#ammunition performance

[redgearguru]

My AAC Ammunition Review WIth 6 Different Firearms

Did you know the average American shooter uses over 9 billion rounds of ammo each year? This shows how much people need reliable, top-notch ammo. As someone who loves guns, I’ve tested many types of ammo. Today, I’m sharing my detailed review of AAC ammo with six different guns. Last year, I fired about 800 rounds of AAC 140gr bullets through an AR10. I tracked how well it performed, how accurate…

[summerlinarmory]

Selecting the right ammunition for your firearm is a critical decision. It directly impacts performance, accuracy, and safety. As our armory in Las Vegas, NV provides you with diverse options, understanding the key factors in choosing ammunition remains important.

[reagan-slayer69]

What’s wild about imperialism and white settler colonialism is that no one moves to stop it, so it grows and grows larger and larger every day. When it is not immediately nipped in the bud, it’ll try new (and old) tactics in order to seize more land at the expense of entire populations of people. This is a country that KNOWS it has enough backing and money to rebuild these infrastructures, which is why it is more than happy to demolish the literal earth to acquire more and more power. The only end to Israel’s conquest is either full on global sanctions or national poverty, because as long as it has money to pour into its war machine, it will simply keep going.

Iof using catapults

[ashwantsafreepalestine]

The “Great March of Return” in 2018.

Palestinians peacefully protested every single Friday, for over a year. They performed the Dabke as an act of resistance.

Israeli forces responded by shooting tear gas canisters, some of them dropped from drones, rubber bullets and live ammunition, mostly by snipers.

While some protesters have engaged in some forms of violence including by burning tyres, flying incendiary kites or throwing stones and Molotov cocktails in the direction of Israeli soldiers, social media videos, as well as eyewitness testimonies gathered by Amnesty International, Palestinian and Israeli human rights groups show that Israeli soldiers shot unarmed protesters, bystanders, journalists and medical staff approximately 150-400m from the fence, where they did not pose any threat.

214 Palestinians, including 46 children, were killed, and over 36,100, including nearly 8,800 children have been injured.

“In order for nonviolence to work, your opponent must have a conscience.” — Stokely Carmichael.

(sources: x,x)

[gay-dorito-dust]

How’d they act if you called them pretty upon getting catch looking at them…

Dan Heng: blushes. Hard.

He’s not use to someone complimenting his looks as it’s not something he finds important.

‘Are you really that shameless to say such things aloud?’ He’d say while avoiding eye contact with you.

Dan Heng would act as though you just shouted this out loud in front a hoard of people, even though you didn’t.

He’s awkward when it comes to taking compliments aimed his way but his reaction is too fucking cute to ignore and will warrant another compliment his way, which will only serve in making his face brunt redder.

‘Shut up, please.’ He’d plead as he covers a hand over your eyes, feeling as though they’ve stared deeply into his soul and actually see him as a whole person and more. ‘You talk too much about things you don’t understand the first thing of.’

He’s probably going to get teased by March 7th after this and it’ll be used as blackmail, probably.

Give him a moment to breath and calm down before complimenting on how pretty he is because he will combust from how flustered he is.

Argenti: would probably start a compliment war in all honesty because how can you say he’s pretty without admitting that you are also quite a sight for sore eyes.

If you were to compliment his hair, he’d resort back with how even the stars put on their best performance within your presence.

He’s got such a way with words that can easily leave one flustered without even trying. He’d even wax poetry on the spot about how the light catches your eyes in a way similar to that of a kaleidoscope, bright, vibrant and above all breathtaking.

Argenti doesn’t hold back, will not hold back, and will not back down from letting you know just how ethereal you look to him.

He can do this all day, you however could not do this all day seeing how this man has unlimited ammunition when it came to complimenting the beauty of pretty much everything.

(I mean this is the same dude who complimented a plant. 🪴 I bet that plant blushed, we just didn’t see it bc who wouldn’t blush if a chivalrous red head complimented them?)

Welt: smiles softly as a light blush coated his cheeks.

He’s well kept for someone who’s in his 60/70/80’s And he deserves to be told as such!

(all I know is that he’s grandpa age from other ppl)

So when you do compliment him and call him pretty, this old man is going to thank you for such kind words and probably give you head pats as a reward.

He appreciates a kind compliment now and then.

‘Why thank you, I try my best to keep in good shape if I’m meant to keep up with all of you.’ He would say in response followed by a chuckle.

Welt is young at heart and knows that his body isn’t how it once was but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a restless spirit within an old man’s body. So when you compliment him, it only makes him feel good and warm on the inside.

Blade: doesn’t know how to take compliments.

He’s not use to it and doesn’t know how to react to it other than saying something along the lines of;

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

Or just straight up. ‘No.’

And all the while his face is like this: 😐 or this 😒

It’s never one or the other, blade just doesn’t view himself worth the compliment, when the only things about him that people see most is that he’s a bad dude in a bad group doing bad things.

He doesn’t see why you’re wasting a kind, genuine compliment on someone whose entire body is riddled in ugly scars.

Blade is the type of person where you’d have to prove that your compliment is genuine or else he just won’t believe it.

Sampo: his ego is boosted to the max.

Well done you’ve made him even more insufferable.

He will smile that Cheshire smile of his and ask to hear what else about him you find appealing besides his pretty face.

You: your exposed hips, you slut-

However behind his cocky persona, he’s a giggly bitch who’s mentally kicking his feet and writing this interaction in his bubblegum pink diary with a glitter pen.

Sampo is deeply invested in what you thought about the rest of him but won’t let it show as he would consider it ‘out of character’ for himself. So he’ll continue to act the cocky and confident fool like he always does.

He’ll be the type to tease you about potentially killing him while internally screaming himself and telling other people that you find him pretty, much to your embarrassment.

‘You see them over there? Yeah they called ol’ Sampo pretty!’ He’d say to a random person while pointing towards you as you try to hide yourself behind a trash can…only for the trash can to grow arms and legs and walk off elsewhere.

Why were the arms and legs buff as fuck? What was their workout routine? You must know. now.

Sunday: takes the compliment in kind.

He looks like the type to get called handsome or pretty on the daily, so it’s nothing new to him but he’ll take the compliment nonetheless.

He’s probably the most calm out of the bunch when being called pretty, besides from maybe Welt.

He’s not bashful, he’s not overtly arrogant and he’s not in denial about it either. He just takes the compliment as it is and goes on about his day like any other.

Though people would take note on how he’s smiling brighter than usual. Your compliment would stay with him the entire day, as it serves as a reminder of his place within your heart and he’s secretly scheming on ways on how to stay within your heart.

Permanently.

[atinystraynstay]

Play Nicely - Lee Chan

Synopsis: "I got a preview of what it would be like not to be yours, and I hated it so much."

Pairing: Idol! Dino x fem reader

Genre: PG-13 - slight angst, slightttttt smutttt if you squint, jealousy ft. The8, established relationship, possession

Word Count: 2.1k

Dino wasn't used to sitting on the dance floor, being in charge of the music. He was normally the one in front of the mirror, learning the choreography. This time around though, Dino had to take the backseat in order for Minghao to practice the choreography for his upcoming music video.

He was in the midst of preparing for his newest solo single. It was a bit sexier of a concept compared to Hai Cheng released last year. This time around, it had a heavy influence compared to the group's Light A Flame number. Minghao wanted to step out of his comfort zone, to show off his full range of dancing capabilities especially now that his collarbone has fully healed.

Being the good friend that you are, you volunteered to help Minghao with the choreography. By no means were you a professional like the rest of the group, or really like any extra the company could have hired. However, you wanted to take a challenge. You've always been curious about the world of dance, especially after watching Dino command the stage with his capabilities.

Minghao was ecstatic about the opportunity. Not only because he could take his time since you were helping as a friend, but he felt more comfortable doing the dance with someone he knew. This style of dance was newer to him as a solo performer, so being able to do it without feeling like he was going to waste someone's time really benefitted his learning process.

Dino was also very blessed to see you step up to help one of his friends. The maknae was a bit hesitant to introduce you to his friend group. He knew his members could be intimidating but also knew he was often subject to most of the teasing. Not always, but most of it when Mingyu was MIA. He just didn't want to give them anymore ammunition or have you dragged into it.

It brought him great joy to see how easily you were accepted by the group. Sure, there was some teasing here and there. However, his 12 brothers were just pleased to see their youngest happy. That is all they wanted for him anyway.

You were wearing a blank tank top, your hair pulled back into a high ponytail. You were also wearing a pair of black leggings. Your facial expression showed you were relaxed. Maybe the two of you should take dance classes together? He was intrigued by the opportunity to see you dance, wondering what you were capable of.

"I'm just afraid of making a fool out of myself," Minghao explained. He ran his hand through his hair as he stood before you.

Being the comforting friend that you, you placed your hands on Minghao's shoulders. Staring into his eyes, you smiled gently. "You're not going to make a fool of yourself. You're one of the best dancers I know, Hao. We'll practice for however long you need so you can feel confident." Minghao smiled at you, nodding at your words

While Dino knew the interaction was innocent, he couldn't help but feel the sting in his heart. One of the best dancers you knew? What about him? He bit his lip as he stood up straighter. He could out dance Minghao if given the chance.

The rehearsal started lighthearted. Minghao was showing you the basic dance moves and keeping enough distance, so you could learn through trial and error. The three of you would laugh at the moments of awkwardness. it helped you feel at ease to be out of your element. It was such a lighthearted environment.

"Why don't we try it this time with the music? I think you got the basics of the dance down now, y/n!" "I can also pause it if you need to go over the steps again," Dino reminded.

You looked excited to try it with the music, and Dino and Minghao wanted to help you keep that enthusiasm. They were honestly grateful you were willing to help out, but wanted to keep it fun for you as this was a new experience.

However, once the music began to play, the mood shifted. it went from innocent and playful to seductive and intense. The track was a bit deeper than Seventeen's more lighthearted, poppy sounds they've been doing over the past few months. Quite frankly, it screamed sex appeal.

Dino has never wanted so desperately to pause the music, pause the intensity between the two of you. But he didn't want to be selfish.

Realizing where he was, he let out a sharp breath through his nostrils. He did his best to compose himself, not wanting to make a scene especially when he was with you and one of his best friends. He had to control himself. Neither of you were doing anything malicious, nor would you ever. You loved Dino too much to ever do something so careless whereas Minghao had too much respect for your relationship and the two of you as people.

Dino was just starting to realize maybe this wasn't a good idea after all.

His blood boiled as Minghao's eyes were trained on you. You were able to capture the attention of everyone in the room. And honestly, Dino loved watching you thrive and flourish in anything you did. You could just be cooking up lunch for the two of you, and he was always left speechless.

Internally, he knew he should be grateful that his best friend was looking out for you. You meant the world to each member, especially since they knew how happy you made their maknae. And Minghao was doing everything he could to make sure you didn't get hurt while dancing.

It just wasn't far that Minghao got to be this close to you when that's all Dino was craving. He was craving the feeling of your body heat against his. He wanted to stare into your eyes until the world stopped spinning. And honestly, he wanted to be the first and only dance partner you had.

As the song played, Dino's jealousy just grew. Minghao guided you in where to place your hands, how to move your hips. It made Dino's mind fuzzy as he remembered all the things your body was capable of, how good you could make him feel. But he was seeing red as he watched Minghao maneuver you around, how your hands trailed his body.

The ending post is what drove Dino feral. Your back was fully pressed up against Minghao's chest. Your head was tilted back to face him thanks to the light hold Minghao had on your neck, his thumb on your jawline. His other hand rested on your hip, close to your upper thigh to keep you close.

The only sound that filled the air as the music died out was the sound of you two breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling. Dino was only used to that sound when it was the two of you in his bed.

Sensing eyes burning through him, Minghao looked over. He was about to ask for Dino's opinion but froze when he saw the glare Dino held. It was so unlike his younger member, so he was a bit surprised. Yet, he was intrigued to see how else he could push his buttons.

Leaning in close to you, Minghao whispered in your hear. He made sure he kept a bit of distance as to not overwhelm you, but give the impression Minghao was kissing your ear. Anything to drive Dino up the wall.

"Why don't we take a five? Give your lover boy a chance to breathe?"

You tilted your head in confusion before taking a look over at Dino. You've never seen him with his jaw clenched so tightly. You were afraid he was going to break his teeth with that kind of hold on his jaw.

Untangling your bodies, Minghao and you stepped away from with each other. Even though you were aching to know what was bothering your boyfriend, you were overjoyed with how well that first run-through went.

"I'm going to get us some water. Be right back," Minghao announced almost too happily.

I should have nothing to worry about. It's my best friend fulfilling his goal, but it just happens to be with my girlfriend. With his hands all over MY girlfriend. Fuck this.

Once you two were the only ones in the room, you turned towards your boyfriend. You couldn't help the gentle smile that tugged onto your lips at the sight of your pouty boy. Dino has always been seen as far more mature for his age, probably because he wanted to fit in with his hyungs since Seventeen's debut days. Yet, in this moment, he resembled a little boy who was not getting his way.

You were taking tiny steps towards Dino. You were convinced he hasn't moved an inch since rehearsals started. He was sitting up straight with his back against the glass.

"Have I ever told you I hate sharing?" He grumbled.

You giggled and shook your head. Your reaction caused Dino's scowl to deepen as his head shot up towards you. "Sorry," you whispered, apologizing for your reaction. You didn't want to just cast his feelings to the side. This was just a side of Dino you've never experienced before.

"Baby boy, you're not sharing me with anyone." "Damn right I'm not," he muttered.

Before you could even respond, Dino leaned forward to grab your wrists. You gasped lightly at the movement but allowed Dino to guide you in the direction he desired. He gently pulled you down so you straddled his lap. His knees propped up so you could lean back and rest against them.

Once you got situated in the new position, his hands let go of your wrists. Instead, they perched themselves on your hips to keep you secured on his lap. Your arms wrapped around Dino's neck. One hand resting on the base of his neck, the other on the back of his head.

"You only go home with me at the end of the day."

Dino didn't know what took over him. He leaned forward and pressed his lips gently at first against your neck. Your fingers gently running through his hair now, gripping slightly. The action caused him to growl against your skin, causing butterflies to erupt in the pit of your stomach. His lips were like a magnet to your neck.

"Don't ever think I'm willing to let anyone get that close to you again. You hear me?" The kisses were no longer soft pecks. They were open-mouth kisses that traveled up and down your neck, as if he was searching for it.

As his lips were right by where your jaw and neck connect, you felt your breathing hitch. You pulled yourself closer, unaware that the movement had caused you to rub against Dino's hardening boner. His teeth sink into your neck before he began sucking on it to ease the temporary ache.

He needed to get you home. Or at least somewhere where nobody could walk in on you two.

"You drive me absolutely mad, baby girl. I'm so lucky." "And I'm all yours," you reminded him again.

His mind got fuzzy at the softness of your voice. He squeezed your hips lovingly before letting his tongue glide over the reddish-purple hickey forming on your neck. Just one mark that would remind everyone who you belonged to.

"I guess I'm not filming dance rehearsal today," Minghao announced.

Hearing Minghao's voice, you blushed hard. You were going to move off of Dino, wanting to apologize for the PDA. Yet, Dino didn't let you move. If anything, his grip tightened on you to keep you planted on his lap.

Also so Minghao didn't see the boner that was becoming more and more prominent.

Dino slowly pulled away before looking over at his older member. His body was a bit relaxed even though he still wished he could swap places with Minghao in a few minutes. Minghao looked amused, not knowing that his younger brother could get jealous so easily.

"Sorry, Minghao," Dino chuckled. 'I just couldn't help myself." "You could have at least waited until rehearsal was done. At least you didn't make my dance partner too sore she couldn't move. I'd like to just finish and get one ore run-through down."

The two of you nodded, understanding Minghao's request. You were here to help him after all. Turning towards your boyfriend, you kissed his cheek lingeringly. You could feel his smile grow beneath the kiss. "We'll pick up later," you promised him.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought.

As you pushed yourself up off of his lap, there was a loud gasp behind you. "Dude, you have a boner?! In our dance studio?! I'm going to have to bleach my eyes after this!"

And there's the normal dynamic Dino was used to.

[starogeorgina]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬

Paring: Criston Cole x reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence

1.03

Hearing a soft knock on your door, you sit up slightly dazed. It takes you a minute to focus on the handmaid now standing at the foot of your bed. Her gaze was firmly locked on the direwolf snarling at her. You stroked behind Storm's ears, calming him. Many at court criticized and judged you for allowing your daughter and her wolf to sleep in your chambers, but you ignored their comments and allowed it. Since the handmaid in front of you served the high towers, you presumed she would have been aware of this.

“Is something wrong?”

“Forgive me for waking you, princess, but Ser Gwayne has asked for you to join him in his chambers immediately.”

Her words left a sour taste in your mouth. After consummating the marriage, the maesters had worked out the days you were most fertile, and those were the only nights deemed necessary for you to perform your duty. In the three moons you’d been married, Ser Gwayne had never been cruel towards you; he just wasn’t interested in speaking with you unless necessary.

“What knight is stationed outside my quarters?”

“Ser Thomson.”

“I haven’t heard of a knight with his name before.”

“I believe he only joined the king's guard yesterday, princess.”

Quietly, you get out of bed and consider your different options. Meera was in a deep sleep and would be unaware of your absence. You could refuse to go, but would it be worth giving Alicent and Otto more ammunition to tarnish your name with? The hour was late, and you will most likely be gone until the sunrise. You had only just excused your sworn shield for the night, but you didn’t like the idea of leaving your daughter in your chambers with a knight you did not know guarding her.

“Thank you. Ser Thomas can retire for the night, and Ser Criston can resume.”

She clears her throat. “And Ser Gwayne?”

“My husband can wait. I won’t be leaving until my sworn shield is here.”

She nods and goes to pass the message of the changing of the knights on. Walking to the opposite side of your room, you slide the nightdress off and replace it with a simple red-fitted dress. It might have been nighttime, but you wouldn’t be caught wondering why the castle was half-dressed. Once you finish changing, rebrand your hair.

Little time passed before the knights changed over. When you open the door to leave, you’re surprised to see how panicked Ser Criston is. He starts checking you over for any injuries. “Princess, has something happened?”

You step out of the room and close the door behind you. “No, nothing. Forgive me for asking you to come at this hour. I’ve been asked to join my husband, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving Meera.“

“You don’t need to explain,” he says softly. “The handmaid who came to my door didn’t explain why you called for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

The knight straightens his posture and says, “I’m sworn to protect the king and his family, which includes his granddaughter.”

“Thank you. Nobody aside from yourself, Raya, or my sister is to enter my apartment.”

—

A strange feeling lurks within the castle halls, causing you to feel on edge. Edric had taken you to the crypts of Winterfell many times, and never once did you feel afraid, but the Red Keep at night felt more haunted than the ghosts of the north ever did.

The hall your husband's bedchamber was in was absent of any knights, which confused you. Aside from being married to a princess, he was the queen's brother and son at the hands of the king.

You knock twice, but when you don’t get an answer, you push the doors open and enter. A large sigil of House Hightower hangs on the stone wall; it truly was an eyesore. You’d make sure any future children you have bedchambers have the same amount of Targaryen symbols.

Hearing a clattering noise, you spin fast. “Ser Gwayne?”

You abruptly come to a halt when you turn the corner, your gaze reaching his bed. Your husband wasn’t alone in his bed; a long-haired brunette woman had her leg hooked around his. She was laughing as Gwayne fondled her breasts. A naked redhead was bending over and picking up a knocked-over jug of wine.

“Gwayne,” your voice was too soft for him to hear. “Gwayne!”

He lurches upright in the bed; the look on his face would have been amusing in any other circumstance. Your husband was staring at you as if you’d grown a second head.

“What are you doing here?”

The two women quickly start to redress, judging from their clothes, or lack thereof, if you assumed they worked in a brothel. They run by you with their heads lowered, but before they reach the doorway, you snap, “Do not return to the red keep, ever.”

Gwayne stares at you, speechless. A valyrian steel sword would have sliced just as deep as the humiliation you’ve just suffered. Swallowing back any emotion aside from rage, you shake your head and turn to leave.

“Wait!”

“I’ll deal with you in the morning, husband.”

—

Anger bore through Ser Criston as he marched towards the High Tower's quarters. No doubt he would get an earful from Harrold Westerling, lord commander of the king's guard, for disobeying a direct order from the king's family to retire until tomorrow, but seeing how upset the princess he was sworn to protect was, he couldn’t simply leave things be.

Criston was confused when the princess returned and quickly dismissed him. Her eyes were full of tears, but she insisted everything was fine, so he did as he was asked.

There was always a warm bowl of oatmeal or stew available to members of the king's guard, day or night, in the armory. The sky was still dark outside, and there were only a few of her off-duty guards eating before retiring for the night. While deciding on which meal would keep him feeling full for longer, Criston overheard two handmaidens who were clearing dirty dishes, disguising the king’s second-eldest daughter, and how humiliated she must be by her husband inviting two whores to join them in the bed chambers. Criston knew something had happened to upset the princess, and the guilt for not pressing her for further information left him feeling guilty.

The princess was still grieving her late husband and life in the north. He wouldn’t allow a spoiled child like the son of Otto Hightower to add to her upset.

Gwayne answers the door and allows the knight to enter, but before he can ask why the other man was there, the wind is knocked out of him when Criston slams him into the wall.

“Wh-what did my wife tell you?”

“The princess told me nothing, but I’ve heard the gossip that is spreading fast.” Criston keeps Gwayne pinned by wrapping a hand around his neck. “I wonder what the king will do when he hears how you brought disgrace to his daughter.”

“I didn’t know she was coming.”

Criston loosens his grip slightly. His grip wasn’t tight enough to leave any bruises, but tight enough for Gwayne to squirm. “A handmaid woke up the princess and passed on the message for her to join you. I spoke with the girl myself.”

Gwayne frowns. “I did no such thing. I would much rather have enjoyed the company I was in in that bed with the princess.”

Reaching for the leather strap around his waist, Criston pulls a small dagger out and places it underneath Gwayne’s chin. “To insult the honor of a princess is an act of treason,” he warns. “You may live in brothels if you wish, but the next time you humiliate the princess by bringing whores into the keep, it will be the last thing that you do.”

[vigilskeep]

can you talk about misinterpretations of wynne and zevran's dynamic??? i'm chewing on your analysis

i think it’s a very basic case of people simply taking what is said at face value, in a way that comes up a lot with your classic zevran misinterpretations and uhhh oversimplifications. zevran and wynne’s banters are full of his classic exaggerated flirtations. all of their banters hinge on this joke and they’re very funny. but i’m always mildly stunned when i see people taking that as... zevran actually literally just being horny AGSHSKKSKS

i don’t think people give zevran enough credit for how clever he is at dancing around the other companions. nobody ever really gets one up on him. i can think of one specific instance in banter where i do think something gets under his skin, which i think oghren of all people manages essentially by accident the one time he’s actually not really trying

anyway: wynne opens their first banter with “you must know that murder is wrong, i assume.” it’s very wynne; she makes a judgement and announces it as fact. zevran is slightly stunned by this and also how funny it is: “i’m sorry... are you speaking to me?” with this incredible disbelieving pause because, like, he’s the party assassin. but he’s also playing for time quickly on how to react to this out of nowhere. wynne then explains the simple narrative she’s constructed that joining the party is due to a crisis of conscience on zevran’s part about being an assassin. and zevran immediately jumps into exaggerated agreement, and once he gets a better idea, the first of his flirtations with her, until she gives up in exasperation. it’s an evasion tactic zevran is very, very good at and has been doing to you, the player, since his first appearance on screen. he wants to play on the characters he performs when they’re useful shields, whether it’s the victim or the flirt or what have you. but also always with that ironic air that he’s clearly doing a bit; there’s the charm of letting you in on a private joke, but also he needs everything to be a faintly ridiculous game to him, so he doesn’t have to be affected

zevran keeps this joke up for the full extent of his banters with wynne through the whole game, because he finds it wildly entertaining, of course, and because he has no interest in ever inviting the conversation she wants. he so badly doesn’t want to deal with her asking this that he decides to run this bit into the GROUND, and starts doing it pre-emptively to ward her off even after she stops trying to instigate the conversation. bc wynne may be a good way off the mark, and, ironically for someone wanting zevran to take this seriously, not able to imagine that his life and feelings may be more complex than assumed (absolutely classic spirit behaviour once again), but she is needling at his reasons for leaving the crows, which is the last thing wants to be honest with anyone about

making the assumption that zevran is flirting with wynne out of genuine interest is, to me, the same mistake as thinking zevran when you first meet the warden is flirting out of genuine interest. this is how he knows to stay alive. if he let his guard down, he’d be dead; if he wasn’t charming, he’d be dead; and if he ever stopped to dwell instead of being the “eternal optimist”, always instinctually grasping at one more chance to live another day, he’d be very, very dead. he’s not going to casually discuss vulnerabilities for someone else’s peace of mind and he definitely doesn’t have the kind of insecurity to need to explain himself to people who don’t know him or what they’re talking about. so, rogue evasion abilities activate! it’s time for him to dodge! which is what he spends the entire series of banters doing. but also he’s just still finding it funny throughout. she just gives him so much ammunition. it’s like taking candy from a baby. zevran loves an old and terrible joke repeated for several months solid, they age like wine to him

i also think wynne’s comments are a light jab at how zevran does get read by players. he’s not ashamed of being an assassin. there’s this great line in one of his dialogues with the warden that asks why he shouldn’t continue to do what he’s good at when so few have come by his skills “honestly”, as he believes he has. there’s a tendency to characterise him and characters like him as, ah, the guilt-ridden victim in need of a pure-hearted saviour to show him the light, etc etc, but that’s never been who he is. there’s no ending where he suddenly quits being an assassin lmao

[weenwrites]

Can I have a cybertronian S/O with TFP Shockwave who’s really REALLY into weaponry and is really invested in his canon arm? Like, analysing and taking notes and asking questions about it, even manoeuvring it to look it up and down but carefully enough to not distract from his work (when he’s working at least)

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

"Ooh, a vented barrel shroud—or perhaps that's a compensator?"

Y/N leaned over his shoulder here and there, observing the new device as they strode here and there to fetch all the necessary tools to assist him with the new upgrade.

Shockwave reached for the ammunition belt and and detached it from his arm, setting the end of the cord down on the table before he answered, "A fusion of the two devices, in order to ensure that my armament works to its fullest capacity with minimal interference due to recoil or muzzle movement."

"Both in one?" They repeated, passing him a tool as he held his hand out, before laying the rest out all over the table, "Given all your preexisting modifications, I feel like you're going to get less of a return with each new change to your hand gun."

"The law of diminishing returns indeed renders the percentage of the return into an infinitesimal value." He confirmed, attaching the device with ease before tilting it here and there to observe the weapon as a whole, "As such, any further efforts to improve the firearm would prove futile."

"Would? Let me guess, you've already made some ground-breaking discovery that will drastically improve its performance, haven't you?"

"Your hypothesis is a gross exaggeration, yet you are correct." He picked a device from the sea of tools in front of him, "I have engineered a device that will increase fuel efficiency and decrease the time spent reloading the gun, thus increasing the number of shots fired per round of ammo supplied by the ammunition belt."

"And you don't have to make any sacrifices for it? No switching out parts or anything?" They asked as he simply began to install the device without a hitch.

"No, it functions in conjunction with the rest of my modifications seamlessly." He held his hand out, and naturally they passed him the correct tool he needed.

"You have to make me a gun just like that one day. I won't accept anything less if you're planning on making me your official conjunx endurae somewhere in the future." They joked.

"You say that as though I would not give you the magnum opus of my work, that notion is illogical." He momentarily set his tool down and met their gaze, "As my equal, you will be given gifts naturally appropriate for someone of your caliber. Anything less would constitute as unacceptable."

"And here people say that you don't have a way with words!" Y/N smiled bashfully, "ah, they just can't understand your mind the way I do."

[historyofguns]

The article "10mm Ballistic Gel Testing" by Yamil Sued on The Armory Life website discusses the performance and capabilities of the 10mm Auto cartridge, a powerful round designed in the mid-1980s. Conducting ballistic gelatin tests with a Springfield Armory Range Officer Elite Operator 10mm 1911, Sued tested three different 200-grain full-power 10mm loads: Federal Personal Defense HST, Speer Gold Dot Personal Protection Gold Dot Hollowpoint, and CCI Blazer FMJ range ammunition. The tests revealed that both the Federal and Speer hollowpoints achieved approximately 18 inches of penetration with substantial expansion, whereas the Blazer FMJ overpenetrated by passing through all 32 inches of gelatin. The article highlights the impressive stopping power of the 10mm cartridge, validating its efficacy in both self-defense and hunting scenarios.

[dungeon-strugglers]

✨New item!✨ Hemomancer’s Blade  Weapon (dagger), uncommon (requires attunement) 

This razor-sharp dagger is the main tool of the hemomancer, with a hollow handle able to store and preserve blood for spellcraft. As an action while holding the dagger, you can spend a number of hit dice equal to your proficiency bonus and store them in the blade. When performing hemomancy, you can roll one or more stored hit dice to subtract the rolled number from the damage you take due to blood loss. Stored hit dice cannot be used to restore hit points. Once a stored hit die is rolled, it is spent.

You have a +1 bonus to attack and damage rolls made with any hemomantic weapon or ammunition that you craft while wielding this dagger, unless the item is already getting a bonus from elsewhere.

Additionally, you can use the dagger as a spellcasting focus. While using the dagger to cast a spell of 1st level or higher that deals damage, you can roll one or more stored hit dice and deal extra damage equal to the number rolled to a single creature targeted by the spell. Once this property has been used, it cannot be used again until you complete a long rest. - 🖌🎨 Like our work? Consider supporting us on Patreon and gain access to the hi-resolution art for almost 200 magic items (wow!), printable item cards and card packs, beautiful creature art and stat blocks, and setting pdfs with narrative hooks and unique lore!🧙‍♂️ Thank you so much for your support! 💖

📜 Credit. Art and design by us: the Dungeon Strugglers. Please credit us if you repost elsewhere.

[quotesfrommyreading]

Much of the public discussion of Ukraine reveals a tendency to patronize that country and others that escaped Russian rule. As Toomas Ilves, a former president of Estonia, acidly observed, “When I was at university in the mid-1970s, no one referred to Germany as ‘the former Third Reich.’ And yet today, more than 30 years after the fall of the Berlin Wall, we keep on being referred to as ‘former Soviet bloc countries.’” Tropes about Ukrainian corruption abound, not without reason—but one may also legitimately ask why so many members of Congress enter the House or Senate with modest means and leave as multimillionaires, or why the children of U.S. presidents make fortunes off foreign countries, or, for that matter, why building in New York City is so infernally expensive.

The latest, richest example of Western condescension came in a report by German military intelligence that complains that although the Ukrainians are good students in their training courses, they are not following Western doctrine and, worse, are promoting officers on the basis of combat experience rather than theoretical knowledge. Similar, if less cutting, views have leaked out of the Pentagon.

Criticism by the German military of any country’s combat performance may be taken with a grain of salt. After all, the Bundeswehr has not seen serious combat in nearly eight decades. In Afghanistan, Germany was notorious for having considerably fewer than 10 percent of its thousands of in-country troops outside the wire of its forward operating bases at any time. One might further observe that when, long ago, the German army did fight wars, it, too, tended to promote experienced and successful combat leaders, as wartime armies usually do.

American complaints about the pace of Ukraine’s counteroffensive and its failure to achieve rapid breakthroughs are similarly misplaced. The Ukrainians indeed received a diverse array of tanks and armored vehicles, but they have far less mine-clearing equipment than they need. They tried doing it our way—attempting to pierce dense Russian defenses and break out into open territory—and paid a price. After 10 days they decided to take a different approach, more careful and incremental, and better suited to their own capabilities (particularly their precision long-range weapons) and the challenge they faced. That is, by historical standards, fast adaptation. By contrast, the United States Army took a good four years to develop an operational approach to counterinsurgency in Iraq that yielded success in defeating the remnants of the Baathist regime and al-Qaeda-oriented terrorists.

A besetting sin of big militaries, particularly America’s, is to think that their way is either the best way or the only way. As a result of this assumption, the United States builds inferior, mirror-image militaries in smaller allies facing insurgency or external threat. These forces tend to fail because they are unsuited to their environment or simply lack the resources that the U.S. military possesses in plenty. The Vietnamese and, later, the Afghan armies are good examples of this tendency—and Washington’s postwar bad-mouthing of its slaughtered clients, rather than critical self-examination of what it set them up for, is reprehensible.

The Ukrainians are now fighting a slow, patient war in which they are dismantling Russian artillery, ammunition depots, and command posts without weapons such as American ATACMS and German Taurus missiles that would make this sensible approach faster and more effective. They know far more about fighting Russians than anyone in any Western military knows, and they are experiencing a combat environment that no Western military has encountered since World War II. Modesty, never an American strong suit, is in order.

  —  Western Diplomats Need to Stop Whining About Ukraine

[distort-opia]

I love your metas! I was wondering... have you or anyone else tried listing all of Bruce's childhood traumas? Comics zero in on Crime Alley, but EVERY time I see a snippet from his childhood it's invariably a little-to-a-lot fucked up whether his parents are involved (loneliness, bedtime stories, his mom lovingly promising to haunt him) or not (falling into the cave, going to a boarding school run by a killer in Batman Gothic, Tommy Elliott in general, a childhood friend died of diphtheria in Batman Through the Looking Glass... he saw a LOT of death as a child, actually...)

Thank you! I unfortunately don't know of a post listing all of Bruce's childhood traumas. You've kind of already covered a lot of bases, Anon, but for the sake of completeness I'll go through all you've mentioned and the traumatic incidents I can recall too:

Bruce falls into a well full of bats and develops a phobia in response [notable post-Crisis flashback in Batman: The Man Who Falls]

At five years old, Bruce's favorite story to have Thomas read to him every night for a month is “The Veldt” by Ray Bradbury, which is largely about kids with such neglectful parents that they bond with an automated house and then leave their parents for dead [mentioned by Bruce(s) in Batman/Superman (2013) #2]

Bruce witnessed his father performing surgery on a dying man [flashback in Batman: The Long Halloween]

Thomas reads to Bruce “The Animals and the Pit” by Alexander Nikolaevich Afanasyev, a story containing cannibalism and brutal fights for survival [flashback in Batman (2016) #74]

Thomas had Bruce watch horror movies with him, with Martha having to comfort Bruce afterwards in a bit of an unorthodox way... by promising that if they died, his parents would haunt him [flashback in Detective Comics (2016) #1027 -- Ghost Story]

Bruce experienced neglect as a child, with his father's parenting style being potrayed in multiple stories as authoritarian, which led to Bruce idolizing him and craving his approval, but running to Martha for comfort when his father was too harsh [notable flashbacks in Batman: The Dark Knight II (2011) #12, but bits of this can be seen in Batman: The Long Halloween, Batman: Hush, Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #58, Arkham Asylum: A Serious House on a Serious Earth etc.]

Bruce had a friend called Celia Small for a while, whom he adored. He watched her die of diptheria while he recovered, blaming himself for it [mentioned in Batman: Through the Looking Glass]

Bruce was sent to a private school as a child, which he resented as being "sent away"; the school is described as hell, a place where children were beaten, humiliated and had to fight off the sexual advances of older teachers. Bruce gets spanked as physical punishment by the headmaster, who turns out to be a serial killer, because Bruce glimpses the severed head of his only friend Robert as it happens [flashbacks in Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #7 -- Gothic]

Bruce accidentally shoots a duck with a rifle his friend Mooley had brought with them, and the death of the animal becomes a traumatic memory associated with the death of his parents, because of the gun [Batman: Secrets #4]

Bruce's childhood friend, Tommy Elliot... um. I guess I can just list Tommy Elliot, but the most direct traumatic experience at the time must've been having to stop Thomas from killing another kid, after which Thomas was put in a psychiatric institution [flashback in Detective Comics (1937) #837]

Bruce's father hits him while angry about a stock investment, with Bruce declaring in childish rage to his mother afterwards that he wants him dead... on the same day that his parents got gunned down, because Bruce's survivor's guilt needed more ammunition [flashback in Batman (1940) #430]

And then there's the shooting of his parents at the tender age of 8 years old! So all of this is prior to that! Two dead friends, one who avoided him after the unfortunate duck incident, and one friend who had a violent breakdown and got taken away... And Bruce attempted suicide after his parents died too, as told in Batman (2016) #12.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Price takes Nikolai to a gig and gets more than he bargained for.

cw: sexual content towards the end.

Price stood on the outskirts in the standing area of Liverpool's Olympia stadium tracing back the decisions that had led him to this moment. He clutched half a pint of the worst lager he had ever tasted in one hand, his fingers bending the plastic inwards under a tense grip, while the other hand remained deep in the pocket of his jeans, turning his flat keys over and over.

Nik had thrown the flyer down on his desk about a month ago, and those big brown eyes had been turned onto their pleading setting immediately. Laswell likened them to the eyes of her barrel-shaped black Labrador; big, loyal, soft, irresistible. Price had asked her whether her wife knew there would soon be a third in their marriage and she'd thumped his arm hard enough to leave a mark. "Liverpool, this is where you live," Nik had said, stating rather than asking. "Can you help me book this?"

Nikolai could fix you a handgun in Liverpool no problem, replete with silencer and enough hollow point ammunition to create a very bad night for the Merseyside police force, but booking and attending a gig was apparently too much. Price had snagged up the flyer, squinted at the band name as if he had a chance in hell of recognising it, and then agreed.

Because why the fuck not? Brass were pressuring him to book some leave so they could tick the 'monitoring mental health and well being' box on his performance management, so it was as good excuse as any. You can kip on my sofa, he'd said, I can cook a better sarnie than the Premier Inn.

Nik's entire face had lit up. "Good! And you can come with me," a single beat of breath, "or I might get lost." There has been no time to argue the point because Garrick had knocked and entered, only to be scooped into a hug with a boomed, "Gaz, my brother, good to see you!" and the Russian-shaped whirlwind had disappeared.

So Price had done just that. He'd booked two tickets at the same time as his annual leave - three days should get them off his back - and put it out of his mind.

Not that there would have been much time to mull it over; they shipped out on a week long recon mission the following day, and the fallout that followed had taken up the rest of the time. Before he knew it, he was sitting on the train with Nik opposite, watching the British countryside sprint by in a blur of green and grey, drinking a beer and playing cards.

Being around Nik was easy. It wasn't just that he didn't take up energy to entertain, or require a certain mask from Price, it was more than that. Like he slotted into a part of Price's psyche built precisely for him, and Price felt happier when he was there. Laswell said it was like Nik removed the stick from Price's arse as part of his exfil service and Price had told Laswell to fuck off.

They had spent the afternoon mooching around Price's gaff. Not much to see really, but Nik had been fascinated by the dusty family photos on Price's wall and asked after every face; mother, father, sister, two nieces, a nephew, grandparents. He'd wanted to know about them all.

Then, with an hour and a half to go before Olympia's doors opened, they'd got changed for the evening. Price had thrown on the only shirt he owned that didn't come from the bargain bin of a Mountain Warehouse or the Army Surplus catalogue - a Ralph Lauren his sister has bought him one Christmas instead of the much preferred fishing-themed memorabilia - and stepped out to be confronted by Nik in a Slayer cut off tank that showed off the sides of his torso in a way that made Price feel hot under his designer collar.

"You look," Nik had said, studying Price carefully, head tilting to the side with a wry little smirk, "ill-prepared."

"And you look like Ozzy Osbourne took some steroids so I reckon it evens out." Nik had laughed at that and thumped Price's chest, and in the next moment they were sitting in the back of a taxi, Nik talking through the set list with the same excited gusto he did when pawing over a new bird in the hanger. Price was just glad he had remembered his Loop earplugs and couldn't help but smile along at Nik's excitement.

After drinking together through the support band and watching Nik grow gradually more and more restless, Price had sent him into the pit. He stood watching Nik from afar - "your shirt is too nice, captain, you stay here and finish your beer, I'll be back," - a man ten years his senior, orchestrate what the lead singer was calling a Wall of Death. More, more, further. Don't be a pussy! And then they sprinted at each other to the crescendo of a shredding guitar. Jesus fucking christ. Price lifted his lager to drink and then hesitated; he was pretty sure he'd felt something wet slosh over his face and shoulders, into his drink, and he couldn't be sure it wasn't piss, so he put his inordinately expensive and shit lager down on the nearby bar.

The last gig he had been to was at fifteen, a year before he joined the service. 3rd November 2000 at Wembley in London; the Smashing Pumpkins. He remembered it so clearly because of the hiding his father had given him for not only hitchhiking his way to London, but stumbling home off his head on cheap vodka the morning after. There hadn't been any Walls of Death at the time.

Nik stumbled out of the melee that had followed the wall's demise just as the song ended, and a line formed down the centre of Price's brow. A knot twisted in his belly, and a little further down, at the lumbering mess of a man that approached. His tank clung to the curves of his chest, darkened with sweat, his usually neat hair ruffled and erratic, the sheen on his arms and collar bones reflecting the strobe lights and drawing Price's eye. A shiver of something that felt far too fucking much like longing ran down his spine.

"You're bleeding," Price said dumbly, his throat tight. His gaze settled on the split in Nik's lip and the blossoming bruise on his cheekbone.

"Eh," Nik huffed, wiping a smear of blood on the back of his hand. "The other guy looks worse." There was that feral little grin. The same grin Nikolai wore in the field when shit had gone Pete Tong but they had still come up golden through sheer grit, dumb luck and the precise application of violent savagery. It set a fire in Price's chest, made something feral and untamed rouse from slumber, and suddenly there was an itch beneath his skin.

"Damn fuckin' right," Price replied, reflecting Nik's grin back at him. A breath passed between them, something unspoken and wild as their eyes met. And then there was a strong hand gripping his jaw, another on his hip, pushing him into the wall behind him. His back hit home, knocking the air from his lungs, and his fists bunched in the sweat-soaked material of Nik's shirt as Nik's lips pushed to his. The coppery taste of blood mixed with cheap beer and cigar smoke, and every sane thought fell out of Price's head, replaced instead by a maelstrom of chaos centered around the feel of Nik's tongue, the softness of his lips, the demand of his teeth and the rock hard bulge that ground into Price's hips.

Price was sure his moan would have been audible but for the thump and scream of the music. Nik kept that grip on his jaw as he damn near plundered Price's mouth for what he wanted, but the other hand left his hip to push against the wall, clenched in a fist near Price's head. When they pulled apart, Price sucked in a strangled gasp of air and Nik pushed his face into the scruff of Price's beard. "Ty prekrasen," Nik breathed, "ya tebya hochu."

Price had been practicing Russian. He still couldn't read it, but even if he hadn't understood the words or the low growl in Nik's voice, the hunger in Nik's kiss on his neck would have communicated his meaning just fine. "Bloody hell," Price arched against the hard line of Nik's body, fists shaking. "Yeah. Fuck. Wait..." He shoved Nik away, just a fraction, but held onto his shirt with the same desperation. Caught in the conflict between what he wanted and another part of him that had been wounded once before. "I'm not your three a.m. shag, Nik. We clear? I don't do that. If this is--if this is what this is, then no, look at me, you hear?"

Nik let out a burst of a chuckle, eyes soft as he met Price's gaze. "John, you are and always will be my everything." He was drunk enough to struggle around the 'J' in Price's name, defaulting the zsho- inflection, but his eyes were clear as he said it.

"Fuck," Price responded, eyes wide, and Nik kissed him again, slower this time. When he stopped, Price was shaking.

"And you?" Nik breathed into his lips.

"Not here, not... I can't hear myself fucking think."

"Then home." Nik pulled him from the wall and soon they were navigating the corridors crowded with drunks and staff into the night. The cool air bristled over Price's skin, but it did little to cool the heat in his body, barely able to keep his hands off of Nik when they fell into the back of the cab. Nik sat contentedly, the backs of his fingers stroking up and down Price's forearm as he watched the city speed by.

Price's hands shook as he shoved the key in the door of his flat, and he turned just in time to be crowded across the threshold by Nik's chest. The door slammed shut and they tumbled onto the beaten up old sofa padded out with a spare duvet and pillow. Nik tore into Price's clothes remorselessly, thirty-ish quids worth of buttons skittered under Price's coffee table as the shirt was k.i.a. It didn't matter, because the feeling of Nik devouring his chest, scrubbing his stubble into sweat, hair and cologne with a deep, guttural groan, was worth every shirt Price owned and then some.

They fumbled and wrestled out of their clothes in search of skin. Nik worked his way down Price's body, wrenching his jeans and boxers over his thighs to lick a long stripe up the hard line of his prick before swallowing it in one. A strangled noise broke from Price's chest as he buried a fist in Nik's hair; the responding moan that vibrated in Nik's throat sent pleasure licking up Price's spine like tongues of flame. Nik kept him teetering on the brink, pulling away with a soft pop to work his way back up Price's body and squirm out of the baggy cargo shorts far enough to free his own cock. He took them both in one big hand and rutted forward, grabbing at the arm of the sofa behind Price's head for purchase.

Slicked by their precum and Nik's saliva, Nik fucked them both into his palm with enough pace and force to make the old sofa creak. He leaned down to kiss the moans and whimpers from Price's mouth in between growled pants of want, slipping in and out of Russian, English and some of the other eight languages he knew, like his brain had short-circuited and was spinning out. Fuckin' hot, is what it was. One of Price's hands joined Nik's, if only to feel the silky iron of his prick against another part of him. He squeezed tighter as his pleasure crested, balls pulling tight, and spilled between them.

Nik practically fucking purred with delight, thrusting against Price's spent cock until he grunted in discomfort before pulling away. No fucking way Price was letting him keep the upper hand; he snagged Nik's shorts and used them to yank him up until Nik's cum-slick cock hung over his face. His palm gripping one plentiful arse cheek, he sucked Nik into the back of his mouth, encouraging him to thrust in with a firm squeeze and low growl.

If Price had thought Nik had been loud before, the act of fucking Price's face had unearthed a whole new vocal range. Nik moaned, growled and panted like an animal, fisting Price's hair as his balls settled against the bristles on Price's chin. Price's throat spasmed, his chest ached, his damn eyes watered, but fuck he wanted Nik buried in him forever. His fingernails bit into the flesh of his arse, his spent cock flicking with interest across his belly, as Nik staked his claim. It took only a handful of deep thrusts before Nik hit his peak, buried to the hilt and spilling down Price's throat with a euphoric shout.

His grip loosened in Price's hair and he withdrew slowly, cock still twitching as it drew over Price's tongue. He replaced his prick with his mouth, kissing the taste of himself on Price's swollen lips with a bone deep moan, before lapping at the tear tracks on Price's cheeks.

At some point, Nik must have moved them to the bed, because Price resurfaced from his haze with his face on a thick, furry chest and a strong arm around his shoulders, the bedsheets draped up to their waist. Nik traced vague circles on Price's bicep, half lidded eyes unfocused as they stared at the ceiling. "I meant it," Nik said, clearly sensing Price's return from his post-fuck delirium. "Everything I said."

Price swallowed hard. How did you respond to that? Nothing in his life so far had prepared him for Nik's devotion. "I know," he murmured. "I... Me too. For a long time."

Nik shifted, rolling Price onto his back so he could look down into his eyes. "Then we make it work."

"Nik... Our lives, we... Shit could go upside down real bloody quick."

A finger pressed over his lips. "I specialise in upside down, captain."

"You just put your prick in my throat and you're still going with captain."

Nik shrugged, lopsided grin slipping back into place. "It is hot. Maybe I will fuck you in your uniform next time, hm?"

"Presumptuous, Nik..."

"Maybe over your desk." Nik sank down to kiss Price's neck.

"Cleaning lady would have somethin' to say about that."

"She is not invited. I do not share." A nip against his throat, and Price arched into Nik's chest.

"Fuck, okay... Mate, you're rabid."

"Hm, only for you."

Fuck. Only for you. Price closed his eyes as Nik's hand slid beneath the blanket. Yeah, fine, they could make this work. They could have this. They deserved it, this one thing, and fuck did Price want it bad.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

I really like reading Ed's story as a trans narrative. I know there's a great posible read of the slide into the Kraken era as a detransitioning narrative, but personally I prefer interpreting it as a forced return to being extremely careful about passing.

I love to read Ed as a trans man because it's so fucking juicy, and because the urge to lean hard into hyper-masculinity is such a common one among trans guys. You feel like you have to be the perfect man in order to be seen as a "real" man, and I see this so strongly in Ed. I mean, he named himself after his beard!

And then there's Stede, and he's a guy with an undeniably more feminine affect to how he presents himself. We know Ed doesn't just like softer things because he wants to fit in with Stede, he wishes he was the kind of person that got to have it. It reminds me of being younger, before I could pass, and wishing I could wear a skirt and be seen as a man in a skirt. And Stede helps Ed feel like he's safe to explore his gender presentation a bit - he puts flowers in his hair and little bows in his beard, dressing up his masculinity with a bit of femininity.

When Ed comes back to the ship after Stede abandons him, having a safe space to explore his gender expression seems like it brought him a lot of comfort. He writes song lyrics, wears a soft pink robe, and paints his nails with glittery pink polish. And, yes, none of these things are inherently gendered, of course, but they're not things that you get to have when you're trying to live up to some ideal of hyper-masculinity.

Through this lens, what Izzy tells Ed in s1e10 isn't just, like, really mean and homophobic, it also feels like all those transphobes who tell you they won't respect your gender unless you pass to their standards. "Namby-pamby in a silk gown" hits harder because it feels like Izzy is digging into Ed's femininity. It feels like he's telling Ed that he's not a real man unless he performs masculinity to Izzy's standard, and if Ed dares to be a feminine trans man, he's not safe.

Ed's slide into the Kraken era feels to me like a return to him focusing on passing perfectly as the ideal man, because sometimes when you're a trans guy you feel a lot safer when you feel like you're taking away all the ammunition anyone could possibly use to question if you're really your gender. He paints on a beard, which just screams beard dysphoria - I imagine Ed's gender dysphoria in that regard got a lot worse after Izzy yelled at him.

(One of my favorite little things about this read? Ed only wears full-fingered gloves until the start of s2, when we see him wearing fingerless gloves again, and I like to think that's so he could hide his painted nails.)

When Ed's at his absolute lowest, he gives himself one last indulgence, looking at the cake toppers and imagining a happy life with the man he loves. And he's painted his to look like himself, a bearded brown man in a dress. Fuck if that's not just the fantasy for a lot of trans guys who like to wear more feminine clothing, being able to be a man in a dress without being seen as any less of a 'real man' for it.

[stupittmoran]

In 1992 a man that had no record of violence whatsoever was approached and entrapped by the feds illegally.

After he was sent the wrong court date and failed to show up, his innocent son, dog, and wife (while holding their infant daughter) were all slaughtered because of it.

Randy Weaver and his family lived in an isolated cabin in the mountains of Ruby Ridge, Idaho.

An undercover federal agent targeted him and entrapped him into selling him a sawed-off shotgun.

The agent ingratiated himself to Weaver for weeks. He kept asking Weaver if he would sell him a shotgun. Weaver initially hesitated but finally agreed. Then, the agent asked him if he could saw it off first since he didn't have the tools. Though he warned FBI guy it was illegal to do so, he was nice enough to do it anyway. The agent then also had him drive out of the way across State lines to add charges.

After Weaver was sent the wrong court date and (understandably) failed to show up, the feds used this as permission to do anything and everything they could to take him down.

Marshals called in military aerial reconnaissance and had photos studied by the Defense Mapping Agency. They prowled the woods around Weaver’s cabin with night-vision equipment. They had psychological profiles performed and installed $130,000 worth of long-range solar-powered spy cameras. They intercepted the Weavers’ mail. They even knew the menstrual cycle of Weaver’s teenage daughter, and planned an arrest scenario around it.

On August 21, Marshals outfitted in full camouflage and carrying machine guns trespassed onto the Weavers’ property. Three marshals circled close to the Weaver cabin and threw rocks to provoke the Weavers’ dogs. As Weaver’s 14-year old son, Sammy, and Kevin Harris, a family friend, ran towards the barking, a marshal shot and killed his dog. Sammy Weaver fired in the direction those shots came from. As he was leaving the scene, a marshal shot him in the back and killed him. Harris responded by fatally shooting a federal marshal who had fired seven shots at them.

Snipers from the FBI Hostage Rescue Team were sent in the next day and ordered to shoot to kill any adult male outside the Weaver cabin. Randy Weaver was shot in the back after he stepped out of his cabin. As he struggled to return back inside, they shot and killed Vicki Weaver (his wife), who was standing in the cabin door holding their 10-month old baby.

From the testimony of Randy Weaver: "On August 22, 1992, completely without warning of any kind, an FBI sniper shot and killed my wife, Vicki. He was using a .308 caliber sniper rifle with a specially weighted barrel and a 10-power scope. He was using match grade ammunition. He had years of training to kill. I heard him testify at the trial that he wanted to kill. He shot my wife in the head and killed her. She was not wanted for any crime. There were no warrants for her arrest. At the time she was gunned down, she was helpless. She was standing in the doorway of her home. She was holding the door open for me and Sara and for Kevin Harris. She was holding Elishe a our 10-month-old baby girl, in her arms. As the bullet crashed through her head, she slumped to her knees, holding Elisheba tightly so she would not drop her. We took the baby from her as she lay dead and bleeding on our kitchen floor."

Weaver and Harris, who never fired any shots at FBI agents, surrendered after an 11-day siege.

Thankfully after all of this was said and done, the FBI conducted an "internal investigation" and guess what? They did nothing wrong. SHOCKER.

Randy Weaver and his daughters filed a wrongful death suit for $200 million which was related to the killing of his wife and son. In an out-of-court settlement in August 1995, the federal government awarded Randy Weaver $100,000 and it also awarded $1 million to each of his three daughters.

The government did not admit that it had committed any wrongdoing in relation to the deaths of Sammy and Vicki.

The moral of the story is, if the government wants to kill you, they'll find a way to do it. They are not your friend. They do not have your best interests at heart.

If you are an enemy of the state, if they don't like you, the Constitution seemingly doesn't apply.

These federal agencies (FBI, CIA, ATF, USMS, etc.) Do whatever they want, stay in power indefinitely, and have effectively unlimited funds. Not only should they be defunded, they should be abolished entirely. They do nothing but make us less safe and are wholly incompatible with a free society.

The fact that people want to give the government more power, more control, and take away our means of defense (gun control) is absolutely beyond me. If they could pull this off in the 90's they can do it now. I assure you.

Never give up your guns. Your government will kill you.

Dylan Allman on Twitter/X