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vicairr · 6 months ago

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Elevate Your Space with Slot Linear Diffusers from Vic Air Supplies

Introduction:

Slot linear diffusers are a sleek and modern solution for delivering airflow in commercial and residential spaces. At Vic Air Supplies, we offer a wide range of high-quality slot linear diffusers designed to enhance air distribution and complement your interior design. Discover how our innovative diffusers can improve the comfort and aesthetics of your space.

1. Superior Airflow Distribution:

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2. Sleek and Modern Design:

Our slot linear diffusers feature a sleek and minimalist design that complements any architectural style. With clean lines and a low-profile appearance, these diffusers seamlessly blend into the ceiling or wall, enhancing the aesthetics of your space. Whether you prefer a recessed or surface-mounted installation, our diffusers offer a modern and sophisticated look that elevates the overall design of your interior.

3. Customization Options:

At Vic Air Supplies, we understand that every project has unique requirements, which is why we offer customization options for our slot linear diffusers. Choose from various lengths, widths, and slot configurations to tailor the diffusers to your specific needs. Our experienced team will work closely with you to design diffusers that meet your exact specifications, ensuring a perfect fit and optimal performance.

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5. Easy Installation:

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6. Energy Efficiency:

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Conclusion:

Slot linear diffusers from Vic Air Supplies offer a stylish, efficient, and customizable solution for enhancing air distribution in any space. With their superior airflow distribution, sleek design, durability, easy installation, and energy efficiency, our diffusers are the perfect choice for commercial and residential applications alike. Visit Vic Air Supplies today to explore our selection of slot linear diffusers and elevate your space to new heights of comfort and style.

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Phone Number : 358334700

Email : [email protected]

Address : 13B Callister Street, Shepparton, VIC 3630

#Slot Linear Diffuser #Bar Grilles #Removable Core Linear Bar Grille #Linear Bar Grilles #Linear Slot Grille #Bar Grilles Air Conditioning

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legohlas · 2 years ago

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Open in Los Angeles

#Example of a large #modern #open-concept living room with a light wood floor #white walls #and a stone and two-sided fireplace. nanawall #linear diffusers #open floor plan #custom home

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woodflomanufacturing · 2 years ago

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What Are The Benefits Of Linear Grills and Air Diffusers?

Linear grills are an effective way to improve the airflow and projection cooling or heating of your building. Their minimalist appearance provides a sleek and unbroken look. They are often used in both ceiling and wall applications.

These grilles are made from a heavy gauge extruded aluminium. They are available in flanged or flangeless designs. They are also available in various lengths and styles. They can be custom built to meet your specifications.

Architectural Grille has over 65 years of experience in producing quality, performance-focused linear grills. Their grilles are manufactured to provide optimum performance in all types of environments. From ceiling to wall, their specialists can help with everything from column wraps and mitered corners to radiused linear grilles.

They are also able to manufacture custom sizes and bar spacing for you. These are often necessary in smaller rooms. They can also help to restrain the flow of air.

These grilles are available in both supply and return air options. They are commonly used in areas where the room is open to the air. They can be installed in ceilings, walls, or even floor. They can also be mounted on ducts.

The air diffuser is the metal bars at the bottom of the grille. These can be U-shaped, V-shaped, or convex or concave. These are the most common types. Depending on your needs, you may want to select a style that has adjustable blade angles.

Linear slot diffusers are familiar components in HVAC systems. They provide a discreet, unobtrusive outlet for your HVAC system. They can also be used to improve the mixing of air in a room.

Visit https://woodflo.com.au/

#Linear Grills #Double Deflection Grilles #Linear Slot Diffuser Suppliers #Linear Slot Diffuser Australia

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seiwas · 7 months ago

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the blade bleeds longer than the wound takes to heal | simon riley

wc: 2.2k

summary: progress is non-linear. simon is learning just that.

contains: any warnings that apply to cod, blood, mentions of serious injuries, recovery and healing, kind of non-linear, simon-centric with a splash of romance, hurt/comfort

a/n: first time writing simon and he's a tough one!! but i'm really happy with how this turned out! + a very belated birthday gift for @vierisqe! forgive the jumble of american + british english in this one (i've reread this so many times that it's mushed together in my head and i can't tell the difference anymore djhfbjas) i hope i wrote him well!!

Simon picks up a knife in the dead of the night.

At 2:00 a.m., the wind whistles outside your window, a wayward branch being thrown aimlessly against glass. The branches drag roughly against the delicate surface, scratching and banging in the gust of a predicted storm.

Simon wakes up, eyes shooting open as his fingers instinctively reach for the small blade slotted underneath your mattress, sandwiched between soft cushion and the wooden panels of your bedframe. He keeps it there—

“For monster hunting. Sneaky fuckers only appear when lights’re out.”

—in case anything happens, he doesn’t say.

(But you know old habits die hard, and Simon sleeps better with a weapon only layers away from his skin.)

You’re curled up on his chest, hanging tightly onto his bicep as your breaths lull in the steady beats of slumber. His eyes blend dark blue against the backdrop of the night, and the only light casting itself into your bedroom diffuses from the streetlamp a few flats down.

“We should keep a night light,” you’ve told him a few times before—if only to avoid small accidents, like tripping over folded carpets or bumping into the sharp edges of your dresser.

“No ghosts here but me, love.” is all Simon replies.

(You take his cheekiness and keep it close to your chest, sporadic as it is, snorting as you let go of the topic.)

He sees better in the dark—better than most, he’d like to think.

His gaze flits to the window, watching intently as the branches move haphazardly; the sound hits the glass like bullet cases clinking against marble flooring. The same white marble bloodied deep red—

An inhale tickles his side, a phantom sharpness despite his ribcage being fully healed. There is no puncture, no gaping wound like that day 8 months ago—only scar tissue formed thickly along the outline of the knife that pierced through him.

He breathes out, slow and steady, taking one last look at the window, before moving over to the door, checking for shadows and any suspicious movement. Then, his gaze rests on you—your hair splayed across his shoulder as you sleep soundly.

It’s okay. You’re okay.

Everything is okay.

Some days, he can breathe just fine.

Spring blossoms through the flowers in your garden, white chrysanthemums that give Simon the worst spring allergies but he insists you keep. Despite the morning sniffles, when pollen seems to dust his dawning breath, he finds breathing easier on these days than most.

You do your best to snip away at the blossoming buds, preparing to bundle them far away from the burly man they weaken.

But Simon stands beside you with a watering pot, tilting the spout to drizzle life onto the blooms he knows are your pride and joy.

He owes it to them, he supposes, for keeping you company months at a time.

It’s at the fizzling end of summer when Simon returns to you.

Captain Price had contacted you weeks prior to inform you of the incident—just three things Simon requested be divulged:

One, that he had incurred a stab wound to be monitored for a few weeks, most likely in military facilities.

Two, that he’ll be discharged soon after.

And three, that you stay put and be calm; that you not worry.

(Your hands shake throughout the entire call, your knees giving way as you fall to the bunched up carpet of your bedroom floor.

To you, Simon is untouchable.

To you, Simon is impenetrable.

He never divulges any more than he has to, but you’ve always known he was good at his job. The silent yet commanding confidence he carries can only be born from years of expertise, his senses sharpened and tuned to the slightest sign of danger.

Over the years, without fail, Simon has always come back to you in one piece.

So when he walks into your flat with staggered breaths, smelling of antiseptic and sterile sheets, your heart aches.)

You give him a look, eyes glassy with your hands clenched on your sides as if avoiding to touch, should he be fragile; he holds that stare for a few seconds too long until he decides to fuck it, pulling you closer to his chest.

Fuck doctors’ orders that his stitches haven’t fully healed. Fuck doctors’ orders that he should ‘minimise thoracic pressure’.

Fuck doctors’ orders that he should watch his breathing, keeping it slow and steady only.

“Quit all ‘o that,” he clears his throat, hiding a wheeze from the impact, “Didn’t get me killed, ‘n it won’t. S’no grave to cry over.”

You can’t help it though, he knows, your fingers clutching tighter onto the ends of his jacket as you rest your forehead on his collarbone. The pain muddles together in his chest, soaked by the tears seeping through the fabric of his t-shirt.

There are many things Simon doesn’t tell you, many more that he won’t—

His body holds a litany of injuries, scars built upon scars; some lie on the surface of his skin, others residing deeper than any knife can sink into.

—last month, he nearly died.

A miscalculated raid had led him straight into a trap, isolating him from the rest of the 141. He was concussed and sedated, senses dulled by the chemicals injected into his bloodstream. It happened too fast—a blade, inconspicuously small but sharp, piercing through his ribcage; the hits that followed dealt greater damage.

Price found Simon lying in a pool of his own blood, deep red against the white brinks of death.

Three broken ribs—two that stabbed through his lungs along with the knife, and one that managed to puncture his heart. Doctors warned that breathing during recovery would be difficult, but he hardly finds it to be the most challenging part.

The paranoia is worse.

He’s been more fidgety since, constantly wary; uneasy. Worse compared to usual.

Every professional he’s spoken to has told him that progress is non-linear—

“So, give yourself some time. Some days can be easy and difficult the next, but the day after that might be—”

To that he says, fucking ‘ell.

You cut yourself while trimming your chrysanthemums.

It’s a small nick on your thumb, but that finger always bleeds more than the others do; blood red drips onto a few white petals—a striking contrast.

Simon finds you that way.

He moves on autopilot, rushing in to grab the first-aid kit you keep in one of your kitchen cabinets. On the surface, he is calm, face set straight and hardly rattled by the accident. This is the only good he sees in the snail-pace of his recovery—his jagged breaths conceal the real reason his hands tremble slightly holding yours.

A small cut shouldn’t need bandaging. A small cut shouldn’t need gauze and waterproof plaster. Simon shouldn’t insist on taking over, especially when the pollen clogs his nose.

But your white chrysanthemums should not be red.

He tells himself he’ll get you a pair of those cut-resistant gardening gloves.

Those petals should not be red.

The knife isn’t the problem, it’s what surrounds it.

Simon hasn’t been the same since his return, and you’ve begun to notice.

For a big and hefty man, he prefers keeping himself away from as much fuss as he can. Weekend markets with him have always been pleasant; he carries all the produce and you stop at food stalls to feed him bites of whatever catches your eye.

Not this time.

This time, Simon glues himself behind you, your back pressed against his chest as he navigates you both through crowds. He zeroes in on every single person brushing against you, searching for anything sharp.

When you wait by a food stall, he scans the area; his focus shifts from a family of four settling their toddler on a stroller, then to a man older but not nearly as large as he, bringing in sacks of flour inside a bakery. Off in a corner is a teenager, swallowed by the thick fabric of a hoodie similar to his own; Simon observes him a little longer, drawing suspicions about the movement concealed inside the kid’s pocket.

(You notice it when you ask whether he prefers peaches or mangoes for the crepe’s filling, only to be met with no reply.)

Then, a faint trail of smoke wafts out of the boy’s nose—it’s just a vape.

Simon turns away.

By brunch, which you always somehow seem to drag him into, you settle into your seat and ask the server for a butter knife.

(Simon stays silent most times, with the occasional dry retort or witty quip directed at any silly thing he notices, but he’s been completely quiet this entire day. The slightest bit of tension pinches the skin between his brows as his eyes dart from one person to the next—like roaring waves rushing to catch the shore.)

It happens all too quickly, how he pins the server’s wrist down onto your table when you’re handed the butter knife.

Everybody in the restaurant pauses to look at you two.

The shock on your face mirrors the server’s.

Simon lets go immediately, mumbling his apologies as his hands dig inside the pocket of his hoodie. You turn to the server sheepishly, standing up to follow him to the cashier.

(You know Simon well enough that he hates all the attention, so you quickly settle everything with the manager, explaining as best as you can that it wasn’t intentional. The server is kind enough to let it go, his wrist red but otherwise uninjured from Simon’s grip; you still give him a tip, for the shock and trouble.)

The whole trip home is tense. Simon can’t look you in the eyes, and even when you both walk into your flat, he heads straight for the kitchen, preparing to clean and wash the vegetables.

He rolls up his sleeves and opens the tap, rinsing carrots and potatoes, along with some of the lettuce you managed to pick up for half off.

(Something stabs at your heart seeing him curl into himself even more, but Simon will talk when he wants to—never before or after.

So, you walk towards him instead, wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your cheek against his back.)

He stops moving, and the water continues running.

(You can hear his heartbeat, feel each slow breath he’s taking.)

Simon doesn’t tell you of the sleepless nights, of the terrors that plague his waking mind more than nightmares do. He doesn’t tell you that he sees you in his spot that very same day, on that same marble floor—your own pool of red against the very same white that your chrysanthemums bloom into.

“I’m okay,” you whisper against his back, landing kisses on each of his shoulder blades. The fabric of his hoodie is soft and thick, but he feels you through it.

“You always do a good job of keeping me safe.”

Your words layer on him like tactical gear, arms tightening around his abdomen akin to the belt that holds his ammo.

“Let me take care of you now,” you close your eyes, voice a little shaky, pleading, “okay?”

Simon holds his breath.

Your chrysanthemums sit in a vase by your kitchen sink, water droplets catching onto the petals and leaves.

Simon sneezes every time he washes his hands, but he’s the one who put it there—

“S’called exposure therapy, love.”

(And who are you to argue with a man on a mission?)

—along with the cut-resistant gloves he stores in a drawer near your kitchen tools.

From the corner of his eye, he watches you drag your chef’s knife to fillet a chicken breast. He keeps his gaze locked on your every movement, fingers twitching as if they itch to reach for you. Pain tingles at the side of his chest, a faded remnant of how it felt when the wound was still fresh.

You fillet the breast successfully, and he releases a breath.

Simon has keen sight and he uses it to his advantage—sniping, scoping, watching. He notices the sharp edge of the open cupboard door over your head and reflexively lays his palm over it, cushioning the impact when you hastily move to the side.

If you notice, you don’t show him any signs.

Tonight’s menu is honey glazed soy chicken, a recipe you’ve been wanting to test out. He’d offered to help but you insisted that he sit back and relax; and of course, in typical Simon- fashion, he only partially heeds your advice.

He sits back and relaxes all right, but on the barstool by the kitchen island, ready to spring into action whenever you need him.

And he sees it all—that near-mishap by the cupboard, how dangerously close your fingers are from your chef’s knife; your cut-resistant gloves are ready-to-use in the drawer next to your garden tools. He still keeps that small blade between your mattress and bedframe.

Old habits die hard, the aftereffects of near-death moreso, but Simon is a man on a mission, and when he watches you hiss away from the brief ‘pop!’ of oil splattering from your pan, he stays right where he is, convincing himself he can leave you to handle it.

You’re okay.

This is progress.

It’s a start.

a/n: this turned out a lot more serious than i intended, but i enjoyed picking simon to see how he would act in a period of adjustment back to regular life, especially after something potentially traumatic. i find simon an incredibly difficult character to write because he carries so much with him and i could go on about this, but the tldr is: i think he's become desensitised to a lot of things, which is why i don't think he's afraid of wounds or knives no matter how much he's been hurt by them. i don't imagine him being afraid of dying either, because it's what they do—it comes with the job. i do think though, that his close call with death here shifts his fear to the idea of loss, particularly, losing you. and as a protector, he finds himself responsible for that.

thank you notes: to @soumies my gawd!! for helping me with dialogue and proofreading, practically beta reading this entire thing!! you are the heart of this fic 🥺 simon would not be simon in this without you!! love u love u love u!!!!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #cod x reader #simon x reader #call of duty x reader #shotorus.writes #cod #ghost

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shaythempronouns · 3 months ago

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The Helix Nebula / Eye of God

A planetary nebula in Aquarius

I got another 2 hours of exposure time on the Helix Nebula in the Aquarius constellation and integrated it with my data from last year (about another 2h) to produce this shot. This is a narrowband image made from captured hydrogen and oxygen emissions.

The Helix Nebula is an absolutely gorgeous target specifically because of its rarity. Most planetary nebulae (the products of stars collapsing into white dwarfs) are extremely small because they're far away. The Helix isn't any bigger than them, but it's incredibly close to us, at just under 700 Ly from Earth, which makes it appear 20 times the linear size of other planetary nebulae (e.g. the Crab Nebula or the Ring Nebula).

Musings on the acquisition process after the cut.

This is easily the hardest target I've ever shot. From the USA, it barely rises above 20 degrees, giving a pretty short window to shoot it each night and more atmosphere to shoot through, magnifying the effects of poor seeing. Aquarius has a relatively low density of bright stars, which makes guiding frustrating at poor focal ratios (which are unavoidable at high focal lengths on any kind of budget). And, of course, the Helix is fairly dim and diffuse, requiring lots of exposure time to capture good enough signal for an image. All that together meant that the two hours of data I captured for this shot took five clear nights to pull together. An absolute mess.

I achieved the gold effect at the borders with some slight hue shifting - that area isn't quite synthetic, but is instead the place where the oxygen emissions at the core overlap with the hydrogen emissions of the edges. By slightly bumping the green channel and then stretching the hue to push green toward its adjacent colors (yellow and blue), you get a golden color from the edge of the hydrogen.

#astrophotography #astronomy #space #nebula #deep sky #narrowband #night sky #lensblr #emission nebula #planetary nebula #helix nebula #eye of god #caldwell 63 #ngc 7293

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askvectorprime · 8 months ago

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Dearest Vector Prime,

What do you know of Cybertronian martial arts? How do they differ from one another? You must have encountered more than a few unique styles and practitioners in your travels.

Dear Jet Judoka,

Ever since the first construction crane robot used its crane boom to deliberately knock over another robot eons ago, martial arts have been an integral part of our history.

You might assume that the warmongering Decepticons were the first to codify these disciplines of pugilism—and indeed, the brutality of their attacks and strategies gave them the edge at the outbreak of war. But the Autobots, who had lived as engineers and laborers, were able to disguise their training: every step, every turn of a wheel, every act of physical labor could be a secret technique, practiced thousands of times per cycle, until they had mastered the perfect move with which to surprise their adversaries.

Under Autobot schools of thought, there are two basic elements of physical combat: “Piston” and “Gear” motion. “Piston” is a direct, linear force: delivered by punches, rocket-powered fists, or other inbuilt ballistics. By contrast, “Gear” is a deflecting, rotational force: swiveling at the waist, or rolling, to create a “transmission” of the opponent’s energy into advantageous movement. In time, this framing came to influence Decepticon disciplines, until both groups were using the same terminology.

As the conflict between Autobot and Decepticon continued, fuelled by an escalating arms race to develop esoteric weaponry and enhancements, some chose to eschew ranged combat and instead specialize in martial arts based around stealth and melee. After sneaking into the enemy’s midst, a single warrior trained in this way could quickly dismantle those unprepared soldiers who relied more on their armament and abilities. Being a direct reaction to the highly technological mindset of both factions, it’s perhaps unsurprising that martial arts came to be spoken of using increasingly spiritual terms. Those trained in Circuit-Su turned inwards towards the personal energy of the spark, which practitioners of Metallikato would learned to channel through their weapons, striving to embody the “Ultimate Warrior” of legend. Meanwhile, followers of Yoketron’s Eightfold Path formed an understanding of self based on eight specifications: SPR-INT-SPD-END-RNK-CRG-FRB-SKL, each a separate aspect of Primus.

Other disciplines were influenced by offworld cultures. Crystalocution was developed by medics and structural engineers, after they observed the way Rock Lords would target their opponent’s fracture lines in hand-to-hand combat, and adapted the technique to focus on joints or brittle crystalline components in Cybertronians. The loose assortment of non-lethal forms commonly termed Diffusion, popular amongst the Autobots, are descended from a pacifist fighting style practiced amongst the Circle of Light.

Although these styles have been broadly recognised and adopted by countless fighters, it mustn’t be understated how deeply individualistic the martial arts can be: even within a single style, no two fighters are alike. An exceptional master may try to pass down their techniques, but the unique talent, ability, and perseverance of each student will inevitably transform these teachings into something new. Take, for example, the Turtler School.

Turtler lived as a hermit on an island, on Earth. Having felt undervalued by the Decepticons, he enjoyed the solitude this lifestyle afforded, living in peace from his Seacons. At some point in the distant future, a young simian Maximal arrived on a flying surfboard, wanting to learn martial arts in order to fight in the “Be(a)st Under The Heavens Tournament”. Turtler reluctantly took him on as a pupil, and over the course of several years, put him through a highly unorthodox training regimen. Some examples of the feats he had the Maximal perform included:

Climbing a mountain to catch a bird

Climbing a mountain again to catch a bird, but this time with Turtler strapped to his back in alt mode

Outrunning and outswimming Cybershark in a race

Painting Turtler's home (this one in particular was very unpopular with his student)

Eventually, the young Maximal proved his purity of heart—which wasn’t actually something Turtler had cared about in the least, as he really had just needed a few chores doing—and asked to learn the secret of Turtler’s ultimate technique, the King Poseidon Wave. Turtler, not quite understanding, assumed that the Maximal was talking about his laser cannon. He fired a shot to demonstrate—and to his surprise, the Maximal copied him, pressing two open palms together, and somehow firing a large energy blast! Before Turtler could even process what had happened, the Maximal hopped onto his surfboard and sailed away on a cloud, forever grateful for the good times he’d had with the old hermit over the years.

#ask vector prime #transformers #maccadam #circuit-su #metallikato #last autobot #yoketron #primus #crystalocution #rock lords #diffusion #circle of light #turtler #seacons #cybershark #king poseidon

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t4t4t · 8 months ago

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2014, 10 years ago:

Against the Gendered Nightmare

Baedan

In the past several years, the question of gender has been taken up again and again by the anarchist milieu. And still few attempts amount to much more than a rehashing of old ideas. Most positions on gender remain within the constraints of one or more of the ideologies that have failed us already, mainly Marxist feminism, a watered down eco-feminism, or some sort of liberal “queer anarchism.” Present in all of these are the same problems we’ve howled against already: identity politics, representation, gender essentialism, reformism, and reproductive futurism. While we have no interest in offering another ideology in this discourse, we imagine that an escape route could be charted by asking the question that few will ask; by setting a course straight to the secret center of gendered life which all the ideological answers take for granted. We are speaking, of course, about Civilization itself.

Such a path of inquiry is not one easily travelled. At every step of the way, stories are obscured and falsified by credentialed deceivers and revolutionary careerists. Those ideas presented as Science are separated from Myth only in that their authors claim to abolish mythology. Anthropology, Psychoanalysis, History, Economics—each faces us as another edifice built to hide a vital secret. At every step, we find more questions than answers. And yet this shadowy journey feels all the more necessary at the present moment. At the same time as technological Civilization is undergoing a renewed assault on the very experience of living beings, the horrors of gendered life continue to be inextricable from that assault. Rape, imprisonment, bashings, separations, dysmorphia, displacement, the labors of sexuality, and all the anxieties of techniques of the self—these daily miseries and plagues are only outpaced by the false solutions which strive to foreclose any possibility of escape; queer economies, cybernetic communities, legal reforms, prescription drugs, abstraction, academia, the utopias of activist soothsayers, and the diffusion of countless subcultures and niche identities—so many apparatuses of capture.

The first issue of Bædan features a rather involved exegesis of Lee Edelman’s book No Future. In it, we attempted to read Edelman against himself; to elaborate his critique of progress and futurity outside of its academic trappings and beyond the limitations of its form. To do so, we explored the traditions of queer revolt to which Edelman’s theory is indebted, particularly the thought of Guy Hocquenghem. Exploring Hocquenghem still proves particularly exciting, because his writing represents some of the earliest queer theory which explicitly rejects Civilization—as well as the families, economies, metaphysics, sexualities and genders which compose it—while also imagining a queer desire which is Civilization’s undoing. That exploration lead us to explore the bodily and spiritual underpinnings of Civilization: domestication, or “the process of the victory of our fathers over our lives; the way in which the social order laid down by the dead continues to haunt the living... the residue of accumulated memories, culture and relationships which have been transmitted to us through the linear progression of time and the fantasy of the Child... this investment of the horrors of the past into our present lives which ensures the perpetuation of civilization.”[1] Our present inquiry begins here.

To explore the conflict of the wildness of queer desire against domestication is to take aim at an enemy who confronts us from the beginning of Time itself. While our efforts in the first issue of this journal were a refusal of the teleology which situated an end to gender at the conclusion of a linear progression of time, we’ll now address the questions of origins which hint toward an outside at the other end of this line. As we’ve denied ourselves the future, we now turn against the past. In this, we abandon any pretensions of certainty or claims to truth. Instead we have only the experiences of those who revolt against the gendered existent, as well as the stories of those whose revolt we’ve inherited. In the spirit of this revolt, we offer these fragments against gender and domestication.

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swaps55 · 10 months ago

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Trademark: Pining So Hard They Become Trees(tm)

Proud to be home to this particular trademark, my friend. Is it really pining if they aren't going so hard they can still long for each other while in each other's arms? I think no. XD

I could cite this entire chapter of Cantata for Pining So Hard They Become Trees, but I'll keep it to this bit, which is one of my favorites: ~

In the silence of space, the ‘Yang skips through firing lanes close enough to stick a knife in the enemy’s gut, the knife in this case being the GARDIAN lasers chewing away armor plating and shearing apart small enemy fighters that stray too close.

Ship-to-ship combat is an attrition of heat and numbers, and Kaidan has no control over any of it.

Not the moments of vertigo as the inertia dampeners temper the ‘Yang’s maneuvering burns, the intermittent shudder as the weapons systems find a target, not the slow, steady buildup of waste heat that will eventually force them to flee or cook within their own hull.

And not Shepard. The entire covert operation will play out on helmet cams and comm channels, with Kaidan as a witness. Shepard is nothing more than a pinprick of warmth, lost in the rage of heat playing out on sensors. Kaidan glues his eyes to that pinprick, heart in his throat as he waits to see if the Cannae’s GARDIAN lasers detect the infiltration team hidden in the heat signatures of the battle playing out around them.

It’s not until Shepard’s grav boots connect with the Cannae’s hull that the white drains from Kaidan’s knuckles.

But now that they’ve reached the target, there’s a new fear. Pendergrass hovers over Kaidan’s shoulder, chewing a hangnail as the N team hunts for explosives along the hijacked ship’s hull, because its captors would rather slag the whole thing than see it taken back.

Shepard finds the first bomb.

Pendergrass stops chewing and reviews the scans, walking Shepard through diffusing it, and every other one they find, while Kaidan listens in helpless silence until he’s forced to take another breath.

The comms erupt with gunfire when they breach the hull. Kaidan fixes his gaze on Shepard’s helmet cam, the visual slightly out of sync with the audio feed. They had no way to know how many enemies would be waiting on board, but four N6s led by the galaxy’s first N7 don’t give a shit about the odds. Somewhere in the mix Anderson manages to shut off the gravity, taking the linear firefight into multiple planes.

It’s like freeing a predator from a cage. Shepard’s helmet cam spins with dizzying swiftness as he kicks off walls, floor and ceiling ceasing to have meaning in zero G. His shotgun barks over the comm, tendrils of blue flickering around the edges of the camera lens, but this far away Kaidan’s gravity well remains silent and still.

A ragged cheer raises the rafters on the ‘Yang as the lead ship of the ragtag flotilla goes up. Kaidan presses a finger against his ear to ward off the sound, concentrating instead on the helmet cam and looking for any change in Shepard’s biofeeds.

The N team reaches the CIC. A lieutenant named Angevin goes down when they trigger an explosive while breaching the door, but not Shepard, it’s not Shepard, because there he is on Anderson’s helmet cam, blowing in like a tempest and executing three people, including their leader, without uttering a word. Minutes later, the stolen ship’s transponder changes back to an Alliance signature and the cheering begins anew.

Half the crew waits at the ‘Yang’s airlock to greet the N team when they return, Kaidan among them, swallowing back his relief like it’s a living, breathing thing. He gets lost in the shuffle when the airlock opens and the yelling starts, but Shepard’s gaze cuts through the crowd, and he parts it like Moses and the Red Sea. With a grin on his face that could shake the stars, he throws an armored arm around Kaidan and hugs him tight, thunking an energetic palm against his shoulder. Kaidan returns it just as fierce, the plating stiff and sterile against him.

“Did you see that?” Shepard exclaims when they part, elation on his face, hand still on Kaidan’s shoulder, biotic field humming with kinetic energy. This is Shepard in his element, Shepard at his best. The impossible means nothing to him.

Kaidan grins back. “Yeah, I saw it.”

How can I look away when it’s you?

#swaps replies #mallaidhsomo #mshenko #mememe #meme replies #opus!verse

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justforbooks · 5 months ago

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Sir John Boardman

Archaeologist who became a leading authority on the history of Greek art, with a particular interest in gems and finger rings

As a student, John Boardman, who has died aged 96, was able to recite by heart texts in Attic Greek, the form of the language used in ancient Athens. But while studying classics at Magdalene College, Cambridge, he encountered two archaeologists whose work encouraged him to apply that flair to the study of classical objects: Charles Seltman showed him coins, and Robert Cook vases.

To these he added carved gems, sculpture and architecture, on all of which he became a leading authority, and the author of more than 30 books.

On graduating in 1948, he took Cook’s advice not to study for a doctorate, but to go to Greece and do some research there. At the British School in Athens for the next two years, as well as travelling to destinations including Crete and Smyrna, he worked in the depths of the Athens National Museum on vases from the island of Euboea (the modern Evvia).

The diagnostic pot shape that he identified enabled later archaeologists and historians to track the paths of Greeks and Greek culture to the east – Al Mina in Syria – and the west – Pithecusae, today’s Ischia, in the gulf of Naples – and at many points between.

The Greek islands and the diaspora around the Mediterranean came to be recurring themes in Boardman’s work. In 1964 he published two books, The Greeks Overseas: Their Early Colonies and Trade, and Greek Art, both of which went on to further editions.

On his first visit to Greece he met Sheila Stanford, an artist, and after he had completed his national service in the Intelligence Corps (1950-52) they married in Britain. He then returned to the British School as assistant director (1952-55), and was given his own dig, on the island of Chios.

His party of excavators and helpers there included Michael Ventris, the architect who shortly aftewards announced his decipherment of the Linear B syllabic script as an early form of the Greek language, and Dilys Powell, the eventual film critic of the Sunday Times.

Back in Britain, Boardman served as an assistant keeper at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford (1955-59). Its Cast Gallery, containing plaster casts of some 900 Greek and Roman sculptures, became his preferred academic home base, and he published a catalogue of its Cretan collection (1961).

Working on another, private, collection of art objects in the 1990s gave him ideas about world art, its interconnections and aims. This led him to distinguish three main “belts”: a northern one, running from Siberia to North America, where nomads favoured small items, often depicting animals; an urban one, from China to central America, more given to monumental architecture; and a tropical one characterised by human forms, notably of ancestors. He explored these ideas in The World of Ancient Art (2006).

Other publications included Greek Gems and Finger Rings (1970); handbooks on Athenian black-figure and red-figure vases (1974 and 1975); a lecture series given at the National Gallery of Art in Washington and published as The Diffusion of Classical Art in Antiquity (1994); Persia and the West (2000); The Archaeology of Nostalgia: How the Greeks Re-created Their Mythical Past (2002); numerous catalogues, particularly of gem collections, including the royal one at Windsor Castle; and excavation reports from Chios and from Tocra, in Libya.

After the Ashmolean appointment came university posts at Oxford, as reader in classical archaeology (1959-78) and then Lincoln professor of classical archaeology and art (1978-94). As professor emeritus, he continued to work from offices first in the Ashmolean and subsequently the classics faculty’s Ioannou Centre.

In 2020 he produced his autobiography, A Classical Archaeologist’s Life: The Story So Far. The last of its three parts focuses on a field of “minor” art that he showed could be anything but: Greek and Roman gems and finger rings. Called simply “Gems, Bob and Claudia”, it details the work that Boardman did first with the photographer Bob Wilkins and later an archivist of the Beazley Archive, in Oxford, Claudia Wagner. With her he co-authored Masterpieces in Miniature: Engraved Gems from Prehistory to the Present (2018).

Born in Ilford, Essex, John was the son of Clara (nee Wells), who had been a milliner’s assistant, and Arch (Frederick) Boardman, a clerk in the City. The family was not academic, but John was impressed by what he saw at the Victoria and Albert Museum and the British Museum when he visited them with his father, who died when John was 11.

While at Chigwell school, John experienced second world war aerial bombardment, of which he later had vivid memories. He found the study of Greek to be “magical”, and the school’s headteacher encouraged him to apply for a scholarship at his former Cambridge college.

Though his own career developed at a time when a doctorate was not obligatory, Boardman went on to supervise vast numbers of graduate students, scattered over several continents. He had an extraordinarily acute and retentive visual memory, was prodigiously efficient and well organised in his teaching – his lectures on Greek architecture and sculpture were a revelation – as in his research and writing, and welcomed the assistance provided by digital technology.

I first met him in his Ashmolean office, in 1969, keen for him to be my doctoral supervisor. Almost the first word he uttered was “Sparta”: not long before, he had published an account vastly improving on previous understanding of the sand, earth and relative dating of the artefacts found at the Artemis Orthia sanctuary site there. Like many others, I appreciated his meticulous standards of archaeological observation and historical interpretation.

Boardman once wrote that he felt more at home intellectually outside Oxford, indeed outside Britain, and he was involved with and recognised by institutions in Ireland, mainland Europe, the US and Australia. For almost three decades he was on the board of the Basel-based Lexicon Iconographicum Mythologiae Classicae (1972-99).

His activities in Britain were still considerable. He edited the Journal of Hellenic Studies (1958-65) and was a delegate of the Oxford University Press (1979-89). At the Royal Academy in London from 1989 onwards he occupied what had originally been Edward Gibbon’s seat of professor of ancient history. He was made a fellow of the British Academy in 1969, and knighted in 1986.

While ready to express a view in serious academic controversies he was resolutely apolitical. Nonetheless, he took the view that Lord Elgin’s dubiously acquired collection of sculptures from the Parthenon and other structures in Athens purchased by the UK in 1816 should remain in its entirety under the curation of the British Museum Trustees.

He received a lot of support from the publishers Thames & Hudson, and his very last publication came in the month of his death, in their Pocket Perspectives series. John Boardman on the Parthenon is a lightly illustrated repackaging of the lively text he had composed to accompany the black and white photographs of David Finn in the same publisher’s The Parthenon and Its Sculptures (1985).

Sheila died in 2005. He is survived by their children, Julia and Mark.

🔔 John Boardman, archaeologist and classical art historian, born 20 August 1927; died 23 May 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

#just for books #John Boardman #in memoriam

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indiantradebird11 · 5 months ago

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vicairr · 7 months ago

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railingsofsorrow · 2 years ago

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Bronwnies & Conversations

summary: you've been doing a great job putting up a mask, until someone notices and calls you out for it. based on the prompt: “I don't want you to be alone.”

pairing: platonic!emily prentiss x fem! bau!reader

w.c: 2.1K

warnings/content: this is a reader-insert; trigger warnings: discussion about trauma, mentions of blood and violence (nothing graphic), near-death experiences; mentions of aversion to touch because of trauma, mentions of nightmares; hurt/comfort; friendship plays big part, there is no romance; this whole thing is a conversation about trauma and the recovery process so be aware please.

A/N: hello! I wrote this for the CM Comfort Fic Challenge by @imagining-in-the-margins i hope you enjoy it. <3

彡 .ೃ࿐ ೃ⁀➷彡 .ೃ࿐ ೃ⁀➷彡 .ೃ࿐ ೃ⁀➷

Emily Prentiss had a pretty wide knowledge. She was a profiler, therefore it was part of her daily routine to observe a lot without even realizing.

Which was why she noticed that you were different.

No. That was not because she was a good profiler.

Anyone that simply looked close enough would find that something had changed in you. Or rather, something had drifted away from you.

Your eyes were unfocused for the most part of the day and you grabbed more files than you could take in your hands — trying to diffuse whatever was on your mind into work.

You weren't lacking. You'd give your input in cases, did your best whenever you were on the field or in the office, and even joked around with everyone once in a while. That's the thing: every action, every word, it wasn't you.

Emily saw the difference. It was forced. You didn't want to do any of that. In fact, it looked like you didn't even want to be there.

Six months ago, when it all happened, she watched you falter and lose it in a blink of seconds. The nightmares were ongoing and the sleeping medication didn't help a lot. Still, after taking a well-deserved leave — completely forced because you did not desire to stop working. Hotch didn't accept a no for an answer — it hadn't been enough time.

Healing isn't linear. It has its ups and downs. Emily knew that. She had been through that. She was still going through the process of healing, actually. It never does stop, does it?

Emily watched you go back to work. She watched you act as if nothing happened but the pain was still very clear deep down your soul.

For months, she didn't say anything. It wasn't her place. It was your life so you must've known what you were doing.

No.

She was wrong.

She would've interfered months ago. As your best friend, as your fellow co-worker and as someone that cares a lot and should not have simply watched your suffering from afar.

You had gone through a trauma. A situation like that alters the perceptions you have of the world. She didn't want you to feel as if you were alone. So, even though you wouldn't reach out for help, she would reach for you.

This was how Emily ended up at your apartment door in the middle of the night with your favorite dessert in hands.

When you opened the door, the last person you expected it to be was Emily. Not that she didn't visit you. But it was almost nine in the evening and she never showed up without a previous warning like a text or a call.

Your brows knitted in concern, taking a once over at your friend. “Em, is everything alright?”

She noticed your expression and chuckled, “Oh, everything is great. I just missed you and wanted to visit. I hope that's okay?”

You blink, stunned. “Of course,” You reply, forcing a smile. “Yeah, come in.”

You sigh as she passes through the door, “The apartment is a mess, Em. I didn't realize you'd come. Why didn't you call me or something? I would've tidied up and—”

“I don't mind.” She shrugs, fixing up the brownie she brought in some plates for the both of you. You hated that you and Emily were intimate enough for her to just know where anything was around your place.

You left her in the kitchen to pick up the clothes scattered around your living room. You paced around harshly and moved to your room, throwing some of the mess in your bed and closing the door. Emily wouldn't get in there.

When you stepped back into your living room, she was sitting on the couch, eyeing the brownies as if they had the answers to the questions about the afterlife.

“Can we talk?” She asked without looking back. You were leaning on the wall, studying her carefully. She didn't just come to visit you. There was something there. Her back was relaxed but her voice was serious.

“Are you okay?” You ask, approaching her slowly. You sat at the end of the couch. There would have been a moment where you never left a single space between the two of you. There was a time when your love language was physical touch. Now, you just couldn't bear to be that close to someone. Even your best friend. “Em, I know you didn't come just to visit. What it is?”

“I'm worried about you.”

You froze.

Maybe you should've cover up the eyebags with some concealer.

You didn't even knew she would come!

“Why?” You rested against the couch, averting your attention elsewhere. Your whole body had tensed and you were trying not to let it show.

Had you been too obvious?

You thought you were doing a great job at hiding your feelings from everyone.

You were doing your best to act like before. It was just so hard. Because before you didn't have a near-death experience. Before was a time when you weren't covered in blood when your friends found you and you were barely breathing. Before was. . . before.

You didn't know how to go back to that. But you were trying. Weren't you trying hard enough?

She said your name and you looked at her and then looked away again, “It's me, okay? You don't have to pretend when it's me. Never.”

“I'm fine, Emily.” You said shortly, staring at the opposite side of the room. Almost glaring. She wasn't supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to see beneath your acts. “If that is why you came—”

“I came because I care and I can't just sit around and do nothing anymore,” Emily explained. Her tone made a part of you churn in anger.

You turned to look directly at her, “Really? And why would you need to do something when nothing is wrong? You know, if you're projecting your hero complex in me, it's not my problem.”

That had not been fair, but you said it. You couldn't go back anymore. If anything, she asked for it.

Why couldn't she just go?

“Is that what you think I'm doing?” Emily's eyes burned into your profile. Her tone was so calm, so understanding. Much like JJ's when she was talking to a victim's family. You weren't a victim. “That I'm here to fulfill some guilt over my hero complex?”

“Why else would you be here?” You glared at her. “Because I'm fine. I have been fine for a long time. In fact, what happened doesn't even affect me as it used to do and—” you let out a shaky breath. “I don't need you to be my therapist.”

Emily was irking to give you a hug but she refrained from doing so, acknowledging your boundaries.

“That's not what I'm here for.” She said calmly. “I just wanted you to know that I'm here and that I see you. I know you.” She paused. “I don't want to force you to talk. But I know that you're struggling and that you're acting for the benefit of everyone else but you.”

Emily decided to add after a moment of silence. “Nobody said anything. Nobody sent me here to do an intervention. I came here on my own because I'm concerned with my best friend. I should've come before, I should've been there through it all and I'm sorry. I can't just see you hurting and not doing anything now. It's killing me to see you like this.”

It wasn't silence she received, but a choke-up sound that came deep within your throat. One you had been trying to bury along with your tears.

You thought you were doing a great job at hiding your feelings from everyone.

How could you have been foolish to think that you could hide anything from Emily Prentiss? The person that saw right through your bullshit every time?

Sobs racked out of your body continuously; there was nothing you could do to stop it. All the pain that you had been attempting to lock away was here. It never really left, you were simply ignoring it to make it go away. But that is not how it worked, was it?

You couldn't just order your brain don't think about that night. The memories would just come back with full force. Like the waves on a stormy day.

“I just—” You begin when the sons had subsided. Emily managed to sit closer to you while respecting your space. “I just didn't want to be a burden.”

She answered as if she had been expecting that, “You're not a burden. You have never been a burden,” her tone softened. “You're my best friend. I love you. There's nothing more that I'd want to do than be here for you. Like you were there for me, remember?”

Pulling your knees up and your arms around them was how you found yourself calming down your breath while listening to her. You were making yourself small because you wanted to disappear and forget everything that happened.

The aftermath of trauma was worse than the trauma itself.

The memories, the triggers, the nightmares and the loss. They owned you like no other. Your emotions were clouded by a freezing mechanism that forced you to mimic your old self to acquire some grounding.

But you couldn't really get back to who you were, could you? The before was in the past. The after was more than you could handle.

“I wish I could forget.”

You admit after a few minutes of quietness. Your breathing had calmed down and your eyes were glossed over, and puffy. You felt tired.

Emily wished she could do more.

“You can't.” She said, “But I wished you could, too. I wished I could have forgotten everything.”

You catch the faltering in her voice and take a glance at her. Your best friend was staring at her lap, wringing her fingers as if she was deep in thought.

You knew where Emily's mind just took her, so you touched her shoulder to bring her back. She was startled and you gave the area a little squeeze that said I'm here before retracting your hand.

She gave you a genuine smile.

“You were there for me,” you say, shifting. “You have always been there for me. All of you. I just didn't want the pitying gaze or the apologetic pats on the back anymore. Or have you think that I was weak. So I, I forced myself to move on. To get a grip on myself.” Brushing your strands away from your shoulder, you concluded, “But every day, waking up is hard. My nights are still filled with- with that night. It's an endless suffering, Em. Every day is like my mind is physically punching me, and I can't seem to— to figure out how to get up after a knockout anymore. I don't know what to do. I just want it to stop.”

“It won't hurt forever,” Emily promised you, understanding every single word more like you could imagine.“It won't stick in your mind like glue forever. At some point, it will become a distant memory. A distant nightmare. You're not going to forget completely. But you will heal,” The last part had you let more tears fall, albeit this time without the desperate sobs. It was more like tears of relief. The storm at his very ending.

“Can I hug you?” You could see how the question had surprised her, but a quick nod made you wrap your arms around her instantly. Emily's hugs were warm like sundown. You missed it profoundly. “Thank you for being in my life.”

“Don't thank me,” She tightened her hold on you as if she were scared you'd disappear at any second. “I love you and I'm always here, okay? Always. I'm so glad you're in my life. She added softly, “I don't want you to be alone when you're hurting.”

Both of you had tear-stricken cheeks as you split apart from the hug.

“I know you're crying because you know I'll steal all of the brownies.” You joked, and for the first time in a long while it had been real.

She chuckled and shook her head, sniffling.

“Don't even try.”

She'd let you steal all the brownies in the world if it meant she could see the real you like she was seeing at that moment.

#criminal minds fanfiction #platonic!emilyprentiss x fem!bau!reader #emily prentiss x female reader #emily prentiss fanfic

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