#locking compression plate

[siorasurgical-post]

Q.C Torque Screw Driver Handle 2.0 mm Tip is a trauma instrument that is used for the application of orthopedic screws to secure locking plates during the stabilization of fractures. You can avail of a high-quality range of trauma implants and instruments from Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd., a leading orthopedic manufacturer in India. The company also offers world-class OEM/contract manufacturing services worldwide.

[siorasurgicalsblog]

Broken bones are no fun, they cause extreme pain. Overall, it disrupts life in a major way. But fear not, modern medicine has an answer for many fractures: open reduction and internal fixation, or ORIF for short. This orthopedic surgery requires different types of trauma implants including locking bone plate, bone screws, pins, and wires.

[siora-surgicals]

Locking Plate Orthopedic Implant

Locking Plate is an advanced trauma implant that is used for the fixation of different types of fractures. These plates are designed to have threaded screw holes that provide a fixed-angle construct. Special locking screws are used for the application of these plates that lock against the corresponding threads present in the plate. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is a renowned manufacturer of a CE-certified range of orthopedic locking plates and other trauma implants. They are available in different sizes and titanium & stainless steel.

[siiorasurgicalspvtltd]

Curved Broad Locking Compression Plate 4.5/5.0 mm finds application for the treatment of fractures in the clavicle, scapula, humerus, distal tibia & fibula, and pelvis. The plates are made with combi holes and this allows the surgeon to use both locking and non-locking screws as required according to the type of fracture. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is a renowned orthopedic manufacturer in India that produces locking compression plates in stainless steel and titanium. 

[sugurugetoshairbrush]

Personal Trainer!Toji Fushiguro—”Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

req by: @sumbarbietingz tyty hope u like <33

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday at 6 AM.

By now, working out is muscle memory—a chore you tick off your list without much thought. You’re not aiming for an Olympian’s physique, nor do you dream of flipping tires or crushing quadruple-digit squats. For you, fitness is about balance, not obsession. The gym is filled with the usual suspects: frat bros showing off one-armed pull-ups, bodybuilders flexing between sets, and athletes moving like they own the place. You don’t envy them, nor do you aspire to join their ranks. In truth, their antics are more intimidating than inspiring.

But lately, something’s shifted. You’ve grown restless with your go-to routine: treadmill sprints, a quick core workout, and stairmaster till failure. It gets the job done, but there’s a whisper in the back of your mind, daring you to try something new. Maybe it’s time to add weights to your regimen. Maybe it’s time to sculpt those glutes and finally chase the coke-bottle figure you’ve been daydreaming about.

For weeks, the squat rack has been your Everest. You’ve watched others load up the bar, their muscles taut with effort, and wondered if you could do the same. It’s not fear holding you back—more like the memory of too many gym bros turning innocent glances into unwelcome conversations. At this gym, you’ve perfected the art of blending in. Headphones in, eyes down, immersed in the personal concert blasting through your ears. The only human contact you entertain is a nod and a quick smile for the woman at the front desk.

Today, though, is different. After your core workout, you finally approach the empty squat rack. Your heart races—not from exertion, but from the thrill of trying something outside your comfort zone. You set down your water bottle, lift the bar experimentally, then add two 20-pound plates on either side. It feels doable. With a deep breath, you duck under the bar, letting it rest on your shoulders. A hype Sexyy Red track thunders in your ears, spurring you on as you knock out your first set.

The burn in your thighs intensifies with each rep, but you keep going, driven by the mental image of your future self: confident, curvy, unstoppable. Sweat beads along your forehead, catching the fluorescent lights above and glistening on your skin. By the time you hit your second set, you’re locked in, laser-focused—until a firm hand lands on your shoulder, breaking your concentration.

You freeze mid-rep, your eyes snapping to the mirror in front of you. A tall, broad-shouldered figure looms at your side, leaning in close enough to be unavoidable. Your stomach twists with annoyance. Of course. Another unsolicited interruption.

Lowering the barbell with a controlled motion, you let out a sigh, already steeling yourself for the usual spiel. You tug your headphones down to your neck, the music fading into background noise as you prepare to deliver a polite but firm rejection. Why is it always men who think mid-squat, drenched in sweat, is the perfect time to chat? And why, without fail, are they never the gym’s best-looking prospects?

Before you can speak, a gravelly voice cuts in.

“Damn, ma, you tryna go deaf? I could hear your music from all the way across the gym.”

You blink, momentarily caught off guard. The irritation brewing in your chest falters, giving way to reluctant curiosity as you turn to fully take him in. You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead, collecting the beads of sweat rolling down your neck, letting your gaze rake upward. 

Crisp white Air Force 1s. Baggy black sweatpants slung low on his hips. A fitted white compression shirt stretched tight over a chiseled torso. Broad shoulders, thick biceps—his entire frame is a testament to strength, and the shirt does little to hide it. You swallow, willing yourself not to gawk, though it takes effort.

When your eyes finally reach his face, restraint becomes even harder. Fine as hell doesn’t do him justice. His sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and the scar slicing through the corner of his smirking lips paint a picture of rugged perfection. Jet-black hair falls messily over his forehead, accentuating dark, brooding eyes that seem to hold an unspoken challenge.

He arches an eyebrow, clearly waiting for you to respond. Too many seconds have passed, and you hastily clear your throat, scrambling to collect yourself.

“And that compelled you to approach me?” you ask, arching a brow of your own. A teasing smirk plays on your lips. “Don’t tell me you’re a fellow Sexyy Red fan?”

His smirk deepens, and he crosses his arms, leaning casually against the squat rack like he has all the time in the world.

“Me?” His voice is low and gravelly, carrying an almost teasing edge. “Nah, can’t say I’m also bumping F My Babydad. In fact, that song’s been used against me in the past. Strongly recommend shuffling your playlist.”

The implication makes you blink. He’s someone’s baby daddy? You glance at him again, and yeah, it tracks. His whole aura screams DILF.

You laugh, breathless from both exertion and his audacity. “My heart goes out to you, but that’s not enough to turn me off the song. It’s keeping me pumped.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling low in his chest. His eyes sweep over you again—this time lingering on your two-piece set, the biker shorts and zip-up jacket hugging your frame. You feel a flicker of pride, knowing the pump is definitely doing its thing. But you quickly remind yourself not to encourage him, no matter how good he looks.

“I noticed,” he says, straightening. “That’s actually why I came over. Hope I’m not overstepping, but your form could use some tweaking. You’re targeting hamstrings more than glutes right now.”

Oh. So he wasn’t hitting on you? Maybe he’s just one of those older gym vets who genuinely want to help. Reluctantly, you concede, eager for the guidance. “Damn, is it that bad? I’m tryna build a dumpy for real. Any tips would be great.”

His brows knit briefly. “A what?”

You grin. “A dumpy. A dump truck. A fat ass. Come on, oldhead.”

His scowl deepens, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Toji. Use my name, not that.” He rolls his eyes, moving to strip the weights from your bar. “But that explains the Sexyy Red. You’re out here tryna Skeeyee or go to Pound town, huh? Don’t worry—I got you. Grab the bar.”

Snickering, you follow his instructions. “Absolutely not. Just help me with my form, Toji.”

Satisfied with your correction, he places a hand on your back, guiding you into a squat. “Wider stance,” he instructs, nodding as you adjust. His hand trails lower down your spine, encouraging you to drop further. “Lower. If you don’t hit a 90-degree angle, you’re not getting the full range of motion.”

You comply, biting back a shiver at his touch. He stays beside you, squatting to observe your form. “When you rise, drive through your heels and tense your glutes—lightly. Not too much.” His hand rests briefly on your hip as you rise, and your focus wavers dangerously.

Somehow, you power through the adjustments and complete your next set, his guidance making all the difference. By the time you finish, you’re drenched in sweat, thighs trembling from exertion, but the burn feels… good.

“You’re a quick learner,” Toji says, lifting the bar off your shoulders and racking it. His tone carries an edge of approval that makes your chest swell. “How’s it feel?”

“Sore, but good.” You glance in the mirror, a grin spreading as you take in your reflection. The pump is real. “You’re a lifesaver. You could seriously be a personal trainer.”

His smirk returns, and for a moment, he almost looks proud. “Good thing I am one. Imagine if you’d said I was trash.” He pauses, then extends a hand. “Hey, doll, this might sound out of line, but I’ve never trained someone on a glute-dominant program. Most of my clients are bodybuilders or boxers, but this could open doors. If you’re down, I’ll train you for free so I can develop a structured workout regimen. What do you say?”

You blink at him, stunned by the offer. Free sessions with this hunk of a man? The decision is a no-brainer. 

“How could I say no to that big guy?” You swat playfully at his arm, earning a chuckle. You retrieve your phone from the ground handing it towards him, “I’m in. Here, give me your number.”

Toji takes the device from your hand, his fingers moving swiftly over the screen. His grin is almost teasing as he hands it back. “Demanding,” he murmurs with a grin. “I like that. I’ll text you over the weekend. We’ll start Monday. That work for you?”

Though you agree, the wait over the weekend feels endless. You check your phone obsessively, half-convinced you’d imagined the whole interaction. But finally, a notification pops up while you’re leisurely sprawled out on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through your timeline.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Wassup, ma. How about 6 AM on Monday? Tues-Fri, I’m booked mornings, but anytime after 2 works.

You grin, slightly confused by the contact name he’d given himself, but already planning your reply.

You Bet, I’ll be there. We can do 3 PM the other days—I get off at 2.

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) Bet.

You I gotta ask… what does YHPT mean in your contact name?

Toji Fushiguro (YHPT) 🤣🤣🤣  Young Hot Personal Trainer

You Young?! Sorry I asked. Lemme fix that.

Toji Fushiguro 👴🏼 (PT) Not too much on me, ma. 😒

On Monday, you start to wonder if Toji even needs to develop a new glute routine. He seems to already have it down to a science. When you meet him outside the locker room, he’s surprisingly professional, carefully explaining the plan for the day.

He considers your current fitness level but warns that he won’t go easy on you. “If you want results, you’ve gotta work for them,” he says.

Back at the squat rack, you steal a glance at his backside, confirming your suspicions: Toji definitely practices what he preaches. His ass is… impressive. Bubble butt levels of impressive. If this workout built that, you’re sold.

The session starts with barbell walking lunges. Toji adjusts the weights slightly heavier than you’re used to, staying close as you move through each step. He’s comfortable in athletic shorts and a pullover, barely breaking a sweat while you’re already glowing in your two-piece set. His hands are steady and deliberate when tweaking your form, his words always encouraging.

By the time you’re on weighted step-ups, you’ve shed your zip-up and tee, left in just your sports bra and shorts. When you transition to hip thrusts, you play coy about your familiarity with the exercise. It pays off deliciously as Toji demonstrates.

He drags a bench over, slides a barbell onto his lap, and gets into position. His thighs flex, the barbell pressing into his hips as he slowly thrusts upward, his voice low as he explains the importance of balance and control. But honestly, you’re too distracted by the sight of him—muscles taut, skin glowing under the gym lights, his bangs sticking to his forehead.

“Got it, ma? I’ll hand it over to you in a sec—might as well finish this set myself.”

That breathy ma and the half-lidded look he shoots your way? It’s lethal. You fidget on your feet, suddenly aware of how warm the gym feels.

When it’s your turn, you do your best to mimic his movements. To dispel any awkwardness, you wink at him. “How’s my form, big guy? I’m giving you all I’ve got.”

Toji chuckles, his grin playful. “Someone’s catching on quick.” He places a firm hand on your knee, his voice dipping, returning your wink. “That thrust is second to one.”

You end with sumo squats, a challenge given their deep range of motion. Determined to achieve those coveted “Megan knees,” you complain to Toji, who looks at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

“Alright, hold up. I know you can nail this—let me help.”

He positions you in front of the mirror, his presence towering behind you. When he steps closer, your breath hitches, his chest brushing against your back as he adjusts your stance.

“Open your legs wider. Angle your feet out,” he murmurs, his hands warm on your thighs. The heat of his breath on your neck nearly sends you spiraling, but you focus on the squat, sinking lower under his guidance.

“Atta girl,” he says softly, his tone making your heart race. “Just like that.”

It hits you then—there’s no way this is just standard training. Especially as you’re keenly aware of the firm press of his body behind yours.

“Toji, how many more? ‘M so tired,” you mumble, struggling through another rep.

“Two more. Push through, ma. Do it for me, yeah?”

His hands guide your hips, and you somehow manage to finish the set. Resting your hands on your knees, you catch your breath while he smirks, handing you a water bottle.

“Good girl,” he says.

Your brain short-circuits.

By Tuesday, you’ve settled into the routine, though Toji remains as hands-on as ever—literally. His physical guidance feels less like training and more like testing your resolve, especially when he throws in casual touches that linger just a bit too long.

The workouts are brutal, but Toji’s encouragement and relentless banter keep you going. You learn snippets about his life, mostly centered around his middle-school-aged son, Megumi—a tech-obsessed, angsty tween with whom Toji is actively struggling to connect with.

You start caring about how you look for these sessions—styling your hair, spritzing perfume, even picking out your cutest gym fits. You tell yourself it’s just motivation, but deep down, you know you’re becoming weak to Toji’s charm.

And Toji? He’s an enigma—a hot, muscular DILF who knows exactly what he’s doing.

On Friday, you meet Toji outside the locker room as usual. His unusually upbeat demeanor is paired with an announcement: he’s reserved a private room upstairs, equipped with advanced machines and, most importantly, a touch of exclusivity to let you experiment with new moves in peace.

“If you wanted to get me alone so badly, you could’ve just said that,” you tease, poking a playful finger at his cheek.

He smirks, catching your hand mid-air before letting it drop. “Can’t a guy be a gentleman and save his moves for later? But if you’re looking for forwardness…” He leans in with a wink, the grin on his face equal parts charming and incorrigible. “I won’t hold back.”

Rolling your eyes, you laugh. “Sure, big guy. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

“I took your advice,” he says, leading you up the stairs, his hand warm on your back. “Set up Discord for Megumi. Now the kid can actually game with his friends without me being the middleman. Thought I’d reward you with an advanced workout for that stroke of genius.”

You scoff, withdrawing yourself from his grip to cross your arms. “Reward? Sounds more like a punishment.”

He grins wider. “You’ll thank me later, mama. And if you’re not satisfied, you can choose your own reward.”

Inside the private room, your eyes roam over the space. Polished mirrors line one wall, reflecting sleek machines—a leg press, rowing machine, power bike, and more. A faint scent of disinfectant lingers, blending with the promise of an intense workout. Toji tosses his duffel bag near a large speaker in the corner.

“Look at that—a speaker. Gonna cut on some throwbacks so I can put you onto some real music.”

“Still not helping the oldhead allegations,” you quip, shaking your head as he connects his phone.

His smirk widens. “I’m whatever you want me to be, doll. That’s the business I stand on.” He points skyward with dramatic flair.

You bury your face in your hands, groaning. “Toji, your usage of slang is deteriorating by the minute.”

Stretching side by side, his 90s playlist humming through the speaker, you fall into the familiar rhythm of the glute routine. The effort is paying off; you swear you’re already seeing results. 

Between sets, you’d even started pestering him for diet tips—anything to build that elusive shelf.

But as always, your attention drifts. During hip thrusts, your eyes wander to Toji’s defined arms, the way his shoulders shift as he mirrors your movements. During squats, you can’t help but notice his hands lingering on your hips, guiding you down with whispered encouragements.

“Drive through your heels, mama,” he murmurs near your ear, his breath warm against your neck. You’re panting by the final rep, equal parts exhausted and electrified.

When the set ends, Toji steps back, his absence leaving a surprising chill. He crosses his arms, eyeing you with that ever-present smirk. “You’ve mastered this routine. How about graduating to mine? Fridays are upper body days. What d’ya say?”

You trail a finger down his arm, tracing the veins. “And get jacked like you? Obviously.”

His grin softens into something almost fond. “Bet. Just try not to distract me too much, yeah? It’s hard enough maintaining my professionalism around you.”

You laugh as he pinches your cheek, only to retreat and yank off his tee, leaving him in a fitted black tank. He leads you to the dumbbells for bicep curls, and you challenge yourself with heavier weights to avoid ogling his sculpted frame.

“Look at you,” he says approvingly as you curl the weight. “Getting stronger every day.”

“Thanks, coach,” you reply, though your arms burn with effort.

Toji hoists a 45-pound dumbbell with ease, and your curiosity gets the better of you. “How much can you bench, anyway?”

He pauses mid-rep, considering. “Good question. Haven’t checked in a while. Wanna find out?”

Before you can answer, he’s clearing the bench, stacking plates with casual efficiency. Three 45s on each side—a total pushing 300 pounds—makes your jaw drop.

“Damn.”

He meets your stare, the bar balanced on his lap. “Don’t just stand there gawking. Come spot me.”

You circle behind the bench as Toji reclines, gripping the barbell above his chest. His muscles coil with tension, veins slightly raised under his skin. As you hover your hands just above his for support, you give a small nod for him to start.

Toji pushes the bar upward, arms locking at full extension before lowering it with precision. The rhythm is steady, his breaths growing heavier with each rep.

“Fuck,” he exhales, voice low and strained.

A laugh bubbles up from you, and you instinctively place your hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid swell of muscle shift beneath your touch.

Toji glances at you, eyes narrowing with playful admonition. “What’d I say about distracting me, huh, ma? Cut me some slack.”

Setting the bar down with a controlled thud, he looks up at you, dark locks falling across his face. His smirk is wolfish.

“I don’t think anything could really distract you,” you counter, grinning. “You’re benching 300 pounds like it’s nothing. Feels a little… superhuman.”

“Damn right.” Toji sits up briefly, flexing his arms like a bodybuilder and striking exaggerated poses in the mirror, whistling at himself.

You snort. “Alright, don’t let it go to your head now, big guy.”

He lays back down to begin his second set, but you’re feeling bold. Moving swiftly, you straddle the bench, swinging one leg over and settling into his lap.

His eyes widen briefly as he lowers the bar back to his chest, but he recovers fast, a lopsided grin spreading across his face.

“Guess you’ve got a better view from there, huh?” he murmurs. “You don’t mind counting these out for me, do ya?”

“Not at all.” You plant your hands on his stomach, the fabric of his tank top taut against the solid expanse beneath.

He starts again, pressing the bar up with ease.

“One… two… three… four,” you count, smirking. “You think you can hit twenty?”

“Easy work,” he grunts, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple.

But you’re feeling mischievous. Your hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers grazing the hard ridges of his abs. The contrast of warmth and strength makes your breath hitch.

“Five… six… seven…eight…” Toji’s steady rhythm falters as you increase the pressure of your movements. His eyes narrow at you, daring yet pleading for restraint.

You relent—for now—your hands sliding to rest firmly on his hips as he recovers.

“Nine… ten… eleven… twelve.” His reps slow significantly, the strain visible in his taut muscles. 

Sensing an opportunity, you lean into his weakness, grinding your hips down against him deliberately, the friction drawing a sharp hiss from his lips.

“Shit, ma,” Toji mutters through clenched teeth, sucking in a deep breath before lifting the bar again.

“Thirteen,” you murmur, your voice laced with mischief. You rotate your hips in a slow circle, reveling in the way his eyes squeeze shut and his breath hitches.

“‘s not fair—you’re playing dirty,” Toji rasps, lowering the bar with a groan. For a fleeting moment, you envy the steel weight—it holds all his focus while you fight to claim just half of it.

But it doesn’t matter; his body betrays him. You feel him harden beneath you, the friction growing deliciously intense through the thin layers of clothing separating you.

“Toji,” you gasp, biting down on your lip to stifle the sound as heat pools low in your stomach. Your movements become instinctive, grinding against him in search of relief.

And yet, Toji—ever determined—continues his reps, each lift of the bar accompanied by a subtle grind of his hips into you, fueling the dangerous tension.

“Sixteen—shit… seventeen—mhm… ah—eighteen… n-nineteen…” Your counting falters as you ride the edge of control, each syllable more breathless than the last.

“Mf—ma… I can go to thirty,” Toji growls, his voice thick with desire. “Take it out. Use me. Make yourself feel good.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and you scramble to shed one leg of your shorts, fumbling with his waistband. Relief blooms when you find him bare beneath his sweats. You flick his chest, the movement playful yet teasing.

“Slut.”

Toji’s eyes darken, the weight of his gaze making your pulse race. “And what does that make you?” 

His voice is a low rumble as he lifts the bar again. “Keep counting, doll.”

“‘Kay,” you breathe, positioning yourself above him. The thick head of his length presses against your clothed center, and the sensation draws a near-whimper from your lips.

“Twenty… fuck—twenty-one… Toji—shit… twenty-two…”

You grind down harder, your movements desperate as you pump him with trembling hands. The feel of his shaft, hot and solid, against your slick sends you spiraling. Toji twitches under your touch, his breath ragged.

“Twenty-three—ah…”

A sharp, obnoxious buzzing cuts through the air, snapping you both out of the haze. The speaker blares with Toji’s ringtone, and he fumbles to set the bar down safely. The sudden motion sends you toppling to the floor in an undignified heap.

You blink, dazed, trying to make sense of the abrupt interruption as Toji curses under his breath. He hauls you back onto the bench, his movements rushed but gentle, before striding to his phone.

“Fuck, it’s Megumi,” Toji grumbles, glancing at his phone connected to the gym’s speaker. He picks it up, the ringtone still blaring. “Kid’s got the worst timing.”

You nod in acknowledgment, adjusting your shorts and ignoring the visible wet patch at the crotch. Toji answers the call, his tone shifting to frustration as he paces.

From his clipped responses, you catch snippets about school, carpooling, and a very annoyed Megumi. Toji sighs heavily, muttering a half-hearted apology before ending the call with a gruff, “See ya soon.”

“Mama,” he starts, turning to you with a weary look. “Forgot it's my turn to pick up Megs and his friends this week. In my defense, he deliberately didn’t remind me this morning just to get me caught up.”

You laugh softly as he digs through his duffle bag, pulling out another pair of sweats. Approaching you, he presses them into your hands.

“Here. Can’t have anyone else noticing the strong… impression I left on you,” he teases, his grin cocky. “Next time, I’ll double it.”

You step into the loose pants, tying the drawstring snugly around your waist. “Next time,” you echo, smiling up at him.

Toji hesitates as if it pains him to leave. He briefly embraces you, firmly squeezing your ass, and planting a wet, lingering kiss against the side of your neck before jogging toward the door.

Hooking up with your personal trainer. Immoral? Yes. Professional? Not even close. Hot? Absolutely.

But hey, it’s still exercise. Gotta see it through.

don’t try that freaky bench press position at home, take spotting seriously—not everyb got a heavenly restriction LOL

[mrs-ghost-2]

One Round Man (Round 1)

Pairing: Boyfriend!Simon x fem!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: swearing, oral (m receiving), pet names, Dom/sub tones, sub!simon, dom!reader, basically smut

-Not checked so all mistakes are my own as I wrote this on mobile. This is only round 1! Feel free to reblog and comment! I plan on posting round 2 soon. As always, MDNI and 18+ only! :)

Simon had a lot on his plate. Had people counting on him. Expecting things of him. He had places he needed to be and things that needed to be done and people he needed to impress. He is a part of the 141, after all. His name opened doors for him, but it also crushed his bones and soul under the weight of it, too.

But he also had you. You didn’t expect anything from him other than for him to be present in the moment. For him to be with you physically, and to help him be there mentally, too. Even if that meant he wore a pair of silk ties around his wrists and was tied to the headboard every once in awhile.

Simon had had a long night; too much adrenaline after a training mission and too much paperwork and no way to work off the rage that was brewing under his skin and heating his blood. But he knew that you were still awake, the light shining from underneath your door an obvious sign that you waited up for him.

He knocked twice, two loud thumps on your door and then he posted up between the wooden frames. Fingers curled around the thin wood, chest heaving under his compression shirt and veins bulging in his neck.

“Coming!” You called out, soft feet padding towards the door and swinging it open to see Ghost- your boyfriend and most stubborn patient in the med bay- staring down at you with fire behind his eyes.

You had gotten a heads up from Captain Price earlier that evening that Ghost had been through the wringer with the newest soldiers on base and he would be feeling…pent-up. You nodded and thanked him before bidding him goodnight and heading back to your barracks room.

“Simon.” You acknowledged, always seeing beneath the eye black and skull balaclava to the man beneath it.

“Help.” Was the only thing he said, bulldozing his way through the doorframe and collapsing onto your king-size bed.

“You know the drill, Si.” You loved that he trusted you enough to be vulnerable, to put his mental, emotional, and physical safety into your hands both as a doctor and as a significant other.

“Yes, lovie.” He drawled out, thighs spreading to allow you to sit comfortably between them and wrists crossing above his head to wait patiently.

Simon was a soldier first and foremost, but he only followed orders from people he trusted. So assuming the position without back talk? He trusted you beyond words.

“Need me to take care of you, Si? Help you relax?” You asked him, gauging where his head was at while you grabbed the silk from the drawer under your bed and moved to straddle his wide hips.

“Please. ‘m desperate.” He made a move to grab your hips but thought better of it and put his hands back to their original spot.

“Keep your hands above your head.” You ordered softly, fingers making quick work of tying the strands of silk around his thick wrists and looping them together to essentially “lock” his hands and keep them out of your way.

“Yes, lovie.” Simon’s head fell back against the bed frame, exposing the hard lines of his collarbone and the soft, scarred skin of his throat.

You grinned and leaned forward, plush tits pressing against his chest from underneath your (his) oversized shirt. He groaned low in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing as your teeth sank into his neck and you sucked a deep purple mark into his skin.

“Fuck, kitten.” He grunted in barely-there pain and his hips rocked up against yours.

“Watch it, Simon.” You gently smacked his hip in warning and he sighed before nodding and settled back against the mattress.

You wanted him pliant. You wanted him to be present with you and the only thoughts in his mind to be about you, your mouth, and letting you take his stress away. You wanted the lights on his eyes but his brain empty to everything but pleasure.

“You gotta be patient, Si.” You murmured against his neck as you peppered kisses along the wide expanse of his chest.

“I am not a patient man, lovie.” He responded, eyes closing as he felt your fingers slide under the hem of his compression shirt and start rubbing soft circles into his scarred skin.

“I know you can be. You can be so good and patient for me. I believe in you.” You cooed, finger tips curling to start drawing nail marks across his abdomen.

“Only for you, kitten. Fu-fuck, only for you.” Your hips started rocking against his, the thick bulge in his tac pants creating the best seat for you.

No words were exchanged for the next few moments; instead, you continued to roll your hips in slow circles against his covered cock while dragging up his shirt inch by inch. Simon knew better than to try and rush you so he decided to do his best to sink into the mattress and let you have your fun. He was fighting to keep his eyes open to watch you while you carefully pulled his shirt up to rest high on his chest and leaned forward to begin mouthing wet kisses and sucking on patches of his warm skin to leave marks for him later.

“Doing okay, love?” You asked him, checking in to make sure he was doing okay while you worked to get his belt buckle undone and tugged the button of his pants to release it.

“Jus’ fine, swee’heart.” Simon’s head lulled to the side and he was only able to nod.

You smiled up at him, keeping your eyes locked on his as you tugged the zipper of his pants down as far as it would go. He knew to keep his eyes on you as you worked his pants down to his ankles so he was laid beneath you with his shirt shoved up his chest and only his black boxers covering his aching cock.

“C’mon, kitten, touch me. Wan’ your mouth on it.” Simon begged, hips jerking up when you began palming him through the dark fabric.

“You’ll have my mouth when you’re good and stop moving.” You admonished, pulling your hand away to shoot him a frown.

“F-fuck, I’ll be good. I promise.” He was slowly falling away from his anger and began to rely on his need to please you and have you happy with him. It was the softer side that you only got to see behind closed doors.

“Promise?” You cock your head to the side, the index finger of your right hand slowly dragging up from the covered base of him to where you know his tip waits, pulsing for you.

“Promise.” Simon swore, eyes heated behind his mask as he watched you bend over from your position between his thighs so you could trace the path your finger just took with your tongue.

“Oh, fuck.” You heard his head smack against the bed frame as you sucked at the wet patch of fabric covering the already-leaking head of his cock.

Just barely, you could see him from your frame of view and the sight almost had you cumming in your panties. His thick eyelashes brushed against his cheeks and you could see his mouth fall open from underneath his balaclava.

“Can I take the mask off, Simon?” You pulled your mouth away but kept your hand busy while you waiting for his permission.

“Yes, shit. Take i’ off.” You didn’t have to be told twice.

You yanked the mask off his head, laying it on the bedside table before turning back to see his now-uncovered face.

“Wanted to see you fall apart.” You explained to him, getting back to your previous position and suckling at the leaking tip of him while your fingers made quick work of tugging his boxers down his thighs to meet his pants.

Simon can do nothing but take the sweet torture, his head falling to the side to watch you try to wrap your fingers around the base of his rigid length while you extend your tongue and run it from base to tip.

“Such a sweet fuckin’ mouth, lovie. Gonna kill me one of these days.” He growled out, chasing your lips and tongue as you move to suck marks into the V of his hips.

“I can’t have that, now can I? This is too much fun to stop now.” You laugh low, warm breath hitting the blooming bruises on his skin as you take the base of his cock back in your hand and wrap your wet lips around his tip.

It’s like a blow to the stomach for Simon as he feels your tongue swipe across the leaking slit before sliding down to curl around the sensitive underside. His stomach caves in and he fights to not break the silk ties; he doesn’t want to disappoint you but he feels like he’s going to combust if you don’t start moving faster. He’s desperate to feel his cock down your throat, to feel the spit used as lube drip down onto his balls and puddle in the sheets. He wants to hold each side of your head while you suck him, wants to lovingly brush his thumbs along your aching jaw, wants to have you stick your tongue out while he bounces the tip of his throbbing dick against it before showing it down your throat.

But he also wants to be good for you. Wants to make you proud of him for staying in his spot, leaving his wrists tied, mind empty of everything but how amazing your mouth and tongue feels wrapped around one and then both of his balls while you jerk him roughly in your palm. He craves the feeling of his impending orgasm building at the base of his spine, of knowing that he can’t really do much but take the sweet torture/pleasure that you gift him.

“‘m gonna cum if you keep tha’ up, kitten.” Simon warns you, panting for breath as you move from his balls back to the head of his dick.

“Didn’t say you could cum yet, Si.” You retort, removing your mouth completely but still jerking him off with long, slow strokes.

“Lovie, please. Wanna cum for you, wan’ you to swallow it for me and let me see it disappear.” Simon begs, mind in the gutter as he babbles his pleas for you to swallow him down once more and grant him the glory of your mouth and tongue for him to cover in his load.

“You sound so pretty when you beg, Si. You have my permission to cum but it has to be in the next sixty seconds or else this is all you get.” He nodded quickly, determined to listen and who was he to lie and say that he would even need sixty seconds?

Ten seconds and he’s a goner, stomach caving in as he shoots ropes of cum across your tongue and down your throat. You do your best to swallow around him while you continue to jerk his still-hard length, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as he continuously thrusts his hips to fuck your mouth through his orgasm. Eventually he collapses against the bed, slightly shuddering and swearing softly as he fights to regain composure over himself.

“Only sixty seconds, huh? You think m’gonna be done after one round, kitten?” Simon questions you, finally having enough of his bearings to take stock of the new dynamic.

You grinned at him, leaning up and backing down the mattress slowly as you see his eyes darken and one rough yank of his wrists has the silk bindings snapping off and falling to the floor.

“You forget, lovie. I’m not a one-round man.”

[artificialgirl]

Secondhand Market

Her fingers run along your smooth plating, tracing a seam in the cool metal until they find the release. You blurt out a wavering protest as she applies gentle pressure and pops the hatch open in your back- She is not a registered technician, and improper maintenence procedures could cause damage to both her body and your hardware. She ignores you, cutting off your explanation with a command. "Mute". Your speakers fall quiet and you're left there, kneeling silently as she stares into the hatch in quiet contemplation.

Your rear camera shows you her hand extending towards you again, and though you move to block her, you're not quick enough. Your body automatically jolts to a halt as her hand plunges into your machinery, leaving you in a locked state in order to prevent any potential compression damage to your unexpected technician's hand.

She braces herself against your still body as she peers in, looking for something. "Illuminate internals". You feel warmth spread through you as the soft glow of your internal lights creeps up her face. She reaches for a screwdriver as she pushes a bundle of wires away from your left abdominal piston, sending a wave of overwhelming sensation across your circuits as the wires tug gently at their ports.

Still and silent, you can do nothing but rumble almost undetectably as she begins to unscrew the cover for your central memory unit and pops in a protocol chip. She doesn't remove her hand from the wire bundle, and even with the minimal amount of pressure on the ports you can feel tactile processors overheating and fans whirring as you struggle to process the sheer amount of raw feeling. Your vents let out a small gasp of steam as the liquid coolant floods into their chambers, and she pulls her hand back as she realizes what's happening. "Shit. Sorry. Um, unmute".

Your speaker audio briefly peaks as a thousand thoughts you expected to be silent pour out into the room, and you see her smirk as the cacophony of private thoughts fades out and the tail ends of the longest few become briefly clear and distinguishable to human ears. A quiet laugh escapes her lips as she pops the panel closed again and gets up.

"Can you list your registered technicians for me?" You pull yourself back up to a standing position as you repeat the list back to her. Only one name comes from your speakers, and it's one they've never produced before. She grins as you as you realize the name is hers. "Good! Now, let's go home."

[t-oppenheimer]

Athlete, Compression, The Physical Split.

So begins the implicit critique of a popular system: What exactly constitutes physical acumen? That is a philosophical question which must be raised whenever we reproduce this trope of Strength, Dexterity and Constitution. Do humans, as they grow and train out, grow hardier and more pain tolerant without endurance and flexibility to match? I would hope that every time someone weight trains they do stretches beforehand and eat bulk carbs and protiens afterward. And while there are people with strength who lack fine motor function and the other way around, these two things are gained in tandem with experience and one is typically only lost in traumatic, disabling events.

So why have these? It's not for the monsters sake-- for although there is something to be criticized with the 'half-assedness' of symmetrical design when it comes to monsters (all player stats but meaningless equipment, level and arbitrary actions) these splits also reveal frustrations. Should amorphous creatures such as the Gray Ooze be infinitely dexterous (they are able to squeeze and bend and flex with little restriction) or not dexterous at all, for having only 'pseudopods' which lack nuanced control at all? According to WotC, the answer is 'mediocre dexterity' because the only time it ever comes up in actual play is "a fireball has been placed on top of me, despite having no where to go and not moving away from it at all would I be able to contort my body so as to diminish the damage I take from it?". Here of course, it having a '6' is literally just space being taken up for a worthless symmetry, the "-2" is what is relevant.

Pathfinder has tried to touch on this in some ways. My favorite example is the Armor Training trait exclusive to the Fighter class: this gives that character an incentive to maintain all three physical stats to emulate "the peak of physical acumen" by allowing dexterity an increasing benefit to one's strength build as they level up. One could even find a narrative springing from this unique aspect: The whelp who was once a mere town guard who knew how to keep a spear level at their waist and little else grows to find that the rigidity of their training and equipment maintenance proves more a hindrance than a boon. As they begin leveling, they tinker (or have someone else in the party) tinker and modify their equipment to work in ways only that fighter can use, and soon their plate armor isn't just any plate armor, but theirs, with the lion codpiece whose teeth functions for blade catching.

But that is that game and I am to discuss my game. Poison and disease is not a major element of the game, so Constitution is rendered almost completely vestigial. Strength does seem to be an objective thing (there is a difference between being able to dead-lift twenty pounds, two hundred pounds and four hundred pounds) but what justifies Dexterity? After sitting with it for a very long time: too much.

Dexterity controls how well one points a bow, swings a thin bladed weapon, picks a lock, sneaks across a hall and flies in the air? Preposterous. Especially in WotC's most recent products in which strength no longer holds the domain of weapon damage and modifications to your Constitution score no longer directly alters your maximum health value, Dexterity controls a disproportionate amount of the character's total acuity. This stat needs to be broken down.

The easiest angle to go about that would probably be to split fine motor control from gross motor control (you don't hear that one every day!). The strength and coordination of your arms, legs and back can be trained wholly separately from your dexterity between your fingers and... yeah, mostly your fingers. Now hands are central to the human experience so that's okay: the actual problem is likely our imagined "body" stat has is that it is almost exclusively about sports and sports related mobility. Acrobatics, maybe throwing and run speed?

Here, we can connect our "Body" stat to what remains as "Strength" because, as established before, these two seem to be trained in tandem such that there is no meaning distinguishing them. This is the summary of an "Athlete" and thus we have the final result of that thinking. But now fine motor control is only compared against directly, and has no control over secondary stats, the way Athlete determines AC.

Does anyone still have their 2014 5e DMG lying around? You might remember in the proposed "New Ability Scores" that no one ever adopted at any table. I kid, but what I say is not far off from the truth, for nothing else in the game supported either option, all implementation was by facilitator decree. If there is ever one singular sin of the most recent edition of Dungeons and Dragons, its enshrining their facilitating players to 'kinda wing it' as-- even more than a replacement-- the cornerstone of game design. In that ignored section is the ignored concept of a 'sanity' ability score which unlike the honor score is designed to support a theme plainly impossible with the game's progression. If I was an ninth level wizard and a cosmic horror tried to grab me, I'd simply teleport.

I do share the boilerplate objection to 'sanity' mechanics: tying mental health into a binary 'are you fucked up or Normal™?' is not representative of a very serious phenomenon which touches too many people to treat so lightly. Remember the tone of my game: satrical and brutal. What if instead of the Lovecraftian horror situation where you see exactly one (1) biracial person and go "WHAT THE WHAT?!?!?!?! BLBLBLBBL PFFFFFF KOOKOO; KOOKOO-- POLLY WANNA CRACKER" we went in the total other direction. A character who just loses their nerve and says "In this situation, I would fold." Throws their hands up in frustration, or decides this struggle isn't worth it and walks out of the door. It's not that you lose what you once had in a fit of irrationality, but in light of what you just witnessed you suddenly gain rationality and reconsider the stakes you actually have in this. If we maintain this 'nerves' idea, then what is strong nerves and what is weak nerves? One of the first things to go when you are frightened is your control. Fight, flight or freeze, goes the wisdom. When you jump you're liable to throw your pencil in the air, and when you're trembling you can't hold a pencil steady. This is what we tie with fine motor control to create "Precise".

We butchered conventional wisdom to place a new series of mechanics together which is easier to explain and work through while maintaining value for both and simply working. Ah-- but what we did to wisdom, and the other two, is a topic for another post.

[letterstomonkey]

Mahogany

Picture me inside Mahogany for this moment:

Mahogany, on the count of Three

Mahogany, compress my restless knees

Mahogany, fold inward my Skeleton

Mahogany, I meet here my friend, again

Mahogany, hugging my chin tucked in

Mahogany, how my head Bowed in lament

Mahogany, hear me through leery Amen

Mahogany, shield me from wolf in sheepskin

Mahogany, my ankles protrude in my seat

Mahogany, I rest my breast plates at your feet 

Mahogany, alchemize my Vulnerability

Mahogany, make light of naive liability

Mahogany, my hiding spot, burnt sienna colored

Mahogany, breathlessly, I’m locked inside your cupboard

Mahogany, whatever happened to me—

Keep me safe and keep it covered.

[villain-sympathizer]

I was wondering if you write Magne? There isn’t a lot of fics about her so I was wondering if I could make a request?

Maybe Magne and reader are shopping buddy’s, but reader has feeling for her cause she so beautiful (cause she is), and maybe Magne feeling like she isn’t loveable (just for angst), and maybe the reader prove her wrong by just letting out all they’re feeling for her by accident, then leading to them kisses her. And Magne is just 😳

Sorry, I just love her so much and I think she deserves the world.

YES YES OF COURSE, magne needs so much more love than she has 💕💕💕 sorry it's a lil short, i've got a lot on my plate recently that needs all my brain power lmao

────── ･ ｡ﾟ: .☽ . : ｡ﾟ･ ──────

[Magne x GN!Reader]

[Contents: GN!Reader; No gendered descriptions for reader; Written in third person with “[Name]” instead of “y/n” so OCs can be included! Fluff; Accidental love confessions; Mutual pining; AU where Magne doesn’t die cause shes a bad bitch]

[Content warnings: Brief moment where Magne is insecure about her gender identity, but it's pretty short; MC uses the "womens" dressing rooms but still remains gender neutral, as they're going with Magne to make her feel more comfortable]

────── ･ ｡ﾟ: .☽ . : ｡ﾟ･ ──────

The city streets weren’t very busy, seeing as it was the middle of the week in the early afternoon, and the majority of folks were still at work with the exception of some stragglers. It was perfect for a shopping trip according to Magne, since less people were likely to be roaming about, and thus less Pro Heroes to recognize her. Ever since the raid on the League of Villains hideout and their debacle with Overhaul, keeping Magne’s identity a secret out in public required a lot more effort. Though, it seemed to be a blessing in disguise – pun intended – since this allowed her to experiment more with her fashion tastes and overall gender identity, like she’s always wanted.

Which is why a shopping trip was so important to her and [Name], her best friend and emotional support throughout both their time in the League. Mr. Compress and Giran had managed to fence off some stolen goods to support the League now that AFO was locked away, and Magne decided to spend her rations alongside [Name] on clothes shopping. They said it was for proper disguises, which is true, but it was mostly to regain a sense of normalcy in such a low point of their lives. Horrible coping method, sure, but it brought some light on their darkest days, so who cared?

“Ohhh, I know a good thrift shop that has a ton of styles and trends!” Magne says to [Name] as they make it out of the busiest part of the city without being recognized. Both were clad in baggy, old sweatpants and rugged hoodies to hide their body types from security cams and the public alike. With Toga’s help, Magne was able to look at least a little more put together, with her hair temporarily dyed a darker shade of red and styled in a more trendy, casual way. Her iconic sunglasses were replaced with a different pair, something more similar to reflective green aviators. [Name], on the other hand, simply wore a cloth mask to hide their appearance, with some colored contacts and cut hair for good measure.

“Sounds good to me. Lead the way, beautiful,” [Name] responded to her, the nickname used in a teasing manner that held a genuine truth within it.

Magne giggles at the compliment, waving her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t make me blush, bestie,” she chirps, before leading them both in the direction of the shop, an excited hop in her step.

---

The thrift store was small and quaint, but true to Magne’s word, held plenty of old-fashioned-yet-trendy clothing styles. The two were currently heading towards the fitting rooms, discussing their outfit possibilities before Magne stops in her tracks just outside arcs to the fitting hallways. [Name] gives her a confused look, before noticing why she was seemingly debating with herself.

The fitting halls were separated by “male” and “female” options, which was unfortunately expected. Magne was typically very confident in her gender identity, especially around her friends, but there were still times where she doubted her physical appearance – especially since it wasn’t mainstream “feminine" enough for most people. And in cases like a dressing room, where body types always seemed to matter the most to everyone in range, her worries flared up instantly.

Realizing why their friend was having an internal debate, [Name] reached over and gently rested a hand on her arm. “Choose whichever makes you most comfortable,” they assure her. “I’ll join with you in there, and if anyone gives you any shit, I’ll make jewelry out of their teeth to go with your outfits.”

Magne’s small but genuine huff of laughter calms [Name]’s nerves a bit, glad to have broken her out of her spiraling thoughts.

“You always know what to say, don’t you?” Magne says to them, a comforting smile on her lips as the two of them head into the hall marked “ladies”.

---

Outfit after outfit was tried on, [Name] letting Magne have most of the spotlight, despite the taller woman cooing and fussing over the outfits her friend also tried on. However, they seemed to notice Magne had lost the confidence she carried when the two of them were picking out the clothes earlier, seemingly nitpicking every little detail that pertained to her body.

“It’s a little too small.” Or “My arms are a bit too thick for this shirt, don’t you think?” Or “This dress would look better if I had tits…”

“Magne,” [Name] spoke up when the red-head changed back to her street clothes, exiting the dressing room with a dejected expression and a pile of “rejected” clothes in her hands. “You know clothes are supposed to make you feel pleased, not others, right?”

An embarrassed blush crosses the woman’s cheeks when she realizes her sour mood had been that obvious. She pouts a bit and turns her face away. “I know, but-“

“And you know your friends adore you no matter what you look like, right?” [Name] gently cuts her off, reaching a hand up to her shoulder comfortingly, glad that the fitting hall was empty so the two could have a heartfelt moment. “You shouldn’t have to force yourself to be appealing to the very people who want to see you in Tarturus. The only outfit they want to see you in is an ugly orange jumpsuit that totally wouldn’t bring out your eyes.”

Taking Magne’s short bark of laughter as a good sign, [Name] continued their reassurances.

“You’re a beautiful woman, no matter what you do with your appearance, no matter what cloth covers your body. No one else’s opinion matters,” they pull down their mask to give her a soft smile. “I love you, Magne, y’know that?”

Magne’s head shoots up to look over at them, the blush on her cheeks growing redder at the confession. “Wait- you mean… as like, more than…?” She stutters out, unable to form a proper question through her shock.

[Name]’s smile turns into a lopsided grin, their own blush rising to their cheeks a bit. “More than a friend? Yeah, exactly that. This isn’t how I wanted to confess, but I felt like… you needed to know, now more than ever, that I’ve always saw you as the most gorgeous and confident person in the world.”

In an instant Magne had them scooped into her strong arms in a bear hug, the red-head burrowing her face into [Name]’s neck as she lifts them from the ground.

“Ohh, bestie, I love you too! So, so, so much!”

[siorasurgical-post]

LCP Locking Compression Plate – Stabilizing Fractures

LCP Locking Compression Plate is used for the treatment of different types of fractures, non-unions, and osteotomies. Fixed using corresponding locking screws, these medical-grade LCP plates are made having combi-holes that also allow fixation using cortical screws. These compression plates are available in different sizes and are made using medical-grade stainless steel and titanium. They have an anatomically contoured shape that ensures proper fixation over the fracture. Siora Surgicals Pvt. Ltd. is an experienced manufacturer of locking compression plates and other orthopedic devices. The company also offers high-quality OEM/contract manufacturing services across the globe.

[siorasurgicalsblog]

When you think of broken bones, images of casts and internal metal locking plates might come to mind. But there's another player in the bone healing game: the external fixation system. This innovative approach offers a unique set of advantages for certain fractures and situations. For more info read our blog.

[narangmedical]

The LC-DCP Safety Plate 3.5 is indicated for the fixation of fractures in the clavicle, scapula, olecranon, humerus, radius, ulna, pelvis, distal tibia, and fibula, particularly in osteopenic bone in adult patients ... https://www.orthopaedic-implants.com/small-fragment-locking/safety-locking-implants/plates/small-dynamic-compression-safety-locking-plate.php

[lamialamia]

DID YOU SAY SLEDGEFU PACIFIC RIM AU??? If you want to talk about any of it, please spill. I’d love to hear it

Okay so, thanks for asking. And this baby was not planned at all. I started to write this PacRim AU in my note app because I have a vision, Sledge being the "I'm gonna be the man this country need!" guy and Snafu being the "I hate them kaijus they ruin everything and also I need a job!" guy and they manage to get into the program.

And they aren't hanging out in the same circle of friends at all, so you have Snafu glaring across the training field at Sledge's red hair like it personally offense him.

I need to do more PacRim lore research but for now they got matched up through a computer program that gathers datas from all the training/exams/personality tests that the USMC made them do. Sledge and Snafu start the drifting training with a lot of difficulties and wrestling with their growing attraction ehehehe. Snafu is so pissed about it. His friends are very tired ;) ;)

And then, the fic has Ack-Ack being the dad they all need, with a side of Dunkin' Donuts addiction (hcs incorporated from one of my mutuals whose url escape me rn >"<) And then, you have sledge and snafu's frustrated sparring sessions (as we see from the movie, such a prerequisite in PacRim AU imo)

And then, it probably going to end with an epic kaiju battle.

Have this snippet

They didn't use a Jeager for DC test runs, instead, it was one of those lame simulation boxes that looked more like a cell for two. Gunney strapped Snafu in while he recited the steps to complete locking into the grid, then it was Sledge's turn, his red hair compressed into the bowl they called a helmet, his accent echoed off the plasticized, padded walls. The last image of him before the visor shut Snafuout was of determination: Sledge's brown eyes stared straight ahead, nostrils blared, and mouth relaxed.

When darkness of the helmet engulfed the world, Gunney's voice was distorted, scratchier than forks on a plate. It rhymed with the drum-like beating of Snafu's heart, "Soldier, what's the eject command?"

Snafu didn't stumble, neither did Sledge as they recited together, "Swing both fists forward while pulling knees up to do a roll." Gunney grunted again. It meant approval this time.

This was ten times worse than being strapped in the dentist's chair, Snafu thought. His back was crushed into the leather T-shape backrest. The helmet fanned his breathed back on his skin; a faint sterile smell accompanied it, like meat hibernated too long in cold storage. His arms and body were encased in wires -- the thought of coiling chains and him a sacrificial lamb unceremoniously popped his head. Ack-ack's voice rumbled in his ears, reciting the steps. Snafu breathed in. Out. He sweated all over; the collar of the DC suit stuck to his neck like someone had pour honey over it. He hated the light beaming into his closed eyelids, he wanted to bare his canines and stretch his claws and bit and maim everything. Suddenly, it vibrated and took off. Snafu was lifted up along. His body shook, teeth clattering.

Then he was there.

[jasfhercallejo]

Helm is an intimate, 24-seat restaurant is an expression of Chef Josh Boutwood’s life experiences and culinary training. Designed with a minimalist eye in palettes of black, copper, and grey. Helm’s dining experience centers Josh’s multi-course tasting menu and the one-on- one interaction between the kitchen and the guest.

At Helm, dining becomes theater, an interactive form of culinary performance art.

Our 10-course meal took inspiration from Magellan's voyage to the Philippines. It was a journey that took 1080 days compressed by Boutwood in just two delicious hours over ten mouthwatering bites. In a nutshell, it was an international menu, with each dish composed of flavours and ingredients from a country Magellan visited sewn altogether by the ingenuity of the talented chef.

Ember Manila is a charcoal grill specialty restaurant by Chef Josh Boutwood. Contrary to chef's other concept restaurants where the interior is somewhat masculine, Ember has done the opposite without deviating from its core element: no-frills, uncomplicated, and warm.

This restaurant in Makati has a modern space-like yet chic style, enough to make you feel at home and welcome. The cozy seats along the curved bar allow diners to witness the magic happening in the open kitchen. It also has a curated one-page menu categorized into small plates like tapas, large plates like family sharing dishes, side plates, and sweets to complete the ensemble. Chef Josh loves biodynamic and natural wines which you can order to pair with your meal.

We did not miss the chance to try chef's signature dish, the charcoal-grilled steak, and we loved it for the smoky char flavor and the locked in juiciness of the meat. 

Last but not the least, our 3rd Chef Josh Bautwood's restaurant here in Metro Manila, is Test Kitchen in Rockwell. Here, we celebrated my boyfriend's birthday with his mom (read: naks part of the family lol) and had an intimate dinner for three. We've only fancied trying fine dining tasting menus recently, and we learned that these kind of food require diner to slow down and savor the details; they took the time and only ask the same of you (key takeaway from Mark Mylod's The Menu, if you ask me haha)

Downstairs is where all the action is—get your minds out of the gutter—and where you can really see the kitchen’s cogs turning. But upstairs is where true magic takes place, especially if you’re a real nerd about food. The second floor is where they age the meats, ferment the ingredients and store the spices. This is where you can geek out on the fermented fruits and ingredients, house-made garum (fish sauce) and special spices.

We heard that Chef is opening a new restaurant named "The Dandy Lion" in Ayala Triangle Garden, and we are more than excited to try it once it opens its doors to the public.

[astralwindoors]

What are the standard materials used in manufacturing fire-rated doors?

Fire-Rated Doors: Essential Materials in Manufacturing for Maximum Safety and Protection

Fire-rated doors play a crucial role in building safety, serving as critical barriers that help contain fires and protect evacuation routes. Understanding the materials used in their construction is essential for architects, builders, and property owners. Let's explore the standard materials that go into manufacturing these life-saving components.

Fire Rated Doors Manufacturers in Bangalore

Core Materials

The heart of any fire-rated door lies in its core construction. Manufacturers primarily use several types of core materials, each offering different levels of fire resistance:

Mineral Core is among the most common materials used in fire-rated doors rated for 45-90 minutes. This dense, non-combustible material consists of compressed mineral composites that provide excellent fire resistance while maintaining structural integrity under extreme heat. The material's composition includes vermiculite, perlite, and other mineral-based components that naturally resist heat transfer.

Steel Stiffened Core doors utilize a sophisticated construction method where steel stiffeners or ribs are placed vertically between two steel face sheets. The spaces between these stiffeners are filled with fire-resistant insulation materials. This construction method creates an extremely durable door that can achieve fire ratings of up to three hours.

Particleboard Core, specifically fire-resistant particleboard, is used in doors with lower fire ratings (typically 20-45 minutes). These cores are treated with fire-retardant chemicals during manufacturing and provide a cost-effective solution for areas requiring moderate fire protection.

Face Materials

The external surfaces of fire-rated doors are crucial for both protection and aesthetics. Common facing materials include:

Steel faces remain the most widely used option in commercial and industrial applications. Cold-rolled or galvanized steel sheets, typically ranging from 16 to 20 gauge, provide excellent durability and fire resistance. The steel faces are bonded to the core material using industrial-grade adhesives that maintain their integrity during fire exposure.

Wood Veneer faces can be applied to certain fire-rated doors, particularly those used in offices and residential buildings where aesthetics are important. These veneers must be specially treated with fire-retardant chemicals and are typically only used on doors with lower fire ratings.

Stainless Steel facing is preferred in environments requiring high hygiene standards or experiencing heavy traffic, such as hospitals and industrial kitchens. Beyond its fire-resistant properties, stainless steel offers excellent resistance to corrosion and ease of cleaning.

Frame Components

The door frame is equally important in the fire-rating system and uses specific materials:

Steel Frames are standard for fire-rated door assemblies. These frames are typically manufactured from 16 or 14 gauge steel and must be properly anchored to the wall structure. The frame profile often includes special channels and grooves to accommodate fire-resistant gaskets and seals.

Internal Reinforcements within frames are crucial for maintaining structural integrity. These include steel reinforcement plates at hinge locations and strike plates for locks, ensuring the door remains operational during a fire event.

Fire Rated Doors Manufacturers in Bangalore

Seals and Gaskets

The integrity of a fire-rated door system heavily depends on its sealing components:

Intumescent Seals are essential materials that expand when exposed to heat, sealing any gaps around the door edges. These seals are typically incorporated into the door edge or frame and can expand up to 10 times their original size when activated by heat.

Smoke Seals work in conjunction with intumescent seals to prevent smoke penetration. These are usually made from flexible materials like silicone or rubber and are designed to maintain their properties under high temperatures.

Hardware and Accessories

Specific materials are required for door hardware to maintain fire rating integrity:

Steel or Stainless Steel hinges are mandatory, with specific requirements for thickness and size based on the door's weight and fire rating. These must be properly reinforced and installed according to strict specifications.

Door Closers and Latching Mechanisms must be constructed from durable metals and designed to ensure positive latching during fire conditions. These components often incorporate materials that can withstand extreme temperatures while maintaining functionality.

Glass Panels

When vision panels are required in fire-rated doors, specific glass materials must be used:

Fire-Rated Glass, such as ceramic glass or specially tempered fire-resistant glass, is used for vision panels. These materials undergo rigorous testing to ensure they maintain their integrity during fire exposure while preventing the passage of smoke and flames.

Wire Glass, though less common in modern applications due to safety concerns, is still used in some applications. The wire mesh helps hold the glass together during fire exposure, though it's gradually being phased out in favor of newer technologies.

Fire Rated Doors Manufacturers in Bangalore

Quality Control Materials

Manufacturing fire-rated doors requires precise quality control measures:

Fire-resistant Adhesives are used throughout the door construction to bond various components. These adhesives must maintain their bonding properties under extreme heat conditions.

Testing Materials and equipment are used to verify the fire rating of doors during production. This includes specialized sensors and monitoring equipment to ensure consistency in manufacturing.

Understanding these materials is crucial for anyone specifying, installing, or maintaining fire-rated doors. The careful selection and combination of these materials result in door assemblies that protect lives and property during fire events. Regular inspection and maintenance of these materials ensure the continued effectiveness of fire-rated doors throughout their service life.