#fifty fathoms

[blancpain1735-fan-luxembourg]

Nouveautés 2024

La Fifty Fathoms Bathyscaphe entièrement en or

Blancpain présente les modèles Bathyscaphe Quantième Complet et Chronographe Flyback en or rouge. Dotés d'un boitier et d'un bracelet méticuleusement fabriqués en or rouge 18K, ces montres dégagent opulence et grandeur, se distinguant par leur teinte riche et leur présence.

Le bracelet en or rouge 18K

La production du bracelet en or rouge magnifiquement fini, implique une série de processus d’assemblage et de finition exigeants. Les maillons satinés à la main sont reliés par des broches transversales, leur conférant une flexibilité qui assure un ajustement parfait au poignet. Bas�� sur un système breveté, les vis sont placées à l’arrière des maillons pour préserver l’aspect lisse et la sensation des bords du bracelet. L'association de ces savoir-faire garantit grand confort et parfaite cohésion entre la boîte et le bracelet.

[gezzasmenswear]

Indigo

[watchilove]

Blancpain Fifty Fathoms 70th Anniversary Act 3

Blancpain presents the third act marking the 70th anniversary year of its iconic Fifty Fathoms diver’s watch. Named “Fifty Fathoms 70th Anniversary Act 3“, this model is inspired by the MIL-SPEC model adopted by the main armed forces of the time. The Manufacture is now offering a 555-piece limited-edition reinterpretation of the timepiece with its trademark moisture indicator. Faithful to its…

[octavetimepieces]

Top 10 Blancpain Watches

Blancpain stands as a pillar of haute horlogerie, a brand synonymous with timeless elegance and technical innovation. Founded in 1735, it is one of the oldest and most prestigious watchmakers in the world. Over the centuries, Blancpain has perfected the art of watchmaking, focusing on craftsmanship, precision, and aesthetic beauty. From iconic dive watches to masterful complications, Blancpain’s…

[sneakersculture]

La collab Swatch X Blancpain

Après avoir defrayé la chronique du monde de la joaillerie lors d’une première collaboration avec OMEGA, pour les très recherchées Monnswatch, Swatch réapplique les mêmes méthodes, cette fois-ci avec une autre Maison d’horlogerie prestigieuse, la marque BlancPain. Mais…C’est quoi BlancPain ? Si la réputation d’OMEGA auprès du grand public n’est plus à faire, pour BlancPain, ce n’est pas tout à…

[fellhellion]

fans are always like why does goro’s plan re shido suck and have huge gaping flaws. man i do not know how to tell you he was ensnared in this bullshit at fifteen, was doomed to it from that moment onwards or else risk being killed and actively avoids introspection to bury the fact that he wanted other people and ESPECIALLY his father to want and love him despite every cruelty.

[blueiscoool]

Blancpain

Fifty Fathoms Milspec 1 A stainless steel automatic wristwatch with humidity indicator Circa 1968

Blancpain's Fifty Fathoms was launched in 1953 and has since defined the specifications and qualities of the modern diving watch. Made at the request of the French Navy, Captain Robert Maloubier and Lieutenant Claude Riffaud provided technical specifications for a watch designed for combat divers. The design revolutionized the unidirectional bezel, which ensured divers could not inadvertently turn the bezel backwards thus threatening their air supply. Blancpain added their own critical feature, a humidity indicator which showed blue if the air in the case was dry. If water penetrated the case, the indicator would turn pink as a warning to the diver. Fifty Fathoms was named after the British measurement of 50 fathoms, or approximately 91.45 meters, considered the maximum depth which a diver could achieve with the oxygen mixture available at the time.

The present Milspec watch was modeled under the same military grade specifications but for civilian use.

[nowoyas]

The thing is not that I'm like "uwu I hate europeans" generally speaking I think it's immoral and just plain shitty to generalize entire groups of people based on a trait outside of their control (note that this does not, for example, include neo nazis who have chosen their bed to lie in) and does far more harm than good it has ever or will ever do I'm just personally very annoyed by people who DO do that and justify it with "acceptable" targets so it's fine to just constantly shit on Americans for existing because "Americans are annoying" or if you feel like dressing up your prejudice against another group as "progressive" then it's "Americans are the dominant culture so it's punching up" or (example taken from a conversation I had the other day) "if Americans cared they would do something about all the shitty americans".

You may have grown up in a culture where all that matters is skin tone and the country you're from but that doesn't mean you get to dictate to everyone from another culture that they suddenly have to give up every connection to their family's cultural heritage just because they happen to be white. Don't get me wrong this isn't "Americans are sooo oppressed" or "reverse racism is real" this is "You do not get to dictate what matters to other people or their own cultural background and so long as they are being respectful you do not get to dictate their behavior just because you personally think they're annoying". This is "You think these people are annoying but get over it". This is "you as a human being do not get to determine another person's culture or their level of connection with that culture".

Yall are adults. People annoy you sometimes. Suck it up and do your own thing.

[ossloop]

Blancpain and Swatch Team Up for Scuba Fifty Fathoms Dubai

Experience the ultimate fusion of Swiss craftsmanship with Swatch x Blancpain and Blancpain x Swatch Scuba Fifty Fathoms Dubai. This exclusive collaboration celebrates heritage and innovation, offering a limited edition timepiece that encapsulates the essence of luxury and adventure, destined for the discerning watch aficionado.

[blancpain1735-fan-luxembourg]

[gezzasmenswear]

Military streetwear

[watchilove]

Blancpain Fifty Fathoms 70th Anniversary Act 1

Blancpain Fifty Fathoms 70th Anniversary Act 1

In 1953, Blancpain introduced the first modern diver’s watch, the Fifty Fathoms. In 2003, 50 years after this iconic watch of the deep was born, Blancpain unveiled an anniversary limited edition comprising three series of 50 watches, thereby ushering the then-dormant Fifty Fathoms into the modern era. Now, 70 years after the release of the first Fifty Fathoms and 20 years after the launch of the…

[bosooka]

i swear this is the only fucking fandom where people fume at the idea of a character not wanting to consider literal fourteen year olds to be grown adults...truly the depths of Satine's evil have yet to be plumbed...next she's going to mandate that Mandalorian parents hold daughters to the same esteem as sons and wait the customary eight years to train them properly instead of continuing to try for a son, another tradition from the egalitarian utopia of legends mandalore

Okay so a thing that pops up a lot in anti New Mando fics is this idea that Satine's government basically raised the ago of majority so fourteen isn't a legal adult anymore. And they always focus on it as a bad thing, about how it prevents kids from making their own choices and such.

(Which I get, by that age you can recognise a bad situation and want out).

@phoenixyfriend touched on what this change would actually look like in practice and the *why* behind it (and why we don't let 14 year old be adults usually irl) in their fic about Jango breaking into Satines house.

Reality is, if 14 is legal adulthood, you're gonna have a lot of folks out there who throw their kids out *at fourteen*. You're going to get a lot of families who expect teenagers to start being adults *at fourteen*.

But my point is, I want a fic that explores what this change looks like. Specifically, Satine trying to create this change, put this protection in place.

I think if I wrote it, I'd want to open with the initial change having been created, and it's... a little lacking. It's a little too easy for a pissed off asshole to use it against a single mom trying to get her eldest set up on an apprenticeship. And things work out, that this single mom gets the opportunity to yell at Satine over it.

Satine is... let's go with pissed.

The asshole who got the mom in trouble very quickly learns just how lucky they are that Satine is a pacifist. Because if she wasn't, they'd have gotten their ass beat.

Satine then turns around and launches a campaign asking concerned parents to come forward, to help fix the system so that it does what it's supposed to–protects young adults. Maybe say that she was barely a few months past her own verd’goten when her father was killed and she went on the run with Qui-Gon and Obi-wan, have her air that. She can use the common distrust if jedi against the public, talk about how after her father died, her clan all but abandoned her, so the only adult she had to look to for advise was a jedi.

[nightlyrequiem]

Scream

A new serial killer has been terrorizing the streets of Las Almas. You have an... interesting encounter with her one night while working your first shift at the morgue.

New Part Every Thursday

Masterlist AO3

A/N- I wanted to be a medical examiner when I was twelve. That's not something in my future anymore sadly. Also, no matter how often I write smut I feel goofy doing it, but I think this turned out okay.

Tags/Warnings: Slasher Valeria, Violence, Blood, WLW, Dubcon, FINGERING, Smut, Explicit Sexual Content

There's been another murder. A man found in his car with his throat sliced open. You're starting to wonder if Las Almas was the right town to move to. The fall air is only slightly cooler than the summer air but not enough to count. It's mid-October yet you're still wearing shorts and a tank top. You stand among other bystanders as police and coroners investigate the crime scene. The body was moved a while ago. At first everyone had assumed the murders were related to the ever-growing cartel located right in the town but a video on a victim's phone showed a glimpse of a figure in a white mask. Eyes drooping, mouth elongated into a soundless scream, and realised this was something else entirely.

A man in an official looking suit strides up to the crowd standing at the police tape.

"Go home." He says sternly. "This is real life, not one of those little perverse true crime podcasts." He scolds. The group slowly dissipates. Nobody feeling truly guilty for gawking. You reluctantly turn away and leave as well. Not wanting to be the only person still there. You head back home. You should get some rest anyway. You start your first shift at the morgue tonight. 

You groan irritably as your phone alarm blares right beside your ear. Shrill and annoying. You make quick work of turning it off. For a few minutes you lay there on your mattress - you don't have a bedframe yet - and fight back frustration. You can't believe this is what you have to do every day. You're just so tired. You can't fathom having to do this for the next forty-fifty years of your life. Despite the evil voice in your head telling you not to get up, you do. You throw on a simple shirt and pants combo. It doesn't matter because you'll have to suit up anyway. You debate putting on makeup as well but you're so tired and the only people around to see you will be your mentor and a corpse. Those dark circles under your eyes will fit right in.

The drive to the morgue is short. The streets of Las Almas are deserted at night. Dim yellow streetlights adding to the eerie atmosphere. Of course nobody wants to be out at night here. There's an operating cartel and a serial killer on the loose. Your eyes drift to your rear mirror. Just to make sure no ghastly figures are lurking about in your backseat. You park and get out. Grabbing your bag and walking inside. The bright fluorescent lights buzz and threaten to give you a headache and you swallow down the dread at having to spend nine hours here. You didn't take all those medical classes just to give up. Down in the basement your mentor is already suited up. Setting up the tray of tools. He turns and smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. He's an older man. Short and going gray.

"Glad to see you." He greets. "Your scrubs are in that locker over there, get suited up and come join me and I'll go over the basics."

You struggled a bit with putting on the apron and gloves but finally got the hang of it. You walk over to him and do your best to listen as he goes over the tools and their uses. Scalpel, bone saw, enterotome, rib shears. You already know all about them, but it doesn't hurt to get a refresher. It's been a few years since you were in school.

"Okay. Let's go get the body." The man nods. He leads you to the back and you shiver at the drop in temperature. You don't care for it, although you know it's necessary to keep the bodies fresh. The more decayed it is, the harder and more dangerous for you it is to do an autopsy. He shows you how to take the body out from the columbarium and wheels him back to the examining room.

The man's eyes are still open. His lifeless stare creeps you out a bit.

"What do we do first?" Your mentor asks. Staring at you expectantly. You weren't expecting him to ask and you hesitate. Mind blanking.

"Um... we- we drain him." You answer.

"No, we note down any external marks and wounds." He corrects. You mentally facepalm. Of course. That's the obvious answer. You blame it on the dissociative state you're in.

"Right. Sorry." You say.

"It's alright." He says kindly, handing you a notebook and pen.

You walk up to the cadaver and realise just how surreal this is. This man was a person. A son, a child at one point. He had a favourite food, colour. None of that matters anymore.

"I write down his name right?" You ask. Your mentor nods. you shakily scratch down his name. You look him over. There's a scratch on his right wrist. There's a deep, obvious gash along his throat. You inspect the jagged edges of his skin. "... I think this was made with a hunting knife?" You guess. Looking to your mentor. He approaches and inspects him too. Nodding in agreement. 

"Correct, anything else?"

You stare at the cadaver. What else are you supposed to look at? Right, his nails. You lift up his big hands gingerly and check under his nails. No visible evidence of skin or blood. You jot down your findings.

One-inch-long shallow scratch, right wrist. Three-inch-long gash along throat, jagged edges, suggests it was done with hunting knife. No other visible external injuries.

You stare at the body and at your notes. Maybe you should check him once more.

"I need to use the washroom." Your mentor mumbles, degloving. He walks out of the room, leaving you alone in this cold, unfamiliar place with a body. You stand around awkwardly for a few moments, your only company being the dead man. You feel suffocated by the weight of the future. What if you never get the hang of this? What if you can't do it? You take a few seconds to breathe. You got your bachelor's degree. You got hired at the morgue. You remind yourself you felt overwhelmed and scared of driving at first too, and now you can do it just fine. If you can navigate college, you can navigate a corpse.

You check him over one more time to see if you were accurate. As you're setting his hand down you stop and look closer. A very short, fine black thread is caught under his thumbnail. You jot it down and carefully pull it out, holding it up to your face. Up close you see it's not thread but a strand of hair. you set it down on the counter in a tray to be looked at later. You shamble closer and stare at him uncertainly. Do you cut him open now or is there something you're forgetting? You look up. Your mentor still hasn't returned. You'll wait before you do anything. The last thing you want to do is mess up an autopsy.

Twenty minutes later he still hasn't returned. You frown and debate with yourself. He could be unwell, and you'd feel awkward about disturbing him while he's on the toilet, but you need to learn, and you can't proceed without him to guide you. You walk out of the room and down the hall. Doors are closed along the walls. The lights out in those rooms. It's quiet. Where are the bathrooms again? You turn down another hallway. Peering down it. You walk towards an opening. Not the bathrooms. Instead, there are tables lined up with cover sheets. All are barren except for one. If a body isn't being examined, it needs to be put away. You put aside your search for your mentor and begin to wheel the body to the body storage area. Your skin prickles into goosebumps. The body's feet are the only part sticking out from under the blanket. It still has shoes on. You stop. You're pretty sure all cadavers are to be stripped of their clothing once they arrive. You'll do that at the columbarium.

You leave him in there and hurry back to the examining room to retrieve fabric sheers. You gasp as something dark darts across the hall.

"Hello?" You call instinctively, then mentally facepalm. What is wrong with you? It's nothing, you decide. Because you aren't sure what you'd do if it was something. You feel uneasy at the silence and your mentor still being gone but you push those fears aside. Morgues hold dead people, of course you're wary. It's no different to a hospital though, both are medical buildings. One's for the living, the other for the dead.

Back in the storage room you approach the body. You grab ahold of the edge of the sheet and pull it off, freezing in place. Your hands tremble and you drop the black plastic sheet. It flutters to the ground. Dark red blooms through his white scrubs on his chest. A clean wound entering and exiting his body. Your mentor stares at the ceiling unblinkingly. Your brain takes a few seconds to comprehend what you're seeing. Your mentor is dead, and he was murdered. You whip around to face the doorway. The hallway is brightly lit. What's the likelihood of his killer still being in the building? Pretty fucking high. The buzzing of the lights and the otherwise silence feels threatening. You grip the fabric shears tightly. Too afraid to move. You picture the murderer standing just beside the door frame, knife poised, waiting to plunge it into your heart.

The body can lose fourteen percent of its blood without much consequence. Fifteen to thirty percent and you risk passing out - although you know that's much lower for you because you cut open your foot one time and almost passed out after losing maybe five percent at most. Forty percent and you die. It depends where your cut or stabbed too. The body has twenty arteries. Any of those get punctured and you'll be dead within five minutes.

You creep forward. Shears raised in defense. You psyche yourself up to look around the corner. Imagining the tip of a wicked blade sinking into your eye socket. Popping that fragile ball of jelly. You look quickly. Seeing an empty hall on both sides. You need to get back to the examining room to get your phone. Call the police. Barricade yourself in the room until they arrive. Your feet softly hit the clean linoleum floors with every step. You make it to the examining room without issue. You quickly rush to your locker and root through your bag for your phone. a sob wells up in your throat, it's not there. You know for certain you put it there.

People are sometimes able to feel when someone else enters a room before seeing them. A shift in the air, a tingle in the spine. Your feel sick with fear. You don't want to turn around, but you don't want to keep your back to the open door. Slowly you turn. In the doorway stands the murderer. Adequately called Ghostface by the public. They're all dressed up. White mask, black hood and tattered robe and all. You two stare at each other for what feels like forever.

"Forget your phone?" Their voice is muffled and gravely and mocking. Almost electronic sounding, like someone talking through a walkie talkie. You watch in horror as they hold out your phone, dropping it to the ground. They raise one foot and stomp down with their heel, shattering the screen and your hopes of getting out of here. "Aren't you pretty." They walk forward and shut the door. Reaching behind themselves to lock it. Your eyes dart towards the tool table. Distressed to find it cleared. All you have are the fabric shears.

You back up, raising them slightly. A show of aggression. Not a good one, but one nonetheless. The figure tilts their head at you.

"What do you think you'll be able to do with those?"

"... Kill you." You rasp. Ghostface just chuckles. "I haven't seen your face, I won't tell the cops anything, please don't kill me." Your voice breaks at the end. Ghostface observes you silently. Looking like the grim reaper. You watch on in confusion as they raise a gloved hand slowly and grip the edge of their mask. Lifting it to reveal the face beneath. A woman in her thirties. Dark brows and eyes that stare right through you. 

"Now you have." She murmurs. Sounding far less robotic. She pulls the mask back over her face. "But I don't think I want to kill you just yet."

She rushes at you, throwing the table to the side. You scream and raise your hands to protect your face. The woman grabs you by the shoulders and roughly throws you to the floor, winding you. You gasp and try to crawl away, shears clutched uselessly in your hand. She throws herself on top of you. Straddling your lower back and pressing your pelvis into the hard floor uncomfortably. One gloved hand wraps around the front of your throat and pulls your head back, making it harder to breath. Your back and neck arching in the process.

"Poor thing, all alone." Valeria coos. Index finger rubbing your throat mockingly. "These scrubs are so unflattering."

The sound of tearing makes you cringe. "What are you doing?" You ask shakily. She doesn't answer as she cuts away at your scrubs. Pulling the torn fabric to the side. Her fingers trace along your ribs and waist, making you shiver.

"You're so pretty." She mutters to herself. 

She violently tugs down your sweats, exposing your ass to the cool air. Your heart flutters and you flinch. You don't feel as afraid as you should and that alone frightens you. Her palm smooths over your cheeks. Massaging the skin. You breathe heavily, feeling like you're going to pass out. Her hand dips between your cheeks. Prodding along your clothed asshole and cunt. You wore light coloured underwear and know she can see the damp spot beginning to form. Not that it matters, because you can feel the cotton sticking to your wet folds, moulding to their shape. She hums in interest.

"... You're already wet?" She comments. Stroking you gently. "Don't tell me you get off on this." 

Your face warms with embarrassment. "I'm not... It's not... get the hell off of me!" It's not death that arouses you. You aren't into dying, or corpses. You don't know why being pinned to the cold floor by a murderer is making your clit throb.

She doesn't get off of you. Instead, she roughly pushes your head down. Your cheek presses against the ground.

"Shut the fuck up." She demands. Rubbing her hand through your folds, soaking your panties even more. She cuts away at your underwear without a care. The air makes contact with your slick unpleasantly. Chilling your weeping core. A leather clad finger prods at your entrance and to your shame you don't protest. Prioritizing your desire to be filled more than the need to flee and call for help. Her finger slips in. The unfamiliar texture of the leather makes you squirm as your spongy walls pull it deeper. She adds another finger, curling them upwards and hitting that sweet spot inside of you.

You tense and gasp. Jerking upwards at the feeling. She sets a fast pace. Pumping her fingers into you with an intensity. Your pussy practically sings her praises as it squelches. You press your face into the floor to hide your shame. Valeria isn't having any of that. She grabs ahold of your hair and yanks your head back.

"You're enjoying this." She taunts. "Sick little freak."

You clench around her fingers. "No I'm - not." You whimper. She gives you a hard thrust in response, pushing a loud whine from the back of your throat.

"You're dripping all over my hand." Valeria retorts, moving her other hand from the back of your head to the nape of your neck.

As if to punish you for your insolence, she presses down and roughly pumps her fingers into you. Droplets of your slick hitting the floor. You feel like a monster for even slightly enjoying this and you do your best to stave off the impending orgasm quickly approaching. It's one thing to enjoy what's happening - it's another to get off on it. Valeria is relentless. Leaning over you and breathing in your ear. You whine and clench around her fingers. Toes curling in your shoes.

"Fuck." You mutter with defeat. You came on a murderer's fingers.

The woman slowly pulls her fingers out, gathering up your wetness. She holds it out in front of your face and spreads her fingers. Translucent strings connecting them, evidence of your debauchery.

"Open your mouth." She murmurs. "C'mon, sweet thing, open your mouth." She forces her fingers between your lips. The taste of blood, leather, and your own juices hit your tongue. You gag as she shoves them deeper into your mouth. When she finally pulls them away, she gives your cheek a quick tap and stands, leaving you on the floor in a puddle of your own release.

"Are you going to kill me?" You whisper.

"Maybe." She hums. "If you aren't useful." 

Now that the high is wearing off your left with a cavernous pit in your stomach. Your mentor was murdered, and you happily let the killer finger you. "What? How can I be useful?"

She scoffs. "You're a medical examiner are you not?" She replies impatiently, she leans against the counter and lifts her mask again.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a box of cigarettes and lights one.

"You're not supposed to smoke down here." You mutter.

"I don't care." She says, lighting one and putting it to her hips. "You're going to tamper with the bodies, or lie about how they died, or whatever it is you do."

You close your eyes. "That's... that's so unethical, I can't do that."

She grins at you. "Cumming around a murderer's hand - in a morgue no less - is pretty unethical."

She approaches and squats down, grabbing your chin and making you face her.

"If you don't want me to fucking gut you," She murmurs softly. "then you'll do what I say."

You don't want that. You're of the opinion that your insides belong inside of you. "Okay." You say weakly. You don't have much of a choice. 

"Good girl." Valeria hums. she stands and walks towards the doorway, pausing to look at you over her shoulder. "I'll be seeing you again very soon."