#caynon

[amanitacz]

Model of the Set of 6 various USA famous landmarks.

Link to see more about this model on Turbosquid.com:

https://www.turbosquid.com/3d-models/6-usa-landmarks-2046141?referral=amanitacz

Link to the whole gallery:

https://www.turbosquid.com/Search/Artists/AmanitaCZ?referral=amanitacz

Link to the software:

http://www.cazaba.cz/

[lavenderprose]

You know what? I say this a lot but someone's gotta sexualize that quinquagenarian. The nature of humanity and society at large dictates that someone truly DOES have to dream up scenarios where the mean nasty little man is getting it nice and good whenever he wants. God truly DOES give her hardest battles to her strongest soldiers and that's me. It's rotten work especially to me especially if it's him but yes I am in FACT God's favorite little weirdo and he is my best most special asshole and I will put him in situations and rotate him in my mind palace at all hours of the day until it doesn't make my brain go burrr anymore.

[tadcrodeoau]

Throw me in the caynon plez

Wha-

No ;-;

[alteredstatesstuff]

canyon river

[blu-ish]

I WAS SCREAMING AND CRYING THIS WHOLE ASS EPISODE BUT I KID U NOT I SHEAD AN ACUTAL TEAR WHEN HE FELL DOWN THAT FUCKING CAYNON, MY BOI, HE WAS EXHAUSTED PROTECTING SONIC SOMEONE SEDATE ME.

[heavensincarnate1111]

jiper is just this girl being all beauitful and sweet and this boy not knowing how he got her but is NOT complaining

be jumped into the GRAND CAYNON for her WITHOUT knowing her OR knowing he could fly

omfggg you get it ITS LITERALLY LIKE “she’s everything and he’s just ken” i feel like their dynamic is truly so underrated just because we don’t have that build up like we had with percabeth, but they are just as sweet i think🙁🙁🙁🙁

like you said, jason JUMPED into the grand canyon, not even knowing who he was or who this girl was or if he would even be able to fly successfully, and piper literally continuously fights for jason even tho she knows all her memories of him aren’t real.. like there’s GOTTA be some love there even if it’s built on hera’s magic

[p0is0n-is-th3-cur3]

GUYS the ao3 author curse IS REAL, I was SICK and went to URGENT CARE. And they CALLED AN AMBULANCE and the AMBULANCE fucking KIDNAPPED ME and drove me to the GRAND CAYNON and they HARVESTED my organs to sacrifice to SATAN and now I'm FREE FALLING into the GRAND CAYNON while the emts are singing Let It Grow from the LORAX

[the-mercurial-star-o-vesper]

Hilarious idea came to me.

In Season 11 of Red vs Blue, when they're stranded in the caynon on the planet we would later know as Chorus, Caboose goes on a walk and into a cave where he finds a Halo 4 Mantis vehcile--who would later be named "Freckles".

In that cave, Caboose ran into an echo of his voice. When he realized it was his voice echoing back, he went "Have a Nice day!"

And in total Grinch film style, his echo went "Thanks you too!"

Now, what I propose is that, this was not, in fact, a case of the Loony Physics.

But actually one of the Mercenaries that had been spying on the Blood Gulch crew, using Freelancer equipment to mimic Caboose's voice to have a bit of fun. (We've seen, in Season 9, that Freelancers, can, in fact, mimic voices).

This wouldn't be funny if it was one of the nameless mercenaries. (Though everyone is free to have their own OC inspiration for this).

First impression? It was Felix, being a brat. He was the first Merc to really interact with the Reds and Blues and he'd be nearby.

But.

Better Impression.

It was Locust, who had gotten there first, assessed the situation, and went back to reinforcements... and He as the one who messing with Caboose.

[zaphodkilledthespeedforce]

I WENT TO VEGAS AND GRAND CAYNON AND PETRIFIED FOREST WITH MY BEST FRIEND

THE WORLD IS BEAUTIFUL ACTUALLY

[sahonithereadwolf]

Some Sahoni ff7 hot takes -The way final fantasy fandom treats Nanaki as basically a big dog or pet when one of the first things he does in the game is state very firmly that he is a living being able to think and consent rubs me the wrong way. Especially with that native coding on top. He's the worlds best rez dog, do not get me wrong, but that personhood comes first. -So much of what makes Cosmo Canyon for me as an Indigenous man is: A. Nanaki is not a replacement for indigenous people in the setting, but rather someone who grew up in this community. You can see them live, work, play, make bitter jokes. B. The projection of extrapolation. The minimalist nature of the setting lends itself to inferences and filling in the blank spots yourself. Every village is an approximation. And so much of what was there felt familiar enough that when I saw things that looked familiar (elders joking in a bar, a sacred fire, the kids playing, the hokey route 66 tourist facing indian stuff) I was able to fill in other things that felt native to me. Especially considering how personal to me nanaki's story felt. -The way Cosmo Caynon is treated not as backwards or archaic, but as people that have carried with them and have value in a knowledge is cool actually. -Having native people in your analogy for the ecology crisis of capitalism is good and necessary even. Especially when you have a nuclear power analogy. -"Sephiroth is a pretendian" is an accidental but hilarious reading on him because here you have this person with no cultural connections, ties, or lived experience and thus no rights doing terrible harmful things because he claims his connection to the Ancients give him that permission. Including, VERY NOTABLY, causing direct personal harm to someone with direct ties to this culture. Someone that has been denied that chance to engage and know it because of the institutionalized violence around her. -ff7 fandom as a whole definitely has a racism problem and Nanaki and Barret are usually taking the brunt of it. If you want an example of what racialized aggression to non-white masculinity can look like, there it is waiting.

[amanitacz]

Model of the Set of 4 various USA famous landmarks.

Link to see more about this model on Turbosquid.com:

https://www.turbosquid.com/3d-models/4-usa-landmarks-2038292?referral=amanitacz

Link to the whole gallery:

https://www.turbosquid.com/Search/Artists/AmanitaCZ?referral=amanitacz

Link to the software:

http://www.cazaba.cz/

[captainseamech]

"Did'ya know the Grand Canyon is nothin' compared t' oceans canyons? It's true! The Zhemchug Caynon, for example, has a vertical relief of 8,520 feet, which is deeper than the Grand Crayon that stands at 6,000 feet."

[new-berry]

The curve of the earth makes a horizon

Martin/ Ben all fiction, future fic 2063? You are wrong about seeing a spelling mistake.

“When you kiss me I feel like it’s going to be like this forever. A better version of forever, that never gets boring.”

Martin looks through the lens of his camera, adjusting the shot by millimetres until the image was perfectly centred on nothing at all important.

There is a lot of rock. “Lots of fucking rock.” He says out loud. Looking around guilty for a second like someone might hear him. That someone might take notice of this old man standing on the lip of the Caynon taking photographs.

A late in life hobby, an excuse to go out into the wilderness. Careful, sanitised, wilderness. Retracing the holidays they took when they were younger.

His kids, their kids, insisting on regular check-ins, and scrutinising his itinerary. Turning into the hectoring nags they accused him of being when they were young. He takes a ridiculous deep satisfaction at this.

Martin knows that people can drown in sand. His kids, their kids, scold him for watching too many grim documentaries. Like he isn’t Nordic. Like every God his people ever had wasnt mostly a warning that the vagaries of fate will screw you over every time.

Kids raised in too much American sun. Playing in the pool with their dad. Martin the one with snacks and sunscreen. The desert lays waiting on the ground and in the air, and you can wake up with a throat like sandpaper and your lungs squeezing pain every time you draw breath.

There is a difference looking into a fjord, a satisfying cool promise. Ben cutting through the water like an otter. The summer of the midnight sun when Martin walked around every day with a ring in his pocket trying to find the perfect moment to propose.

Martin read that you, a younger you he supposes, even younger than his children now. You can see for nearly five kilometres before the curve - like a wine glass held with the stem between the index and middle finger, red wine swirling a little with the hand moving in time to the conversation full bloodied and alive on your tongue - of the earth makes a horizon.

That is a long way to see, longer if it is both behind and ahead of you. Martin turns away from the agonised mouth of the Grand Canyon. It looks, he’s pleased, exactly like he remembers. Exactly like yesterday. Exactly like last week. Exactly like forty years ago.

When they were young and Martin would insist they had to do something utterly different, and then park up on a beach for Ben.

The first time they saw the Victoria Falls and all that water was just too much to process and he and Ben had gone back to the lodge, barely speaking to each other the whole way home, and fucked all night. Hands rolling over each other like white water, faster and faster and dissolving into steam.

How they had missed two days of the safari and could have just stayed in London and fucked in their own bed. How Ben had looked so wide eyed and innoncent and said “a lot of fucking zebras man” whenever people asked about their trip.

He didn’t understand The Falls then, didn’t understand canyons, terrified by their immensity. He needed the thin steel of Ben behind him to back him up. Needed Ben’s breath in his ear and his hands on his hips. Now he gets it. The extent of time, the patience of waiting to cut through the last few layers of rock to the soft belly of the world underneath. Not blooming and fading, patient and enduring.

Love as a dream that someone else had last night. Martin woke up early, still cool enough to walk up to the edge here. Pretty soon the stones will be spiky with heat. He’s here under a sensible beige hat, his face shaded. Trousers with too many pockets and his kids, their kids, unread messages on his phone. An expensive gold watch that he rescued from Ben’s wrist.

He rests his hands on the metal guardrail that will soon be too hot to touch. The phantom of tattooed fingers that used to slide over his rest just outside his vision.

Eventually, the sludge left of the Colorado River still wading through the bottom of the Canyon will cut right through to the other side of the earth. This is how long it would have taken Ben and the boys to dig a hole to China, like they tried to years ago.

Ben’s face so serious, and their faces so intent. Blurred in his memory to little shovels moving as sand was flung around, all their shoulders getting red. The next morning the tide had smoothed the beach flat and they made sandcastles, Martin balancing out the sides where they were uneven, and Ben decorating them with shells. The careful little hands patting sand into place now sending him daily messages reminding him to hydrate properly in the heat.

He couldn’t have coped with that dark plodding river so many miles below his feet alone when he was young. Would have been terrified with the idea of running out of time. So much to achieve, so few winters left.

It is almost dark by the time Martin pulls into the small town he’s been using as a home base. It’s almost time to move on, he can feel it. Too long in the dust, and he’s longing for a damp that can settle in his body and anchor his brittle bones down. But he keeps driving around these small towns with their ordered streets filling in a checkerboard on the map. First street the thickest black line through the centre of the town, cutting second street west off and making it second street east, making order of the desert.

He came here, decades ago, with Ben. They were new to each other then and imagined, he imagined, you could make order by planning. But they didn’t stick to the route, they went off the map. Kept the secrets though, the ones they whispered, the ones they thought.

That trip that was carefully named many things, a vacation, a break, a road trip. A get away. Before the beach. Neither of them willing to admit out loud yet that it was a dress rehearsal for their possible future.

The two of them. A car. Two boys at play, all the weight of London sanded off. When he finally saw the Canyon he understood their trip. The first time he had gone to the desert he was a child and time has wounded his face to grooves but he’s still a boy hopelessly in love. Tripping over his tongue and Ben’s trying to explain what he wanted their future to be.

In his dreams he is young. And Ben is there. Ben drives and Martin has just woken up, woozy and not entirely sober after sleeping in a moving car. And he can smell Ben’s sweat on him, feel the salt and skin itching under his fingernails. Ben isn’t talking, just driving through the black, humming in tune with the white lines, dots and dashes, that appear in the headlights.

A truck appears from nowhere and breaks the spell, and Ben spills out a flood of words and love that chip the first stone face of the canyon away.

He’s told his kids, their kids, he’s travelling around. But he’s never far from a canyon. Every day when he comes back from walking the scrub looking for inconsequential images he can send back - nothing with bones picked clean in the sun, nothing with snakes, nothing with vultures posed on power lines like cartoons - he reminds himself it’s time to go soon.

Propped against the lamp is the last picture he took of Ben, when Ben was only just there. It’s in the sun all day and it’s faded almost away. And Martin holds to the idea for seconds every morning that replacing the past is as possible as replacing a photograph. That last picture that he took as much with his mind as his camera, swept years and travel from Ben’s body. Martin can only see his eyes and the gleam they held.

The smooth ordered bands of his skin with the carefully shaved beard that Martin would run his fingers over. Even now he runs his fingers over the image, Like peeling a sun burnt layer of skin off. The same way he’s brushed frost from a window, cleaned dust from a shelf, and underneath, not another layer, but the gleam of the glass and wood, the round of bones.

He knows that he can’t walk to the edge too many more mornings. That their kids are waiting, messages need to be answered, and the garden they planted needs watering. That no matter how far into the horizon he looks he won’t find that flung apart longing that they left here years and years ago. The earth curves, closes off behind you, no matter how desperately you look back.

[wtnvrelisten]

like to think that cecil was supper giddy when Carlos came in to talk to him in episode 8 because he got Carlos' number. also I am sure the reason why Cecil was asking so intently for listerns to report finings on the light in Radon Caynon had nothing to do with finally getting Carlos' number. Sure, it was all for the the glory of reporting and honor of upholding the values of community radio and not at all about wanting a reason to call Carlos and maybe hopefully talk about weekend plans. could not possibly be that.

[datainteg]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Beautiful Brighton earrings caynon teardrop.

[bcgel]

CND Vinylux Weekly Nail Polish Clay Caynon (164) - 15ml - £ -- https://www.bcgel.co.uk/product/cnd-vinylux-weekly-nail-polish-clay-caynon-164-15ml/?feed_id=2167&_unique_id=6663eeb9d3317