#defence procurement

[rightnewshindi]

भारत की रक्षा ताकत में इजाफा: 54,000 करोड़ की सैन्य खरीद को मंजूरी, चीन-पाकिस्तान पर नजर

Delhi News: भारत ने अपनी सैन्य शक्ति को मजबूत करने के लिए बड़ा कदम उठाया है। गुरुवार को 54,000 करोड़ रुपये से अधिक की सैन्य खरीद को मंजूरी दी गई, जिससे चीन और पाकिस्तान जैसे पड़ोसी देशों को सतर्क रहने की जरूरत पड़ गई है। इस खरीद में अत्याधुनिक हथियार और तकनीक शामिल हैं, जो भारत की रक्षा तैयारियों को नई ऊंचाइयों पर ले जाएंगे। मंजूर की गई सैन्य खरीद में क्या-क्या शामिल? इस पैकेज में हवाई हमला…

[defencestar]

India clears defence purchase worth $2.56 billion

Defence Acquisition Council clears defence procurement worth Rs 21,772 crores: In a significant move to bolster India’s defense capabilities, the Defence Acquisition Council (DAC), chaired by Defense Minister Rajnath Singh, approved a slew of capital acquisition proposals worth over INR 21,772 Crores ($2.56 billion) on Tuesday (December 3, 2024). These acquisitions are aimed at enhancing India’s…

[defencecapital]

India signs $233-mn deal to buy NAMIS anti-tank weapons, light vehicles

By A Correspondent New Delhi: India‘s Ministry of Defence (MoD) has signed contracts with state-run Armoured Vehicle Nigam Limited for the procurement of Nag Missile System (NAMIS) tracked version of anti-tank weapon platforms and Force Motors Limited and Mahindra & Mahindra Limited for around 5,000 light vehicles for the armed forces. A MoD statement said on Mar. 27, 2025, that the total cost…

[nuyts]

EU boosts defence readiness with first ever financial support for common defence public procurement

The European Commission has approved funding for five cross-border projects to support more coordinated and efficient defence procurement among EU Member States. Implemented under the European Defence Industry Reinforcement through Common Procurement instrument (EDIRPA), each of the 5 selected projects will receive €60 million, representing a total amount of €300 million funding. Bringing greater…

[vicsy]

the universe looked down at Lance's superb tyre management and defence today and chose its victims in order to procure precious Stroints

[fatuismooches]

Silly thought: What if the Traveller accidentally kidnaps Dottore's lover?

This will happen way before they meet them. The Traveller somehow, is able to sneak into the main lab of the Doctor and finds his test-subjects. Of course being the hero that they are, releases them and offers them refuge in the Teapot (I'm still pissed that the Teapot is hardly mentioned in main story quests it could be a Trojan horse but nooo)

They come across this 'test-subject' who has heavy security for some reason. Determined to not leave anyone behind, they break through the defences to get to the hapless 'civilian.'

The Traveller gets there and takes away the 'test-subject', the Traveller hopes that they wake up once they are in the Teapot.

[Dottore's spouse wakes up from their refreshing nap and finds themself in a completely different place with a lot of strangers. Why are Dottore's test-subjects out? Actually - where even are they?!

And Dottore returns to an empty lab 😋 rip to the Traveller. Dottore is going to rip Teyvat from the ground up and he wouldn't find his spouse until the Traveller makes the connection.]

The Traveler thought that they had prepared to the fullest, heading into Dottore's lab. Carefully scoping it out, even managing to get their hands on the mapped layout somehow, observing the patterns and schedules of the guards and agents who seemed to be placed everywhere... general sneaky stuff, that wasn't nearly as easy as it sounded as this had to do with the Doctor after all. Nothing was ever simple when it came to the Harbinger, but despite all odds, they got lucky, only because the segments were no more and they chose a day Dottore himself was not there (that was also painstakingly planned). Of course, once the Traveler successfully completed their mission and freed all those poor souls, they felt rather good about themselves. Any plan of the Doctor's thwarted was always a good thing.

When the Traveler comes across such someone so highly tucked away, they automatically assume the worst! You must be an invaluable test subject who provides him great research but through immeasurable pain (just look how tired you were)... one that he can't keep his eye off! What a terrible fate you've been subjected to, one at the hands of the mad Doctor! Worry not, the Traveler will save you (not)!

...However, the blond failed to obtain information on a very, very important factor - the little-known soft spot of Dottore.

Now poor you, expecting to wake up to a familiar ceiling and maybe even your husband's embrace, but instead the sky above is more blinding than anything you've witnessed in years. And there's a strange bird floating spirit thing. AND the infamous Traveler and Paimon are worrying over your well-being... even more so when you start getting overwhelmed knowing you're far, far away from Dottore.

Now of course, test subjects are just test subjects and although losing them was a waste, he could always procure some more. You, however, was a completely different story. Needless to say, the agents are quite scared to go near the Harbinger as they've rarely seen him in his state - absolutely silently seething. The only way to salvage the situation is that the Traveler just needs to hope a hair hasn't been touched on your pretty head.

(Cue the freak out between Paimon and them once they realize the truth. Even still, the Traveler is semi-convinced you might be brainwashed or something - the whole Akasha terminal thing in Sumeru was enough proof. They're a bit reluctant to hand you over but seeing the way you bolt toward the Doctor was enough to convince them...)

[moorishflower]

Eating Out (Dream/trans!Hob Explicit)

i heard we were writing trans Dreamling and then I saw that one ask someone sent @gabessquishytum and I blacked out for a few hours and woke up with this on my desktop please enjoy

Contains: FtM Hob Gadling, public sex, oral sex, free use/multiple partners, voyeurism, multiple orgasms, scent kink, hair kink, little bit of eldritch Dream as a treat

The club is almost violently loud, and the instant that Dream materialises within it he wishes to leave.

He could. There is nothing holding him here. Not even his new agreement with Hob Gadling, that they meet twice a month, holds sway here – they have already held their pre-arranged meetings for December, have 'caught up' with each other, as Hob calls it, though Dream always feels as though he has nothing to contribute. He tells Hob about the unceasing tedium of ruling a kingdom, of settling disputes between his creations, of shoring up the defences of the Dreaming such that it will be prepared for any onslaught, and it is all the same, always the same things over and over again for aeons, but Hob leans towards him and listens with the most fascinated air. He asks questions. He is interested.

Dream would much rather hear about Hob's life. His many lives, in fact, within the last two centuries. It seems as though Hob is always doing something: viewing art with noted professors on the subject, or attending poetry readings, or assisting in the building of various installations of a political nature at protests, or organising a play put on by trans youth from local universities. In this century he is highly invested in matters regarding gender and sexuality – which Dream supposes makes sense. His own gender would have been considered at best a novelty in his own time, and at worst an affront to God. These days, however, he lives openly and freely as the man he has always known himself to be.

It is all of these things, and more, that are the reasons why he is here tonight. The Dreaming is stable at last – there are no pressing matters for him to attend to this eve – but he is shortly expected to meet with Lucifer in order to renegotiate their ancient treaty of tentative peace, and he is, as Hob would say, not looking forward to it. He is, in fact, dreading the experience. He is certain that Lucifer has neither forgotten nor forgiven his brief foray into Hell when he retrieved his helm, and the humiliation they were forced to endure at his hand. He will freely admit that he was. Not as gracious. As he could have been, upon his triumph.

He does not want to think about it. And so he is here, looking for Hob Gadling.

It occurs to him, however, as he watches the ebb and flow of people around him, that Hob may not wish to be found this night. He had assumed, when he'd reached for Hob's presence in the Waking and drew himself towards it, that he would appear in Hob's flat above the New Inn. That is where he is most often to be found, this time of night, unless he has prior engagements.

This club, though...it is of a distinctly sexual nature. Its patrons dressed in leather and latex, and some dressed in almost nothing at all. There are sheltered alcoves with faux-leather seats where two or three or more humans whisper quietly to each other, and kiss, and touch sensuously; there are other stations that Dream recognises, but only from dreams: a St. Andrew's Cross, a whipping post, a wooden bench over which a young man bends while a woman dressed entirely in white lace strikes him with a thin crop, raising fine red weals on the pale skin.

Perhaps he ought to leave. If Hob is here to procure a partner for the evening, then it is no business of Dream's.

Except.

Except the thought makes him. Unhappy.

He examines this realisation with detached interest, because he knows if he allows himself to become invested in the idea there will be no going back. Hob is his friend. They have known each other for over six-hundred years. He does not want to ruin their friendship, burgeoning as it currently is.

Neither does he wish for Hob to be here, seeking something that he believes Dream cannot provide for him.

Is that the crux of it? The source of his displeasure? Hob has come here, seeking fulfilment, instead of seeking out Dream? He would have no reason to approach Dream. Their friendship has never had a sexual component.

Although.

He remembers the way Hob had looked at him in 1589, so proud of the largess he had provided, eager for Dream's approval. He remembers the slow up and down glance of 1389 when he had approached Hob's table, when he had still been a beardless ruffian, binding his chest with scraps of wool. He remembers, in 1789, how Hob had looked at him, how he had tugged at his ear, how eagerly he had come to Dream's defence.

Perhaps he had simply not been in the best position to notice any interest. Hob's, or his own. Too prideful. Too convinced that Hob was just like every other human, grubbing about in the dirt for power and acclaim. Too assured of his own high status – one such as he, friends with one such as Hob?

He knows better now. Knows that Hob has lived rich and varied lives, which Dream has, for the past several months, taken succour in, experiencing them through Hob's tales, learning more and more about his friend. Liking what he has learned.

This, he decides, is a new aspect of that learning. And perhaps a new chapter in their friendship, if Hob is amenable. It has been long and long since he has laid with a human – he spares a moment to thank the memory of his sister for withholding her gift from Hob, for it means that Hob is not, strictly speaking, mortal – and perhaps it would be wise of him to observe Hob in this environment first. If Hob is here, he reasons, then necessarily he will be familiar with the etiquette of such a place.

And if Hob is otherwise occupied with a lover already...

He decides not to continue that thought.

A path forward decided, Dream wends his way through the crowds. The club is densely-packed with people, all ages, all nations and creeds and genders, and of them all he is the least-appropriately dressed in his coat and t-shirt and jeans. He does not bother to change, and no one approaches him – he is as a ghost, drifting between the revellers, a visitor to this holy house of Dionysus and Pan, following the faint trail of Hob that guides him like a ball of twine. Gentle prodding at daydreams reveals that Hob was here at the bar, that he, also, had been dressed-down for this occasion, in a white button-up and a pair of loose trousers. Still, others had looked upon him and had, in gauzy fantasies, wondered what he would look like dressed in less. Had wondered what his stubble would feel like against their cheeks. Had imagined his hands – broad, callused, peasant's hands – on their hips, their thighs, their genitals.

Dream does not linger in these daydreams for long, but pursues his true quarry, slipping through the gathered throngs, enjoying, for the moment, the feeling of stalking his prey. It is only infrequently that he is allowed to feel this, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit; he is, by necessity, a guardian of his dreamers, but he is dreams and nightmares both, and often he longs for an end to the mournful tedium of his duties. Longs for peaceful oblivion or, at the very least, something that he can sink his teeth into.

The club is much larger than he had initially thought, and Dream follows Hob's trail up stairs and down corridors, until he finds himself in a section of the venue that has been cordoned off; several security personnel stand stationed at pre-set points, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings within.

There are significantly fewer clothes in this part of the club, Dream realises. And what is worn is designed for easy access.

It is less crowded here, but no less quiet – the air is filled with the sounds of pleasure, moans and squeals and throaty whispers, creating a chorus of rising debauchery that drowns out the thumping music below them. He remains unseen, untouched, as he slides through the gaps in the crowd, around amorous couples, ignoring the slick sounds of bodies entangled and flesh entwined, until, at last, he reaches the end of the trail.

Hob Gadling has arranged himself in a secluded section of the upper floor, where dark curtains have been set up to give a modicum of privacy, though the acts happening just beyond are still within full view of the rest of the floor. He is seated in a chair, one of the low, slightly reclined ones that pepper the rest of the club, though this one has been considerately draped in plastic sheeting. The reasoning behind this is immediately obvious: Hob Gadling sits with his thighs spread, revealing the hole that has been cut in the groin of his loose trousers, and there is a woman kneeling before him, with her face buried between Hob's legs.

Dream does not care about the woman, though objectively he recognises that she is beautiful, and clearly quite happy with her current position. His eyes are fixed on Hob, who has his head thrown back, sweat dappling his forehead, mouth open as he gasps and pants. His neck is pulled taut, revealing the tempting line of his jugular, and his shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal the thick hair on his pectorals, almost completely hiding the scars beneath. The woman between his legs does something that must be particularly pleasing, because Hob's eyes slip shut, and his hips rut upwards, and even through the music and the noise and the crowd Dream can hear the sound of his moaning, reaching a fever pitch as he climbs towards climax. When he comes, all his muscles strain at once...and then he slumps, panting, while the woman leans back and licks her lips. The entire lower half of her face is soaked in fluid, and Hob's thighs glisten with the same. It is clear that he has been here for some time.

There is a small sign, Dream realises, that has been set up beside the chair, and a few people positioned around it, reading its words, watching with interest. Some of them watching with eagerness. Eat me out, the sign says. Accepting all comers. Face-sitting offered for best orgasm. Beneath this titillating invitation is a short list of the things that Hob is not interested in. No PiV, says one, and, No S/M.

He watches the woman climb to her feet and then lean down again, whispering something into Hob's ear. It makes him laugh, whatever she says, a full-throated, beautiful display, his head tossed back as he guffaws. Then the woman kisses his cheek, and Hob takes the opportunity to pull her in for a generous hug. Dream has been on the receiving end of such hugs before, but he has never considered that he might be gifted them under such. Specific circumstances.

Then the woman moves away, and he is treated to the sight of Hob on full display. And Dream stops. And looks. And breathes.

Hob had been beautiful, with the woman between his legs, but now that it is only him he is even moreso. With no one in the way Dream is able to see the thick trail of hair on his belly, leading down to the dark thatch of his pubic hair, curls wet with spit and slick. The lips of his sex are parted, red and swollen from the attentions of Dream knows not how many, and here, too, he is wet and open and wanting, with his cock jutting proudly upwards. The plastic sheeting beneath his seat is soaked in his own fluids, and even as Dream watches a newcomer approaches, speaks quietly to Hob and, at Hob's cheery nod and grin, kneels down and begins to lick the plastic clean.

He could remain here unseen, Dream realises. To interrupt Hob's revelry would surely lead to a foul mood later on, but. But.

He wants.

For all that he is neither flesh nor blood, he responds as the form he has taken bids him to, his trousers growing tighter as his erection fills, his stomach clenching with desire, his heart beating faster. His mouth floods with saliva at the sight of Hob's hairy thighs flexing, the dark, spit-damp and abundant curls of his sex, the thin trail of sexual fluids that drips from his fluttering opening and is caught on the tongue of the man kneeling in front of him. And he feels a flash of jealousy, when Hob reaches down and pets the man's hair, and says something softly to him. He recognises the look in the man's eyes, one of fervent adoration, and knows that, were he in the same position, his own expression would be much the same.

He does not wish to ruin their friendship, but. But.

He must make a decision. To remain here, unseen, a silent watcher, is a violation of Hob's trust in him. To reveal himself is to potentially face Hob's ire, but he might take pride in the knowledge that at least he tried.

Dream inhales, breathing in the sharp smell of lust and sex, and steps forward, allowing himself to be seen.

Hob does not notice him at first, still murmuring to the man between his legs. After several moments, though, he looks up, and Dream sees the exact second that Hob spots him: his eyes go wide, and his legs reflexively clamp shut, nearly trapping the man between them, and his muscles shift as if he plans to launch himself upwards before his expression turns resigned, and he relaxes back into his seat. A quick word is had with the kneeling man, who shrugs and then clambers to his feet; he gives Dream a lingering glance as he takes his leave, as do several others of the assembled patrons.

"Dream," Hob says, raising his voice to be heard above the muffled music and the moans and screams emanating from other rooms on this floor. He is still sitting with his knees locked together. "What are you...I mean, far be it for me to judge what you do in your spare time, but what on God's green earth are you doing here?"

"Seeking you out," Dream says. He takes a step forward, and then another, until he has come to a stop almost directly in front of Hob. There is a pillow on the floor, he notices. He had not seen it before; it bears the indents of many previous lovers. He wonders how many have serviced Hob this evening.

He sinks down to his knees.

"Um," Hob says. His eyes are huge, the pupils so dilated that his irises appear as two drops of ink in white clouds. "Dream? What...?"

"I will leave if you wish me to," Dream says. He lifts his hands, letting them hover uncertainly over the heavy curve of Hob's thighs, but not yet daring to touch. He can feel the warmth emanating from Hob's body, more intoxicating than any wine or stimulant, and another wave of wanting crashes over him. Were he standing he thinks he would be staggered by it. "But. If you have no objections. I would very much like to stay."

"No objections," Hob says, voice rising to a squeak. His legs fall apart again, slowly at first, tentative, but widen with more generosity as Dream accepts the invitation, and lays his palms at last on Hob's thighs. They are just as muscled and warm as he had thought them to be, the hair on them coarse where it rubs between his fingers, against his fingertips, and there, at their centre, Hob's sex revealed to him once again. His cock still firm, jutting upwards, his labia still spread and glistening as Dream lowers his head to breathe in the scent of him.

"You smell ambrosial," Dream murmurs, and Hob barks a sudden laugh.

"I've come six times," he says. The tension is slowly leaving his body, allowing him to slump backwards as Dream strokes his thighs. "I smell like sweat and jizz, more like."

"As I said." And to drive home his point, Dream bends down and presses his nose to the sopping curls of Hob's cunt, inhaling deeply. Sweat, yes, and Hob's excitement, and the saliva of others, easily and summarily dismissed in favour of Hob's natural scent, and his friend's murmured, "Oh, oh fuck," as Dream lets his nose brush along the side of his prick. It strains towards him, twitching faintly with Hob's heartbeat. Impudent thing, Dream thinks, though not without a great deal of fondness, and he looks up at Hob through the wild fringe of his hair, blinking slowly.

"You know, I wasn't expecting this," Hob says. His hands clench at his sides. "I only come here maybe twice a year. I wasn't...You don't have to..."

"I wish to."

"...just because I'm. Here. What?"

"I am precisely where I wish to be," Dream says. "And if you truly have no objections. I wish to sample you."

"Jesus Christ," Hob says, and his head falls backwards, thumping against the cushions. "Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Do you know how long I've thought about this?"

"Since 1789," Dream says. He drags the tip of his nose along the length of Hob's cock, and then presses a soft kiss to the head of it, greatly enjoying the sound of Hob's muttered curses. The smell of him is growing denser, sharper, as fresh wetness drips from his cunt.

"Longer," Hob says. "Since the moment I saw you. Thought about bouncing on your cock later that night, even. I would've ridden you so fucking hard."

"Perhaps later," Dream murmurs, and then, for the first time, takes Hob into his mouth.

The effect is immediate, electrifying: Hob goes rigid, mouth opening in a soundless cry as his hips rut forwards, pressing his pubic bone against Dream's nose. His prick is thick, compact, perhaps three inches of trembling nerves that slide along Dream's tongue like silk. The taste of him here is not as strong as it would be directly from the source, but the musky salt of it delights Dream's senses, enraptures him. He lets Hob set the pace at first, trying to gauge how tired he is, how sore...though it quickly becomes apparent that six orgasms in an evening is not, apparently, his friend's limit. Hob does not cry off, nor beg for Dream to give him a moment, but sighs and moans and laughs as Dream sucks at him, first softly, and then with greater force, tracing the thin skin of Hob's prick with the tip of his tongue, then letting it fall free of his mouth so that he can instead lavish attention on the plump lips around it.

Here, he thinks. Here is where his mouth is intended to be, at the nadir of Hob's sex, where his labia are spread like flower petals and his cunt clenches and leaks. Dream hums to himself in delight as he laps a searing path from the root of Hob's prick down to his twitching, wet opening, kneading Hob's thighs with his fingertips as he does so. There is so much hair here that it is impossible to keep his face dry – nor would he want to, even if he could – and Dream leans in to taste, pushing his nose through Hob's pubic hair, committing the scent of him to memory as he licks and sucks at everything he can reach. His wild hunger makes him crude, inexpert, but when he glances upwards to gauge Hob's pleasure he finds his friend flush-faced and panting, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one hand pushed back into his own hair. When he sees Dream looking he smiles.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he asks. "Between my legs? I've imagined this for so long."

The encouragement is. Pleasing. More than he had thought it would be. Enough that it makes his own cock twitch as he basks in the pleasure of Hob's praise. "So beautiful," Hob says, and he lifts his hips slightly, demanding. Dream is eager to indulge him, and buries his face once more into Hob's sex, licking, now, at his cunt, pressing the tip of his tongue inside to where he is wettest and hottest, savouring the taste of him. The scent that has gathered in his hair, surrounding him now, filling Dream's nostrils, making him dizzy with lust. He cannot resist the temptation to bury his tongue deeper, and then deeper still, longer than any human Hob would ever have taken to bed. Muscles clamp down around him, and Hob makes a startled, thrilled little noise, and then begins laughing again, one hand at last stealing to Dream's hair. He does not clutch, but strokes, softly, like a favoured pet, and Dream purrs, mouth sealed around Hob's cunt, tongue buried in him until there is no more space for anything but Dream.

"You're a marvel," Hob says; Dream flicks the tip of his tongue against the opening to his cervix, soft, soft, and Hob's whole body goes as taut as a bow. "A fuh-hucking marvel oh God, oh fuck, Dream!"

A crowd has begun to form, Dream notes, though it is distant and unimportant information, useful only as much as these people may now see that Hob has chosen him, that Hob favours him. He is too focused on the task at hand to feel anything but the faintest hint of possessiveness – why should he, when he already has what he desires? – and he sets to it with relish, pumping his tongue in leisurely strokes, deep enough that Hob will feel him later, like a sweet bruise. Above him, Hob swears a blue streak, his neglected cock pulsing, prompting a sharp outcry of pleasure every time that Dream bumps the base of it with his nose. Eat me out, the sign had said, and Dream intends to follow it to the letter – there will be time enough, he hopes, to worship every other part of Hob later.

"Dream," Hob says, "Dream, I'm, I'm close, I'm–"

Dream does not wish to be warned. He wishes to be covered in the smell of Hob, drenched in him, and so he presses his tongue sharply up at the same time as he moves his hand to stroke Hob's prick with his thumb, humming in satisfaction as above him Hob shouts, thighs clamping hard around Dream's ears, a gush of fluid oozing around Dream's tongue as he works Hob through first one panting, keening peak, and then a second one just after, smaller, Hob squeezing rhythmically with his thighs, his cries of completion turning to whimpers and then to silence, just the sound of his breathing, like thunder, and murmured noises of appreciation from the gathered crowd. Dream slowly pulls back, and looks with satisfaction as Hob's gaping cunt, at the trickle of spit and come that drips from him, smoothing the curls there flat and sleek.

"Oh," Hob says. His voice is shaky, but inexpressibly fond as he reaches forward and cups Dream's cheeks with his palms. "Oh, I've made a complete mess of you."

He does not need a mirror to know that Hob's words are true. Dream can feel the warm air of the club brushing cold against the wetness on his cheeks, his chin, where it drips in thin lines down his neck. Hob smiles at him, his thumb stroking Dream's bottom lip.

"I think I might have one more in me for tonight, if you're interested," he says, and then with his foot he stretches out and tips over the little sign he had set up beside his chair. "But maybe somewhere where it's...just us? If there's no objections?"

His voice is hesitant. Searching. Dream gazes up at him, dazed, as he had known he would be, with how much he wants, and not only with how much he wants Hob's body, but his laughter as well, and his joy, and his time and his company. No, there are no objections.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, and Hob, still smiling, leans down and kisses the damp tip of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth, and then Hob's lips cover his own, gentle, and around them the club continues on in its revels but, for the moment, it is only them, and it is perfect.

[annabtg]

AnnaBtG

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Customer In Law (6.2k). Jily, Muggle AU, fluff/humour. Completed, rated T. Rec'd by @joyseuphoria.

James Potter is young, handsome, the proud owner of a coffee shop, and tragically - according to his mother - single. In an attempt to stop her from trying to set him up with her friends' daughters, he decides to go along with his best friend's plan and recruit his regular customer Lily Evans to play the part of his girlfriend during his mother's birthday party. Of course, the fact that he’s got a huge crush on her is entirely irrelevant…

Do It Right (1.1k). Jily, Hogwarts. Completed, rated T. Rec'd by @joyseuphoria.

James Potter has had it with Lily Evans. Sure, she's brilliant and gorgeous, but ever since they started working together as Head Boy and Girl, she's been bloody annoying. To her, it seems like he's always doing the wrong thing - and she's just about to show him how to do things right...

Inescapable (4.6k). Jily, canon, soulmates. Completed, rated T. Rec'd by @joyseuphoria.

You’re born with two eye colours: one is your natural eye, and the other is the eye of your soulmate. When you meet, your eyes return to their natural state. One of them knows, the other doesn't. But whether they go with it or try to fight it, destiny always works out the way it was meant to.

The Lady Of Kini (963 words). Jily, mermaid!Lily AU. Completed, rated G. Rec'd by @practicecourts.

She has lived alone for centuries, keeping watch over the coast, patroness of fishermen and sailors - till the sea teams up with the west wind to claim the life of a lone young man.

If you read my works, please feel free to send me asks or messages to add or update your recs!

[usafphantom2]

The PVO procured quite a wide variety of aircraft during the cold war, and while the common view is that “all of them are interceptors,” such a concept is rooted in the designs of World War 2. The idea of an interceptor being a purpose built aircraft that sacrifices all other characteristics in exchange for time to climb and a powerful weapons suite to engage bombers, holds only partially true when you get beyond the aircraft of the early 60s. As aircraft evolved at an incredible rate in regards capability, it became easier to optimise one fighter to fill all air to air roles to a degree. While it is true that an aircraft still needs to be optimised to a specific sub regime of flight and combat, it was no longer an absolute that all else be sacrificed for climb rates. In this somewhat more informal thread, hopefully the first of many on the road to a full PVO article, I aim to explain the conceptual differences in design and purpose of the main aircraft of the Soviet Air Defence Forces (PVO) during the mid 1970s and onwards.

@crngman via X

[apas-95]

Defence contractors still trying to sell their laser air defence systems in hopes that no procurement official is so bribe-deficient as to compehend the thermal environment of a hypersonic glide vehicle are inspiring me to try to start taking orders for my notional 'fire-retardant fuel' prototype

[zuppizup]

Angsty Rayllum baby centric fic ahead. Read the tags, my lovelies

———

Rest

Rayla hates being pregnant. Not for the typical reasons people joke about to her, though she is frustrated with how ill she feels, and how delicately everyone treats her.

No, she hates how anxious it makes her. How every moment feels filled with thoughts of the baby, if she is comfortable, if she is growing…

If she is alive.

After all this time, she finds she cannot relax.

From her swollen belly it is clear that the baby will be born any day now, but she finds her worry only grows with each passing day. She doesn’t think it will abate until she finally holds her baby in her arms, until she can truly see she’s real and well and… alive.

They’ve been through this too many times before. Her heart cannot take one more break.

Not this particular one, at least.

It’s been broken many times before, she thinks, but this type of loss is something different. Mourning for what might have been is so different from mourning people that were, that others knew.

It feels silly and pointless. Why be sad for what never was? Why look upon an empty crib and think of the baby that might have been but over and over never was.

This one seemed to stick.

It came to a point where her frame could no longer hide and the rumours were growing and growing and eventually it seemed ridiculous to try and dismiss the obvious.

She hated all the well wishing though. All the congratulations and the excitement.

The hidden losses robbed her off her innocence, she thinks.

Everyone seems to see this as a time of joy, of celebration.

It feels wrong for her to dampen others spirits with her constant concerns.

And so, even now, as people seem more and more excited and happy and confident, she wants nothing more than to shy away, to be alone. Just her and Callum.

She does not want to mourn with an audience.

Callum is supportive, as he always is. Patience and understanding. Always willing to listen.

She cannot explain the ache though. The fear. The anxiety.

She doesn’t want to breathe life into it.

He doesn’t believe in fate, has defied it more than once in his defence, but she cannot help but worry… what if she’s bringing this upon them? What if her endless running thoughts are the reason why they never stay.

She’s gazing at the full moon when the first ache hits her. Dull at first, but persistent. Callum is snoring behind her, and she elects not to wake him because who wants to be woken for bad news?

She’s felt this ache before.

Eventually the pain becomes too much though. She cries out, despite her best efforts and Callum wakes suddenly.

She worries he’s going to yell at her, annoyed that she kept another thing from him, but instead he rushes to the guards, insists they call for the midwife and that’s when it truly hits her.

The baby is coming.

The midwife is too far away and Rayla has no idea what she is doing. She was too afraid of tempting fate. The books Callum procured for her untouched on her bedside table.

True to form, Callum has been reading and he coaches her through it.

She thinks she can’t do it, it’s all too much, too painful, too terrifying but then there’s a pain worse than anything she could ever imagine, followed by a tiny, strangled cry and Callum is laughing and crying and looking between her and a pink sticky bundle in his arms and she realises, the baby is real, screaming and grasping... and alive.

And a boy.

Tiny and pink and screaming and perfect and real.

She cries too as she holds him, strokes his tiny squished cheek and finally feels herself relax.

He’s here.

He’s real.

He’s alive.

He has Callum’s eyes and her nose and perhaps both of their lungs because he is clearly furious about the bright or the cold or something but Callum swaddles him in a blanket and pushes the hair back from her sweaty brow and he’s crying and she is too, and they have a baby, a real baby, a tiny little son.

Even now, days later, it all seems so surreal. He’s got over his abrupt and sudden entry to this world (as babies do) snuggled against her breast and sleeping soundly. Callum is sleeping too, drooling on her shoulder, his arm lazily lying across both of them.

She smiles at him, still amazed by how much their son looks like him… by how much love and adoration she feels for both of them. How warm and happy and content she feels.

She looks at her beautiful, healthy, amazing son and the man that helped her bring him into this world and feels she can finally relax.

She assumes people would scoff to hear it, new baby and all, but she feels she can finally rest.

[defencecapital]

Swedish Saab signs MoU with India HAL for Laser Warning System

By A Correspondent Bengaluru (Karnataka): Swedish defence major Saab AB has signed a Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) with Hindustan Aeronautics Limited (HAL) to collaborate on the electronic warfare Laser WarningSystem-310 (LWS-310). This agreement builds on a strong partnership between Saab in South Africa and HAL that began in 2005 during the development of the Advanced Light Helicopter…

[nanshe-of-nina]

Favorite History Books || Sybil, Queen of Jerusalem, 1186–1190 by Helen J. Nicholson ★★★★☆

As a child, Sybil’s future prospects appeared excellent: as the eldest child of King Amaury of Jerusalem and as a member of the dynasty that claimed descent from Godfrey de Bouillon and the other heroes of the First Crusade, we might expect that she would have been an attractive marriage prospect. Yet European noblemen did not queue up to seek her hand. One reason for this might have been that commanding the defence of the kingdom of Jerusalem in the face of aggressive Muslim expansionism was a daunting prospect for any warrior, no matter how ambitious. Moreover, as her brother Baldwin’s illness became generally known in Europe, Sybil’s potential husbands may have wondered whether she and her children would be similarly afflicted. In addition, as her brother Baldwin and his council made clear to Philip of Alsace in autumn 1177, outside aid was unwelcome in the kingdom except on the terms they dictated. Robert VI of Béthune, Philip of Alsace’s candidate for Sybil’s hand, might have made a more effective count of Jaffa and Ascalon, regent of the kingdom and king consort than Guy de Lusignan, but Baldwin – aged only sixteen at the time of Count Philip’s crusade – preferred to marry his sister to a man he knew. If King Baldwin IV had supported his elder sister as the heir who – given that Baldwin V was very young and in uncertain health – would almost certainly inherit the kingdom, it might have been possible for Sybil to unite the nobles of the kingdom behind her as her brother had done. But his contradictory and changing policies left her rights of inheritance unclear and the nobles of the kingdom divided. He married her to one of his household knights, then attempted to divorce them; he appointed her husband as procurator, then shortly afterwards deposed him and appointed her son as his co- ruler, and then appointed another procurator, then finally appointed two regents, one to care for the young king Baldwin V and the other to govern. If he made further arrangements for the succession after Baldwin V they were unworkable. By marrying his younger half-sister to a leading noble of the kingdom but forcing the bridegroom to surrender his inherited estates in return, King Baldwin IV ensured that both his sisters and their husbands and supporters had grievances against him. While his measures reduced any threat that he would be overthrown during his lifetime, they boded badly for the kingdom after the death of his immediate heir. Given the rivalries between the leading nobles of the kingdom and Saladin’s need to win a decisive victory over the Franks, no one could have prevented Saladin from taking Jerusalem and conquering most of Sybil’s kingdom; Sybil was doomed to failure as queen. Not only did she lose Jerusalem, but she also failed in the most fundamental function of a noblewoman: she failed to provide an heir for herself, as both her son Baldwin and her daughters died in childhood. On the other hand, in the face of disaster she did not abandon her kingdom and flee to Europe, nor did she retire to a religious house. Instead, she stayed in the crusader states and did all she could to oppose the invader. She tried to defend Ascalon, she remained in Jerusalem until it was surrendered to Saladin, she obtained her husband’s release from Saladin’s prison, and by accompanying him in the months that followed she gave him the authority to continue as king of Jerusalem. As husband of the eldest daughter of King Amaury of Jerusalem and as a crowned king, Guy had a stronger claim to royal authority than Conrad of Montferrat: crusaders from Europe rallied to him and the representatives of the Italian maritime cities supported him so that he could begin the fightback against Saladin which was continued by the Third Crusade and enabled the kingdom of Jerusalem to continue to exist until 1291. When Sybil died, Guy’s authority died with her; but she had ensured that her kingdom would not die, at least for another century.

[probablyasocialecologist]

To build public consent for increased spending on the military industrial base, politicians often lean on economic arguments. The Defence Secretary John Healey has suggested that jobs in the military industry produce greater economic benefits than in other sectors while outlining his intention to make the Ministry of Defence (MOD) an “economic department”. On the contrary, the military industry is not of inherent economic value, as asserted by Healey, but the beneficiary of an active industrial strategy that has been less available to civilian manufacturing sectors since the early 1980s. The UK’s leading military contractor BAE Systems, for instance, only paid 14 per cent of its £2 billion research and development (R&D) budget in 2022 with the rest of the bill covered on its behalf by government customers. As explored in detail below, the state subsidy and support provided to military companies operates to the benefit of the private investors that own them. Rather than a set of national or publicly-owned companies, the Ministry of Defence procures equipment from an “asset manager arsenal” — a landscape of multinational contractors, many of which are owned by the same few global investment firms. The level of public investment and resource afforded to military firms is politically pertinent in the context of climate crisis, in which the coordinated deployment of existing capital stocks, productive equipment and skilled labour towards the energy transition is of planetary importance. Given the state’s role in steering industrial capacity towards the military industry, there is an opportunity to repurpose production in the context of a wider economic transition, one that has long term benefits for the sector’s workers, communities and the national economy. 

18 October 2024

[master-john-uk]

It would be devastating (on many different fronts) if our domestic shipyards were forced to close down, and new Royal Navy ships had to built in another country.

This article highlights the UK government's failure to efficiently plan ahead for the defence of our nation... as well as flaws in the MOD's current procurement procedures.