#Che Maker

[westgateoh]

When Thalric turns himself over to the Empire but leaves Che with a little kiss (that she doesn’t pull away from omg) and the thought that her lover, Achaeas, is so lucky to have her I DIED I AM DEAD. I thought this series had already killed me several times but that was it. I love them all. I have never loved a fantasy series as much as I love this one.

[allenkobitch]

everytime_we_touch.wmv

2010 style Windows Movie Maker Sylusmc edit 🙂‍↕️

[lordansketil]

"Not your niece?" He was so ready to go and rescue Che. It's crazy. Want me to go rescue your niece that I enslaved, interrogated, and almost tortured? She was cute and smart and I decided not to kill her while she was escaping in Myna because she's too good for this world.

[voidsylus]

did they seriously think pissing off their biggest whales would NOT end up in consequences

you can’t disrespect and mistreat sylus while also going after his girlies who want him to have equal treatment and expect us to throw our money for banners in january

i spent a fortune last money to collect and max rank sylus cards, but january (delux package before the boycott happened) about $30 and thanks to it, ive been saving my diamonds for valentines banner to secure him and ranking home without spending any extra money

infold greed will be their undoing and it’ll only continue unless they make a change

And here we see the direct consequence of a company disrespecting their own character and customers. Take note and do better, Paperfold.

[luvyeni]

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ─── giving chenle access of your body for the whole day …

( 対 ) zhong chenle + fem. reader wc. 0.5k genre smut · contains! somo , free use , unprotected sex , oral ( m ) mature content. / back to library

giving chenle free use of your body and him taking full advantage of it , the moment he sees that you’re wearing the bracelet he bought you just for this , it’s game time for him.

he’d literally wake you up by slowly climbing on top your sleeping body , sliding his thick cock inside of you , groaning as your body reacted to him immediately , clenching around him. “fuck.” he sighed , slowly moving his hips , enough to make you stir awake. “che-chenle.” moaning as you feel him moving faster. “fuck.” wrapping your legs around his waist , pounding into you. “fu-fuck you’re so wet for me , like you’ve been waiting for me to fuck you awake.” he grunted. “such a tight fucking pussy , gonna use your pretty body.” rubbing your clit , your legs shaking as you cum around him. “fuck i’m gonna cum inside you -fuck- want you to keep it inside.”

you felt him painting your walls white , slowly pulling out , giving you sweet little kisses on your cheeks. “you know i love you right?” he reassured you. “of course.” you said. “good because all day im gonna fuck you like i don’t.” and he surely did prove that.

you didn’t even bother putting on pants that day , just settling with one of his shirts , knowing it wouldn’t make a difference; especially when he introduced the marker. “bend over for me.” he pushed up on you against the sink while you were cooking breakfast. “we literally just went at it in the shower.” he slapped your ass. “i can’t help it , i want to do something.” you felt the tip of the maker on your ass. “wh-what are you doing.” feeling him slide inside of you. “fu-fuck i wanna keep track.” he moved his hips. “wanna see how many times i cum inside you.” you both had never done that before , but hearing that made you clench out him.

“fuck.” gripping your hips to keep you steady as he fucked you over the kitchen sink. “you got even fucking tighter after hearing that , nasty girl.” you moaned. “that’s so fucking hot.” he grunted , violently snapping his hips against yours. “fuck fuck fuck!” you screamed. “such a slut for me.” he growled. “want to be my cum dump for the day , let me fill you up with my seed?” slapping your ass. “su-such a perfect slut for me and me only.” you nodded dumbly. “go-gonna fucking cum.” he pulled you up against him as he came. “fuck i love you so much.”

that is how the entire day goes , the both of you going at it and him keeping score. sometime he didn’t even fuck you , sliding into your mouth , using your throat as his personal fleshlight , pulling out to cum on your cheek , marking you with not only that , but with the markers.

by time the end of the day you were both exhausted , chenle had wore you both out . helping you into the shower , cleaning off the sweat and cum — and the marker , giving you soft kisses as he praised you for taking everything he gave you that day , washing your hair and helping you get dress , laying down next to you in bed.

“how many times did you count?” you asked as he rubbed your sore legs. “i honestly don’t remember.” he said. “i don’t even think i marked it sometimes.” you laughed , he wrapped his arms kissing your head. “i guess we’ll have to try again another day.”

“another day where i can fuck you whenever i want? sign me up.”

©️LUVYENI

[boyfrills]

͝͏ ྀྀྀ୧‿̩͙⠀⠀⠀masc dove⠀⠀⠀⠀✚⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𓏼

⠀꣹۫⠀⠀⠀⠀npts ⠀ ͓ ̼͜ ͝͏ ྀི͜

⠀ names⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◞◟ ͜𓉯ྀ

fawn ◞ frail ◞ hato ◞ douwe ◞ kontara ◞ kumru ◞ vidan ◞ yonel ◞ colum ◞ jonah ◞ riku ◞ kuuto ◞ mihato ◞ kyuukoku ◞ atbir

⠀ prns⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◞◟ ͜𓉯ྀ

holy ╱ holys ◞ dove ╱ doves ◞ wings ╱ wings ◞ innocent ╱ innocents ◞ shy ╱ sy ◞ che ╱ cheri ◞ softie ╱ softies ◞ cub ╱ cubs ◞ saint ╱ saints ◞ angel ╱ angelself ◞ cherub ╱ cherubim ◞ divine ╱ divinity ◞ silver ╱ silvers ◞ dawn ╱ dawns

⠀ titles⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀◞◟ ͜𓉯ྀ

the innocent one ◞ [partners] only dove ◞ wings like a dove ◞ the whispering of the doves ◞ prn of heaven ◞ the peace maker ◞ one's innocence ◞ dove trapped in cage ◞ the holy one ◞ the freedom of your own

NOTES ! research the names before using them , i added some names from my culture and other cultures so use with caution . sorry if this turned out shit . gift for @princefrail

[theoasiswinds]

Its so beautiful I could DIE

EHHHH THE MAPMAKER!!! don't guide him! is a trap!!! XDDD

pic for my dear @theoasiswinds

[mageknife]

🎲 + arum and anders?

from here; send 🎲 to generate a kiss

41. a kiss out of spite - arum hawke/anders (mild nsfw)

Arum usually made wiser decisions than this. Two apostates sneaking through Hightown under the moonlight were a fight waiting to happen—whether with Templars (worst case scenario), the City Guard (slightly less bad, though not ideal), or any of the miscellaneous Kirkwall criminal gangs (manageable, but quite annoying to have to deal with on an otherwise lovely night).

Anders was usually wiser, too, but when a slightly drunk Arum had proposed the idea, Anders had agreed nearly instantly. “Alright, why not,” he’d said before downing the rest of the chamomile tea that wouldn’t be doing much good to put him to sleep that night. “We have to skulk around this city all the time. Might as well have some fun with it for once.”

And so they found themselves in the alley behind the Chantry, looking over their shoulders as they tiptoed into the hidden side entrance that Sebastian would certainly regret telling Arum about someday.

A left turn down this hallway, a right turn down that one. Through the door with the rounded top that’s blocked off by stacks of empty crates. Up the spiral staircase—careful, the fourth, tenth, and seventeenth steps creak, so be sure to skip those ones. He repeated Sebastian’s directions in his head as he counted the steps under his breath, his left hand on the banister, his right hand laced with Anders’s.

“Maker’s balls,” Anders said through gritted teeth when he tripped on the seventeenth step and it groaned at him as if it were in pain.

Arum winced. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but can you blaspheme in this house of worship just a little bit more quietly?”

Anders hopped over the offending step with a huff. “Oh, I’ll show you blasphemy.”

“You’d better. If you don’t, I’m not sure what we went through all this trouble for.” Arum squeezed his hand and ducked under the doorway at the top of the stairs that was not built to accommodate a man of his height. The attic’s heat and musty odor hit him simultaneously, and he briefly wondered if this plan would have been better left as an idea.

Anders whistled lowly as he shut the door behind him. “Well, it’s certainly no Blooming Rose.”

“That it isn’t.” Crates, boxes, and bits of old furniture were strewn about with no clear rhyme or reason, a layer of dust coating everything in sight that made Arum sneeze when he ran his finger over a mahogany tabletop. He grabbed the edge of the table and shook, inspecting its integrity, and when it passed the first test, he hopped up and sat on it. It held fast under his weight. Arum exhaled in relief; he wasn’t sure what they’d do if they broke a table in the attic very loudly. They’d run, he supposed. There was a skylight to his left that might get them onto the roof for a quick escape.

Arum shook his head, trying to push his worries aside and focus on where he was right now: sitting on a table in the Chantry’s attic with his legs spread, an open invitation for Anders to sin before the Maker in whatever way he saw fit. He could kneel in prayer, asking an unwatching god for forgiveness he wouldn’t offer before blessing Arum with the feeling of those chapped lips on him and around him. Or he could lie Arum’s back on the table, Arum’s legs around his waist as Anders reached lower between them, filling him with promises that no force in the world, no Chantry or Maker or egomaniac Knight-Commander, could ever tear them from each other, especially not here, not with Anders so deep inside him that it would take an otherworldly power yet unheard of to make them stop indulging in the bliss they both deserved.

“Anders,” he said softly, startling the other from his thoughts that had likely gone in a similar direction as Arum’s, given his darkened eyes and hitched breath when Arum spoke his name. “Come here, pumpkin. Let’s show them what they can’t take from us.”

With two impatient strides, Anders was standing in front of him, chests pressed so close that Arum could feel his heartbeat in full gallop, as if it were screaming at him to flee instead of indulging in such a precarious pursuit. Pale, shaky hands cupped Arum’s cheeks and tilted his head upward, two sets of golden-brown eyes sharing an adoring gaze, an unspoken oath between them that they’d keep each other safe, that even if they were to be chased through the streets by the Grand Cleric, it would be worth it just to have this.

“No matter how hard they try, or how badly they want us to suffer,” Anders murmured, lips brushing the shell of Arum’s ear, “they can never take this from us.” He planted a kiss on Arum’s temple, another on his cheekbone, a nip on his earlobe, a drag of his tongue down his jawline. When their mouths met each other, there was no hesitation; Arum groaned as Anders buried his tongue in his throat like it could tear itself off and live in there forever, away from the prying eyes of any Templars or nosy Chantry Mothers, a part of him stashed deep within Arum for eternity.

He grabbed Arum’s shoulders and pushed him so that his back was on the table, the old thing shuddering a bit with the force of it. “They can never take this from us,” he repeated, his voice a slightly deeper timbre than before, a bit of blue light beginning to shine from his eyes, and Arum knew that he and Anders were not alone in this attic; the third presence seemed to more than approve, though, hungry for the reward despite the risk, spurred on by the desire to show those who doubted them that they would not be deterred by anything.

The same pale hands, steadier now, began undoing the buttons and ties on Arum’s vest, and once that was out of the way, Anders growled and tore his shirt open from the neckline down. Arum only briefly lamented having to repair it later before sharp bites and rough kisses trailed from his jawline to his throat to between his collarbones, and all he could do in response was whimper desperately.

Anders breathed heavily against Arum’s chest. His hands clasped Arum’s where they were white-knuckling the table’s edge and brought them above his head instead, pinning him down on the dusty mahogany. “You are mine, and you will never belong to them,” said a voice into Arum’s sternum. He wasn’t sure if this was Anders or Justice speaking, and he wasn’t sure it mattered; he was entranced by both of them, irrevocably in love, and whether it was one or both of them claiming him, he belonged to them in his entirety.

“I am yours,” he replied breathlessly, squirming as the mouth on his chest licked and sucked lower and lower. “And you are mine. I’ll let this Chantry burn before I let them tear us apart.”

Anders looked up at him with a smile, tender and soft with an edge of near giddiness at this wanton act of rebellion. “As will I, my love. As will I.”

[soaringthroughthegalaxy]

Gentle Hands

Back on Kamino after successfully rescuing Echo and retaking Anaxes, you know just how to soothe Wrecker’s lingering back pain.

Pairing: Wrecker x f!reader

Word count: 1.4k

Warnings: established relationship, pet names, little bit of angst and comfort, flashback to how Wrecker got his scars, minor mentions of blood, fluff, soft love, light sprinkle of the hots for this giant mans size/strength, slight suggestiveness.

A/N: saw a headcannon that Wrecker doesn’t have a cybernetic eye and is instead partially/fully blind in that eye, and now I can’t get that out of my head.

Translations: ner kar'ta – my heart

“Urgh.” Wrecker’s grunt echoes through the barracks as he flops face-first onto his bunk. You’d just arrived back on Kamino from Anaxes, another successful mission accomplished and a new squad member onboard.

Tech had disappeared off with Echo in search of better armour and weapons for the ARC Trooper. Crosshair had slunk off in the direction of the shooting range – not that he needed the practice - while Hunter had remained on the Marauder, needing the peace of the empty ship to finish his mission reports.

That had left you and Wrecker alone, and your man had wanted nothing more than to nap.

“At least take your armour off first.” You gently nudge Wrecker’s shoulder, earning a grumble of protest. He pushes himself up, big hands prying his armour off his body, depositing it with various clangs beside his bunk. You loved him, but Maker above, he could be messy.

Back on the bed, face pressed into the mattress, Wrecker winced, feeling a tweak in his lower back. “Babe…” He called for you, turning his head to watch you take your armour off, stacking it neatly on the large table in the middle of the room.

His gaze roved across your body, admiring the soft curves of your frame as you turned back to him, hands on your hips and an eyebrow arched. He couldn’t help but feel lucky to have you. You’d started as their civilian handler, feeding them missions and making sure they came back safely – the Kaminoans couldn’t have anything happen to their prized experimental unit, after all – but somewhere along the way, you’d stolen his heart, with your soft smile and easy nature. You laughed at his jokes, stayed up to watch holofilms with him, cooed over Lula the first time you saw her, and were always happy to hand over a detonator or two when he had the urge to blow something up. At times, you tempered the big kid in him, while other times, you let go of the reins and let him run wild.

“Yes, ner kar’ta?” You ask, taking a few steps over to his bunk. For the sake of appearances, you had your own bunk, though it was never used. The rest of the squad knew of your relationship, but it was a well-guarded secret, not wanting to risk the Kaminoans finding out.

As you draw closer, Wrecker drags an arm out from underneath him to gently snag your hand, tugging you in. He’d always been hyper-aware of his size and strength, but he was especially cautious with you. Hurting you was something he never wanted to do, even if it was an accident.

“Think I’ve tweaked my back,” Wrecker admits, offering you a sheepish smile.

You can’t help but smile in return, the corners of your lips curving as your loveable giant gives your hand a soft squeeze. For a moment, you admire him, still in awe that he’s yours. But as usual, a flicker of guilt passes through you as your traitorous eyes slink to the web of scars across half his face, his damaged ear, and the milkiness of his right eye. It was your fault he was partially blind.

You’d only been with the boys a handful of months when you’d missed a tripwire as you’d been pushing forward through a cave, setting off a nearby explosive. You’d been out in the open while the others could duck for cover. Wrecker had decided to protect you, turning you and pressing you to his chest, shielding you from the blast, taking the brunt of it himself. The memory of the dust settling, the blood as you pulled back from his chest and looked up, the panic and fear that had consumed you as you’d taken in the damage he’d sustained right before he passed out... all because you’d forgotten for one moment to look where you were stepping.

He’d been medevaced to a nearby Venator. You’d gone with him, his brothers insisting on it while they finished the mission, knowing it would upset Wrecker if they lost their 100% success rate. Washing his blood off your hands in a small fresher as you waited for news from the medics almost broke you. You’d been so close to handing in your resignation and retreating back to your quiet home planet.

But then he’d woken after surgery, after his brothers had successfully completed the mission and returned, and you’d all been briefed on his condition. His first questions to the medics had been about you – were you safe or hurt? Tears had rolled down your cheeks as the medics had relayed this to you all, Tech subtly pressing a tissue into your hand, and you’d known then in your heart that you could never leave.

“You’re doin’ that thing again,” Wrecker says, having watched a faraway look cross your face. He knew you still struggled with the guilt of his accident. “You’re thinkin’ too much.” He tacks on, gently bringing you down to sit sideways on the edge of his bunk, big arm sliding around your middle. “I don’t blame ya. It was my choice, and I’d do it all again.” He reiterates, pressing a kiss to your body. He said it every time he saw you slipping back into the memory, and he’d keep repeating it until you believed it. 

Pulled back to the present, you offer him a soft smile, one of your hands moving to rub across his broad shoulders. “Sorry, ner kar’ta.” You murmur, focussing instead on the quiet noise of delight falling from his lips as your hands stroke his tense muscles. “Those tri-droids are probably the cause of your back pain.” You comment, watching his eyes flutter shut at your touch, the peacefulness of his expression chasing away the lingering guilt.

“They were stronger than they looked, but I wasn’t gonna let ’em crush the locals.” He comments, feeling himself melt into the mattress the more you rub at his shoulders.

You loved seeing him work, the effortless way he shoved assault tanks around or pried blast doors open, lifting up gunships like they weighed nothing, and how his thick fingers somehow nimbly managed to disarm explosives. “It was hot.” You admit, feeling warmth in your cheeks.

A rumble of laughter leaves him, the deep noise setting off butterflies in your belly, but he winces again as it jostles his back.

“Here.” You shift, gently easing the top of his blacks up. He helps you remove the garment, settling back on the bed as your hands return to his body. Broad shoulders taper down to his narrow waist, scars crisscrossing his warm, tanned skin. Evidence of a lifetime of war.

You get up momentarily, moving silently to your bunk to snag your unscented lotion – constantly aware of Hunter’s senses – and return to Wrecker a moment later. He shifts over, and you sit at his side, squeezing some of the lotion onto your hands. Rubbing them together, you warm them up before you press your hands against his back, dragging them across his body in firm, even strokes.

Wrecker’s moans of appreciation fill the barracks, and you stifle a giggle. Your hands keep working across his body, feeling solid muscles give with every pass, the knots loosening. Pressing your thumbs into his lower back, he grunts, hips rutting against the mattress. “Not until your back is better.” You tease, giving his butt a playful swat.

He grumbles in protest but knows you’re right – he’s too tired for anything anyway. The ache in his back is easing exponentially under your soothing touch, and he smacks his lips together as sleep beckons him, shifting on the mattress into an even comfier position.

The first drag of your nails across his warm skin makes him shiver, the corners of his mouth curving upwards as you start lightly scratching, fingers drawing patterns across the vast expanse of skin. The patterns shift to words, Aurebesh spelling out how much you love him, how handsome he is, how strong he is.

“I love you. You’re so good to me.” He mumbles, feeling the weight of your adoration, his eyes heavy with sleep, his mind struggling to focus on the words you’re scrawling across his body.

A warm smile passes over your lips, and you dip down to kiss his cheek softly. “I love you too.” You whisper back, fingers still moving lightly over his back as you hear his breathing turn deep and heavy, face going slack as he falls asleep.

You scoot to lay beside him, drawing his arm over your body. A nap wouldn’t hurt you, either.

[diceriadelluntore]

Storia Di Musica #352 - Deep Purple, Burn, 1974

Tra i dischi che compiono 50 anni quest'anno, la scelta della domenica dell'Immacolata scalderà il cuore degli amanti dell'hard rock. Fu questo disco la seconda rinascita di una formazione che come poche altre ha segnato l'immaginario musicale, sia per la storia lunga e travagliata, ma soprattutto per la musica, dirompente e davvero una delle poche che ha, quasi da sola, designato un genere. ma andiamo con ordine.

I Deep Purple nel 1972 sono tra le band più famose del mondo, e vengono da una serie di dischi capolavoro incredibile: In Rock (1970), Fireball (1971), e nell'anno magico del '72, Machine Head e quello che è probabilmente uno dei dischi più famosi della storia del rock, Made In Japan. Erano all'epoca alla seconda formazione, quando nel 1970 il cantante Ian Gillian e il bassista Roger Glover subentrano a Rod Evans e Nick Simper e si associano a Jon Lord alle tastiere, Ian Paice alla batteria e alla chitarra di Ritchie Blackmore. Eppure nel momento di massima popolarità, Gillian, attratto dalle sirene di una carriera solista, si chiama fuori, e così fa Glover. Non se ne vanno subito, perchè per motivi contrattuali devono pubblicare un nuovo disco, tra l'altro il primo per la propria casa discografica Purple (che sarà distribuito poi dalla Harvest). È uno stillicidio: si acuiscono i dissidi interni, soprattutto tra Gillian e Blackmore, e il disco che ne viene fuori, Who Do You Think We Are?, esce nel 1973 tra polemiche infinite, e mostra un gruppo stanco e dilaniato che firma solo un brano all'altezza della fama, Woman From Tokyo.

C'è però un lato positivo: quelli che restano hanno tutto il tempo di decidere i sostituti. La scelta è all'inizio su un giovane e pirotecnico bassista, che fa faville con i Trapeze, si chiama Glenn Hughes. Ed è quasi deciso che il posto di Gillian verrà preso da Paul Rodgers in uscita dei Free. Tuttavia Rodgers glissa, fondando i Bad Company, e la band fa un unico provino, dopo un annunio sul Melody Maker, ad un ragazzo di 21 anni, sconosciuto, David Coverdale. Come dirà Paice nelle interviste future, il repertorio che il ragazzo presentò era scarsissimo, ma aveva un che in quella voce dai tratti molto soul e calda, quindi completamente diversa dalla potenza acuta di quella di Gillian, che era l'obiettivo che la band voleva.

Nascono, o meglio, rinascono così i Deep Purple, Mark III (che fa presagire, come nomenclatura, le ulteriori future formazioni), che nel 1974 pubblicano un 33 giri che riporta dove merita la band. Burn esce il 15 Febbraio 1974 e ha nel pezzo di attacco il segnale che la classe è tornata: Burn è uno dei loro brani classici, uno dei riff degni della leggenda dei Deep Purple, che diventerà il brano di apertura di tutti i concerti dei successivi due anni. Vibrante, con la chitarra di Blackmore a giganteggiare, è uno dei brani degli anni '70. Ma è l'intero disco che ammalia: Hughes è fine musicista e compositore, e solo per problemi contrattuali non è citato nei crediti delle canzoni della prima edizione (problema che verrà "risolto" nella edizioni successive, dove nei crediti delle canzoni comprare il suo nome), il suono seppur rimane potente acquista delle inflessioni soul, più blues, e canzoni come Might Just Take Your Life, Lay Down, Stay Down e You Fool No One sono magistrali esempi di quell'hard rock che furono loro, e pochi altri, a costruire a fine anni '60. Il disco è pieno di cavalcate strumentali, non solo di Blackmore alla chitarra (come dimenticare l'assolo alle tastiere di Lord in Burn!), di intrecci vocali e melodici e va ricordato, tra gli altri, quello strepitoso hard blues che è Mistreated, canzone che Blackmore aveva nel cassetto da anni, ma che solo con la voce di Coverdale, che all'esordio fa una figura da veterano, riesce a sviluppare appieno.

La copertina, iconica, ritrae il volto dei musicisti come candele accese, sul retro le stesse candele sono quasi del tutto consumate e sullo sfondo ci sono i veri volti dei musicisti: è opera di Fin Costello. Il disco arriverà in cima alle classifiche di 13 paesi, e il successivo tour avrà grande successo.

La Mark III durerà un altro disco, Stormbringer, dove sono ancora più accentuati il lato funk e soul della nuova formazione, e che regala alcuni brani fortunati (Lady Double Dealer o la stupenda Soldier Of Fortune, che esalta il timbro di Coverdale). Poi nel 1975 Blackmore se ne va a fondare i Rainbow, e la band arriva alla Mark IV con Tommy Bolin, proveniente dagli Zephyr e Bill Bruford: Come Taste The Band è un disco particolare, dove si esalta anche Hughes che duetta spesso con Coverdale e c'è un accenno marcato al funk rock.

La band si scioglie nel 1977, non senza polemica, ma l'affetto dei fan continuerà a lungo, tanto che la leggendaria Mark II, con di nuovo Blackmore e Gillian, si riunì nel 1984 con un album tanto dimenticato quanto bello: Perfect Strangers. E non finirà qui, tra litigi, reunion e un nome significativo e potente come pochi della Storia del rock. Proprio come la loro musica.

[interstellarleap]

Masterlist of Free PDF Versions of Textbooks Used in Undergrad SNHU Courses in 2025 C-1 (Jan - Mar)

Literally NONE of the Accounting books are available on libgen, they all have isbns that start with the same numbers, so I think they're made for the school or something. The single Advertising course also didn't have a PDF available.

This list could also be helpful if you just want to learn stuff

NOTE: I only included textbooks that have access codes if it was stated that you won't need the access code ANYWAY

ATH (anthropology)

only one course has an available pdf ATH-205 - In The Beginning: An Introduction to Archaeology

BIO (Biology)

BIO-205 Publication Manual of the American Psychological Association Essentials of Human Anatomy & Physiology 13th Edition

NOTE: These are not the only textbook you need for this class, I couldn't get the other one

CHE (IDK what this is)

CHE-329

The Aging Networks: A Guide to Policy, Programs, and Services

Publication Manual Of The American Psychological Association

CHE-460

Health Communication: Strategies and Skills for a New Era

Publication Manual Of The American Psychological Association

CJ (Criminal Justice)

CJ-303

The Wisdom of Psychopaths: What Saints, Spies, and Serial Killers Can Teach Us About Success

Without Conscious: The Disturbing World of the Psychopaths Among Us

CJ-308

Cybercrime Investigations: a Comprehensive Resource for Everyone

CJ-315

Victimology and Victim Assistance: Advocacy, Intervention, and Restoration

CJ-331

Community and Problem-Oriented Policing: Effectively Addressing Crime and Disorder

CJ-350

Deception Counterdeception and Counterintelligence

NOTE: This is not the only textbook you need for this class, I couldn't find the other one

CJ-405Private Security Today

CJ-408

Strategic Security Management-A Risk Assessment Guide for Decision Makers, Second Edition

COM (Communications)

COM-230

Graphic Design Solutions

COM-325McGraw-Hill's Proofreading Handbook

NOTE: This is not the only book you need for this course, I couldn't find the other one

COM-329

Media Now: Understanding Media, Culture, and Technology

COM-330The Only Business Writing Book You’ll Ever Need

NOTE: This is not the only book you need for this course, I couldn't find the other one

CS (Computer Science)

CS-319Interaction Design

CYB (Cyber Security)

CYB-200Fundamentals of Information Systems Security

CYB-240

Internet and Web Application Security

NOTE: This is not the only resource you need for this course. The other one is a program thingy

CYB-260Legal and Privacy Issues in Information Security

CYB-310

Hands-On Ethical Hacking and Network Defense (MindTap Course List)

NOTE: This is not the only resource you need for this course. The other one is a program thingy

CYB-400

Auditing IT Infrastructures for Compliance

NOTE: This is not the only resource you need for this course. The other one is a program thingy

CYB-420CISSP Official Study Guide

DAT (IDK what this is, but I think it's computer stuff)

DAT-430

Dashboard book

ECO (Economics)

ECO-322

International Economics

ENG (English)

ENG-226 (I'm taking this class rn, highly recommend. The book is good for any writer)

The Bloomsbury Introduction to Creative Writing: Second Edition

ENG-328

Ordinary genius: a guide for the poet within

ENG-329 (I took this course last term. The book I couldn't find is really not necessary, and is in general a bad book. Very ablest. You will, however, need the book I did find, and I recommend it even for people not taking the class. Lots of good short stories.)

100 years of the best American short stories

ENG-341You can't make this stuff up : the complete guide to writing creative nonfiction--from memoir to literary journalism and everything in between

ENG-347

Save The Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You'll Ever Need

NOTE: This i snot the only book you need for this course, I couldn't find the other one

ENG-350

Linguistics for Everyone: An Introduction

ENG-351Tell It Slant: Creating, Refining, and Publishing Creative Nonfiction

ENG-359 Crafting Novels & Short Stories: Everything You Need to Know to Write Great Fiction

ENV (Environmental Science)

ENV-101

Essential Environment 6th Edition The Science Behind the Stories

ENV-220

Fieldwork Ready: An introductory Guide to Field Research for Agriculture, Environment, and Soil Scientists

NOTE: You will also need lab stuff

ENV-250

A Pocket Style Manual 9th Edition

ENV-319

The Environmental Case: Translating Values Into Policy

Salzman and Thompson's Environmental Law and Policy

FAS (Fine Arts)

FAS-235Adobe Photoshop Lightroom Classic Classroom in a Book (2023 Release)

FAS-342 History of Modern Art

ALRIGHTY I'm tired, I will probably add ore later though! Good luck!

[jeremy466346]

Valgrace short 🙃

Leo Valdez rolls over his body pressed against the warmth of Jason Grace. He opens one eye to the soft glow of dawn peeking through the curtains, a stark contrast to the fiery tattoos that dance across his forearms. The room is still, filled with the comforting scent of engine grease and burnt toast that lingers from Leo's latest invention gone awry. The digital clock on the nightstand flickers the time at him: 6:42 AM. He groans, knowing the day's adventure is about to begin.

Jason, ever the early bird, stirs beside him, his blond hair a mess from a night of tangled sheets. "You awake, Leo?" he mumbles sleepily, his voice a gentle rumble that sends a comforting warmth through Leo's chest.

Leo nods, his eyes still glued to the ceiling. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough from sleep. "Just contemplating the meaning of life, the mysteries of the universe, and whether we have any decent breakfast left."

Jason chuckles and stretches, the movement causing the bedsprings to squeak slightly. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair. "Well, if it's the meaning of life you're after, I can't help much with that. But as for breakfast," he says, leaning over to kiss the tip of Leo's nose, "how does a breakfast burrito sound?"

Leo's stomach rumbles in response. "Like a gift from the gods," he mumbles, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He throws off the covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed. The floorboards are cold under his bare feet, but the warmth of the room and the promise of food quickly dispels the chill.

Together, they make their way to the kitchen, Jason moving with the grace of his divine heritage, while Leo shuffles slightly, his legs still protesting the early hour. The kitchen is a familiar mess of pans, wires, and half-eaten takeout containers, evidence of their late-night tinkering sessions. The smell of burnt metal is faintly present, a reminder of the explosive conclusion to their last project.

Jason opens the fridge and pulls out the ingredients for the burritos with practiced ease. He grabs a couple of tortillas and starts to warm them up in a pan. Meanwhile, Leo rummages through the cabinets for something to drink, his eyes landing on a half-full bottle of orange juice. "You want some?" he asks, holding it up.

"Always," Jason replies, cracking eggs into a bowl and whisking them with a dash of salt and pepper. "And maybe some coffee?"

Leo nods and heads to the coffee maker, the sound of the beans grinding a welcome wake-up call. The aroma fills the kitchen, mingling with the scent of the sizzling tortillas. He pours two cups and brings them to the table, setting one in front of Jason, who is now busy chopping peppers and onions.

"You know, Leo," Jason says, glancing over with a smirk, "I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be the one making breakfast."

Leo rolls his eyes, but the warmth in his cheeks gives him away. "Well, I figured it's only fair," he says, setting the juice on the counter with a clink. "You save the world, I make sure we don't starve."

Jason laughs and tosses a piece of bell pepper in his direction. "You're not so bad at saving it either, you know."

Leo catches the pepper and pops it into his mouth, grinning. "Thanks, but I leave the heavy lifting to you."

While Jason cooks, Leo sits at the kitchen table, scrolling through messages on his tablet, his mind racing with the day's potential problems to solve. The quiet hum of their morning routine is comforting, a stark contrast to the chaos that often awaits them outside the sanctuary of their apartment. The coffee is strong and bitter, but it's exactly what he needs to kickstart his brain into gear.

The eggs and veggies come together in a harmonious sizzle, and soon enough, the burritos are wrapped up and steaming. They sit across from each other, the table a mess of half-read emails and forgotten schematics, sharing bites and sips of their drinks. The burritos are perfect, just the right amount of crunch and cheese to start their day.

[gritsandbrits]

Back on my loonatics addiction, here's my take on Boss Lady Zadavia

In my rewrite she's the Silver Loonatic because i want her to have her own theme color, Slam was already purple and I had my oc Mikayla filling in for blue. And sinxe i made Deuce the gold Loonatic it made since for his moral opposition to have Silver. I incorporated elements of her of design such as her cape and hair staying the same. I made her skin lilac as a nod to her costume. Im still debating whether to keep her eyes green or make them purple.

Realistically her outfit would be more detailed now that we have better technology, but still simple and comfortable enough to withstand the desert like environment of Planet Frelengia.

She has a more active role here than in canon, often going around s helping the homless, destroying hostile architecture and helping civilians during battles. She starts forming the loonatics after seeing them in action as civilians (in disguise), & s2 joins them full time. She still gets exasperated with Duck but she respects him as a hero. She is a bit harder on him because she fears he could turn out like her brother or Deuce if he isn't careful.

While she and Optimatus are still enemies, she dearly misses the person her brother once was until the desire for conquest consumed him. And upon finding out Mikayla is her niece she tries to help the girl and her mom as best as she can without revealing her identity since she doesnt want to burden them with the responsibilities of royalty.

Her hobbies include music, studying earth history, and cooking but she is TERRIBLE. Even when cooking foods from her own cultures she is bad XD

Link:

[mezzopieno-news]

L’ITALIA RAGGIUNGE IL PIÙ ALTO NUMERO DI DONNE IMPRENDITRICI IN EUROPA

Le donne italiane che lavorano come artigiane, commercianti, esercenti o libere professioniste in possesso di partita IVA sono le più numerose tra tutti i Paesi dell’Unione Europea.

Sono 1.610.000, a fronte di 1.433.100 presenti in Francia e 1.294.100 occupate come autonome in Germania. Un record europeo che conferma la notevole propensione degli italiani, sia maschi che femmine, all’imprenditorialità. Circa il 56% delle donne imprenditrici attive nel nostro Paese è impiegato nel settore dei servizi alla persona (quali parrucchiere, estetiste, tatuatrici, massaggiatrici, pulitintolavanderie eccetera) e nei servizi alle imprese (in qualità di titolari o socie di agenzie di viaggio, agenzie immobiliari, imprese di pulizie, noleggio di veicoli, agenzie pubblicitarie, fotografe, video maker, studi di commercialisti e consulenti del lavoro). Poco meno del 20% opera nel commercio, mentre poco più del 10% è attivo nell’hotelleria e ristorazione, circa il 6% nell’industria e con la medesima percentuale nell’agricoltura.

Le analisi riscontrano due principali fattori che motivano le donne a intraprendere un percorso imprenditoriale. Il primo è correlato alla condizione socio-economica: situazioni di disoccupazione, tradizioni familiari o la presenza di incentivi economici inducono a considerare l’imprenditorialità come percorso necessario. Il secondo fattore concerne ragioni intrinseche e motivazionali che rispecchiano la sensibilità femminile e che spingono le donne ad abbracciare l’opportunità di diventare imprenditrici. Grazie all’autoimprenditorialità, le donne possono gestire con maggiore flessibilità l’equilibrio tra gli impegni lavorativi e quelli familiari. L’autoimpiego inoltre permette di andare oltre le disparità di genere e di ottenere risultati economici gratificanti e una maggiore indipendenza.

___________________

Fonte: Ufficio studi CGIA Mestre; foto di Fauxels

VERIFICATO ALLA FONTE | Guarda il protocollo di Fact checking delle notizie di Mezzopieno

BUONE NOTIZIE CAMBIANO IL MONDO | Firma la petizione per avere più informazione positiva in giornali e telegiornali

Se trovi utile il nostro lavoro e credi nel principio del giornalismo costruttivo non-profit | sostieni Mezzopieno

[basedonconjecture]

WIP Whenever & Some Sentences Shmonday

I have lost track of who tagged me in what and who hasn’t been tagged so you’re all getting them and I encourage you all to freestyle if you wanttttt:

@thedissonantverses @mythals-whore @ofcrowsanddragons @hyperions-light @bygonesigh @introvertedfangrl @biowaredisasterbisexual @mageofquandrix @dymme @complikatedd @ whoever else my brain is flatlining

Some baby!Selora & teenaged Viago/protégé-in-the-making content. It’s one of my headcanons that House de Riva tried to get a foothold in Treviso at some point prior to the occupation but turf wars and Crow politics kept them mostly out. Not really important here but it’s mentioned 🤷🏻‍♀️

Selora’s fingertips dug into the stone of the windowsill as she levered herself up, her toes finding the usual crevices and worn places in the building’s facade to give her an extra boost. Bracing her weight on one arm, she pushed against the wooden shutters, huffing a breath when they didn’t give as she expected them to—Viago must have fixed the latch. She cast a wary glance at the ground, three stories below with nothing to break her fall but the terracotta pavers set into the road.

Shaking hair from her eyes, she bent at the knees, carefully lowering herself against the wall beneath the window. The muscles in her arms were beginning to burn uncomfortably, but she dug her fingers into the sill as she considered. Adjusting the position of her feet, she breathed in deep, expanding her belly until she felt like it would crack her ribs apart, then launched herself upwards, throwing her weight against the shutters.

Her shoulder met open air. Balance lost, she started to fall, throwing out her hands to catch herself. Then, just as suddenly, something snatched at her collar, jerking her forward with enough force to drag her through the opening. The material caught around her throat, choking her as she tried to get her feet under her again. As she did, her eyes zeroed in on a pair of familiar leather boots.

“I was gonna use the door this time, Viago, honest!” she cried as soon as she was able to take a breath. Clawing at her collar, she tried and failed to break his hold on her. “But my last set of picks broke—they make us buy our own, you know—have you seen the market price of iron these days? I’d have to sell so many rats and then what would Lucrezia and Faustina do? I couldn’t—”

During her speech, Viago had set her on her feet, but kept a firm hold. He placed a hand on the top of her head, turning her face to look at the set of throwing knives rigged to launch themselves in the direction of the window. The trigger, now safely disarmed, had obviously been attached to the shutters she’d been about to force her way through.

Selora gaped at the contraption, whatever she’d been saying lost as her thoughts flew out of her head.

“Maker’s tits!” she swore, turning accusing eyes on the assassin to whom the flat technically belonged. “You trapped the window?”

“Of course I did, you idiot!” Viago scowled, releasing her finally, but not before smacking the back of her head lightly. “And it’s Andraste’s—ah, che cazzo. Nevermind. If you ever thought two steps past your nose, you would have counted on there being a trap.”

Turning away, he secured the shutters before crossing to his desk. She stuck her tongue out at his back and followed.

“What does a nine-year-old know about the market price of iron, anyway?” he groused, seating himself behind the desk. Multiple vials of different liquids, unrecognizable to her, were secured in a small wooden rack. He must have been mixing poisons again before she’d interrupted.

“Only what I hear at the Piazza,” she said with a shrug, dropping the sack she carried to her feet.

Aside from the docks, the Piazza del Mercato was where the most interesting things in Salle could be seen—or heard, in this case. Which wasn’t saying very much. In her opinion, Treviso was leagues more interesting with its many bridges and gondola-filled canals. The Piazza had nothing on the Grande Markets there, if she were being honest. The Talon had ordered all the De Rivas out of Treviso several months ago—that included all the fledglings they’d acquired there, Selora among them. They hadn’t been given a reason why, but Viago had said something about negotiations having gone poorly, and that it was more than she needed to know.

She’d tried to like Salle—its gentle hills and red limestone and terracotta, its irises and magnolias and citron trees—and, to a point, she did. Only she hated the warehouse where all the fledglings nested in Salle. It was too close to the murky tidewater at the edge of the port, poorly insulated, and smelled horribly like fish. And there were more of them than there’d been in Treviso—all bigger than her. Stronger and meaner, too. Viago’s flat was definitely more pleasant, by comparison, even if it always dark and faintly smelled of metals. It also smelled of parchment and marjoram and dried grass from the snake enclosures—she’d take it over fish any day.

“The butcher was complaining about pirates keeping the ore from reaching us,” she explained further, tucking a curl behind her ear as she took a breath. “But the blacksmith said his usual supplier said there was some big fight somewhere and there wouldn’t be any iron coming out of there for a while and we’d all best accept the higher price if we have to wait.” She exhaled, then blinked. “Where is Kirkwall?”

Viago’s gaze narrowed. “When did you hear this?”

“A few days ago,” she replied promptly. “They meet at the butcher’s shop a few times a week to…you know,” she shifted her weight, hoping she wouldn’t have to explain further, “but Beccari—that’s the butcher—he always leaves the shutters open because he gets too hot while—”

Viago cleared his throat.

“Anyway, there’s a ledge above that window that stays dry when it rains. I like to sit up there sometimes, but I can only hear them when they leave it open.” Selora barely paused before asking, “Are there really pirates?”

He didn’t answer that question, either. Viago was a bit strange that way, Selora had learned. She never could tell what questions he would answer and which he wouldn’t and it seemed entirely based on his mood. Sometimes he’d tell her directly, other times it would be as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Stranger still, he’d occasionally answer a question she’d asked hours or days after she’d asked it—without ever indicating he’d intended to. It really wasn’t surprising that people didn’t seem to like him much.

Currently, he was studying her like she was one of his experimental mixtures.

[kon-igi]

Ohi, spero di non avere inviato un messaggio precedente a questo. Il contesto è questo: mamma ( la mia), 79 anni, ipertesa e obesa, il 27 marzo ho chiamato un’ambulanza perché faticava a respirare, già da qualche giorno, ed emetteva lamenti strani. Aveva gambe molto gonfie, era affaticata. Ed eravamo state dal medico di base due giorni prima, la quale ci aveva prescritto visita urgente dal cardiologo in ospedale. Accelero il racconto. Dal pronto soccorso è passata subito in medicina d’urgenza, terapia intensiva dov’è mi è stato comunicato il primo “situazione molto critica, qua rischiamo”. Dopo massiccia cura antibiotica (accumulo di liquidò nei polmoni) e diuretica, la situazione si è temporaneamente stabilizzata ed è passata dalla lungo degenza alla cardiologia. Qui è stata rilevata insufficienza renale (urine molto scure) e aritmia severa, trasferita velocemente in UTIC mi è stato comunicato il secondo “la situazione è molto critica, il rischio è alto”. Dopo una settimana di abbondanti cure (6 pompe per farmaci endovena ed elettrocardiogramma sempre collegato) la situazione si è stabilizzata e hanno potuto fare una coronarografia. Ora è in lungodegenza di cardiologia ed oggi ci è stato comunicato che il 24 le inseriranno un Pace maker. Siamo nella quarta settimana di ricovero, la mamma alterna momenti di lucidità a momenti di forte smarrimento, per i quali spesso dall’ospedale mi hanno chiamata. Le domande e le riflessioni sarebbero tante, in primis sullo stato pietoso in cui il nostro sistema sanitario è ridotto, dove, in un reparto di cardiologia, la notte, c’è solo un infermiere, nessuna oss, dove le urgenze sono continue, dove vengono eseguite le consulenze provenienti dal pronto soccorso e dove una paziente rimane a marinare nelle proprie feci per oltre un’ora prima che l’unica infermiera riesca ad accudirla. Mia madre ha un catetere da quasi 4 settimane, proprio perché il personale non riesce ad accudire i pazienti, vorrei chiedere la consulenza di un urologo per sapere in che stato è, visto che è soggetta a cistiti. Sono consapevole che il problema principale è quello cardiaco e polmonare, in fase di risoluzione, ma sono sconcertata dal fatto che, per mancanza di personale, si debbano rischiare infezioni che, in una donna di 79 anni fragile, potrebbero non essere poi così banali . Com’è che siamo arrivati a questo punto? Gli ospedali sono ancora posti sicuri?

Ciao V.

Le domande che poni sono tante e pesanti, per cui cercherò di darti una lettura da addetto ai lavori, certo non obbligatoriamente scevra da valutazioni e bias personali.

Il Sistema Sanitario Nazionale non è peggiorato... è rimasto fermo agli anni '90, quando la diagnostica, la farmacologia, la patologia medica e la tipologia di pazienti costavano meno.

Oggi abbiamo diagnosi meno tardive e più accurate, patologie non più fatali perché trattabili, farmaci al limite del miracoloso e quindi molti più pazienti con malattie complicate da curare.

Questo significa che la spesa sanitaria pubblica sarebbe dovuta crescere di pari passo E INVECE NO.

Inoltre - e qua ti parlo proprio del mio lavoro - l'anziano che una volta si ammalava e decedeva intorno ai 75/80 anni o che magari non era più autosufficiente ma veniva accudito in famiglia, oggi deve essere affidato a una struttura specializzata (CRA o RSA che sia, dipende dalla regione) che però non è affatto detto che si sia evoluta per accogliere pazienti gravi - gravi perché queste realtà hanno un costo elevato e quindi gli anziani sono stati tenuti a casa con badanti purtroppo senza competenze sanitarie - e quindi avviene che quello che una volta era un 'ricovero per anziani' con patologie senili a basso impatto, oggi è a tutti gli effetti un ospedale senza però personale e attrezzature ospedaliere.

Il paziente arriva in gravi condizioni - demente, piagato, cateterizzato - e noi lo gestiamo al meglio, salvo poi doverlo spedire in PS quando la situazione peggiora.

Le CRA e le RSA possono essere in convenzione ma 1) ci vuole tempo per entrare in convenzione 2) la convenzione copre solo una parte del costo (i prezzi oscillano da realtà a realtà ma si parla di 3000 euro al mese che poi scendono a 2000) quindi con l'aumento della popolazione anziana, diminuzione del numero dei figli accudenti e aspettative di vita aumentate, il risultato è che stiamo spendendo TANTI SOLDI a fronte di un aumento di risorse non corrispondente.

Stiamo spazzando i vecchi sotto al tappeto finché qualcuno non ci inciamperà sopra.

Si tratta di un problema che non riguarderà i nostri bisnipoti ma questione di una decina di anni e vista l'inazione dei tanti governi che vedevano e demandavano, la sanità pubblica crollerà sotto il peso dello squilibrio e, credetemi, non bisogna essere laureati in sociologia per correlare il numero dei reati contro personale sanitario a una diminuzione della qualità del servizio.

Ma aumentiamo pure le pene che così la gente sarà meno disperata e più tranquilla nell'aspettare diciassette ore in pronto soccorso.

P.S Mi spiace tanto per tua mamma e non volevo assolutamente figurare cinico o fatalista, però ce lo siamo già detti tante volte su telegram che la vita a un certo punto fatica a essere definita tale e al netto di tutto il nostro amore per le persone che erano prima di noi, a volte bisogna rammentare che, fatto tutto il possibile, amore è anche il saper lasciare andare.

Un abbraccio ❤️