#toneles

[jpaula002]

I created the plated prisoner characters that are part of the raving king's kingdom.

em ordem #slade #lu #judd #osrik #tonel #hojat

[ismael-doodles]

Soy esquizo e hice este mono que ví en uno de mis primeros brotes psicóticos

Es una forma de sobrellevar mi condición o q c yo, mi psiquiatra dijo que si lo acepto terminaré por tener una vida más tranquila¿

Nos gusta el Michael Jackson 🤟

[cainrizquez-blog]

[1hatemorita]

[rizoartobserver-blog]

[adribosch-fan]

Cuál es el restaurante argentino entre los mejores del mundo, según la Guía Michelin

Ubicado en la provincia de Mendoza, una de las capitales del vino del mundo, el restaurante de Bodega Los Toneles, se destaca por una carta exclusiva. Franco Della Vecchia Mendoza no sólo se distingue por ser una de las capitales del vino a nivel mundial. También destaca su oferta gastronómica, razón por la cual comienza a ser vidriera en el mundo. El Restaurante Abrasado quedó seleccionada…

[futuregiftguide]

Tonal is a home gym equipment designed for the minimalist

Home gym equipment is and always will be the most expensive and healthiest thing you can buy, but having the room for bench presses, dumbbells, squats, and other equipment to get you a full-body workout can take up a ton of space. Especially when you’re trying to make room for your other belongings. Tonal may be the answer for a full home gym without the need for much space. The smart workout machine provides 200 moves with 200 lbs of resistance in a slim device that’s mounted on your wall.

Just like a traditional workout machine at the gym, Tonal can be adaptive to fit your strength level by simply pressing a button, and yes it has a 24-inch touchscreen display with workouts and coaching. The arms on the Tonal can be adjusted to give your body the full workout it needs.

Check out Tonal's commercial:

Why buy?

200 lbs of weight

Minimalist design

Adjustable arms

24-inch touchscreen

Get your Tonal starting at $2,995

[omellagrabados]

Troquel para marcar con prensa OMELLA GRABADOS

Omella Grabados realiza troqueles para prensa para marcar piezas grandes como cubos y toneles o cualquier tipo de pieza metálica. Ya sean troqueles macho para marcar con prensa las piezas en bajo relieve como troqueles macho y hembra para embutir chapa en relieve. www.omellagrabados.com

[thecubanartobserver]

Exposición “Como la caña”, Colectiva

Exposición “Como la caña”, Colectiva

Exposición Como la caña Colectiva 05.02.2022 Factoría diseño A lo largo de estos años, he visto como la interrelación entre las diferentes disciplinas, también llamado interdisciplinariedad, ha generado enriquecimientos recíprocos y satisfacciones varias. Ese engranaje de saberes y experiencias ahora ligados al campo del diseño y del arte, se citan en Factoría Diseño, nuevo espacio en el…

[neuroconflictos]

No me arrepiento de todas las noches que lloré, del tonel de cartas que escribí, de las miles de canciones que dediqué, de todas las cosas que me hacian recordarlo porque al final creo que eso me hizo darme cuenta que sí, en definitiva lo amé, lo sufrí, lo extrañé.

-Sofs-s

[cecilysass]

Pause (3/11)

Read on AO3 | Tagging @today-in-fic

Chapter 3: Partner

At the sound of the key, Scully’s eyes pop open, and she sits up, ramrod straight, her heart racing.

She doesn’t want to startle Mulder, and sitting on the couch seems the least threatening posture she can take, so she stays where she is. As the door begins to push open with its characteristic little crunch, she wrings her hands, unbearably nervous.

It’s Mulder, she reminds herself. No matter how long you may have been gone, or what has happened in your absence, you know what to expect from Mulder.

At last he shuffles through the door, and it’s him, definitely him: head bent, looking weary and wilted. He turns to lock the door again, evidently not paying very much attention to his surroundings.

Her heart constricts. “Mulder,” she voices softly.

She can see his whole body go still from behind, but he doesn’t look right away. His back remains to her.

“Mulder?” she repeats.

Very slowly he turns, allowing her to see his face for the first time.

His expression is flat, without affect. He blinks.

“Hi,” she tries again. She scrambles to stand up. “I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just me. I’m…I’m having a rough time. I don’t have any idea what’s going on. I don’t remember what’s happened.”

He takes a step towards her, and she sees how terrible he looks. He needs a haircut and a shave. There are deep purple smudges lining the bottom of his eyes.

His eyes dart over the scene in front of him: her clothes, her hair, the half-eaten lasagna on the plate in front of her, the coffee table with no dirty dishes.

Something like fear flickers across his face.

In a sudden movement, he reaches into his waistband and produces his Sig from his holster, holding it on her.

“What do you want?” he demands in a rasp.

“Mulder,” she gasps. “It’s me.”

“Stop that,” he hisses. “Stop.”

“Stop… what? I don’t understand.”

Keeping her in his sight, he walks to the table by his front door, opens a drawer, and produces a stiletto. “I keep one of these around exactly for guests like you.”

She understands his thought process now. “I’m not him.” She tries to keep a steady tone. “It’s me, it’s actually Scully.”

His face turns darker. “No,” he says again, his voice dangerous.

“Let’s just calm down, talk about it rationally for a second, Mulder—”

He lunges towards her, the stiletto in one hand and the Sig in the other, and she knows with despairing certainty that he is about to hurt her.

In terror she cringes back against his desk, covering her face in her hands, no will to try to defend herself against her partner.

A single thought runs through her mind. He will hate himself when he realizes. She lets out an involuntary sob, a choked sound.

But whatever blow, whatever sharp pain she expects, doesn’t come.

She looks up to see him standing above her, his face conflicted, his eyes tortured.

“Please stop,” he whispers to her, his voice just a dry husk. “Don’t look like that.”

“Mulder…”

“Just kill me.” He reaches behind her and sets the gun and the stiletto down on the desk. “You don’t need to look like that any more. I’m begging you not to. I won’t try to stop you. Just kill me.”

“Mulder,” she tries again, her voice shaky. “It’s me, it actually is, it’s really me. I’ve lost time, and I’m confused, but it’s me.”

He looks down at her blankly, as if trying to comprehend words in an unfamiliar language.

“I came here for your help,” she says.

She places a hand tentatively on his arm, and he jumps back like it burns him.

Scully licks her lips, her mind racing. “What can I say to convince you?” she asks. “That only you would know? After Van Blundht, we said we’d come up with questions, but we never did. But we could think of them right now?”

He doesn’t answer. He only stares.

“I’ll ask you my question first, Mulder,” she says, watching him hopefully. “What character from a book did I compare you to when we were sitting on a rock in Heuvelmans Lake?”

He says nothing for a moment. “Ahab,” he says in the same toneless voice.

She nods vigorously. “Right. See? Why don’t you ask me yours?” she says.

But he doesn’t. He turns and moves unsteadily to the couch, collapsing in the very spot Scully had been napping. He puts his head in his hands, and then looks up at her again.

“It’s not possible,” he says.

“What‘s not possible?”

“You… being here, wearing those clothes,” he says. “You having that memory.”

Scully swallows uncomfortably. “I gather I haven’t been around.”

He looks at her sharply. “Not been around… that’s putting it mildly. Dead is not being around.”

“Oh.” Scully feels like she has been socked in the stomach. “Dead… like abducted and presumed dead?”

“Dead like dead,” Mulder says flatly. “A car accident.”

“A car accident.” Scully feels the room undulating now, rippling around her. “Oh,” she says. “Oh, I—”

Her knees give out, and she takes an unsteady stumble to the side to brace herself.

Mulder frowns, standing up. “Are you… okay?”

She steps to the side again, and he catches her by her shoulders this time, steering her to the couch. “I was assuming I had most likely been abducted again,” she whispers. “How could I be—? Where did I—?”

He sits next to her on the couch, just watching her, his whole body taut.

She feels tears falling down her cheeks, and she begins wiping them away quickly with her knuckles, uncomfortable with crying in front of this guarded, unfriendly version of Mulder.

“I don’t remember much of anything,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady. “I can’t possibly tell you what happened.” Her voice breaks on the last word, and she can’t stop the tears. “I can’t prove this to you.”

Gradually his expression has grown softer. “All right. Hey,” he says cautiously. “What exactly do you remember?”

“I woke up this evening in a rental car in Georgetown,” she whispers. “I was only a few blocks away from my apartment, but… my apartment wasn’t my apartment anymore.”

“No,” he says. “It hasn’t been for a while. Maggie and I had to clean it out after the funeral.”

She places her hand over her mouth, trying to control herself, tears still escaping and rolling down her cheeks.

He makes no effort to comfort her. But she also sees that he’s biting his lip so hard he could draw blood.

“Maybe it’s time for my question,” he says, his voice very tense.

“Okay,” Scully says, sniffing, feeling hope rush in again.

Mulder pauses. “Where did we go after the premiere of The Lazarus Bowl? And what did you say to me there?”

Scully stares at him open-mouthed. She doesn’t say anything for a long minute.

“Is this… is this a trick, Mulder?”

“No,” he says, a crease appearing between his eyes.

“That’s not a real question,” she says in a low voice, her frustration mounting. “You’re trying to trick me. To ask me about something that didn’t happen.”

“No, it’s a real question.”

“It isn’t,” she says. She is beginning to fill with a surge of anger. Of all the times for Mulder to refuse to believe, why now, when she needs him? “A real question would be, what gift did you bring me in the hospital after Duane Barry? What is your favorite late-night Chinese order? What did you say to me after I called you and told you about Emily?”

Mulder looks dazed, shakes his head slowly. “The Lazarus Bowl … you don’t know what that is?”

“No.” Scully’s voice is rising in volume. “What are you trying to prove, exactly?” Her voice cracks. “How can I get you to believe this? What do I have to do?”

He stares at her a beat longer and then he stands up, abruptly, beginning to pace back and forth. The apartment floorboards creak under his weight.

“Ask me more questions,” she demands. “Ask me real things.”

He spins back towards her again.

“What did I bring you in the hospital after Duane Barry?

“Superstars of the Superbowl.”

He nods, but his face is perturbed. “When we pulled off the highway to try to eat that one time in Florida, what food did we end up getting that we promised we would never talk about again?”

“Frog legs. You’ve now broken that promise.”

“What happened to Samantha?”

She stares at him. “I don’t understand why you would ask that. You know there’s not an answer to that.”

He chews on his lip again, regarding her. “What’s… the last thing you remember before you remember being in the rental car? The last clear memory before today?”

She hesitates. “Coming to your apartment to tell you about my transfer to Salt Lake.”

“Transfer to Salt Lake…?” he repeats, his face freezing.

“Yes. I tried to leave, you argued and followed me into the hall. I was stung by something. A bee, most likely, from when we were in Texas. That’s the last I remember.”

If the memory of their interrupted hallway encounter embarrasses him, he shows no sign of it. Instead, his expression is one of shock and overwhelm, as though he were grappling with a large amount of new information at once. He takes a step backwards.

Scully suddenly has a feeling of dread.

“I know time has passed since then,” she prompts, watching him. “I don’t know how much.”

He runs his fingers through his overlong hair. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Is the bee sting what you thought killed me, Mulder?”

He looks at her in disbelief. “No. I told you, car accident.”

“How much time since then?” she whispers. “A year?”

His eyes fix on her. “You’ve been dead a year,” he says. “But since the hallway and the bee? Longer.”

“How much longer?” she says fearfully.

He hesitates, eyeing her.

“How much longer, Mulder?”

“About three years,” he answers in a low voice. “Including the year of being dead.”

She feels the room rolling again like a ship at sea.

“Three … years,” she repeats.

“Yeah.”

She’s having trouble catching her breath, and she leans over, bending at the waist to put her head between her knees, trying to make things stabilize.

Three years’ worth of missing time. Only a few months of missing time had been almost insurmountable, something she expected to be recovering from for the rest of her life. This is unimaginably greater in scope.

Still bent over, she rocks in place to relax. How can she make things feel normal again, how can she ever get her bearings—

She’s suddenly aware of the weight of a hand upon her back.

Scully wants to cry, feeling it there. Please, Mulder. Don’t regret touching me.

The hand starts to move, gently patting. Each touch, however light, leaves a wake of warmth that reverberates through her muscles and sinew. With every touch, her lungs slowly refill, her equilibrium settles.

As she feels calmer, she slowly sits up and turns to face him. His hand drops quickly off her back, almost as if he is ashamed.

She studies his face. A muscle on the side of his jaw is twitching. There is something painful and veiled in his eyes, and a deep furrow in his brow. But she also sees conflict there, too, something buried underneath.

And she thinks she understands. He wants, very badly, to be kind to her. It’s his instinct. He wants it so much, but something she doesn’t entirely understand is preventing him.

Impulsively she wraps her arms around him, pressing her head against his chest. He sucks in a sharp, shocked breath. The map of muscles under his shirt seize up like a net tightening.

Oh, she realizes. He’s so scared. He’s as terrified as she has ever seen him.

Please don’t let me be wrong about this, she thinks.

Then his long arms tentatively reach around her, grip her, pull her in more tightly. A large hand lands on top of her head. Lightly he rocks her back and forth on the couch, and she cries into his chest.

This, she thinks with relief, is the partner she knows. This is what she remembers from hospital hallways, from the aftermath of ugly cases, from times of emotional turmoil. He is warm and steady: her best friend, her rock.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says in a low, tight voice. “I don’t understand it. But…we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry. You were right to come here.”

Her heart sinks. It’s still not right, the way he sounds. There’s something sickeningly off here. It’s not her partner after all. “You still don’t believe it’s me,” she murmurs into his chest.

He says nothing, still cupping her head.

“I don’t know,” he answers after a beat. “I’m not sure. But whatever’s going on, I don’t think you’re trying to fool me on purpose.”

“It’s so ironic,” she says bitterly, “that I can’t get you to believe.”

“It’s just…it’s possible they’ve intentionally made you believe something that isn’t true.”

She begins to cry again, and she realizes: he has yet to call her Scully. He hasn’t called her by any name at all.

“Don’t cry,” he says, and his voice sounds pained. “We’ll figure it out.”

She leans away from him, wiping her eyes.

“We should sleep tonight,” he says, after a while. “In the morning, I’d like to…”

“Run DNA,” she finishes dully. “I assume. It’s what I would do if I were … doubtful about my story.”

His reaction is some unholy mixture of wonder and anguish, an expression she finds she can’t bear to observe on his face.

“In the morning, I also want to call my mom,” she says.

There is a pause.

“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Of course you do.”

“You should call the Gunmen tonight, too,” she says. “They left you a message, checking in. They sounded worried.”

He looks absently away. “Sure. I will.” He looks down. “I’ll put some new sheets on the bed for you. The ones on there now aren’t that clean.”

“You have a bed,” she comments. “A bedroom. That’s new.”

He looks back at her, seemingly startled. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s not new, but—” He stops himself. “Yeah. But it’s no trouble for me to take the couch tonight.”

[thenationaltreasuregazette]

Relationship Aftermath: Ben and Sadusky Edition

Ben and Patrick | Ben and Abigail | Ben and Riley | Abigail and Riley | Abigail and Patrick | Riley and Patrick

At last, the final entry in our relationship aftermath series!

And unlike the others that I promised would be short but were not, this one actually will be short. I hope.

We all know I can go on about how many ways I do not like Book of Secrets, but one thing I definitely do like is the implication that Ben and Agent Sadusky are kinda-sorta friends now.

Like. In National Treasure they had a certain respect for each other. Sadusky always took Ben seriously. When the other agents wanted to dismiss Ben as a kook both before and after the heist, Sadusky was immediately committed to discovering what makes Ben tick.

Likewise, Ben doesn’t seem to have any animosity towards Sadusky. The only thing Ben has against him is that Sadusky is standing between him and the treasure.

As we see in one of my favorite lines I know, they’re all my favorite lines Ben goes out of his way to tell Sadusky that his escape from FBI custody isn’t personal or malicious, it’s simply the only way Ben can do what he needs to do.

BEN Sadusky. I'm still not against you. But I found door number three. And I'm taking it.

Ben doesn’t have a problem with the FBI in general either although given how much he knows about US history he should?

During the denouement inside Trinity Church, Ben and Sadusky come to a mutual understanding. Both men, ultimately, want to protect the treasure and honor the Freemasons who went to such dramatic lengths to hide it. Now that the obstacle standing between them—a certain stolen Declaration—is recovered they can even work together to go arrest Ian. I mean Sadusky does not have to let Ben have his gotcha moment, but he does.

What I don't necessarily see coming based on this dynamic is any real continuing relationship after the treasure is found and whatever procedural aftermath there might be happens. They end the first film on good terms, but are not necessarily in a position to become major factors in each other's lives going forward, both by the nature of what they relationship is, and the fact that, the last few days not withstanding, they live in very different worlds.

This was a work enemies-to-work friends relationship. Sure, it makes sense that Sadusky would keep tabs on Ben in case he ever did anything dramatic again, but Sadusky is not going to be part of whatever museum tour is going on, and Ben is not going to be on the FBI's radar unless he commits another felony.

That works for me just fine. I'm more interested in how the core team's relationships all evolve after their ordeal on the treasure hunt, and I don't see Sadusky being more than an occasional guest star in the lives moving forward.

However.

HOWEVER.

In one of the deleted scenes from Book of Secrets Sadusky finds Ben on the roof of the Library of Congress making a treacherous walk across the glass ceiling in an attempt to escape.

Sidebar, as someone with interest and experience in arctic exploration Ben should absolutely know that the safest way to cross thin ice is by laying down, spreading out your weight. That's not sexy enough for hollywood though.

Sadusky comes out the door and says in a rather tired, warning toneL

SADUSKY Ben...

And Ben turns to face him and mimics Sadusky's tone to say

BEN Pete...

Pete?

PETE???

Since when did you two clowns get on a first name basis? A nickname basis?

Are you poker buddies now??

More than that?? 👀

This is unironically one of my favorite moments in Book of Secrets.

Yes, I realize it is incredibly ironic that the one thing I like is a deleted scene.

[pixelated-schoolhouse]

Colored the sillies (HOW ARE YOU SO GOOD AT SHADING !!!!!)//

BRAAHHHHHJSJKAKAMKAKALWLSSK

EEEEE I LOVE THE WAY U DREW THEN AND COLORED THEM AHHHH SNSKKSSKSK

I USE LIKE OVERLAYS FOR MY SHADING AND A LOT OF BLACK FOR MY TONEL RANGE 😭

And the triangle I'm literally so glad u remembered wtfdksidksisks EEEEEEEE

TYYY SMMMMM !!!!! NSKSKSNNSN

[icarusthefoolish]

Don't mind me rebranding yet again it's Mollymauk missing hours for me right now...

All credit goes to the original artists if you know who any of these Pieces were made by/ know if they have Tumblr please tell me and I'll add the name's of the ones i don't know!

Credit:

Petyri tonel

Polkadothop

Lyr (I can't read the Watermark so I'm not sure if this is right!!)

Jolyne

Clya_lyren

[sillyspilly999]

Dis bass playin shiz iz gibin me carpel tonel

[sambuchito]

thoughts?

me funan si digo que recién el año pasado probé el Michel tonel?? me gusto igual y hay sanguchito de cada cosa (jamón y anana 🤢) que siento que esto sería un manjar se viene sambuchito sanguchito reviews???!! 👀