krillin gif course being teased with just the sight of their splendid backsides and their glistening skin.*

The foursome showed no signs of stopping, even as dusk was starting to set in, the room bathed in the colours of the sunset as they went about two pairs of swinging,swapping one on one, two on one to three on one. Little more than pornographic animals casting aside shame and inhibition as 18 hugged her man from behind. Taking delight in him fucking Korra doggy style while the tomboy ate out her girlfriend. To Asami laying atop her lover,their tits rubbing together in sensual friction as Krillin mounted and fucked the heiress from behind. Any exhausting cast aside by the thrill of their mating, as if the two lovers were driven by the impulse to want to go all night and all the way to the morning and make sure they leave this hotel kmowing they’d be knocked up and carrying this stud’s babies. Idly wondering if they might follow through on Asami’s impulsive dirty talk and make their foursome truly official. The wedding would surely be spectacular and the honeymoon would be as good as this perhaps ten,no a hundredfold. For now of course, thst was the future and this was the moment they were living for. A moment they’d never want to end.

[darkmaga-returns]

There’s a video at the link. Among several very important statements by Putin, this one was quite striking:

“the regional conflict in Ukraine provoked by the West has assumed elements of a global nature.”

The regional conflict is now a Global War. That’s how I understand that.

President of Russia Vladimir Putin: I would like to inform the military personnel of the Russian Federation Armed Forces, citizens of our country, our friends across the globe, and those who persist in the illusion that a strategic defeat can be inflicted upon Russia, about the events taking place today in the zone of the special military operation, specifically following the attacks by Western long-range weapons against our territory.

The escalation of the conflict in Ukraine, instigated by the West, continues with the United States and its NATO allies previously announcing that they authorise the use of their long-range high-precision weapons for strikes inside the Russian Federation. Experts are well aware, and the Russian side has repeatedly highlighted it, that the use of such weapons is not possible without the direct involvement of military experts from the manufacturing nations.

On November 19, six ATACMS tactical ballistic missiles produced by the United States, and on November 21, during a combined missile assault involving British Storm Shadow systems and HIMARS systems produced by the US, attacked military facilities inside the Russian Federation in the Bryansk and Kursk regions. From that point onward, as we have repeatedly emphasised in prior communications, the regional conflict in Ukraine provoked by the West has assumed elements of a global nature. Our air defence systems successfully counteracted these incursions, preventing the enemy from achieving their apparent objectives.

The fire at the ammunition depot in the Bryansk Region, caused by the debris of ATACMS missiles, was extinguished without casualties or significant damage. In the Kursk Region, the attack targeted one of the command posts of our group North. Regrettably, the attack and the subsequent air defence battle resulted in casualties, both fatalities and injuries, among the perimeter security units and servicing staff. However, the command and operational staff of the control centre suffered no casualties and continues to manage effectively the operations of our forces to eliminate and push enemy units out of the Kursk Region.

I wish to underscore once again that the use by the enemy of such weapons cannot affect the course of combat operations in the special military operation zone. Our forces are making successful advances along the entire line of contact, and all objectives we have set will be accomplished.

[inland--empire]

Nobody told me it ended

From the little information allowed on Earth, it was known that all of the Citadels were exactly the same. That didn’t stop this one from feeling twice as big and twice as empty.

The elevator sped along its glowing blue railings, not with a clanking or clattering or even whirring that was in some way indicative of the machinery dragging it upwards against its will, but with a hollow, high-pitched ocean of noise that Helen had never quite grown used to despite having ascended such an elevator many a time. Some part of her otherwise sharp and practical brain snarled at the discomfort the ringing caused in her head, the vibrations spilling their way like marbles onto the spotless floor of her reasoning, knocking down other unnecessary things along with them.

Just as she was the sole unmodified human in this Citadel piercing its unearthly metal through the grey sky above City 9 like a hypodermic needle, so was she the sole unmodified human on the train out of the ill-fated City 17. She knew it had been the case because she had been just as alone in the pitch-dark, featureless box that had been the only compartment of the train that its extradimensional manufacturers had bothered to make suitable for human habitation as she was now, in the elevator. Despite being technically habitable, which was a small blessing in its own right, the air in the box was stabbingly, bitingly cold; the walls itself seemed to ravenously devour any warmth in their vicinity. A shiver crossed Helen’s skin as she recalled wrapping the jacket tighter around herself, hoping to preserve the little heat her human body could generate…

The jacket. She was wearing it over her white blazer even now. Rusty brown, patched in several places with odd scraps of fabric. On one of these patches, the garish orange one adorning her left sleeve, a hand had scratched the Greek letter ‘lambda’ in fading black marker.

That night. she had, against all her better judgement, allowed herself to drift off against the hard wood of her desk, her eyes strained and painful from looking at the frigid blue of her monitor screen for most of the night. When she woke up, she was still there, but a pain in her back had replaced the one in her eyes, and that jacket with that patch had been thrown over her neck and shoulders.

Even in that other Citadel, there were not many other unmodified humans with her, and she knew only one of them could possibly have had access to such an object.

All things considered, Helen had not actually seen all that much of Doctor Judith Mossman, at least not in person. She maintained frequent contact with the Citadel via screens, of course, but for her to travel there physically would no doubt raise suspicion among the enemy.

The enemy. Anticitizens, as designated by Overwatch. A ‘Resistance’, they fancied themselves, parading themselves under that accursed sign of the lambda. Helen knew what they actually were. Terrorists and insurgents, bombing checkpoints, assaulting Metropolice in the streets, causing stricter and stricter crackdowns on citizen activity, their every move, their every breath reducing Earth’s chances of ever being anything more than an insignificant little outpost for the Universal Union.

But Doctor Mossman… as a consequence of her position, she knew these people by name. She spoke of teleportation device plans devised by an Isaac Kleiner and that they’d re-established contact with an Arne Magnusson. But, perhaps with the most emotion, with the most pain in her voice, she’d talk of an Eli Vance. Doctor Eli Vance. The man behind most of the insurgency’s operations, whose wife Azian had been codenamed ‘Vance Prime’ and permanently relocated offworld for her crimes against the Union over a decade ago.

It was for Eli Vance that Doctor Mossman had begged to be taken to Nova Prospekt instead of directly back to the Citadel after the raid on Black Mesa East, and Helen, like a fool, had allowed it, remembering the desperate bargaining she had caught by chance between her and Breen to not take him, to take Freeman, anyone, but not Eli Vance.

Doctor Mossman. No, Judith, alone and afraid, left in the City 17 Citadel to die because, what do you know, Breen was a coward, Eli Vance was in the room, and while Helen wasn’t looking, they’d pushed Judith to her limit. And she wasn’t there to help, and all she was left with of Judith was a brown jacket a size too small for her, emblazoned with a reminder of her failure.

You lived. She didn’t. Simple as that.

Helen swallowed the uncomfortable lump that she had not even realised had formed in her throat, as the elevator slowed, then came to a complete halt. Helen breathed a half-hearted sigh of relief; at least that grating noise was finally gone.

Her new room had been furnished in preparation for her arrival. A simple sofa, a desk with a screen looming over it and a black office chair, all dwarfed by the startlingly high ceiling that had characterised almost every chamber in the previous Citadel.

Helen collapsed on the sofa with a dry, hollow sigh. What was she supposed to have done? Tell Doctor Mossman to not cling to fellow humans after losing so much? She couldn’t even tell herself that with any hope for a result. A decade of training her mind to not flinch at citizen death counts no matter how high the numbers climbed and she still wasn’t over the death of one woman.

The sigh echoed back at her, as though in mockery. Was this place really bigger and emptier? She supposed it was harder to hear echoes when she was constantly subjected to Breen’s gloating on the success of the latest broadcast at raising citizen morale (as though she hadn’t co-written it with him), or his agonising over some new demand from the Advisors. She’d known few men who talked quite so much and quite so exhaustingly. While she’d never been acquainted with the disgraced Cave Johnson, her spell of work at Aperture having come after his passing, from what she knew, he and Breen would have either gotten along shockingly well or attempted to strangle one-another on-sight.

The talking, much like many other things about Breen, she figured, had been a begging to be noticed. To be recognised for what he’s done by something greater than himself. She could only assume that the Union had once been that, but by the time she had taken up a position in the Citadel, he was already showing signs of desperation. Even when he ran out of things to say, he never closed screen communication with Advisors, letting the image fade out on its own.

Helen sighed again, anticipating the echo this time, letting its frosty irony wash over her. Life in the City 17 Citadel had been a pitiful three-way war for connection, and now her ears still rung with the sounds of the battles that sound so much like the voices of family. No wonder this place felt twice as empty.

OUGHHHHHZJHZIZJXIISJSHSHSHSHE THIS IS SO GOOD

[missmastectomy]

I hope this isn't too ridiculous of a question but is there any way to truly embrace my body as it is—especially when it comes to the fact that "(female) humans are the only mammals to have permanent breasts"? It's been so hard to 'be okay' with having prominent/developed breasts, (mostly) because of societal perceptions that feel inescapable. Even 'scientific' explanations often reduce them to being a flaw or a tool for male attraction, which genuinely disturbs me.

For context, I used to identify as FTM and that mindset absolutely damaged me. And having discovered radical feminism (despite only recently) has helped me heal in many ways, but these thoughts what most would label as 'dysphoria' keep coming back. *How do I even unlearn this disgust and pressure and learn to embrace my biology, when everything around me seems to reinforce that it's inherently flawed??*

It scares me. It doesn’t help that, years ago, I kept hearing (online) 'woke' feminists and lesbians talking about getting mastectomies because "breasts are meaningless." It’s so hard to feel whole when everything about my body is "supposed" to be a burden. Society already imposes so much unfair censorship on women. I live in an Islamic part of the East, and even when looking at the West, where censorship is far more minimized, women still face disproportionate censorship, especially with nipples and breasts. I can’t help but feel even more suffocated by it all. It's infuriating.

I'm tired of feeling this way. I want to convince myself that it's 'just internalized misogyny', but at the same time fear that it's 'rooted in biological facts'. I want to work with my body, not reject and alter it 'unnatural'ly.

I could go on but this should be plenty already. I'll just shoot my shot here. I don't even know where else to ask. Hope it's even clear what my question was.

No I get you completely. I have a few thoughts on this and there's multiple approaches you can take to dealing with breast discomfort.

Remember that your discomfort/disgust with breasts is an almost universal experience for women. It may not feel this way because so many women will show a lot of cleavage, but most women ARE uncomfortable with their breasts being perceived by strangers. Even in private, many women feel uncomfortable with their chests because of the stigma and the fear we have been conditioned to associate with our bodies. The fear of objectification and assault. In a way, this anxiety is perfectly normal. I highly suggest reminding yourself that your feelings are shared by women of all walks of life and to practice mindfulness on that front.

As long as it doesn't hurt your health, what is natural is almost always neutral. Your natural breasts, as you said, are just part of being a female mammal. Think of yourself as just that - a mammal. And remember that the way our bodies are framed from an evolutionary/reproductive POV are theories developed by men. I have had men tell me it's just a fact that women having permanent breasts means breasts are a "sexual display object." Literally the description I've been told. But this is a heterosexual male perspective. Yes, breasts are a sex related organ that do involve attracting potential partners, but they also serve hormonal purposes, and they are capable of producing food, though of course you don't need to use them for that purpose if you have no interest in children.

Always remember that the shame women are made to feel about their natural breasts is manufactured almost entirely by men. The female body is framed as a sexual object or a vessel for reproduction because men control the world. If women were the ones writing social norms, the ways society thinks about breasts and our bodies generally would be entirely different.

Don't get a mastectomy unless you need one for medical purposes, ever. It will not make you feel any better. What it will do, especially since you already seem to be questioning dysphoria and gender ideology, is make you feel mutilated. It will alienate you from other women and you will have issues dating, finding clothes to wear, etc. Not to even touch on how violating a mastectomy is, especially if you regret it. I would say to you that there are two options: either accept (and you don't have to be happy about this) your natural chest or get surgery. And gender affirming breast removal is no option at all, in truth. It might help you cope with your feelings to imagine that you only have one path ahead. To radically accept your body as nature intended, and to remove any that have been put onto you by a society dominated by the male perspective. A perspective that is uninformed, objectifying, and totally removed from your lived experience as a woman.

Anyway, I hope this helped? Feel free to ask more questions or DM if you'd like. Good luck out there.

[writerbeemedina]

Spoiled Rotten

Synopsis: Have you ever asked yourself what the typical morning is like for a supervillain who is also single father? Wonder no more. The morning of another big attempt to conquer the city, Lord Obliterator must first face the second greatest challenge: feeding his four-year-old daughter.

This is a pretty old story. Hopefully is suits your supervillain needs. ^^"

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Ah. Nothing more refreshing than the promise of crushing enemies, conquering the city, and sweet, sweet revenge, in the morning.

No sooner had Lord Obliterator opened his eyes had an explosion sounded, rattling the house. Oh, shit, they’ve found us, he thought to himself. In a rush of adrenaline, the supervillain armed himself with an electro-gun and threw himself out of his bedroom into the hallway.

Lord Obliterator aimed his firearm to fry the trespassing superhero to a crisp, only to look down and sigh in relief.

“Now what did we talk about?” The villain stooped down to pluck a magma gun from a child’s small grip and wagged a finger. “No handling firearms without my supervision, Bonnie!”

“Aww!” Bonnie whined. “But I was gonna take it to show-and-tell today!”

It took everything in Lord Obliterator’s power to control his paternal pride as he lowered himself to one knee and placed a massive hand on her head. “Look darling, I understand why you want to take a family invention. We’re incredible. However, it’s just not safe to disclose our weapons to the lesser people of mankind. People would be greedy, manufacture more but slightly tweak its design to pass it as their own. Next thing you know, we’d be stuck in the middle of a multi-million dollar lawsuit! Do you understand, my little imp?”

“Okay,” Bonnie said dejectedly, kicking out her foot. “Then…can I bring my taxidermy collection instead?”

“Wonderful alternative, darling!” Lord Obliterator beamed. Then, he clapped twice before saying, “Now go ready for kindergarten, while Papa gets himself ready to fire the Ultra Death Beam in the city square today!”

“Okay!” the little girl squealed, her thick braids bouncing as she skipped merrily to her room. 

Meanwhile, Lord Obliterator gazed at the sizzling, melted hole in the wall. Yet another repair to add to the bills, he thought mournfully. 

Well, it wasn’t proper to take over the city looking like a hot mess. How embarrassing it would be if he looked like a zombie on the front page of the newspaper, when he took over the city!

Lord Obliterator changed out of his “I’m Secretly a Princess” t-shirt (a birthday present from his darling daughter) into his most malicious-looking suit of armor, and styled his frizzled black hair into a slick ponytail before making his way to torture cham—uh, the kitchen.

“ARGH!” he cried, lifting his foot to find a doll shoe practically embedded underneath. A villain couldn’t even practice his own stride through his own halls without getting assaulted by stray toys lying around like traps! Lord Obliterator made a mental note to talk to his daughter about this later.

Eventually, he arrived, Bonnie—now wearing a black dress with buckles—seated at the counter, banging her spoon-grasping fists and death-metal screeching, “ICE-CREAM! ICE-CREAM!”

Lord Obliterator was careful not to react, for, unknown to Bonnie, breakfast would be different that morning. Today, Lord Obliterator would be a good parent and feed her something truly evil—and nutritious, of course.

The villain hurried about the room, frequenting the refrigerator and the pantry while managing the coffee-maker, toaster, and stove. A symphony of metallic clunking, cracking, sizzling, gurgling, sloshing, and beeping filled the place, while Bonnie continued her scream-chant. With Bonnie, there was no real way of telling whether she was summoning food or demons.

After ten minutes of tackling one of his few attempts at cooking and shoving down his crippling self-doubt, the fruit of Lord Obliterator’s efforts was done. He cackled sinisterly.

“Behold! The most evil breakfast of all!” Lord Obliterator announced.

Bonnie shrieked, writhing with such vigorous glee that her chair almost toppled over.

The villain twirled for an extra flare of drama before setting down the plate of mushy, yellow…

“Eggs!” he said in a sing-song voice.

The little girl scrunched up her face before fixing Lord Obliterator with a hellish glare.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she said dangerously, every trace of excitement gone. 

Lord Obliterator expected something like this to happen; Bonnie was always stubborn when it came to food. Still, he couldn’t help but chuckle with a twinge of unease as he sat down at his side of the table.

“Ah-aha, eggs, darling. This is the cooked substance of unborn fetuses from chickens robbed against their will! Isn’t that sinister?” he said.

“Where’s my peanut-butter ice-cream? Where’s my chocolate pudding?” Bonnie persisted. “Stuff that makes your teeth rot?!”

Of course, sugary sweets did technically count as evil for the consequences they bring; however, Bonnie’s dental bills weren’t getting any cheaper.

“B-But a chicken’s family line has been taken from them, never to be regained! Their unborn offspring taste delicious, and they give you the strength to destroy your enemies! Doesn’t that sound—” 

“I hate eggs! I’ve always hated them my entire life!” Bonnie interrupted, letting out a scream as she flung her spoons so forcefully they pierced the wall—had Lord Obliterator not ducked in time, it would have been his head. 

Lord Obliterator sighed shakily. He didn’t want it to come to this. The villain rose from his seat, cracking his knuckles as he approached his young daughter…

Then threw himself onto the floor.

“Please eat! How terrible of a parent Papa would feel if he took over the city today knowing that he let his only daughter go to school starved! Ple-he-hease!” he begged tearfully, his hands clasped in front of him.

“NEVER! Not until you give me sweets!” Bonnie roared.

“Please?! Just one bite for your old man?!” Lord Obliterator groveled. 

Bonnie’s face contorted and flushed, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. The room was deadly still, right before a bomb explosion—the villain could practically see the wick burn down to his daughter’s head—then, she let out a wail that could make even the dead cover their ears as she dropped to the floor, kicking, banging and screaming as if she were possessed.

“YOU DON’T LOVE ME ANYMORE!” she cried. “I’D RATHER LIVE WITH A SUPERHERO THAN LIVE WITH YOU!”

Lord Obliterator doubled over, dramatically clutching his heart as though a bullet had torn straight through it. Superhero. Superhero. The one time I try to make something beneficial for my kid and she compares me to those fiends! Oh, Lenora, how did you ever handle such insanity? 

“Look! You can have ice cream for breakfast, okay?! No, cake! No, ice-cream cake! Doesn’t that sound nice? Please, please stop crying!” the villain pleaded.

“Okay!” Bonnie said, springing back up.

A pause, in which Lord Obliterator sighed in relief. “But this is the last time, got it? No more mister push-over,” he told his daughter, fetching her her promised dessert.

🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱 🕱   🕱   🕱

“Are you all packed? Got your lunch? Your collection?” Lord Obliterator asked his child at the door, the bus just arriving. 

“All here!” Bonnie said, bouncing up and down wearing a purple skull-print backpack larger than her.

“Good. Now, remember what to do if any of the other kids mess with you?”

“I clobber them! Teach them the meaning of the word pain! Demolition!” she screeched, bawling her hands into fists and giving her best evil cackle.

“That’s my girl.” Lord Obliterator sniffed, a single tear rolling down his cheek.

“Good luck on the Ultra Death Beam!” Bonnie said before taking off for the school bus.

Lord Obliterator sighed heavily. As difficult as it was to be a villain and a parent, he had to admit that both were worthwhile. 

Another morning, another glorious opportunity to wreak destruction.