#But now the Sun render feels outdated...

[luckyartdrawer]

Don't mind him, he's just a little nervous-

vvv extras and yapping below the cut! vvv

Some backgroundless pics for y'all!

Also, gigantic pom-pom anyone? I love it so much-

He's a reallllly tall guy huh? Not comfortable enough to give y'all his whole hand, butttt not mean enough to warrant losing you with his big strides. (And not for any other reason, of course)

I can't help but enjoy adding a little Tsundere-ness when it comes to Moon :)

.

For those who's seen my other art, yeah, I'm well aware both my art style and coloration just straight up changes every time. I have come to accept the chaos, albeit still stubborn to try to make something stick.

The eyes were a very happy accident though, I was going to make them black and red but man- shading is my best friend, that's all I'm gonna say.

Honestly forgot to put the ruffles in the sketch, thus its not there. I was more than halfway done when I noticed and just accepted this is the design now. I'm not the biggest fan of drawing the ruffles regardless, so I might just make it part of the design I draw regularly. (I should workshop just a general design vs. doodle sheet uoghhh-)

And to those who've seen my rambles- I FIGURED IT OUT. I mean, it's obvious since I'm posting nowww, but I got the photos to transfer after a bunch of trial and error :)

Internet may evade me, BUT IT CAN'T EVADE THESE HANDS!!!

[pinkcatharsis]

I dunno if I should legit continue this because I can’t remember where I was going with it. Read a prompt at @sloaners anon or a comment in one of their posts (fantastic art btw go check it out!) about Tsunade adopting a bb Tenzou and well. I wrote this and it’s unfinished and yeah.

I actually don’t even have a title for it. Was supposed to be an eventual YamaIru, too. Oh well!

—

Names have power, they say.

Tenzou can agree to a certain point because his experience from his missions, his targets, countless reconnaissance on high profile politicians has proven that people tend to cower from the syllables of a name if they are a threat.

Names carry prestige more than an identity.Names give history, are the pillars for legacy provided it is a name the people can accept. More often than not, it is a vessel for fear, control

They’re also a convenient excuse for people to either sing with high praise or forget because the truth is always a pill too hard to swallow.

Sometimes it lies ignored despite its great sacrifice to stop a rampaging monster, when the womb still bleeds fresh and a goodbye too soon falls from crimson lips. It is ignored because it is easier to hate someone helpless than to acknowledge a name that saved everyone.

Sometimes it is indifferent, distant, as cold as the unreadable, white irises of its clansmen.

Sometimes it lies abandoned, walls cracking, dust collecting over blood stained tatami mats where the weight of shame fueled enough strength to slice through flesh. Shame because of a choice to save one’s comrades as opposed to prioritising the mission.

Sometimes it is soaking in blood, whispers of its massacre echoing loud, and towards the end of it, the word traitor.

And sometimes, they’re just old, only remembered through history that is a core subject within the Academy walls, a prerequisite in terms of knowledge for every Konoha shinobi. They’re faded, scattered, heirless, visually only present through the carvings of stone that towers over the village.

Tenzou is conditioned to not pay any heed to something as trivial as a name. Not when he’s been conditioned, trained extremely well, that the only thing that matters is servitude to the village. That the name Konoha is the only thing of true value.

Greater people have sacrificed themselves for the good of village and now, their heir wanders Konoha’s walls shunned, sneered, hated, ignored. Their names hardly mattered in the present -- it’s like the Yellow Flash only exists as a tier to be achieved in terms of talent, hard work and mission success and nothing else. As if the man behind the legacy hardly existed.

Legacy means nothing, Tenzou realizes, in the grand scheme of things.

When you die, you just die.

It’s okay to die nameless.

*

Tenzou hears about Tsunade’s arrival tucked behind the cover of an open locker door. Apparently, Tsunade-hime is in the village for a visit. And like always, she has spent her first day sitting with her former sensei, having tea until she had flung the table across the room, out the window in a fit of uncontrolled, roiling rage.

“I think it’s because sandaime is asking her to stay,” one fellow ANBU says.

“No, it’s got something to do with her gambling debt for sure,” another says.

“Monkey says it has something to do with the council pressuring her to produce an heir,” a softer voice says.

“I thought she couldn’t?”

“Or she doesn’t want to?”

The conversation explodes, only coming to a sudden stop when the sound of a door opening puts a halt on the outright gossip that Tenzou shamefully has been eavesdropping on. Someone dares throw a table out the window in front of the Hokage? And the Hokage does nothing? Tenzou thinks back to Danzou an Root -- if any of them dared show such insubordination, that would mean at least half a day’s worth of lashings under the scorching sun and then dry fasting isolation for thirty-six hours. Not many tend to survive that but that would just mean they’re too weak to remain in Root, anyway.

“Don’t you guys have better things to do?” Kakashi’s voice cuts through with a drawl. It is followed by a series of locker doors shutting, rapid shuffling and then silence. “Oi, Tenzou. The Hokage needs you.”

Tenzou straightens, tugging his clean armor on and running a comb through his damp hair. He slams his locker shut and gives his senpai a wordless nod, acknowledging the summon.

*

A summon that suddenly renders him not so nameless anymore.

Tsunade is a towering figure, heals almost five inches high, back straight, eyebrows narrowed, hands on her hip and staring down at him like he’s a two year old.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” Tenzou responds, keeping perfectly still. He isn’t intimidated by Tsunade’s persona. He’s just feeling a little too awkward because if Tsunade leaned any closer to examine him, her breasts would be ten centimeters too close to his face to be called professional, let alone proper.

“You are awfully small for a fourteen year old,” Tsunade tartly says, almost disappointed.

“I am a hundred and twenty nine and a half centimeters,” Tenzou agrees, well aware of how stunted his growth is. Danzou always factored his slow growth to the radiation and chemical exposure, a side effect to the experimentation Tenzou miraculously survived. But small doesn’t mean weak, Danzou had said, one of the few times he had been encouraging.

“Do you even eat, boy?” Tsunade scoffs.

“Yes. Five meals a day when I am in the village, continuously supplemented by calorically dense ration bars that Danzou-sama advised to--”

“Hah! Which one -- the one that tastes like sweet wet newspaper or the one that tastes like mouldy bread?” Tsunade snorts.

Tenzou finds himself stammering a little, glancing a little cluelessly at the Sandaime who is taking a very, very long drag from his pipe. Tenzou’s mouth quickly clamps shut before he can voice out his confusion. He can’t honestly say he knows what mouldy bread tastes like nor can he say he’s actually tried eating wet newspaper, let alone a sweetened one. So he goes with what he thinks is the correct response to this kind of inquiry. “The N-4150?”

“Sweet, wet newspaper. At least that old fart chose the better formula.” Tsunade rolls her eyes before taking - thank heavens - a proper step back.

Tenzou blinks once, altering between Tsunade now very put-upon expression and the Sandaime who is standing there as if he were part of the book shelf. “Hokage-sama, should I not continue consuming the N-4150?”

Sandaime rumbles an amused noise, blowing out a slow stream of tobacco smoke before he stands, rounding the table. “Why don’t you demonstrate your Mokuton skills for Tsunade, Tenzou? After all, that is the reason you were summoned here.”

It gets another eyeroll, with a bit of a scoff from Tsunade, who crosses her arms under her breasts.

“Yes, Hokage-sama,” Tenzou acknowledges.

He puts his hands together, channels just enough chakra and forms a small pot in his hands, slowly filling it with roots coiling until it sprouts green leaves, topped with large, black centered white poppies.

“Oh, white poppies,” Sandaime smiles, his face wrinkling. “An interesting choice. You see, Tsunade, Tenzou here has been studying botany for a year now. He’s a bit of an artist with his gardening. Tenzou, didn’t you recently start studying architecture as well?”

“I have only started reading some reference books three months ago, Hokage-sama,” Tenzou responds, with a bit of a nod, as his fingers tightens a little bit around the pot in his hands, not quite sure what to do with his creation-demonstration.

“Hmmm,” Sandaime hums, a touch bemused before he brings his pipe back up to his lips. “Reminds you of someone, doesn’t it, Tsunade?”

Tenzou looks at Tsunade, who in a space of a heartbeat looks far too young in a show of vulnerability, as her throat bobs when he swallows. It gets washed away when he clicks her tongue and turns to look at Tenzou, giving him a once over.

“Well, no one fucks with grandfather’s DNA, gets away with it and then keep it from me. Had it been anyone else but Danzou, Root of all places, I wouldn’t take issue! When did you discover your Mokuton skills, boy?”

“A year before I graduated from the Academy.” Tenzou swallows. “I was five years old.”

“Nine years! With that creep!” Tsuande shouts.

Sandaime’s tobacco inhale had to be the longest one Tenzou has ever seen.

Sandaime exhales, responding with a sigh, “Better late than never, hmm?”

“Fine.” Tsaunde grouches. “I’ll do it. Tenzou, you can call me okaa-san when you’re ready.”

The pot drops from Tenzou’s hands.

“Eh?”

Tenzou thinks it's a good response. Given the proverbial punch to the face he’s just received.

*

It’s not that Tenzou wants to say he cares much for the idea of family.

It’s more like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

(What does family even mean?)

So Tenzou, much like every other time he gets moved around like he’s no more than a potted plant, agrees.

Not like it really matters, right?

He thinks of it as just having another sort of… superior?

*

A superior that Tenzou apparently now gets to live with after all of those paperwork.

In a large, inherited estate, closed off, covered in wildly growing flora and fauna. The estate does not look like it’s been lived in for decades. There is damage from the growth of vines, some of it poking through the tatami doors, and getting to the interior of the house. There are a few soda cans littered around the gate, some old, some new. Likely the result of dares from the younger crowd of Konoha.

The once heralded Senju estate that Hashirama and Tobirama and their families once resided in is now nothing more than a shadow of its former glory. Uncared for. Outdated. Obsolete.

“Well,” Tsunade huffs. “I haven’t seen this place in, hmm, ten years maybe? Maybe twelve? Tche, what a dump.”

Tsunade toes an old, faded orange soda can by her heel, kicking it further away.

Tenzou wishes he’s no more than a spore in the ground. Should he say something? He may be a Senju by name and by experimental DNA, but that doesn’t really make him a Senju-Senju.

It’s just circumstances.

“Well? What do you think, kid? You like the house?” Tsunade holds her hand out at the once upon a time regal grounds, now overgrown with weeds and littered with random junk.

Tenzou looks at the estate again and decides to go with the most diplomatically acceptable response there is in this case.

“It’s a lot bigger than my apartment,” Tenzou politely responds, as his eyes stray towards the patch of wildly growing rosary pea and oleander growing by the gate.

Tsunade’s booming laughter echoes throughout the entire compound, bemused and real. She doubles over, slapping a hand on her knee, her laugh tapering off to a bit of a wheeze. It almost sounds nervous. A little hysterical even.

Tenzou tilts his head to the side, staring up at this woman, this new mother of his, a legendary sannin, one of the most if not the best, medic there is in the country.

Would it be rude to ask her if she is okay?

“Kid,” Tsunade snorts, shaking her head, reaching out to ruffle Tenzou’s long hair. “I like your sense of humor. You and I are going to get along just fine.”

*

Tsunade asks to see his apartment.

And then proceeds to wear what Tenzou can only assume is her analytical face. It’s peppered with a little judgment, too.

Tenzou’s current apartment is a shoebox in size, with enough space for a single bed, a small sectioned off wall by the door turned to a makeshift kitchen and a connecting bathroom that Tsunade, no doubt, will have to carefully manage her long limbs.

“You like it here?” Tsunade asks, her lips twisting at the sight of the old hotplate on the tiny kitchen counter.

“It serves its purpose.” Tenzou shrugs.

“That wasn’t my question,” Tsaunde prompts, turning that analytical gaze back to Tenzou.

Tenzou frowns, resisting the urge to reach up and rub the back of his head in partial confusion, partial irritation. It’s a comfortable space -- what is she on about? Having an opinion on something as trivial as a living space serves no purpose in the betterment of Tenzou’s skills in the field. It has no correlation to his successful mission counts. Liking something or anything for that matter doesn’t make missions easier or harder, either.

Unsure of how to respond, Tenzou resorts to Danzou’s advice when it comes to undercover. If you’re caught in a tight spot, the easiest thing to slip out of attention is to either blend with your surroundings or mirror the person in front of you.

Tenzou goes for the mirror, sloping his eyebrows down the same way Tsunade is, relaxing his shoulder to what looks like a wary slump, canting his head just the tiniest bit to the side, and responds with what he hopes is a conclusion to this conversation, “It’s all right.”

Tsunade goes quiet for a while, before she sighs slowly and curses under her breath.

“Let’s try this again,” Tsunade sighs, gesticulating with her hand towards the entirety of the small apartment. “What do you think would make this space better suited for you? Take into consideration that you are also currently studying botany and architecture.”

Tenzou looks at the small stack of reference books he had borrowed from the public library, how he has to do most of his reading on the bed. If he had to sketch on drawing paper, he usually does so on the ceiling given the lack of floor space and a full flat wall that isn’t lined with bulging pipes or the sil of the window, with the paper taped on the corners. Makes it easier for him to get on his knees and practice his pencil sketches.

“Then that’s something you should consider when you fix our house, hmm?”

Oh. So he’s fixing it.

Well.

Okay, then.

—

And yeah that’s all I got. 🤷🏻‍♀️

[moved-to-void-kissed]

Howdy Void, it's Tex! I hope this message finds you in good health and high spirits!✨💗

Every now and again I'll think of a friend and their f/o; I've been thinking of KOS-MOS and Calanthe lately, mainly this scene in my head of the two of them sitting under a shady tree with sunlight filtering through. They talk about philosophy, what it means to be human, a topic I can only assume gets brought up often.

In the scene, it's about emotions, what it means to feel "warm" emotionally from the words of other people i.e. how we're affected by others actions or words, and I always see KOS-MOS turning to ask Calanthe another question but she pauses, noticing sunlight radiating off of Calanthe's hair. She thinks of precious minerals that are the same wavelength of color (but never quite the same... Calanthe's hair hue requires more data which she will of course investigate ✨), of the sunshine above them, how the sun is a star, and stars create such minerals--- it's a chain reaction of thought, all in the matter of seconds as Calanthe sits with her head tilted back, enjoying the sunshine filtering down. All of KOS-MOS's thoughts are logical, in order, until finally as she continues to admire her programmer? Insufficient, outdated title friend and, rather unexpectedly, she thinks of something all on her own outside of that chain of thought. Five words, a brilliant, promising discovery:

"she makes me feel warm."

✨💚

@tex-treasures. TEX.

I could visualise this scene so, so well in my head - you've written this out just as wonderfully as the rest of your writing is, and I am very grateful for that. If not for the fact that I still haven't finalised Calanthe's design I would absolutely have tried to render this because it is just such a lovely image!! I'm sorry I don't have any better words to express how I feel, but please just know that this has made me incredibly happy to receive and I am very grateful for it ^-^

Thank you so, so much for this image, my friend - it is absolutely something I will treasure and remember for a long time to come. Thank you so much for this, seriously ;w;

[apothecarinomicon]

Spring week 3, part 1

I felt much better this morning. I suppose whatever sickness fairy visions impart is strictly transient—or maybe dealing with reagents has given me a good immune system. 

When I went outside, I found that I’d somehow managed to plant the foxsocks in the garden. I don’t know how I could have done it in my feverish state and I certainly don’t remember it, but there it is. The foxsocks seem to be thriving already, or at least to have a solid foothold. As I’d hoped, they should be reliably available from here on out.

As I stood there, sleepily puzzling over the garden, I heard a screech from above. Looking up, I saw what at first appeared to be a large bird circling down towards the ground. When she landed, though, I saw she was a woman with wings instead of arms, talons instead of legs, and a feathered tail, wearing a khaki uniform—a postal harpy. She greeted me while balancing on one leg and asked me to confirm my name. I told her and she introduced herself as Liùsaidh. She indicated I ought to retrieve my mail from her talon (it’s polite to wait for their permission). She asked if I might be sticking around and I said I thought I was. She said she’d see me next time I got mail and flew off.

What she’d brought was a letter, with a return address listed as “The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke.” It was a single handwritten (actually, impressively calligraphed) page. The spelling and grammar was, shall we say, characteristic. It’s easier to just stick the letter in between the pages than copy it down, so that’s what I’ll do.

To whom it may concern:

It has come to our attentionne at The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke that ye are a practicing vvitch reſiding in the hamlet of Greanmoore. We would like to congratulate ye on your appointmente and hope you find the positionne both fulfilling and rewarding. We had brief correspondence with your predeceſsor and were glad to learn of yovr presence.

The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke is among the premiere magical muſeums in northweſternne High Rannoc. It has one of the moſte exhauſtive collections of magical materials, svbſtances, and hiſtories native to High Rannoc in the vvorld. Academicks, travelers, and school field trips regularly reference and reſearch the Muſeum’s collections in their purſuit of more compleat knowledge.

As The Muſeum of Magicke does not have a repreſentative in Greanmoore or the surrounding areas, we have a requeſte to make of ye if you are willing to fulfill it. We pride ourſelves on the compleatneſs of our Magickal Components collectionne, but we are miſsing many of the species native to Greanmoore and its svrrounding locations. We humbly ask that ye help vs remedy this deficiency. If you are willing to do so, we woulde requeſt that ye send one of each magickal componente available in the area to the Muſeum, at the returnne addreſs listed above. Should you do so, ye will receive compenſationne.

We hope ye will partner with vs in this endeavor. Your contributionne to societal knowledge shall be greatly appreciated by generationnes of reſearchers, thinkers, and touriſts.

Eagerly avvaiting your reſponſe,

The Friends of The Gleoclas J. Ledgerwood Muſeum of Magicke

[A plain text accessible version of this letter is available here.]

Obviously, the spelling is horrendous. This might have been forgivable a few decades ago, but the shape of the ‘s’ (that is, it not being that odd ‘f’ looking thing sometimes) and the distinction between ‘u,’ ‘v,’ and ‘w’ have been standardized since before I was born. Not to mention, the Ledgerwood Museum is associated with the University of Arcbridge—so there must be someone there who knows better.

The thing is, for a long time the only people who could write were those who received higher education, so the vast majority of documents that exist throughout history have to do with academia. So, even as reading and writing became more accessible and spelling and grammar more standardized, that outdated irregular styling retroactively became associated with education, with decorum, with genius.

I’ve never really had much respect for that kind of posturing—I think that if you’re brilliant the content of your writing ought to speak for itself. You shouldn’t have to so explicitly climb on the shoulders of those who came before you, especially not by intentionally making the mistakes they made or using the outdated styles they used.

I sent back a letter inquiring about the specifics of compensation along with a sample of my foxsocks.

I’m going to the library.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

The Greenmoor Public Library is near the center of town, not quite in the square but on Market Street directly off of it. It has some interesting architecture: it looks as if it was originally three separate buildings the size of single-family houses, that were all connected up at a later date by a circular addition between them so that the final building looks like a cog with three spokes. Each section of it is made up of a different material—exposed stone, lime render, and brick for the original houses, and cement for the central cylinder—but it all works together in a quirky, oddball way.

There are no internal walls in the library—even where there must have been external walls in the original houses. They must have knocked them down (I don’t envy that job). Every wall is lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and in each of the spokes there are many close-set freestanding shelves besides, with only narrow aisles left between. At the center of the center is a circular desk, and around this are scattered tables with benches and clusters of armchairs for convenience of reading and research.

The library is owned and run by Donella and Saundra Glasford, an older couple. Saundra is actually the schoolteacher, but she helps with reshelving and organization on weekends. I know this because Donella explained it to me in detail. As soon as I walked in the door she stood from behind (within?) the circular desk and approached me, insisting that she give me a tour of the library. In addition to a survey of the entire space and what kinds of books it contained, this ‘tour’ involved a hefty amount of insight into the daily lives and routines of the Glasford family. 

They have a kid named Muiredach, who’s very interested in ancient things at the moment—giant skeletons and the like. Donella has lived here her entire life but Saundra moved here forty years ago. Saundra’s expertise is in thaumatology (specifically thaumatozoology, the study of magical animals), in which she has a degree. Meanwhile, Donella has extensive knowledge of literary and epistemological history, though she received no formal schooling past twelve.

After she finished showing me all the different sections and layouts of the library, Donella told me I should feel free to poke around as much as I wanted. She added that I wouldn’t find any secret passages or hidden rooms, and that they had nothing to hide.

I hadn’t realized before she said that what this was all about.

I told her that the rumors weren’t true, that I wasn’t some Government spy or anything like that (I heard Saundra mumble something like “well you’d also deny it if you were a clype, wouldn’t you?”). Donella quickly assured me that she believed me, but then said “better safe than sorry,” so I’m not quite sure she actually did. I told her I didn’t understand where all the suspicion was coming from. Saundra piped up, saying that I was a stranger who came to a small, isolated town I had no prior relation with to fill a position whose previous occupant had mysteriously disappeared, and asked if I understood how that looked (not in quite those words—her accent and dialect was rather strong). I told her I’d been summoned directly by Mòrag McKinney, and had the paper trail to prove it. I asked if she thought Mòrag was involved in some conspiracy, too. She shrugged and said she was just saying how it looked.

Donella said regardless that I should feel free to use the library—it was for the public, after all—and pointed me in the direction of the section on rune magic. Thus, the conversation ended, but my uneasiness didn’t entirely abate. Still, I’d come to the library for a reason.

The rune section was limited, but I didn’t need to know any more than the basics. I’d only ever been taught one way to create runes, and it was clear my predecessor used a different one—all I needed to do was to figure out which and I could reverse engineer the runes’ meanings.

I found that she used a combination of the witches’ circle and magic square methods, which are both apparently very popular. I wonder why I was never taught them. Both systems derive the shape of the sigil directly from the letters of the intentions they’re meant to invoke. It’s traditional to remove the vowels before doing so, but luckily for me my predecessor chose not to do that.

So, with a bit of work I was able to determine that the sigils I copied down meant: life, autonomy, gentleness, congeniality, and empathy respectively. It was clearly built to be a very kind golem. Now that I know that, I’m going to try to create my own sigils and charge them, and see if that helps.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

While I was at the library, I also collected a few of the greatest works of modern literature—Lord of the Midges, Beathag’s Choice, To Kill a Gull-Drake, et cetera. The next morning I packed the books into the rucksack I’d used to travel to Greenmoor and set out to take them to Morna, heading to Hero’s Hollow by way of Moonbreaker Mountain.

As I skirted the base of the mountain, I heard a voice call out from above me, crying “hey, you! Groundling!” It was clearly far above me but somehow also quite loud. I looked up and saw, blotting out the sun, a great hot air balloon.  I’d heard vague stories but had never seen one in person before. The most striking part of it was the balloon itself, made of canvas patterned beige and blue and larger than a house. The top half of it (as I was informed later) was enclosed by a net, which had metal rings on its edges attaching it to a tangle of myriad ropes and cords. These in turn held aloft the basket, which was not the simple platform I’d seen described in books but rather looked like a small sailing boat, complete with railings, rotors, and a steering wheel.

The voice announced that it hadn’t seen me around before and that I ought to climb aboard. A ladder with metal rungs unfurled over the side of the boat, just low enough that I could reach it if I jumped. I did so after making sure my rucksack was firmly on my back and shut, and climbed up to reach the aircraft.

The man onboard was only slightly taller than me. His white shirt was rumpled and stained with oil, and his left suspender was fraying. The thick goggles on his forehead, held together with large bolts and screws, were the only thing keeping his thick black hair from whipping in all directions with the wind (mine, in contrast, had already become hopelessly tangled). His sleeves were rolled up, but his forearms were covered by brown leather fingerless gloves, with metal studs that flashed in the sunlight as he hauled the ladder back onto the balloon. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face, with a cylindrical chamber marked “O2” sticking out from each cheek. Directly in front of the mouth was a clear window, so that I could see his lips moving when he spoke. He offered me a similar one and I accepted—the air was rather thin so high up. I could see him say something that was drowned out by the wind, and then he beckoned me towards a door. Given the shape of the craft, I wasn’t surprised to discover that it led to a kind of captains’ quarters.

Inside, the wind wasn’t quite so brutally loud and I could actually make out what my host was saying. He introduced himself as Captain Akash Majhi, aviator extraordinaire, and asked if I needed a lift. I said it might have been a bit late to ask since I was already on the balloon, which made him chuckle. I said that since he’d offered, I was headed to Hero’s Hollow, and he replied that that would be no problem. I noticed as we conversed that he only made eye contact when he was speaking—when I spoke, he instead watched my lips.

As Akash turned to pull a lever on the wall, I asked where he was from. He didn’t respond. With the lever pulled, a large strip of the ceiling rotated so that a piece of what had been the floor above—the piece to which the steering wheel was attached—became the ceiling of this room. Akash then tapped what seemed to just be a wooden accent covering a swath of the metal wall above the desk and bed. The wood slid to the side, revealing a bay window through which he could see.

He took his place at the wheel, positioning me in his field of view, so I asked again where he was from. He told me he was a proud resident of the Cloud Isles. I told him I’d never heard of such a place, and he said I really must be new to the area. Belatedly, I told him my name and that I had in fact only moved here a few weeks ago. He told me that the Cloud Isles were just that: islands in the clouds, with wildlife, ecosystems, and culture. At the center was a great city that, yes, was attached to the clouds, but had mostly been built flying between and amongst them by generations of architects, donors, engineers, artists, and aviators like himself. 

I asked him where the city was located and he vaguely waved his hands. “Here and there.” He said that as the clouds drifted so did the Isles, but that the city itself never strayed too far from Greenmoor—otherwise, mapping and resource-gathering from the ground below would be difficult or impossible.

I asked him how I might visit the Isles, and he told me I’d need to be able to fly. He said the general ethos of the residents leaned towards mechanical solutions, but he had heard that there were magical ways of flight as well. I said I would have to look into that. He handed me a business card with his name, “balloonist | engineer | aviator extraordinaire,” an address, and a smoke signal pattern to use to contact him. He said if I was ever in the city he’d be happy to show me around. Then, he announced that we’d arrived.

We went back onto the deck and he unfurled the ladder over the edge. I  went to hand him the oxygen mask back but he told me to keep it—they were expensive, but he had plenty and I’d be needing it when (and he did say “when”) I visited the city. I thanked him, shook his hand, and started descending the ladder.

 ────⊱⁜⊰──── 

I made it back to the ground (the hop down from the ladder was smaller than the hop up had been), and smoothed my hair down before setting off into the Hollow. I’d only barely made it into the skull when my plans for the afternoon abruptly shifted.

It was just around midday, so the guards must have been on break or between shifts. Hurrying out of the dungeon was a group I recognized—it was the Lows, the mining family. Angus was carrying the son in his arms. The boy was clutching his thigh, and even from a distance I could see blood seeping through his fingers.

Crystal spotted me and immediately called out to me, thanking the gods for my arrival. I hurried to them and guided them back to the cottage, where I knew I’d be able to better determine how to treat the issue. Morna would have to wait—I had a patient to tend to.

⇦●〇●⇨

[hilltopsunset]

4 Ways to Breathe New Life into the Pokémon Franchise

I love the Pokémon franchise. It’s because I love it that I truly want new installments of the game to feel meaningful, to make an impact, and to provide players with something new, different, and worth coming back for without relying on complexities that could turn away new players.

As I will talk about in a later blog post, Game Freak seems afraid to stretch Pokémon’s creative muscles any further; meaningful innovation has been petering out since the end of Generation IV in lieu of minigames like Pokémon Contests and Super Training alongside inconsequential time sinks like Secret Bases and Poké Pelago. While I do enjoy the inclusion of things to do outside the main storyline, these additional events and sidequests should not be the only significant additions to new generations of main-series Pokémon games.

The main attractions of recent generations have provided slight twists to gameplay with the addition of mega evolution and Z-moves, but these changes don’t fundamentally change or challenge the way players experience the game on a moment-to-moment basis. And despite the graphical and processing power of recent gaming devices, and even the long-awaited shift of the franchise to a main console, we are still getting the same low-effort and outdated battle animations we’ve been seeing since X and Y. We are continually denied a more genuine battle experience with Pokémon physically interacting with each other through animations that more appropriately suit each Pokémon’s unique identity.

So what can be done? Here’s a short but detailed list of 4 things I would like to see in a new Pokémon game, in no particular order of importance.

1.       Let the Player Character Be an Active Part of the Story

When has the player character ever been a consequential part of a Pokémon game? They never speak; they never have any personality whatsoever. They never experience any growth, regardless of NPC’s trying desperately to iterate how much the trainer has grown over the course of their journey. Certainly the Pokémon carried by the player character have some impact on the story, but the trainer?

Let them speak! Let the player character actually interact with NPCs in meaningful ways rather than just listening at all times. Give the trainer a personality of some sort. Don’t just slap a never-changing pleasant face onto the model regardless of tense, frightening, or sinister scenarios (I’m looking at you, Sun and Moon). 

Giving the player character a more active role in the story provides intrigue—as a player, it doesn’t feel compelling being pulled from one place to another; it’s not interesting when the only thing pushing me forward is NPCs telling me I need to get the gym badges, or stop Team Rocket. It would be much more interesting if the Player Character had some imperative reason to pursue these endeavors, rather than get involved simply because “it’s the right thing to do” or, worse, “it’s the ONLY thing to do.” I want to watch the character I’m controlling grow as a person and make choices that have positive or negative consequences on people they care about and the places they visit, rather than be a perpetual observer of events with no real stake in the game.

2.       Trainer Levels

Speaking of the player character, create a leveling system for them. There are so many possibilities for a system where the trainer more actively impacts gameplay. For instance, there could be a class system and each class can have unique skill trees that provide access to passive and/or active abilities that improve how the trainer interacts with the world throughout the game. It could be required to choose your path at the beginning of the game, or perhaps you can access them all throughout the game, but can only have one active at a time.

Here’s a list of example possibilities:

Explorer: The explorer class specializes in travel, as well as tracking and catching new Pokémon—this tree can be subdivided into those paths: Travel, Tracking, and Catching. This tree provides skills that assist them in accessing otherwise inaccessible locations, increasing encounter rates with rare Pokémon, and specializing in different types of Poké balls to improve catch chances. Experience for this class is gained through catching Pokémon, encountering rare Pokémon, and exploring (walking in new places, finding treasure, accessing hidden areas, etc.).

Combatant: The combatant class excels at offensive battle prowess through its three branches: Type Affinity, Commands, and Reputation. This tree allows a trainer to specialize in certain Pokémon types (up to 2) to improve their STAB damage. Eventually, you can get a skill that provides STAB for your specialized types even for Pokémon not of those types! You gain access to in-battle shout commands that provide momentary buffs to your party, like improving damage, resisting a big attack, or improving critical hit ratio. A strong reputation will allow you to avoid battle even with trainers who have caught your eye; and in battle, an enemy Pokémon may flinch due to your intimidating presence. Experience is gained by knocking out Pokémon, winning battles, using moves of your type specialization, and issuing commands.

Breeder: The breeder focuses on developing deep relationships with their Pokémon. Skills of this class can be divided into the Breeding, Bonding, and Healing branches. Through this tree, trainers can hatch eggs more quickly, improve high IV chance from newborn Pokémon, develop friendship levels more quickly, etc. Bonding provides Pokémon with beneficial defensive capabilities during battle, like providing a chance to survive an attack that would otherwise bring HP to 0, and having a strong will to resist abnormal status effects like paralysis and confusion. A Breeder’s knowledge of caretaking allows for healing outside of battle, and can even teach Pokémon how to slowly recover in-battle. Experience is gained through hatching eggs, developing friendships with your Pokémon (through feeding/petting, etc.), participating in Contests/minigames, and having Pokémon in your party with whom you have developed a close relationship.

The establishment of a class system like this, where experience is gained through different means relevant to each class, incentivizes players to participate in those aspects of the game, and provides extra rewards for players who already want to get involved. It makes the trainer feel like a relevant and impactful part of the team, rather than a hollow vehicle strictly used to lug the real heroes—your team of Pokémon—from battle to battle.

And for those who think the inclusion of such a mechanic would trivialize the content, I have several suggestions: first, they could easily make the game content more difficult to compensate. Second, they could mitigate the strength of these class skills during key battles like Gym Leaders, the Elite Four, the Enemy Team (Rocket, Galaxy, etc.). Third, NPCs (especially the aforementioned key NPCs) could have access to these skills as well. Remember, I’m asking for significant changes, and this would provide something new, interesting, and impactful.

 3.       Battle Animations

Update them. It’s that simple. Let Blastoise shoot water out of his water cannons rather than out of his face. Let Scorbunny run up to its opponent and give it a nice kick! Get rid of the old, outdated animations of a drawn foot—we now have well-rendered 3D monsters on gaming systems capable of handling the graphical processing necessary for this to happen. Give each Pokémon a more unique identity with their animations; make them feel like they’re actually in a battle with one another. It’s time.

I acknowledge that providing significant animation updates for the 800+ models is an enormous undertaking that would require a massive amount of time and manpower to make possible. To this I say: spend the time doing that rather than developing Dynamax or whatever. Spend the time on more significant animation development instead of wasting that time on another gimmick that isn’t going to significantly impact gameplay anyway.

To be honest, this point alone would be enough to convince me to buy a new Pokémon game.

 4.       Populate the World with Pokémon

I know that the Let’s Go series and Sword/Shield did this a little bit, and while it certainly wasn’t executed perfectly, it was fun running around and actually seeing all the Pokémon that inhabit it. Spawn rates in both games were often a bit too high, resulting in cluttered areas. Adding aggressive Pokémon would further enhance the immersive experience—being required to sneak around certain stronger Pokémon could be a really fun mechanic and provide tension; it was a bit too easy to avoid Pokémon in Let’s Go and in the Wild Area. While it was nice to get through Mt. Moon without encountering a single Zubat, imagine instead running through a section of the cave with a trail of 15 Zubats on your tail? Make me work for it a little!

Ultimately, I want to see Pokémon behaving more naturally in their habitats, and not just in sections of the world that I can’t get to. I want to run into a Caterpie hanging from a tree, or a Fearow fishing for Goldeen, or a Pikachu grooming itself. I want to interrupt Pokémon from their lives, not run into a giant gaggle of automatons circling tiny areas for no reason.

So there it is: a look at just a few things Pokémon games could include to make things more interesting and breathe new life into an aging franchise. These changes would require work, but any new game should—I would hate to see Pokémon continue the troubling trend of easy and/or insignificant content when there is so much potential to do so much with what they have.

With all that said, I do want to offer a bit of praise—Sirfetch’d and Galarian Ponyta are pretty awesome, and Galarian Weezing is perfectly ridiculous. But I ask that you keep in mind what your money is telling Game Freak when you purchase their games: it tells them that you don’t mind the severe lack of innovation and improvement. It tells them you don’t mind Scorbunny hopping in place as a giant, orange, human foot strikes its opponent. It tells them that you’re willing to fund their copy/paste animations from 6 years ago, their uninspired gameplay updates, and their ever-increasing focus on gimmicks and minigames.

As for me, I will continue holding Pokémon to a higher standard and hoping that, eventually, Blastoise will fire water from his cannons.  

[walriding]

@voidauthor asked: ❛ There are certain kinds of connections that are so deep that when broken you feel the snap of it inside you. ❜

annihilation starters || accepting

      They’re sitting together on the hood of Miles’ latest throwaway car, a clunky SUV that’s just on the wrong side of outdated. The reporter is reclining back against the windshield, legs extended in front of him and fingers laced over his midsection. Alan is seated on the edge, feet propped up on the front bumper. He’d started the conversation sitting up straight, but had slowly but surely hunched over himself as it progressed, and now he’s curled over his knees in spite of his stature. The scattered refuse of a drive through breakfast litters the surface of the car between them. Miles had eaten his cheap sausage and egg sandwich without really tasting it. Not that he can taste much of anything these days. Not that he even needs to eat most of the time. But it feels like something he owes to Alan, a façade of normalcy instead of putting another aspect of his inhumanity on display for the writer. Alan had offered to pick up the breakfast tab and yeah, sure was a hell of a lot easier than no thanks, it’s fine, I don’t eat much these days. There had been a time when Miles hadn’t believed in the necessary evil of a face-saving white lie, but he’s starting to come around to the concept.

      He appreciates the warmth of the paper coffee cup between his hands at least, even if the warmth isn’t as pronounced as it should be. But even dulled it’s a small comfort. It makes his skin feel more like his.

      The turns their conversation had taken weren’t exactly prompted. Paradoxically, the tone had grown darker as the first blush of sunrise began cresting the horizon. Miles thinks he’s pieced together a fair bit of what happened to Alan -- the bits he can understand and that the writer can remember enough to share, anyway. Which, in the grand scheme of things, probably doesn’t amount to particularly stellar comprehension of the whole affair. What Alan’s perpetually wandering mind shifted to in the dawning morning was a part Miles hadn’t heard before, though. Something about the approaching sunrise seemed to have rattled something loose, and with strained words and sinking shoulders Alan recounted the tale of his first real, substantial escape attempt -- and how devastating it was when the fictitious threads of it began slipping through his fingers.

      That was the third time he’d lost Alice, then. Once when she’d been taken, then again when Alan had effectively switched places with her -- and then somewhere in a lonely Arizona desert he’d crafted in his mind. Miles doesn’t ask if that was the last time because he doesn’t think that he has to. Alan’s voice gives at the end of the retelling when he’s describing how it felt when those binding ties to the woman he loved seemed severed for good, and that tells Miles all that he needs to know.

      Alan is repeatedly the rare person who can render Miles lost for words. I know would be a lie, because he doesn’t know. He’s never lost someone like that before and can’t even pretend to understand. I’m sorry would just be an empty platitude and a turn of phrase he all but loathes because it doesn’t do anything. Instead he sighs to himself and shifts until he’s sitting cross legged -- until he can cant forward and lay a hand on Alan’s shoulder. But that doesn’t feel like enough. So he grabs the cup of coffee that Alan had forgotten about and scoots forward until he’s sitting alongside the writer while still giving him space to breathe. Wordlessly he passes him the coffee, and if he sees the sheen of unshed tears in the other man’s eyes, he doesn’t say anything about it.

      The only other witness is the rising sun.

[ltwilliammowett]

Cannibalism at Sea

Introduction

Before you wonder what this is all about, please read this introduction carefully. The topic is a very special and not everyone's business and who knows me and reads my stuff regularly knows that I also work a lot with pictures,although I have largely refrained from doing so here. Well for protection reasons the whole article can be found under the read more line. It should be said that this article is about cannibalism at sea and the question whether it is allowed or not. In addition there are some case examples. Whereby I tried to write this as nice and factual as possible.

When you start looking at cannibalism at sea, you get the feeling that it's all just a horror story and that it simply can't be true. Because on a well-equipped boat on a sea full of fish it seems unimaginable that you could eat your friends and colleagues. But when things go wrong in a bad way, precedents show that the vast ocean can conjure up the spectre of "survival cannibalism" surprisingly quickly. In the 18th century, this practice was so widespread that it was known as the "custom of the sea", with some unwritten rules that seafarers in hopeless situations should follow.

The rules of the game

Drifting along the open ocean in a small open boat and facing imminent death by starvation, the moral, ethical and legal implications seem rather trivial, as confirmed by various court cases. Prior to the 19th century, cannibalism was thought to be inherent in man as a kind of instinct and was therefore excusable in extreme circumstances. However, this argument is only valid if those who consume their fellow sailors have already exhausted all other organic food sources. This includes everything from candles to shoes, other leather goods and even blankets.

But the rules of the game go much further. For example, everyone on board must agree to the act of cannibalism before the first incident occurs. And then the dead must be consumed first. Once all the dead are eaten up, they have to stick in some form, or whatever was available has to be pulled to draw lots. The unhappiest one is killed and consumed first, but the next unhappiest one is appointed as his executioner. This process must be repeated until salvation comes or death overtakes all and releases them from suffering.

Examples

The Méduse, or Medusa, was a French warship captained by Hugues Duroy de Chaumareys, an aristocrat with limited naval experience. In 1816, the warship ran aground on the Arguin Bank off of the African shore. Of the 400 people on the ship, some elected to stay aboard, while the rest escaped onto lifeboats and a large makeshift raft. The lifeboats had promised to pull the raft, but after only a few minutes at sea, they cut the rope and left the raft stranded.

During the second night at sea, all hell broke loose on the raft. Some passengers got drunk on wine (the raft's only provision, in addition to some "soggy biscuits") and 60 people were either killed or committed suicide. Over 13 days of depravity, passengers of the raft drank their own urine, ate human flesh, starved, became ill, and threw weak survivors overboard. Finally, the French ship Argus spotted the raft and saved the remaining 15 survivors, though five of these died shortly after rescue.

Raft of the Méduse

During a winter storm in December 1710, the Nottingham Galley crashed into Boon Island, located near the coast of York, Maine. The 14 surviving crew members took refuge on the desolate island, eating a seagull raw. When the ship's cook died, they pushed his body into the sea. By Christmas, two weeks had passed, and the 13 survivors sheltered from the cold under a piece of canvas sail, subsisting on bits of cheese that had floated ashore from the shipwreck and some fresh water. However, without winter clothing and the means to make fire, the men were near dying from exposure to the frigid conditions.

In the days before their rescue, the desperate men resorted to eating the corpse of the ship’s carpenter in order to survive. The captain, who had trained as a butcher, beheaded and disemboweled him then cut his flesh into strips before giving it to the crew. After 24 days on the island, help finally arrived to rescue the remaining men.

The Francis Mary was on passage from Canada to Liverpool. On February 1, 1826, the ship encountered strong winds that dislodged the two of its masts. Strong waves washed away the ship’s galley and the vessel was rendered immobile. The crew survived on cheese and bread while waiting for help to arrive. American ships got close to the Francis Mary, but could not offer assistance due to the harsh weather. The food did not last long and people started to die from starvation and lack of fresh water.

On February 22, a man by the name of James Wilson perished and was cannibalized by the crew. They cut his body into fourths and hung the flesh on pins to dry it out before eating. Before their rescue by the HMS Blonde in March, eight more men would die and have parts of their bodies eaten - including their hearts.

The Francis Mary, 1826

The Peggy was an american schooner that sailed from New York to Faial Island in the Azores in 1765. After doing some trading, the crew, including one enslaved African, started their return voyage. They didn’t get far into their journey before encountering trouble when the ship was disabled by a severe thunderstorm. The storm outlasted their rations and the men began to subsist on wine and brandy and eat a pigeon, a cat, tobacco, leather, and candles.

After exhausting all of these options, the men were forced to draw lots to decide who to kill and consume. The enslaved man supposedly drew the shortest lot, but it is speculated that the men predetermined his fate. One sailor ate his liver raw and died three days later, in a fit of madness. The others pickled and cooked the rest of his body. When no meat remained, lots were drawn again, but the crew was rescued by the Susanna just before the next sailor was due to be killed.

The Franklin Expedition, who does not know the tragic Arctic expedition of Sir John Franklin who set out in 1845 with HMS's Terror and Erebus to find the Northwest Passage. They left, and then no one heard of the ship - or the 128 men on board.

Over the years, experts have been able to piece together a story of what might have happened, but it is still not possible to do so in its entirety, as parts of the puzzle are still missing. The ships got stuck in the ice and although the crew had supplies on board, they set out to search the frozen land of King William Island for a trading post.  Some men died of hypothermia, scurvy, but probably starved to death. The Inuit claimed to have seen signs of cannibalism, such as heaps of broken human bones.  Anthropologists who studied the bones found on the island supported these stories. The men's bones were broken and covered with knife marks and also showed signs of being heated, probably to extract bone marrow. One should emphasize that, in both the case of Franklin's men, we have no indication that anyone actively sought to kill anyone else for the purpose of eating them.

A 1945 photo of skulls of some men of the Franklin Expedition, bleached white by the sun, discovered around King William Island in what is now Nunavut

The Mignonette was an English yacht purchased by lawyer Jack Want in 1884, to be sailed from Essex to Sydney. A four-man crew was assembled, consisting of Captain Tom Dudley, Edwin Stephens, Ned Brooks, and 17-year-old Richard Parker. Just weeks after the crew set sail, a wave struck the Mignonette, washing away the windward fortification, causing the ship to rapidly sink and forcing the crew to escape onto a 13-foot dinghy. They were unable to bring any fresh water or food with them, beyond two tins of turnips.

The crew survived for days on turnips, urine, and an unlucky turtle, but they were becoming desperate. Tom Dudley introduced the idea of killing and eating Parker, who had become ill and unconscious from drinking seawater. The perpetrators assumed that Parker's blood would be more edible if he did not die a natural death but was killed. Stephens and Brooks agreed to it, though Brooks refused later to participate. The three men devoured Parker’s body; it kept them alive for weeks until the German barque, Montezuma, found the men after 24 days at sea.

The end of Richard Parker

Change in legislation

With the case of the Mignonette everything changed, whether it was because one did not see here the correct following of the rules as assumed or simply the feeling of such an act as a custom to watch simply no longer there. The Vicorian Era had a very different view of morality and considered many things to be outdated and babaric, so it is quite possible that this new moral perception played a big role.

The three survivors were brought to justice and although the whole population stood behind them and their actions, the three survivors were not allowed to go to court. The three were convicted of murder and should be punished by hanging. However, due to the resistance of the population, the punishment was changed to six months in prison. The three survivors never accepted this punishment.  But from then on the custom of the sea was no longer exempt from punishment, instead it is now mostly punished by imprisonment.

[wat-the-cur]

Vampire Alan (and Sam) Headcanon: I have often said that I have been avoiding any canon outside of the original Lost Boys film. I do not like the direction the sequels seemed to go and I prefer to make up my own ideas of what happened post-Lost Boys. With that being said, I have had this idea for the “Vampires Alan and Sam stay with Edgar as Monster Bashers” AU, that has been gnawing at me for a while. So, I shall share it.

I stated in a previous headcanon that the Frog brothers calm each other in intensely overwhelming situations, by drawing crosses on each other with their fingertips. Much to their distress, Alan’s vampirism has rendered this impossible, as a ritual of comfort. Neither of them are entirely sure as to whether, or not this action would corrode Alan’s flesh, as they have never risked trying it, since Alan turned. Alan, out of shame, Edgar out of concern for his brother’s skin. They have instead, created a new method.

Vampires (in this headcanon, anyway, I am very ignorant of existing lore) are able to purr. The purpose of a vampire’s purr, is to lull their victim into a relaxed and dream-like state, to weaken them before a feed. The sound is similar to the purring of a large cat, but not quite. Something between an animalistic rumble and a human’s lilting hum. It is a rather uncanny sound and not every vampire utilises it, or is able to do it effectively. In certain vampiric circles, this technique is considered lazy, comical, or outdated. In others, charmingly old fashioned, or a sadly dying art. Alan, as it turns out, is a natural purrer. He can produce a deep, hypnotic rumble with ease. If he fed as the average vampire would, purring would be his preferred hunting technique. 

When Edgar wakes from a night terror, or plummets into a fierce state of panic, Alan will now purr for him. He will either move close, or take Edgar’s hand and press the back of it to his front, so that Edgar can hear the sound and feel the vibrations in his chest. At first, the purring was disturbing to Edgar. Not only for it’s inhuman sound, but the fact that he knew of it’s purpose. His love for Alan, however, saw him sitting with this new attempt at comfort. Alan’s vampirism caused Edgar to doubt many things, but he stubbornly refused to believe his brother would try to make him his next meal in such an obvious fashion. Eventually, he knew for sure the tenderness behind the action and began to accept it gladly. 

Edgar’s reformed view of Alan’s purring was due in part to Sam. Sam can purr as well, though his takes a different tone to Alan’s. It is higher and airier. Sam, upon finding he could purr, made the choice to take it in a different direction. He purrs as a form of self expression. In particular, an expression of happiness, contentment, or empathy. As with any favoured verbal expression, what started as intentional soon became unintentional, natural. Sammy is a purr machine. Though they have never said it out loud, both of the Frogs are warmed by Sam’s sounds. It is one of the few pure things in their lives.

Edgar has never been in his element, when it comes to giving comfort to anyone, other than Alan. Now that the cross drawing ritual is out, small though it would seem to others, it has left quite a gap in his abilities. Luckily for him, he does not have to do much at all to sooth his companions, when they need it. Vampires, having no body heat themselves, are extremely sensitive to it. Alan and Sam do not even need to touch Edgar to feel his warmth. He is like a sun baked rock, to them. When Edgar lays a hand on either of them, his heat will flow all the way through their cool bodies, like hot coffee through glasses of ice. They like to lean on him, or shuffle close when they feel anxious, or panicked. Alan will often sleep upside down, above Edgar, when he has difficulty sleeping. 

[lokikingofasgardslover713]

Sea Maiden {Oneshot}

Masterlist

JOTUNN Loki Laufeyson x Plus Size Mermaid Reader

Prompt: Backstreet Boys – as long as you love me

This is my entry for @fadingcoast and @fandom-and-feminism    MCU vs BSB Writing Challenge!

Warnings: SMUT! Some fluffy Loki.

Summary: Reader is a MERMAID! Yay for mermaids! The reader and Loki have an established relationship. The team were sent by Fury to recruit her and they haven’t a clue as to what she is just that she is strong, fast, and unrelenting in a fight. Her secrete is revealed by Thor and Sam who decide it would be fun to throw her into the water at there day off at the beach. Loki is present and before he realizes what is happened, it is to late and the reader is upset her talent was revealed along with the traditional Tattoo of the Maori people.

A/N: I hope this makes since. I post links to what I am speaking of such as the Maori people and Tattoo. I didn’t use the song for say in my fic but I took the general meaning of it for the inspiration. I hope I did this justice!

“Love look at me,” came the quiet plea of the god in the driver’s seat. The passenger covered in a large beach towel gazing straight ahead. Hair soaked, body shivering with anger as she looked through wet lashes, eyes red but not shedding a tear as she continued to tune him out before finally speaking.

“This was stupid. I should have… Things were OK… Then… let’s just go back to the compound,” was all she uttered, keeping gaze fixed on the sky outside the windshield. Sun kissed hand holding tight to the towel. Not realizing it had blown up to expose heavily tattooed thigh, glimmering with bioluminescence, one gifted from the Māori people of New Zealand. The skin of said thigh shimmering with grey iridescent, reminiscent of the shark skin she had shown earlier.

Loki hated Midgardian transport. It was so outdated and agitated him, but he had a feeling the silent ride was what the woman; no, she was what was referred to as a mermaid, needed. One with a sparkling gray iridescent tail resembling a shark, but it was even more entrancing since it was covered in the traditional Tattoo of the Maori. He never realized it was hid with a simple spell, one that glowed with blue bioluminescent making her all the more attractive.

The tangles of patterns that flowed from the tips of the fingers on her left hand, covering her entire arm, flowing along voluptuous curves. It coiled down her body, over plump hip and around her entire left leg. It only ended at the tip of her toes on the same foot, the winding path of the blue glow enthralling.

Though the way it was revealed was wrong. Thor along with Sam had grabbed her from the blanket she sat on and tossed her into the ocean while kicking himself for not acting fast enough to stop them. The god having been coaxed out to the beach to sit in the back of her jeep to watch the idiots throw her, a tail appearing moments before she hit the water. The black tipped shark like tail thrashing too get just beyond the surf. Her baleful shimmering blue eyes telling them all it was a thing she wanted to keep hidden.

Everyone knew Y/N had abilities, she was stronger, more agile than the others, even the captain but no one knew what she was. The woman stormed out of the water, minus the bottom half of her bathing suit, the top held tightly at her back in a black taloned hand, the sharp spiked dorsal fin had split it. Legs sporting the decorative blue iridescent Maori Tattoo that ran leg, plump side as well as her shoulder to her finger tips but only on the left.

It was delicate and obvious it covered an old wound as she stomped to the blanket to grab the towel  to wrap it around her in place of the shredded suit. The spiked fin folding over her spine as the shark skin shimmered in the sunlight with millions of colors, not looking at Loki as she got into the passenger side of the jeep to sit quietly.

The god had been quick to close the back and curse the idiots before getting in the drivers side to take her back. Loki knew she hid something from him, that there was a reason she refused to shower with him when he invited her. Though they were intimate it was as if she was afraid and had left him wondering if she was embarrassed because it was him. The traitor, the outcast that she had fell in love with, but now it was much deeper than that.

The god seeing his chance when she kept the towel wrapped in one hand as the other fell to her thick thigh. He never held her hand, nothing that would truly be a public display of love but this warranted it. Taking his time, he slipped his hand into hers, lacing long fingers with it feeling her wanting to resist but it seemed she was heartbroken. It felt as if she didn’t care or at least until the hand in hers turned cooler than normal, ridges appearing under her fingers as she finally looked over the hand she held.

No mistake, it belonged to Loki, but it was blue, a deep blue with raised markings. Unable to let go as she looked up to him, his face taking on the same markings. Finally, he stole a glance at her to reveal crimson eyes that made her heart stop, trying to grasp what she seen as she shook her hand out of his grasp. Releasing the towel, she reached up to touch his face because she had to know. It was perplexing and wonderous at the same time.

The god pulling to the side of the road to allow her to do what she wanted. Turning to face Loki, the towel pooled in her lap as calloused fingers gingerly touched his face, surprised he was allowing it as a blue hand traced over the bioluminescent Tattoo. A tingle under his fingertips making him wonder it was alive as it even glowed brighter before he laid the hand on her cheek pushing their foreheads together.

The silence between them was enough for the moment, Loki knew she needed time to process it. He had explained to her he was not like Thor, he wasn’t Aesir he was Jotun, a frost giant but never showed what it meant. It was obvious in her mind it was just a person that didn’t look any different from the next. Carefully he laced his fingers into her wet hair, he could tell she was upset, nervous about him finding out.

The god knew she kept hiding something from him, but he just guessed it was her nature since she was living alone in the middle of the wilderness in the Rockies when they found her the first time he ever allowed Thor to convince him to help the Avengers. Y/N was very standoffish with them all when they sat foot on her plot of land, surprised them all with how fast she was and how well she fought them back. They had only been sent by Fury to speak with her about joining, not a fight.

Y/N couldn’t help but shiver slightly, it was one of relief actually, that she didn’t have to hide it any longer. No fear of rejection since it appeared Loki was hiding as well, and it felt like it was enough.

“Lets go enjoy the beach to ourselves lover. This is beautiful,” Loki breathed hinting to her true self, cool breath fanning over her lips as she nuzzled at his nose. She knew he would never admit to enjoying it when she done that to him, but that was just fine, she would just make sure she done it when he silently asked for it.

The god laying his freehand on her thigh to caress over the Tattoo that was there. Looking down he noted the sparkle of her skin was gone. What was once the shape of a beautiful shark tail that glimmered with all the colors of an oil slick was now mortal skin covered in the blue art. “I would like to see it again if you permit it.”

“You're not upset because I never explained what I was? I know your temper Loki,” Y/N finally spoke after her long silence. The lump in her throat threatening to cut her off if she continued to speak.

“We all have our reasons little shark,” he smiled leaning in to place a gentle kiss on her lips as she fell into him, not caring if the bathing suit she once wore was in shreds thanks to the tail and the spike fin along her spine that had rendered it useless.

“Go for a swim,” she smiled as they parted, and she tugged the towel around her shoulders.

“I thought you would never ask lover,” Loki smiled. With a flash of seidr he was standing next to the passenger side door, opening it to jerk her into his arms with a yelp. The jeep gone in the blink of an eye with a quiet reassurance it was in it's parking spot at the compound as he carried her to the shore.

Sitting her to her feet in the surf Loki could honestly not believe what he was witnessing when the sea water splashed over her legs. The skin turning to the shimmering grey flesh of a shark but staying separate as the Tattoo sparkled for a moment. Y/N turned to face the god, stepping flush to him to stand to black tipped toes to place a kiss on his lips before flinging the towel in his face and taking off running into the surf. A quick dive in and she splashed back with a beautifully made sharks tail. The god smirking as he pulled the towel away and watched her head pop up beyond the breaking waves.

“Well?! Are frost giants afraid of the water,” Y/N yelled back, the water just below her shoulders. The gods smirk even bigger as he realized he was still donning his blue skin, the pants he wore soaked, a flash of seidr and he was gone.

“Think you are a sly creature do you Y/N,” came Loki’ calm voice behind her. She knew he was going to do that, turning to realize he wore a black rash guard, shark tail curling around his legs that had to kick slightly.

“You could charm a tail,” Y/N spoke up looking into his still crimson orbs and swearing he was enjoying being himself.

“I could, but that would take the fun out of it,” he smirked looking down to note the top of ample breast were exposed just before she dipped under the water, tail surfacing to splash at him.

The god felt the swirl of water as she circled him for a moment then jerked him under with her, pressing lips to his to realize she was able to help him breathe. Taking note that her process of breathing had to still be same as on land, as he felt no gills as he caressed over soft curves to place his hands around her neck to hold her close. Her body arching out, tail wrapping around him before uncurling to move strongly to take them back to the surface to break the kiss.

“Besides lover, I would never look as beautiful as you,” he smirked as she kept him afloat, pressed flush to him as they bobbed in the water, still he kept his blue lined skin.

“Mmm, blue is my favorite color by the way. It looks handsome on you, and the red eyes, beautiful,” she breathed as he pulled her for another kiss. Loki was surprised as legs wrapped around his waist having never realized she had drifted them far enough back to the shore to stand, hands caressing over voluptuous curves as he reached to grip her waist the spike fin folded against her spine.

“Let’s go back to the compound and take that shower you have always asked me about joining,” Y/N smiled showing a set of sharp fangs, three on each side of the two front teeth both top and bottom.

“You don’t have to ask twice,” Loki spoke up as Y/N smirked at his impatience as with in a blink they where standing in the large shower of his room.

Still he kept the Jotun blue skin. He surprised her by putting her to her feet, having her turn to look over the fin on her back and trail his fingers over the spiny appendage. Y/N smirked at his curiosity of her, crimson orbs looking over her bare buttocks as he ran fingers over the Tattoo again obvious it was the most fascinating.

“Here I thought you would be more intrigued by my tail or the skin that covered them but my Tattoo mesmerizes you more,” she spoke, Loki tugging her hip to return her to face him realizing he was now bare before her. Loki not backing away as she reached up to touch over the lines on his chest, smiling at him, it was clear she was more intrigued by him than he was her.

“What is the markings for,” he finally asked as she turned to cut the shower head on, keeping her legs that where covered in the shimmering iridescent shark skin that traveled to just under her breast to end in a point between them. On her back it traveled her spine to end at a point somewhere under her hair, a shiver making it's way up her spine as he ghosted is fingers over the flesh next to the fin that was covered in blue Tattoo.

“They mark me as a warrior,” she began turning back to look up at Loki smiling as it appeared he was keeping the blue skin just for her. “When I was younger, I had been drug onto a ship of merchants and treated… Well let’s just say that they were cruel. When I wouldn’t give them a show they lashed me to the mast to bake in the sun, or so that was the idea. It's not that easy to kill a mermaid. But I managed to get free somewhere around New Zealand.”

“Did they do this to you,” he began hinting to very faint edge of a scar at the base of her skull, cobalt fingers touching over it as she turned and tugged him under the rain head.

“Yeah. My entire left side was splattered in lamp oil. They sat me on fire, scorched my skin, my hair before I could plunge into the ocean. Killed several before I jumped, by that time the Māori noted the ship and me. Thankfully they are very accepting of my kind. They hid me from the trade ship, healed me, accepted me and marked me as one of their own.”

“So, you’re older than 36,” Loki smirked at Y/N who smiled to show the same set of fangs as he pulled tighter. This left nothing to the imagination of how he felt about her, erection pressing into the plump stomach he happened to love to lay his head on.

“Hmm. All that dramatic swashbuckling and all you take from that is I am older than I originally told you,” the woman chuckled up to the god that was leaning down to press lips for a chaste kiss before pulling away. “ I was born in the summer of 1701. I was captured when I was 16. So technically I am 318 years old, but still not as old as you.”

“Glad you survived love. Sorry I didn’t know you then, so that I could have prevented this,” he spoke quietly hinting to the iridescent Tattoo that he felt tingle under his fingers before smashing his lips to hers in the heat of passion.

Blue lined hands falling to her thighs to squeeze them and lift her with ease to place them around his waist. The god swallowing her breathy moan down, drenched folds rutting over erect man hood. Loki continued to hold her tightly, her hands snaking into his hair as sharp nails raked his scalp and she nipped at his lip with sharp fangs making him jump, pulling away to look her over.

“You are a feisty little shark,” Loki grinned as she rutted to tease throbbing cock with dripping hole that begged for him. Her thumb rubbing over his bottom lip to smear the dark blue blood that had ebbed out, crimson orbs flickering to the sharp black nails she sported.

“Have to be to survive,” her voice quivered as it dawned on her his shaft was covered in the same raised markings, the chafe of the ones over his torso making her even more excited as she teased the head of his cock with a quiet whimper.

“Thank the Norns for that,” he breathed as he lowered her over throbbing cock, feeling velvet folds clinch around his girth as she moved her hips to seat fully over him.

“Your beautiful lover. Never hide this again,” he breathed out, not waiting for her to adjust before setting a bruising pace but evident by the whimpering moans she let out it didn’t matter.

Pleasure ran her spine as she captured the gods lips once again, allowing his tongue to dance with hers while matching his thrust as deliciously lined cock hit all the right parts in sinful cunt that threatened to squeeze even tighter. Y/N filling desperate as she rubbed throbbing nerve against the god with every perfect thrust into needy cunt. Lined girth hitting the right spot that made her cry out to the room.

Lewd noises hung thick in the air while her nails dug into his shoulders to draw a thin trickle of blood. A cobalt blue hand going to the nape of her neck to prevent her from pulling away like he could feel her doing. Holding her head so she had to look down at him, crimson orbs burning with desire.

“Cum for me lover. I want to drink in your form writhing over me,” he rasped out, filling her body quiver. He knew her all too well, knew when she was fast approaching her undoing and loved to watch her fall to pieces before him. Now, and now he had her right where he wanted her, she was perfect, she was his and there were no secrets to hold them back any longer.

He felt the quiver working it's way through her body, knew she was coming undone as velvet cunt squeezed tight around already spilling cock. One last harsh thrust had her crying out to the room as he kept crimson orbs on her, gazing up at her as they finished the chase and pulling her head to his shoulder.

Carefully Loki looped an arm under plump buttocks while tracing over her shivering back and the fin that was there in efforts to soothe her. Her legs trembled as she remained wrapped around him, body spent. A quiet admittance of love whispered into her ear as he kissed the Tattoo on her shoulder while she slipped to her feet.

Both looking over each other, letting the water clean them before Loki turned it off. Watching as it seemed her skin soaked up the moisture and her iridescents began to fade. The bioluminescent Tattoo staying prominent but not glowing as much.

“Keep this love, it's all I ask,” he spoke hinting to the Tattoo, watching as it dulled to a deep blue that still didn’t look natural but appeared to be where it stopped.

“Then promise to show me this side of you more often? I understand about having to keep certain things hidden. This will be our peace to ourselves,” she bargained, caressing over the raised markings on his face as they began to slowly fade back to his Aesir form.

“I swear to the Norns that I will,” he breathed, pulling her into his arms to carry her out to the bedroom. In no time he was laying her on the king size mattress delicately to fall between her legs rutting at her as she done the same.

“I was worried I was losing you love,” the god finally admitted as she paused to look up at him. Never had she thought how it must have made him feel that she refused to accompany him to the shower or refused to allow him to step into the shower when it was just her.

“You weren’t. I was just hoping I could find a way to show you before what happened today. This wasn’t how I planned it,” Y/N smiled as she felt him still over her, he was ready she could fill him hard and pressing at her readied cunt.

“Well, either way, it changes nothing Y/N. I fell in love with you and not the creature you are,” he smiled, knowing she was still sensitive as he teased her carefully before slowly sinking into readied cunt. This time would be slow, meaningful. Y/N gasping out as he filled her up once again.

“Agreed. I love you as Loki, and only Loki,” she smiled up at him enjoying the slow fuck this was turning into.

Tags open! And re-blogs are ALWAYS welcomed!

Tags: @dark-night-sky-99  @prettybubblesintheair  @gramaeryebard  @reallyheckinggay  @jovanna-shewolf  @andiyholly  @katstablook   @nickyl316h  @beets1bears1battlestargalactica @aslandia726 @moonfaery @furstinnajoelle   @itsbqueenthings @lookwhatyoumademequeue @whovianwookie86-captainxev@jazzieomega  @tomhardy41 @get-loki @drakonwild

[nnatasha]

love, rosie - 1/?

pairing: Steve Rogers/reader

summary: falling in love with Steve Rogers, told through some of my favourite scenes from the movie Love, Rosie

a/n:this is my entry for @laureharrier and @tommyparkerr writing challenge! I’ve got real bad writers block, so this is a little short and crap btw

The first time it hit you that you loved Steve was when you were 17 and, in all the places fate had to choose from, was in an IT class.

The weather had been warm for weeks, a rarity for England, and it was stifling in the computer lab; the heat from the old outdated monitors wafted through the air, invincible to the shitty a/c unit that spouted dust balls every once in a while.

Your teacher, Mr Smith, was an old, balding man with a shiny head that always had bleeding scabs on it. Sometimes you felt bad when other kids joked about how his knee surgery the previous year, which had rendered him unfit for work for a couple months, made him a dickhead. But then Mr Smith would give you a detention and you’d happily laugh along with them.

Despite the stuffy classroom and slow computers, IT was by far your favourite lesson. Had it not been for Steve Rogers figuring out how to chat online the previous year, you would’ve skived each and every class.

As the chatbox on screen loaded up, you felt eyes on you from across the classroom. Looking up, you locked yours with Steve’s, and was left mildly speechless. Since he had his growth spurt the previous summer, Steve was a right old fitty; his eyes were the only thing your sight was set on though. They had a feeling about them, their piercing irises looking the sea sparkling in the sun.

‘Hurry up!’ Steve was mouthing to you, ‘I’ve got some important news.’

Rolling your eyes you ignored him, your gaze going back to your screen just as it finished loading. God, was school wifi shit.

jackblacklovespenis has logged in.

Yn6969 has logged in.

jackblacklovespenis: o thank god, I was dying over here

Yn6969: don’t b dramatic Stevie

Yn6969: what importsnt news did u want to tell me

jackblacklovespenis: well my IMPORTSNT news involving my v card is pretty importsnt

jackblacklovespenis: ;)

Yn6969: omg

Yn6968: has the god of sex awoken from his slumber

jackblacklovespenis: uno that girl I’ve been seeing? the rich one?

Yn6969: how could I forget her

Yn6969: she’s all u talk about

Yn6969:it’s annoying, really

jackblacklovespenis: ok well the slumber is over

You felt my stomach dropped. You didn’t like Steve, you didn’t want to be with Steve, but Steve was yours. It felt weird to see him talking about having sex with other people. It felt weird hearing him talk about how he thought he loved this girl. It felt weird how you hated this girl. Bethany was nice, you had no reason for this. Was she a little stuck up? Yes. Was she taking Steve away from you and making you only really see him at school nowadays? Also a yes.

Yn6969: awoken for  like three minutes

Yn6969: wine em dine m 69 em

Yn6969: did she like it

jackblacklovespenis: o do u wanna test it out with me next ;;;;;;;;;;)

Yn6969: ah yes

Yn6969: please, o mighty god of sex, show me your male genitals and regale me with tales of your previous lovemaking sessions

jackblacklovespenis: lmao I hate that

jackblacklovespenis:anyways, we did it after her parents had went out

jackblacklovespenis: not that it would’ve made a difference her house is mahoosive

Yn6969: u sound like a sugar baby

You could hear Steve snorting and looked over at him, quirking a brow as he gave you a cheeky grin. Despite your horrible names in the chatbox (chosen when you guys were 12, by the way, if either of you could , you would’ve changed it from Yn6969 to something much nicer years ago) , you two sometimes had intellectual and deep conversations. Today was not one of those days.

jackblacklovespenis: stfu I just want some coin okay

Yn6969: mhmm

jackblacklovespenis: moving on

jackblacklovespenis: it lasted longer than three minutes, thanks for ur support btw, and I had a lot of fun

Yn6969: wow

jackblacklovespenis: big wow

“Mr Rogers, you are aware that these are public channels, yes?” Mr Smith’s deep voice cut through your typing, making you jump.

Hearing giggles around you,, you quickly checked the site settings.  Shit. They were public!

Steve looked just about as embarrassed as you probably did, his face a deep crismon that extended down towards his neck, and what you knew would further travel towards his chest. “No, sir.” He squeaked out.

Smirking, Mr Smith continued, “I’d advise you don’t talk about your sex without checking beforehand, Steven. Despite the entertainment it brought to everyone, I don’t think you want that information everywhere.” He now turned to you, his double chin wobbling as you tried to hide behind my monitor “I would advise you to do the same, but you’re much smarter than Mr Rogers is.”

°••°

Despite the whispers about Steve the next few days, which you usually would of found hilarious, whenever the subject of him and Bethany was brought up, jokingly or not, you didn’t want to talk.

The two of you had been best friends since before you could even remember and Steve had been there for you through everything; your recent stomach pump, your emo phase when you were 13, the time your hamster died and you refused to leave the house for 16 days. He was alongside you for everything, even when you didn’t particularly want him there.

Feelings were bound to happen in a friendship like yours and Steve’s, and at the time you had shrugged it off as a passing crush, spurred on by his sudden muscly shoulders.

However, as the years went on, you realised how very, very wrong you were.

Because falling in love doesn’t happen overnight , and it doesn’t happen suddenly over  shoulders and blue eyes and cheeky grins. You had been in love for a while

some tags

@goldandsilverline @hey-its-grey @laureharrier @tommyparkerr @tonyintexas @suncitydanvers

[silverfootstepswrites]

Butterfly [59]

summary No flash photography

“Is this okay?”

Sakura and Shikamaru looked up at the same time.

Shikamaru cringed as Sakura pointed in the direction of his bedroom. “Change. Right now.”

“Man, you guys are no fun,” grumbled Kiba as he stalked back into his room. 

“Ugh, I want to wash my eyes with acid,” Shikamaru grumbled, rubbing his temples. 

“I didn’t know that they still made linen pants,” agreed Sakura. 

Tsume handed Sakura and Shikamaru each a slice of watermelon. 

“Thank you, Oba-san,” Sakura said as she accepted the fruit. Tsume rested her elbow on the table as she watched them eat. 

“Do you have to take him with you? He’ll just embarrass you,” she warned. Shikamaru choked on his mouthful of watermelon. Sakura snickered into hers.

“MA!” Kiba yelled from down the hall. 

Sakura glimpsed Itachi sporadically, marveling at how quickly his facial hair grew in when he wasn’t paying attention. 

“You know, I don’t think coffee and umaibo counts as a balanced diet,” she commented, cheek in her hand as she watched him scarf down the convenience store bento she had brought him. The desk in his studio was cluttered with coffee cups and the brightly-colored snack wrappers. There was a beat-up sofa pushed off to one wall. And based on the tangled blankets pushed off to one end, it looked like it had been serving as his bed. 

Itachi didn’t reply as he took a huge bite out of the shrimp tempura. Sakura reached out to pluck a grain of rice off his cheek. 

He vacuumed up all the food in the plastic container in record time. 

Sakura watched as he gulped down an entire bottle of water without taking a breath. The plastic crumpled as he drained the contents. 

Itachi gasped as he leaned back in his seat. He tossed the empty bottle into the plastic bag she had brought along. And when he looked back at her, Sakura was smiling.

“Feeling more human?” she asked. 

A shy smile stretched across his mouth. “Sorry. That probably wasn’t my most attractive moment,” he confessed. And then he ran his hands over his facial hair. Rubbing his palms against his paint-covered jeans, he glanced at her again.

“Well, I might forgive you... for a price,” Sakura replied, pointing at her mouth. 

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” Itachi warned her. 

Sighing, Sakura got out of her seat. “Guess I’ll go get my payment elsewhere.”

Laughing, Itachi caught her arm. He pulled her into his lap. Sakura wrinkled her nose as she pushed his hair out of his face. 

“You need to shower,” she told him.

“I know,” he replied as he pulled her in for a kiss.

Itachi’s exhibition arrived too quickly. Sakura blinked and it was already mid-August. 

Sasuke texted her a couple days before the date and asked whether she would be there. When she said that she would, he replied with a series of surprisingly cute stickers. 

“Who’s that?” asked Kiba, chin on her shoulder.

“Uchiha-sensei’s little brother,” she replied, fingers tapping over the screen. 

“Oh,” was all he said. 

Kiba had been surprisingly cool about stumbling in on them. And he still hadn’t spilled his guts to Shikamaru. When she asked, scratching the back of his head, he told her, “Man, that hurts. You’re my friend too. I wouldn’t betray your trust like that.” 

“You miss him?” Kiba inquired.

“Yeah. But also.... it’s nice to see him working so hard. Let me tell you a secret about women, Inuzuka. A man with passion for something is hot,” Sakura answered. 

Kiba’s eyebrows rose. “Like... a passion for... veterinary stuff?” he pressed.

“There’s a lady out there somewhere that’ll find that super hot,” she confirmed.

And as Sakura spoke, Mint wandered over. She climbed right over Kiba’s leg to get to Sakura, dodging his hand as he tried to pat her.

“You ungrateful little... I’m the one that got her to keep you,” grumbled Kiba, glaring at the cat. 

Mint purred as she curled up against Sakura’s calf. 

Sakura snickered. “Good job, Mint. Ow!”

Kiba flicked her knee again. 

It was decided that Sakura would drive them up to Fukuoka. She offered to leave early to give Itachi a ride too. But when she called him, he answered from Tokyo. There was the sound of a TV in the background, along with people’s voices. So he definitely wasn’t at his apartment or at his studio.

“Oh. I forgot to tell you. I’m in Koto,” he told her.

“Koto?” she repeated. 

“At my parents’ place.”

She heard a rustle. Itachi asked in a muted voice, “You want to say hi?” There was the rustle of plastic. And then Sasuke replied, “Is that Nee-san? Nah, I’ve been talking to her on Line.”

There was a pause. She could hear voices murmuring, like Itachi had his hand over the receiver. Just enough to muffle the conversation. She glanced down at her nails as she waited.

“What do you two talk about on Line?” Itachi suddenly questioned in a clear voice again.

“We plot about how to kill you,” she replied in a flat voice. Itachi chuckled. 

In the distance, she heard Sasuke’s voice. “Oh, Nii-san. Shisui-Nii-san wants to know whether he should bring his license.”

“No, I’ll drive. It’s fine,” Itachi told him.

“Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I thought you couldn’t drive?” Sakura interrupted. Because she distinctly remembered him saying he had given up after Shisui had nearly gotten them killed. But he had driven her from Yokohama to Tokyo just fine. Which she had only thought to question after the fact. 

“I gave up on stick shift. But I can do automatic. I got my license...” His words sort of drifted to a stop. Which was weird. 

“...Sasuke, go away,” he suddenly said. His tone was a little too serious. Sakura couldn’t guess what his face looked like because she heard a door open and shut without protest. She heard Itachi heave a sigh.

“Is e-”

“I got my license because... I like watching you drive,” he confessed.

“What?”

Itachi sighed again. She could imagine him rubbing his hand through his hair like he did when he was embarrassed. Or maybe he would have been linking his hands behind his neck if she were on speakerphone. 

“Do you remember when we went to that gallery last August? The one with all the paper cranes?” he asked her.

“Of course. You were talking about Gouache or something,” she recalled. 

“Well... that was kind of a long trip. And I kept noticing how you looked really cool driving. And I started thinking that... it would be nice if... you felt that way looking at me... too...” Itachi’s voice grew softer and softer as he spoke. 

Sakura didn’t know how to respond. She couldn’t decide whether to laugh or to blush. So she sat there in a sort of mute silence.

“...Please say something,” Itachi pleaded.

Sakura bit her lower lip. She plucked at a bit of lint on her shirt as she thought.

“Did you, like, also get a license in smooth talking?” she inquired after some thought. His laughter trickled over the phone. She smiled just to hear the sound. 

The plan, according to Itachi, was that he would drive his parents and Sasuke to Shisui’s place. They would get dinner and spend the night there before driving down to Fukuoka together. It would have been faster just to take the shinkansen down. But it was, according to Itachi, an excuse for the family to spend some time together. 

Sakura wished him a safe trip. And on the day of the opening, she drove Kiba and Shikamaru up to Fukuoka. Shikamaru fell asleep about half an hour into the drive. So Kiba stayed up, chatting with her to make sure she didn’t doze off.

The GPS took them to roads that, for some reason, felt vaguely familiar. The highway cut through the hills, hugging the curves of the coast. The ocean glittered to their right. There was the faint smell of saltwater even though the windows were closed. 

It only occurred to Sakura as they pulled up to the address. This was the very same building she and Itachi had visited a year ago. They found street parking. But as Sakura locked the car, her phone rang. She considered ignoring the call until she saw that it was Haku.

“Call me back. I’m busy,” she told him.

“Wait! I forgot to call you and now it’s urgent!” he exclaimed.

“Haku. It can’t wait a couple hours? I’m kind of at a thing,” Sakura added.

“Okay, I’ll make it quick,” hissed Haku in return. “We’re doing a tour of East Asia. Come with?”

“We?”

“Uh... Utakata-senpai, Karin-chan, the Hozuki’s.... oh, yeah- Samui’s coming too,” listed Haku. And she could hear the familiar whisk of a blade cutting through the ice. 

“A tour? Like an ice show?” she pressed. 

“Sort of... But more like... meet and greets and cute publicity stuff... with a side of ice shows?” Haku explained.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sakura spotted Shikamaru waving at her. Kiba motioned for her to hurry up.

“I’ll think about it. I gotta go,” Sakura whispered. Before Haku could reply, she ended the call. 

They filed into the building. There was no entry fee this time around. This was a private viewing for friends and family only, so there was a guest list. But as the greeter found their names, he waved them inside. 

Even though this was the same building, it felt very different. Instead of paper cranes, there were leaves draped from the railings and hanging from the ceiling. As Sakura passed by one, she realized that they weren’t made of paper like she had thought. They looked like real ginkgo leaves that had been painted on in shades of blue and green. 

There were canvases of various shapes and sizes hanging from the walls. She recognized one at the far end of the gallery. It was the one of cherry blossoms that she had seen in its unfinished stages. He had colored the right half of it too. Pink petals, blue sky. Simple. Pretty.

They walked around the exhibition. The descriptions next to or underneath each canvas explained the context of the location. There was one of a strange, twisted statue in the middle of a patch of grass. That was apparently from the campus where Itachi had attended art school. There was a convenience store covered in cherry blossom petals where he had apparently bought most of his food and beer during college.

Sakura had heard about these places in bits and pieces. Hints from conversations. It was nice to finally be able to match up an image to the words. 

There were already several people in the gallery when they arrived. And as they moved around, more and more began trickling in. Some were from Konoha. Others were strangers. Sakura glimpsed the Sarutobi’s, Asuma carrying Mirai on his hip. Tsunade was there too, walking with Orochimaru.

“Oh, shit, there’s a second floor,” Kiba said. Sakura looked up to follow his finger. He pointed at a set of clear stairs. Since it was crowded on the first floor, they decided to head upstairs.

It didn’t take long for Sakura to realize that this part of the exhibit corresponded to parts of Konoha. The painting of the high school was to the north of the dusty park where kids played baseball after classes. To the west sat the train station, clean but outdated. 

Each of the little details was rendered with painstaking precision. He even captured the way paint peeled on some of the old wooden monuments. Brushstrokes somehow managing to capture the sound of the swings in the park creaking in the wind. And the patter of rain against the school windows from inside the art room.

On the east wall of the gallery were paintings of the ocean. He had even included the wooden sign sticking out of the sand that warned people not to swim without supervision. The sky was still blue, but with a grey tint to it. And the ocean was saturated, almost green. And it was fascinating to her- how things were too bright and too dull all at once.  

Shikamaru stood beside her, his hands in his pockets. He let out a low whistle.

“Man... he’s good,” was all Shikamaru could say. Sakura nodded.

“....Haruno.”

They followed the sound of Kiba’s voice. He was a few paintings over, motioning for them to join him. 

Sakura recognized the terrace outside her house. She had grown up sitting there in the summer, basking in the draft from the fan. And after she had returned home, it had become their preferred hangout during the milder weather. 

One thing that Sakura began to realize was that Itachi didn’t paint people. But there was the suggestion of people in this painting. A pile of chestnuts sat on one corner of the terrace on top of a few sheets of flattened newspaper. She recognized the faded blanket she often left to air out in the sun. As she stared, she could almost hear the sounds of Kiba snoring or Shikamaru’s shogi pieces clicking as they landed on the board. The murmur of TV in the background or the hum of the laundry machine. The grass was too yellow and the blanket’s colors were all wrong. But it felt familiar. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

Sakura felt Shikamaru and Kiba leave her. They chuckled. And she could hear them slapping hands together in greeting.

“Wow, Uchiha-sensei, this is.... amazing.”

“Seriously. You must be a genius or something.”

There was more laughter. 

Sakura didn’t really listen to the rest of the conversation. She blinked hard at the painting, just soaking in the feeling of home that radiated off it. 

A little while later, she felt someone stand right beside her.

“Do you like it?” asked Itachi. 

Sakura hooked her arm through his. Head falling against his shoulder. 

“Yeah.”

“Thank goodness,” he sighed. 

She glanced over at him. It was one of the few times she had seen him in a suit. His tie was dark blue against a crisp white shirt. It was a good look for him. 

“Are you sweating like crazy under there?” she whispered. 

“I should have put sponges in my shirt. I’m dying,” replied Itachi, matching her hushed tone. They snickered together. 

“Can I buy this?” asked Sakura. 

“... Really?”

“I told you that I like it. I don’t know if I have anywhere to put it, though.”

“Don’t just buy it for me. You don’t have to do that.”

“Make no mistake. I’m buying it for me.”

Sasuke stared at the crowd clustered at one end of the gallery. There were so many people that he didn’t recognize. But who he did recognize was his brother standing in front of one of the paintings. And next to him was Sakura. 

Sasuke squinted at them. Then at the crowd at the other end of the gallery. Many of these people were holding their phones up. His head whipped back and forth a few times before he realized that they were looking at his brother, not at the art. 

“Where’s Hatake-sensei? He owes me money,” a woman with pigtails cackled. 

“I dunno. Maybe it’s... friendly?” a man remarked beside her, scratching at his beard. The man standing beside him elbowed him in the ribs.

“No way. Try standing that way with another woman. See what your wife says, Sarutobi-sensei,” he snorted.

“What are those people doing?” Mikoto asked.

Sasuke whirled around to see his parents and Shisui coming up the stairs after him. 

“Uh, I think we missed something, Mom and Dad,” he blurted, ushering them back downstairs. 

“No, we didn’t, Sasuke. What’re you up to?” Shisui protested. Sasuke grabbed his shoulders. But Shisui was bigger and stronger. He shoved past Sasuke and climbed up the rest of the stairs, two-by-two. 

Shisui’s stare lingered on the odd crowd too. But then he followed their gaze to find Itachi. His arm was around Sakura now. Mikoto and Fugaku joined him, also trying to digest the situation. 

“Oh, it’s just Itachi with his girlfriend. Is this what you were trying to hide, Sasuke?” Shisui remarked. Sasuke winced at how loud his cousin’s voice was. Because it made Itachi and Sakura turn around. 

Sakura’s eyes popped open. She gave a little wave when she spotted Sasuke. And then she gave a bow when she recognized Mikoto next to him. 

Tears began welling up in Mikoto’s eyes. She sniffed. “This is... the happiest day of my life.”

Fugaku dug into his pocket to pull out a handkerchief. He pushed it into her hand, clearing his throat as he said, “Don’t you mean... second best, dear?”

“You heard me,” Mikoto whispered.

[ckcker]

My Backsplash

The sun was out then for a second was covered and a second later reappeared like a fadeout that gave up, it was enough action to make me look out my window and enough environmental pressure to stick a leg out through my thoughts.  Feeling the way my skin pulled tightly over my face as I often did, I prostrated my nurdlescape wisdom before an inner monologue consumed by detecting evil in the actions or statements of other people. I collected these kind of events, unsure as to what actually is evil but hypervigilant about detecting it, guzzling the inner monologue. It refuses to name the behaviors of others as ‘evil’ because it claims to not believe in a supernatural arena of judgment, but the ‘negative’ behavior it searches for, still, in the part of the body where solutions are emotional, takes on the feeling of experiencing evil. Let’s say this affected communication. The physical-mental feed tube moves so fast, it is hard to grab it, to behead it. Another undetected speed. There should be a word for the period of time in which early users of a new technological device appear insane before the device becomes extremely popular.  

From some rapidly opened crypt came the suggestion, ‘I just feel like it’s time for me to date again, to get out there and meet people,’ a popular summary given by those recovering from a bad romantic calculation. Somehow everyone knew the location of that ‘there,’ and I began to think of it too since I also could say I knew where to access ‘there.’  The ‘out’ was hard, I did not want to go out.  Work forced it and at least gave the ‘out’ a knowable structure, but the other conditions of ‘out there’ shared certain aspects also found in the haunted house portrait with the moving eyes.  And I wanted to be that portrait, steeped in outdated inertia, spraying the room with unacceptable stares, not human but rendered in human form, accepted as a condition of the space.  It was difficult to be noticed against my will.  My apartment, though only on the 2nd floor, still gave me a view of urban space that was elevated, and so I felt a certain amount of reflection-conjuring power when I looked out my window at buildings, businesses, dogs that couldn’t see me, people looking down at their hands, streetlights and building lights in the cruise of twilight and the lights of businesses, and people with bum backs or legs moving temperately down the sidewalk. Even from the 2nd story window I could look at the components of an urban area and feel like I was above it, both subject to its expectations and laws and electric bills as well as the distant surveyor exploiting its pervasive electricity and improvisational arrangements of shapes as the overabused cinematic container for my longings, lunges and literal hurls. My skyline consisted of a hardware store with a parrot living in the front window, a few backyards connected by weed smoke and in the distance a tall supermarket that people said was not organic but had some good organic items, a billboard unpeeled displaying a solution for upside down credit, beyond it all the upper 1/5 of a prominent downtown building that relieved the panic of not knowing what city I was in, and over it all the far away voices of a mentally disabled singing group rehearsing guitar-accompanied pop/rock standards from the last 60 years at the community center catercorner from the dead spider I did not kill lying legs up on my bathroom window sill.  I had seen many things from this window in the brief time I had lived there, I saw a man fall into an abandoned Chipotle once. If one continually expects a problem (aka evil) in the voices and actions of others, always looking for the barbaric silica packet that helps covertly maintain some image of ethical, sensitive, open, accepting person, the ‘out there’ will move on to someone that appreciates it.  How obvious, and difficult to learn when you find your identity drifting towards the high cenobite of backsplash.  

“Slay mignon” I heard Rob say through the apartment door and then a different voice responded with something less interesting, it meant there were at least two people entering Rob’s apartment next door and that they were using a joking tone as they entered.  It was possible to joke around with friends: it was possible to fall into a Chipotle.  The reaction I communicated towards the front wall when I heard the knock on my door was jazzy reluctance (muted terror).  I answered the door, taking in the image of Rob and similarly young friend, who perhaps was trying to rehabilitate the toupee, in the 8:30pm apartment walkway light.  

“How’s it going?”

“Not bad, how are you?”

“Tired.  We’re having a bunch of friends over next door though, to let you know.  I hope it’s not too loud.”

“Oh that’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

“This is my friend Q.C.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.”

“We’ll try to keep it down. But no promises, hahaha. Feel free to stop by if you want.”

“I mean, not sure what you’re doing tonight, or.”

“Thanks, I. I am just gonna do something low-key tonight I think. Thanks for asking.”

“Ok great. What’re you getting into tonight?”

“Well,”

“Oh sorry, you just kinda answered that.”

“Yeah, I, there’s that new nature documentary everyone is talking about. I’ll probably watch that.”

“Cool.”

I closed the door. I thought of the slightly crooked curtain dowel in the back right frame of a neckplay fetish porn still.  I thought of the crumpled top 1/4 of a straw wrapper on the oak floor of an upscale espresso bar.  One must be brave enough to forge one’s own backsplash. I didn’t know what I meant by that, I looked out my window. The skyline at dusk, I aggressively remembered a time.

I thought, ‘all that’s left is the practical and measured execution of plans I previously laid out under uncontrollable feelings.’  The feelings had passed but the structure of living developed during those de-cablings stuck around.  Now meaning nothing, their former dominance must be honored. I needed extensive plastic surgery asap.  My memory was too personal, gory, smelling of rain-scented incense. I fast walked from my room to a place where a TV played, which joined the space with testimony of a woman who somehow escaped her potential murderer.  She described her final maneuver in warbled tones, we are with her running alone through the California desert at night as she tries to find a road and a passing car.  This type of flashback people might find interesting, there are no cars nearby, her recollection voice was high and childlike.  Though I may stare so hard at my phone to make sure it will forever remember me, I never feel more powerful than when I close my eyes in public.  The story finished with her finally waving down a car on the highway; a couple picked her up and listened to her story in shock, as related by her and by then the killer had disappeared.  

The cool underside air of dusk in July on exposed skin, calm weather re-routing every thought or experience towards a positive conclusion was its own kind of repression: healthy.  It was possible to look at things during the sunset.  Sunset had something to do with the way restricted natural light made faces feel diminished with retreating red and less visible, and the time limit on how long was left for someone to be able to see was enough narrative intensity to leave a scratch in the head, if combined with some other high octane action, for instance walking near a pond with friends and viewing a deer.  I had not spoken with friends in months, I had not told them more than a present location, Missouri. That I lived in the side of the city that is Kansas seemed to be some sort of rotting occult intel that I kept totally to myself.  

I had no intention of watching the new nature documentary everyone was talking about. I decided again to try and experience the city. I closed my apartment door, turned, and, after several steps, read “What is PAIN Music?” typed on top of an unfolded piece of paper. It was lying alone on the roasted teal carpet and thus an object that I could view.  Underneath this title was one full page of description meant to answer the question and define PAIN music; it read:

“Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif Dghdhdfj dfloifkij oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif  oifj kidfjg adfupifgj Dghdhdfj dfloifkij,” and ended “oifj kidfjg adfupifgj adpoifg adsoif dfpoifgja [poifj apijf.”

What was most clear to me on seeing this text was that I didn’t and would never have any interest in trying to decipher or decode the definition of PAIN music. I did not know if it was even possible.  But I folded it back over and then again and put it in my pocket to walk with me.  

As I moved through the outdoor hallway from my apartment, I brought viewings into my head of the piece of paper, focusing on the detail I had seen in the lower middle-left corner: “The Coolest Music Ever” in dark font and gassy drop shadow.  This was an important clue that I had decided to never interpret or care about.  If the piece of paper had unfolded itself for me and only me, it would not receive the pleasure of my humiliation in tracing its undoubtedly core-tearing motives.  If it was meant to curse me with an assortment of serrated traumas and thus make new life paths available to deflate myself in and then be educated by, I would not meet it halfway to know why.  But I had decided to take it with me anyway, I did not interrogate my reasons for this, and neither did I ask myself why I considered “The Coolest Music Ever” to be an important clue.  Maybe because my days of pursuing an acute pleasure had passed by, had been “completed,” crunched by a mania for self-direction and fully shaved of shallow mysteries, like PAIN music. I had dropped my body parts in the mouth of a man in an empty field during a music festival, I had stared at the uptempo lonely dance music video playing on multiple screens at the club meant for young people and had sopped up the vulgar hypnotism, I had held the funneling friend too drunk at the party to not hear longing in any song with house chords and a gay male vocal. Amicable-disabled, part LARP, marshy, far, bloated as forensic bodies, hanging out menacingly, far away, deciding to try and drive along the spilling highway brush, more drooling light the color of mango and then new sustainable light, white and incapable of drool.

Luckily I have a second set of actions that play out in my mind during an action of my body, lucky for me that no one can read them, though I listen for any distant sound that might indicate a second set of actions in a person standing near me.  As my finger points at a happy hour menu, it also points at my shredded bed sheet that I will never replace.  The sheet that shredded wholly on its own, all it took was a sustained propulsion of my fatefully wound body in sleep over several years to cause a rip and days later a completed tear.  One has dual purposes, sometimes one’s purpose is to lose consciousness and rest the body, while one’s purpose is also to interrupt the body’s rest.  Sometimes one’s mind considers, ‘it would be more illuminating to challenge a command that this be the time for the body to rest.’  Two drinks in, the happy hour is passing and buy one get one free, and the young woman who is bartending has the look of someone reeling in a fantasy.  A cup of hot water fell off the counter and landed on the floor upright yet the black tea bag inside, briefly resembling a violent mid-launch health store fig, whacked against the bar wall with the sonic clarity of a professionally-recorded sound effect. Afterwards, her voice, direct and lifeless, responded when I asked for a lime.  When I opened my mouth very very slightly, my teeth touched each other in a light shake that was uncontrollable. My body did not want to talk, but my mind could not help but announce it was at work.  It caused my jaw to move although there was no content it considered to be worth releasing.  My teeth softly struck each other and it was because my second set of actions were reaching a stealth crescendo; whether a result of the bar music or not I couldn’t tell.  There are certain ways one can react to popular shriveled leprechaun vocalists building up hearts of listeners with irreversible we will hope’s and oooooh, don’t you know?s over simple creamy synth and a delirious light tone. One must pay attention to the background world, it is a dangerous dimension that sprays its mechanisms onto thoughts and senses even if you are in focus and obviously the more interesting subject. Therefore, background music must be monitored at all times. Atrocities incubate under background music, background glances, moments on the way to being busy, sounds on the street on the way back home. 

[loadtheme52]

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Download

Download Ghost Recon Desert Siege Pc Game Highly Compressed

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Download Free

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Free Download Pc

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Cheats

Buy Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Desert Siege. Tom Clancy's Ghost Recon: Desert Siege is available for a small price on the following websites, and is no longer abandonware.GoG.com provides the best release and does not include DRM, please buy from them!You can read our online store guide. Ghost Recon Game Updates; Ghost Recon: Desert Siege v1.2.10.0 GERMAN Fixed EXE; Ghost Recon: Desert Siege v1.0 ENGLISH Fixed EXE; Ghost Recon v1.3.6.0 ENGLISH No-CD/Fixed EXE.

GR Mods Update Nov. 2020

GhostRecon.net has been serving Ghost Recon mods for almost 20 years, however the system used to deliver these mods has become outdated and requires an upgrade before it can be brought back online.

We have been providing these fantastic mods for free for almost 20 years – but now we need your help to keep this service going. If you have enjoyed our mod collection over the years, or if you want to see this collection back online, please help by contributing to the cost of hiring a PHP developer to bring our download system up to date. Everyone who contributes will recieve a permanent namecheck on the downloads page when it come back online.

1300+ Mods

5 million+ Downloads

Home of Heroes Unleashed

100's of Mods for each game

100’s of Ghost Recon mods, 200+ Weapons and skin mods, 11 Amazing Unofficial Expansion Packs, 100+ Custom Campaigns, 80+ New Maps, 25 massive Total Conversions, hundreds of new missions, over 60Gb of files, 300+ GRAW mods, 200+ GRAW2, etc etc….

Heroes Unleashed, CENTCOM, Year of the Monkey, War of Infamy, Frostbite, P2 A Cold Day in Hell, Rockall, Icebreaker, BloodOil, No Easy Day, Israeli Defence Force, Alpha Mod, Sabre Teams, 101st Airborne, British Royal Marines, HX5 Red Sun, Demon Rage, Bravo 2-5, Fight For Freedom, Free Russia, Saving Private Ryan, Sniper Team, 8 Days Reloaded, Brothers in Arms, Band of Brothers, Eagle Claw, Free Libya!, 7.62 Weapon Mod, Standard Upgrade, Spetsgruppa-Vympel and 100’s more…

“the mod collection is brilliant some stuff I’ve never seen before”

“I was totally blown away with all the mods available right now after all these years.”

“”I have been like a kid at Christmas time, installing the mods and playing GR again….”

If you know a PHP programmer who could help re-code a legacy script, please get in touch.

The only current alternative to access the full collection of Ghost Recon mods is on a 64Gb USB stick. This service will be withdrawn at the end of 2020.

Expansion packs should be approached with extreme caution. With a few notable exceptions, they're hastily cobbled together while the full game is still in the charts and offer nothing but a few more pounds in the publisher's pockets. Desert Siege is not just a notable exception, it's downright exceptional. Despite being shorter (eight missions instead of the original 15), it is a richer, more rewarding experience than Ghost Recon ever was. And, unless you've forgotten, Ghost Recon was absolutely brilliant.You might not think that transplanting the action from the drizzly forests of Russia to the desert borders of Ethiopia would be that much of an improvement, but the arid, camel-coloured environment is actually much better suited to both GR's graphics engine and its gameplay.

Lifting The Fog

Two of my main criticisms of Ghost Recon were the levels of fogging and the fact that you spent too much time shooting at dots in the landscape. Both flaws have been dealt with. The fogging in Desert Siege is almost unnoticeable, presumably because there are far fewer trees to render, and you often get to see the face of your enemy before it's replaced by a fistful of bullets. The graphics are crisper and more detailed, and the varied topography means that the miles of desert never get boring. All apps free download.

Download Ghost Recon Desert Siege Pc Game Highly Compressed

But what really sets it apart from Ghost Recon is the extraordinary level design, balanced to perfection to provide a massive challenge that keeps you engrossed every step of the way and lets you approach each objective using different tactics. While GR's levels looked and felt like arranged polygons in a computer game, Desert Siege's suck you in so deep you forget you're playing a game at all.

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Download Free

Who Cares About The Politics?

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Free Download Pc

This feeling is reinforced by the massively improved enemy Al, (although your own team is still prone to getting shot if left alone) which has been fine-tuned to make them slightly more fallible when shooting but much more intelligent in their movements. They're also much more likely to throw grenades at you when you take cover. And when you see a pineapple land under your feet you know for sure you're six feet under. The lack of trees and fogging also means you don't get shot from out of nowhere like you did in Ghost Recon every few minutes. It makes for a slightly less tense experience, but it's every bit as atmospheric and much more fun.

Ghost Recon Desert Siege Cheats

Because of this, all the great things that were already there (the excellent command interface, the RPG elements, the unlocking of specialist soldiers, the detailed character models) seem even greater. It's not very often that we recommend an add-on pack as an essential purchase, but it's not every day we get one like Desert Siege.

[zimzamkirsty]

Artist Case Study

My group did the German Photographer Wolfgang Tillmans. Group consisted of myself, Ashley and Kerin. Did a power point presentation on him.Here is the research on him and a few of his works.

Biography: (done by Kerin)

Wolfgang Tillmans is a German Photographer born in 1968. He started out documenting club life and youth counterculture with his work appearing in magazines like Face and I-D, then he was picked up by galleries and started to exhibit widely. His work is incredibly prolific and diverse, and he utilizes the full range of photographic technology and subject matter at his disposal. Prior to 2009 and he worked exclusively with an analogue 50 mm SLR camera, but by 2012 he had stopped using film and is now a full time digital photographer. He shoots portraits, still-lifes and landscapes in which the subjects range from partially nude friends, domestic items on window-sills, architecture and natural environments. In recent times his work has become increasingly political with his EU campaign posters exemplifying the anti-Brexit movement.

He has won numerous awards including the Tate Turner prize in 2000 (he’s the first non-British person to win this), and he is the member of the Royal Academy of Arts, London and he lives and works in London and Berlin.

He says, “What connects all my work is finding the right balance between intention and chance, doing as much as I can and knowing when to let go.”

Freischwimmer 20, 2003

Freischwimmer 34, 2004

Freischwimmer Series:

Tillmans Freischwimmer Series is an abstract series of photographs produced without the use of a camera. They celebrate the most basic principle of photography, transforming light into line. They are created with a manual manipulation of “light-sources and light-emitting tools” over light-sensitive paper in the light room.

Literally translated from German, ‘Freischwimmer’, means ‘free swimmer’, and it comes from the badge of a child receives for passing a swimming test. It also has a figurative meaning of learning to stand on your own two feet. This idea of liberation comes through Tillmans’ use of laser-light to generate surface pattern, as he relinquishes control and allows light to imprint spontaneously on the paper’s surface.

Tillmans aimed to “disturb” the traditional use of photography as a documentation of reality and to expose “an object in space”. Instead, he shows us a mixture of paper and dye and an image of mechanics and processing. Tillmans had a childhood fascination with astronomy and this work is evocative of a telescope’s visual rendering of the sun’s swirling surface. 

He installed these large inkjet prints in the gallery on bulldog clips, subverting traditional ideas of exhibition presentation with a more informal feel of an artist’s studio or darkroom.

Astro Crusto, 2012

Tukan, 2017

2017 Exhibit at the Tate Gallery:

Tillmans 2017 Exhibit at the Tate Gallery includes a body of work that was shown from 15 February - 11 June 2017. From intimate still-lifes and portraits, to images that address vital political issues, his work seeks to explore the world in which we find ourselves today.

As Tillmans first ever exhibition at Tate Modern his exhibit brings together exciting varieties of media -photographs, of course, but also video, digital slide projections, publications, curatorial projects and recorded music - all staged by the artist in his characteristically innovative style.

The exhibit consists of fourteen rooms with the third focused on his emerging project Neue Welt.

Having spent the preceding decade working largely on conceptual and abstract photographs, in 2009 Tillmans embarked on the four-year project for Neue Welt. Looking at the world with fresh eyes, he aimed depict how it has changed since he first took up the camera in 1988. He travelled the five continents to find places unknown to him and visited familiar places as if experiencing them for the first time. Interested in the surface of things as they first appeared in those lucid first days of being in a new environment, he immersed himself in each location for a brief period of time. 

Now using a high-resolution digital camera, Tillmans captured images in a depth of detail that is immediately compelling, but also suggests the excess of information that is often described aa a condition of temporary life.

Communal spaces, people, animals and still-life studies of nature or food are just some of the subjects that feature in Neue Welt. Seen together, these images offer a deliberately fragmented view. Rather than making an overarching statement about the changing character of modern life, Tillmans sought only to record, and to create a more empathetic understanding of the world.

Tate Modern Edition #120, 2016

Distorted Series:

This is part of a series consisting of 172 unique abstract prints taken from the construction site of a new extension of the Tate Modern.

This series is an example of how Tillmans challenges photography’s conventions and experiments with the technical and chemical processes behind photography. He documented what he found fascinating within the construction site, for example people, machinery and building materials. Then he proceeded to distort it using a more outdated photocopier. 

He then took the photos and separated their colour into CMYK then did a process of reprinting 4 times to overlay the separate colours resulting in an abstracted version of them, while making them slightly offset so each individual colour could show through. 

The work plays with the viewers perception of the image and the reality of what they are looking at. He investigates and experiments with the processes and methodologies of creating the abstracted images.

Tillmans had a non-hierarchical approach to installing these works, with none of the images being more important than the other. He thought that the works could be displayed in any configuration.

He said, ‘I try to approximate the way I see the world, not in a linear order but a multitude of parallel experiences. Multiple singularities, simultaneously accessible as they share the same space or room.’

He plays with the methodologies of presenting and exhibiting, and he often pins and tapes his works to the wall.

[aion-rsa]

Why I Am Legend Has One of the Most Frustrating Endings in Science Fiction

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Last March, confronted with a pandemic none of us had expected or understood, many people found themselves rewatching Stephen Soderberg’s Contagion. Whether out of morbid fascination or as a guideline to what we might see in the future it quickly topped charts on streaming services. A year on and another pandemic movie has made it into Netflix’s top 10 – 2007’s I Am Legend, a horror sci-fi starring Will Smith as Dr. Robert Neville, who thinks he’s the last man on Earth after a virus has wiped out most of the population. Directed by Francis Lawrence, who would go on to make the Hunger Games sequels, a new adaptation of Richard Matheson’s 1954 novel had been in the works at Warner Bros. since the mid ‘90s, with various talent attached, including Ridley Scott and Michael Bay as directors and Tom Cruise and Arnold Schwarzenegger to star. 

At its release the movie was praised for Smith’s performance but criticised for an overuse of CGI and a weak third act, but rewatching against the backdrop of 2021 what really sticks is how much of a wasted opportunity I Am Legend was. This is an hour of an excellent film, then 30-odd minutes of rubbish.

What you might remember of I Am Legend is this: cool empty New York stuff, Batman V Superman logo on a building, Will Smith talks to mannequins, the dog dies, CGI zombies, the end. But it’s so much better than that (until it’s not).

The first hour of I Am Legend is incredibly sparse. Virtually silent except for flashbacks, Dr. Neville is alone and talks only to his dog, Sam, and to mannequins he’s placed around shops and the street to try to emulate real life. New York is deserted. Each day when the sun is at its highest point, he waits at a meeting place he’s broadcast on the radio for other survivors to find him. Each day he is disappointed. His routines are down pat. He and the dog eat well from food scavenged during the day. At night they lock down and stay silent, hidden from the initially unseen threat outside. Neville is immune to infection but not to being killed by the creatures that keep him locked away at night, and on whom he experiments during the day. Neville is trying to find a cure using his antibodies, testing first on zombie rats and then on the infected human subjects he keeps chained up in his underground lab. He keeps failing. Is he really trying to save humanity? Or does he just want someone to talk to? Perhaps the two things are the same.

Forget zombies, I Am Legend is an exploration of the pure horror of being alone – it’s resonant as all hell in the current climate where we know that hordes of other people exist but that they pose an actual threat of death. That loneliness is so acute that talking to a dog or a shop dummy – or indeed a plant, your computer, the TV – seems completely legit. Neville’s struggles with socialization once Alice Braga’s Anna is in the picture feel entirely authentic and familiar – has he gone slightly mad from the loneliness and isolation, the film posits? In 2021, have we? 

Keeping the CGI baddies in the shadows is a wise move, and even though they really haven’t aged well, in the first hour there’s still scope for a few decent scares. The best comes when Neville is caught in a trap set for him by one of the creatures – a trap which mirrors one he himself had set earlier to capture the latest of the infected he’s experimenting on. Hung up by a foot with the sun rapidly fading, when Neville wakes from his concussion he is in a serious rush to save himself with his faithful friend Sam barking in panic below him.

When it’s him and the dog, Smith is brilliant. Sam (played by two dogs – Abbey and Kona) is also excellent. And at the end of this sequence when the dog dies, bitten by zombie hounds and euthanized by Neville, it is genuinely devastating. Forget Marley and Me, this isn’t canine grief porn – instead the moment a grief stricken Neville goes to the record shop and talks to a mannequin, begging her to “please say hello to me,” is deeply upsetting. Smith does some very heavy lifting and it really holds up. Neville has hit rock bottom. Without Sam there’s nothing left to live for. Neville heads out into the night on a kamikaze mission to take as many creatures with him as he dies. The end. Except it’s not.

Instead, the film is completely ruined by the deus ex machina arrival of another survivor, Anna (Alice Braga) and her son Ethan (Charlie Tahan) who rescue Neville. Anna says she believes God sent her to find Neville and take him to a survivor colony she thinks exists in Vermont. 

Anna’s arrival is no doubt supposed to provide hope and redemption in the final act after the incredibly moving end of the previous act but ultimately it does the opposite. Her random appearance undermines the three years Neville has endured. Neville has lived with the frankly torturous concept that he was the last man alive, but instead he’s faced with the possibility of a survivor community that somehow she has managed to track down while he has not, and the thought that for three years (or however long he’s been sending his own broadcast) survivors, in all likelihood, did hear his missive but never responded. His strength and resilience, his battle to stay sane, these were nothing, there were other people who could have found him, or he them, all along. Bad luck Neville, you spent three years trying to find a cure when you could have just had a chat with God (or worked harder on your telecoms). Bleak for him but in this version he becomes a martyr of sorts.

Anna and her son arrive and trigger a mega zombie showdown in the house. In a stroke of luck, Anna’s arrival has coincided with the latest strain of antidote actually working, so when Neville, Anna, and her son barricade themselves in the lab, Neville is able to extract a vial of the cure to give to Anna and then sacrifices himself so she can escape the creatures. Neville is killed but the cure is safe and arrives at the encampment with Anna, his life’s work wasn’t futile, and Anna gives a speech essentially saying how much of a legend Robert Neville was.

Yep, the title of the film has been completely reinterpreted from the original text here to mean “I am a total legend!” rather than the much much darker meaning found in Richard Matheson’s wonderful novel.

In the novel Robert Neville’s foes are vampires and other than the traditional vampire weaknesses – garlic, sunlight, stake through the heart, etc – they are intelligent, articulate, and human-like. In Matheson’s book Neville meets and becomes involved with a woman whom he discovers is a vampire sent to spy on him; the race of infected have managed to treat and control their symptoms and are forming a new society, while he’s been hunting them down. And the woman’s husband is one of the vampires Neville has killed. 

The book ends with a dying Neville realizing that, to the vampires, he is the bogeyman, the stuff of nightmares, as vampires themselves were once to humans. He will become a legend, not because he’s a great man, but because in his extinction he will be a cautionary tale and a mythical figure to a newly formed society. 

The director’s cut alternate ending of I Am Legend gives more of a nod to Matheson’s book – it’s better but it’s still not great. In this version the alpha male zombie who set the trap for Neville is bashing his head repeatedly on the locked door of Neville’s lab where Neville, Anna, her son, and his latest test subject, a female, are barricaded. Through the glass, the alpha male makes the sign of a butterfly (a call back to a gesture Neville’s daughter makes earlier in the film) to indicate the butterfly tattoo the female has. Neville understands finally that the “darkseekers” have their own relationships and community. The woman is the alpha’s partner. To the darkseekers, Neville is the monster, who has been capturing and torturing members of their group. Behind him is a photo wall of each creature he has experimented on and eventually killed. Willing to sacrifice himself so that Anna and her son can escape, he is now at the mercy of the alpha. In fact, when he apologizes and returns the captured female, the darkseekers show Neville mercy and don’t kill him. In this version Neville, Anna, and her son travel to the survivors’ community together and Neville lives.

This ending works better and gives more resonance to certain earlier scenes – the alpha male exposing himself to sunlight after the female is captured, the trap alpha uses on Neville matching the one Neville used on the female, the scenes of Neville experimenting on the female causing her excruciating pain – the final beats still don’t land. The outdated CGI renders the creatures so far away from humanity that the emotional resonance is lost. “Sorry about torturing your missus,” doesn’t have quite the impact it should and the existence of the community in Vermont, far from feeling hopeful, gives a sense that Neville has just wasted the last three years.

Neither ending properly gets across the significance of Matheson’s title, and the inclusion of reference to Bob Marley’s album Legend only muddies things further.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Lawrence’s I Am Legend is so nearly a brilliant, thrilling, troubling exploration of loneliness and isolation and it could have had a gut punch ending which remained faithful to the book had they gone for something other than the CGI zombies. Instead it’s a movie which builds to an electric crisis point and then throws it all in the bin with unnecessary new characters, a religious message, and a faux happy ending that no one needed.

I Am Legend is available to stream on Netflix (US) and Sky and Now TV (UK).

The post Why I Am Legend Has One of the Most Frustrating Endings in Science Fiction appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/3rBOkVR

[msclaritea]

~59 & The Cycle of Life~

In The Six Thatchers, John receives 59 texts from Mary, who has gone into labor. But he missed them. Why 59?

If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguil'd, Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burthen of a former child! O, that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done! That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame; Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O! sure I am, the wits of former days To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 

"Sonnet 59 dwells on the paradox that what is new is always expressed in terms of what already is known."

 Thomas Foster asserts that "pure originality is impossible. Human beings are fascinated by life in space and time, so when we write about "ourselves" and "what it means to be human", we are really just writing the story of life. Quotes:

"If you look at any literary period between the eighteenth and twenty-first centuries, you'll be amazed by the dominance of the Bard. He's everywhere, in every literary form you can think of. And he's never the same: every age and every writer reinvents its own Shakespeare."

With each rewriting of this "story of life" the author is influenced by changes in attitudes and cultures between the original and current era of creation. Each author alters the message to fit their own views while the audience is a variable agency in the making of an interpretation. All of these same old factors help create a new story. The fear expressed in line 1–2, "If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled", is remedied by the strength of Shakespeare's own "invention" and its ability to influence future ages.          

(see dennis-oneil-sherlock-and-theseuss-paradox)

"Substantiation of beauty was a result of the Renaissance. This accomplishment was rendered by "the revelation of man to himself, and he discovered that he had a body of which he could be as proud as of his mind, and which was just as essential to his being."

 Mind and body, form and feeling, flesh and thought

 ...in the book The Body Emblazoned, by Jonathon Sawday, Shakespeare's sonnets are used to exhibit the idea of confrontation between the physical and the psychological human being. The conflict for early Renaissance writers involved the interaction between the "material reality" and the "abstract idea" of the body. The conceptual framework of the period was starting to dissect the material from the immaterial; the subject from the object. This idea is commonly referred to as the body and soul or mind and body conflict. Shakespeare is not exempt from this cultural ideology. In fact, his writing reflects a bodily interiority that was changing with new discoveries in science and art...The outside world of the physical body is a part of the language in use by Shakespeare and his peers to portray the inward world of emotion and thought. Characters are the "vehicles" for meaning much as the body is the "vehicle" for the mind.

"In the pilot's restaurant scene, it is implied that Sherlock hasn't eaten in a while. John asks if he's going to eat, Sherlock asks for the date and then states that he's "okay for a bit." John is alarmed by Sherlock's treatment of his body as "transport" for his mind and little else." The Unaired Pilot

"Since mind at first in character was done Yet, Shakespeare blurs the threshold between the two concepts of body and mind. "Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss The second burden of a former child!".

*The process of creation in the mind becomes the physical process of labor.*

Birth and pregnancy

Pauline Kieman makes a very good case that the first quatrain in Sonnet 59 is dealing primarily with the theme of biological birth and pregnancy. She makes many claims supporting this idea, but the main points are as follows: 1. Invention becomes an image of pregnancy, and imaginative creation is now the dominating sense of invention so that we are made to picture to ourselves an embryo growing in the womb. 2. At line 4 the sense of the pain of a heavily pregnant womb is doubled by the word "second". 3. The poet tries to bring something into being for the first time, but before it can get born it is crushed under the weight of previous creations. e.g. "which for labouring invention bear amiss."

Joel Fineman also subscribes to the theory of pregnancy and birth being a theme of the Sonnet, particularly the first quatrain, but he takes a different approach in his final analysis of this theme. He suggests that this rebirth is not a biological rebirth, but rather a rebirth of subjectivity, particularly within the Late Renaissance. So, in other words, the rebirth is not literal, as stated by Kieman, but rather the rebirth is symbolic of the sentiments and intellectual themes of the Late Renaissance. There is still a theme of birth, pregnancy, or rebirth, it is just concluded in different terms.

The young man

Russell Fraser suggests that Shakespeare's "if" clause which occurs in "if there be nothing new..." actually is referring to something new beneath the sun, namely, the young man. He also states that Shakespeare reverses his claim, but his main purpose is inclusiveness, wherein lies power.

Biblical allusions

Much of the sonnet seems to be focused on a debate as to whether the old style or the new is superior. In fact, the opening lines stating that "If there be nothing new, but that which is Hath been before…" call to mind a similar passage that would have far outdated Shakespeare, but that would have been familiar to most learned men of his day. In the biblical book of Ecclesiastes, chapter 1, verse 9, it is written that "The thing that hath been is that which shall be; and that which hath been done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun."

The speaker asks whether the Fair Youth has surpassed his ancient equivalents, or whether he has fallen short of their legacy...Ultimately, the speaker decides that even if the Youth has not out-shined his predecessors, he is still certainly more beautiful than at least some who came before him, as the speaker states in lines 13 and 14:

"O, sure I am, the wits of former days / To subjects worse have given admiring praise." X