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ltash · 3 months ago

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Ashes to flames

Part 1

British India:

1940s.

The flames flickered and crackled ominously as they prepared the pyre. You stood there, clad in a brilliant red silk saree that shimmered under the fading light. The red dot between your eyebrows, the sindoor parted across your scalp, and the heavy gold jewellery that adorned your fragile frame all marked you as a widow, a bride bound to her husband, even in death Your pearly white skin, striking against the deep red of your garments, seemed too pure, too innocent for the fate that awaited you.

Your long, dark black hair, wavy and unbound, cascaded down your back like the night sky, and the henna tattoos that covered your slender arms and feet were still vibrant from your wedding day. Each intricate pattern felt like a mocking reminder of what should have been, but never was.

The weight of the moment pressed upon you, and memories rushed through your mind like a torrent you couldn’t stop.

You had been born into a wealthy Rajput family, one of privilege and tradition. Your parents, progressive for their time, had sent you to school with British girls. You could still hear your father's proud voice.

"You're not just a daughter," he’d said, his eyes gleaming with pride, "you're my pride. You will make your own path in this world."

But the dream of forging your own path had shattered the day he passed away. The vibrant, strong man who had nurtured your hopes and dreams was gone, and with him, your world collapsed. You remember standing there, watching as your mother stepped into the pyre beside him, her face serene with acceptance, fulfilling her role in the cruel practice of sati.

You had begged her not to go, gripping her hand tightly, but she had only smiled. "This is my duty, my child," she had whispered. "It is what we must do."

And now it was your turn.

At 23, you had been forced into a marriage with an 80-year-old man, a frail and terminal figure you barely knew. Your uncle had orchestrated it all, ignoring your protests and pleas. Your life, once filled with promise, had been reduced to caring for a dying man, a man who never loved you, never saw you as more than a young wife to be bound to his deathbed.

As you stood upon the pyre, your heart pounded in your chest, cold terror coursing through your veins. The deceased body of your husband lay beside you, his wrinkled face unmoving, eyes closed in eternal sleep. It felt like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

Your uncle’s voice boomed from behind you, cold and resolute. "It is time. Your duty is clear. You belong to him, in life and in death."

Tears stung your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were an abomination, they said, cursed to burn beside your husband. There was no escape now. You looked at the faces in the crowd, their expressions a mixture of reverence and indifference.

"I don’t want to die," you whispered to yourself, the words barely audible above the crackling wood and the ceremonial chants. Your body felt too fragile for the weight of what was expected of you.

For a moment, the world around you blurred, and you were back in the classroom, sitting at a desk with your British classmates, laughing and learning. You remembered the joy of those days, the dreams you had once nurtured, and the freedom you had tasted.

But it was all gone now.

The fire beneath the pyre roared to life, the heat licking at your feet, pulling you back into the present. Your breath hitched, your hands trembling as they were bound for the final rites. The crowd began to chant, their voices blending with the wind, carrying you closer to your fate.

You stood in shock, your mind screaming for escape, but there was none. The flames rose higher, and the scent of burning wood filled the air.

In that final moment, as the fire closed in, you closed your eyes and let the memories of your father, your mother, and the life you had once dreamed of wash over you. You had been a flower, once full of life, now destined to wither in the flames.

The flames raged around you, a roaring inferno that licked at the edge of your red silk saree, threatening to consume you whole. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid scent of burning wood, filling your lungs with every breath. Your screams had become raw, a desperate plea that seemed to vanish into the night, absorbed by the rising chants of the crowd. Their faces, once familiar, now appeared distant and monstrous in the glow of the fire. Every inch of you trembled, trapped in the suffocating weight of tradition, knowing there was no escape.

Suddenly, through the deafening roar of the flames, another sound broke through, the thunder of hooves pounding the earth, fierce and unyielding. The chanting faltered, and for a moment, all eyes turned toward the source of the sound. Out of the swirling smoke, a figure emerged on horseback, riding at full gallop. The villagers stumbled back, their voices fading as the rider approached.

"Enough!" A voice rang out like a clap of thunder, so powerful it seemed to silence the world. It cut through the noise through the chaos, commanding attention.

Through the haze, you saw him, Lieutenant Admiral Simon Riley. His tall, imposing figure sat astride a powerful black horse, the silver insignias on his pristine uniform gleaming under the darkening sky. His face was set in a mask of anger, jaw clenched, eyes burning with purpose. His gaze met yours across the pyre, and in that moment, time stopped. The weight of the flames, the pressing heat, the terror, all of it disappeared as his eyes locked onto yours. They were sharp, focused, and filled with a fierce determination that left you breathless.

In one swift motion, Simon dismounted, drawing his sword in a fluid arc. The blade gleamed like polished silver, a beacon of power in the dim light. Without hesitation, he strode through the crowd, parting them with the sheer force of his presence. The people, once so confident in their cruelty, shrank back in fear.

His gloved hand reached for you. Strong, steady, unwavering, he grasped you by the waist as though you weighed nothing. With effortless strength, he lifted you from the pyre, cradling your fragile frame against his chest. The heat of the flames still crackled beneath your feet, but in his arms, the terror that had gripped you began to fade. You clung to him, your heart pounding, your body trembling from shock.

“I am taking her with me,” Simon declared, his voice low but lethal, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd. His sword remained raised high, its deadly point gleaming, daring anyone to approach.

Your uncle, face flushed with rage, stepped forward. “You can not do this!” he shouted, his voice trembling with fury. “She is an abomination! The consequences, " He faltered, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and arrogance. “The consequences won’t be good. Saahib, I warn you.”

Simon’s icy blue eyes narrowed as he turned to face your uncle. “You dare threaten me?” he asked, his voice dangerously calm. His grip on you tightened, his body a wall of strength and defiance. “You call her an abomination, yet you are the one trying to murder an innocent woman in the name of your backwards traditions.”

One of the villagers, emboldened by your uncle’s words, stepped forward. “She has a duty to fulfil! She must burn with her husband. It is our way!”

Simon’s jaw clenched as he glared at the crowd. “Over my dead body!” he thundered, his voice booming across the gathering. “You barbarians think you can hide behind your so-called customs? Killing an innocent woman under the guise of tradition? I will not allow it.”

His eyes swept over the villagers, daring them to defy him. No one moved. Even your uncle, who had always wielded power over your life, seemed small and insignificant in the face of Simon’s wrath.

The soldiers who had followed Simon arrived on horseback, dismounting swiftly and surrounding their commander, their faces set in grim determination. They moved into formation, shields, and rifles at the ready, forming an impenetrable barrier between Simon and the villagers. The crowd’s courage crumbled as Simon’s men stood at attention, their loyalty to him unshakeable.

Simon sheathed his sword with a sharp clink and swiftly mounted his horse, never once loosening his protective grip on you. With one fluid motion, he pulled you up onto the saddle in front of him, his arms encircling your body as he guided the reins. You pressed against his chest, your heart racing, your body trembling, still reeling from the terror of what had almost been your fate.

“Hold on,” Simon whispered, his breath warm against your ear, his voice gentle now, a stark contrast to the fury he had shown moments before.

As he urged the horse forward, the powerful animal surged ahead, hooves pounding the earth as the village disappeared behind you. The wind whipped through your unbound hair, and the world blurred around you as Simon rode with speed and precision, cutting through the night. His chest was firm against your back, a solid presence that anchored you as the remnants of the horror faded into the distance.

You glanced up at him, still too shocked to speak. His face was set in determination, but there was a tenderness in the way he held you, as if he had just saved something precious. His residence came into view on the horizon, a beacon of safety amidst the storm of chaos you had left behind.

As the horse galloped toward his estate, you knew that the life you had been condemned to, the pyre that had almost claimed you, was far behind. In Simon’s arms, you had been saved, not just from death, but from a life you had never chosen.

By the time you reached his mansion, your body had given up. The exhaustion, the terror, the sheer weight of what you had just survived had drained you of every ounce of strength. You could no longer hold on, and with a faint sigh, you collapsed in his arms, your head lolling against his chest as unconsciousness claimed you. Simon’s strong arms caught you, his grip unwavering as he dismounted his horse with practised ease, cradling your limp form close to him.

The grand doors of his mansion swung open as Simon carried you inside, his boots echoing sharply against the marble floors. His face was a mask of calm control, though the tension in his jaw betrayed the turmoil raging beneath the surface. The servants, startled by the sight of their master carrying an unconscious woman, rushed forward, their eyes wide with disbelief.

"Sati! But she is alive!" one of the servants gasped, his eyes flicking nervously between you and Simon. The whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of shock and confusion filling the air.

Simon’s eyes, cold and resolute, silenced the room. “She will stay alive,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. There was a finality in his tone, a command that left no room for doubt.

“But, Saahib… you shouldn’t have brought her here,” another servant, an older man with worry etched into every line of his face, stepped forward cautiously. He glanced nervously towards the door, his voice lowering as he continued, “They will come for her. The village… they won’t let this go.”

Simon’s eyes darkened, a flash of anger crossing his face as he looked down at you, your fragile form still limp in his arms. “She will stay here from now on,” he declared, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. His gaze returned to the old servant, daring him to say otherwise.

The servant hesitated, wringing his hands together anxiously. “But, sir… she has committed...”

“She has committed nothing,” Simon interrupted sharply, cutting him off with a glare that froze the words in his throat. “What they tried to do to her, that was a crime.”

Without waiting for another word, Simon turned and carried you through the wide, opulent halls of his mansion, the luxurious surroundings a stark contrast to the horrors you had just escaped. He moved with purpose, his grip on you gentle yet protective as if he were carrying something precious and fragile. As he reached his private chambers, he nudged the door open with his boot, striding inside.

He walked toward his grand bed, the soft linens and dark wood frame a world away from the pyre you had almost perished upon. Lowering you carefully onto the bed, Simon’s touch was tender, as if he feared you might break. He adjusted the pillows beneath your head, smoothing your hair from your face as he stood over you, his gaze softening for the briefest moment.

“She has nowhere to go,” he murmured, more to himself than to anyone else, his eyes never leaving your unconscious form. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the warmth of his touch a faint comfort against your feverish skin.

The silence hung heavy in the room as Simon stood beside you, the weight of his decision clear in the set of his shoulders. He had saved you from the flames, but he knew the storm was far from over. They would come for you. But as long as you remained under his roof, under his protection, they would have to get through him first.

And Simon Riley had no intention of letting you go.

The soft clink of your heavy gold bangles stirred the quiet room, breaking the early morning silence. You blinked your eyes open, the weight of the ornate jewellery and the lingering scent of smoke bringing back the harsh memories of the night before. Your body felt heavy and exhausted, but you were alive. The bed beneath you was soft, a far cry from the pyre you had stood on, and the air was cool and still.

Simon, who had been standing near the window, turned at the sound of your stirring. His eyes, sharp and alert, softened when they met yours. "You’re awake," he said, his voice low but gentle.

You slowly sat up, feeling the weight of your golden jewellery shift as you moved. The red silk saree you still wore clung to you, a reminder of the ritual that had nearly claimed your life. Simon watched you closely, his expression unreadable for a moment, but there was something in his gaze, something like awe. You looked like an Indian goddess sitting there, the rich red fabric and gleaming gold of your attire contrasting with the delicate vulnerability of your face. Even in your weakened state, you were breathtaking.

He took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are safe now,” he said softly, his tone reassuring, firm. “Nobody will touch you. I will make sure of that.”

The conviction in his voice made your chest tighten with gratitude and fear all at once. He was offering you something precious: safety. A luxury you hadn’t known since you were forced into this nightmare.

“The servant will prepare breakfast for you,” Simon continued, his voice softening as he spoke. “Whatever you wish to eat, just tell him.” He offered a faint smile, one that barely reached his eyes before turning to leave, giving you space to gather yourself.

But something inside you panicked as you watched him turn away. Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers curling around his wrist. “They will come back for me,” you whispered, your voice trembling, the fear returning in waves. The memory of the village and the pyre still haunted you, lurking just beneath the surface.

Simon paused, his back still to you, his muscles tensing beneath your grip. For a moment, he said nothing, his silence weighing heavy in the air between you. Then, he turned his head slightly, his voice calm but resolute. “We’ll see,” he replied, his tone carrying a quiet confidence that made you want to believe him.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Simon’s servant stepped into the room, bowing slightly. “Saahib,” he said, a nervous tremor in his voice, “the village minister has come to see you.”

Your grip on Simon’s wrist tightened, fear surging through you once more. “They’re here to take me,” you muttered, dread filling your voice.

Simon looked down at you, his expression softening as he gently removed your hand from his wrist. “Relax,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “I will take care of them.”

He turned and strode out of the room, his footsteps purposeful, leaving you alone with the crushing weight of your fear. You sat there, frozen, barely breathing as you listened to his retreating footsteps echo down the hall. The walls of his grand mansion felt suffocating now, closing in around you as the threat loomed just beyond the doors.

Simon entered the living room, his posture straight, his face unreadable as he approached the man waiting for him. The village minister stood at the threshold, his weathered face lined with anxiety. As Simon drew nearer, the minister removed his turban and knelt before him, bowing his head low in submission. The gesture, one of both respect and desperation, seemed to fill the room with an oppressive air.

“Saahib,” the minister began, his voice thick with pleading, “please… I put my honour before you. Give her back to us.” He kept his head bowed, his hands trembling as he placed his turban at Simon’s feet, a symbol of his surrender.

Simon’s eyes flashed with anger, his jaw tightening at the man’s words. He took a step forward, his presence towering over the kneeling minister. “Give her back to you?” Simon’s voice was low, but there was an edge to it, sharp as a blade. “So you can burn her alive again?”

The minister flinched at Simon’s words but kept his head bowed, the weight of his shame clear. “It is our way, Saahib. The village demands it… her duty...”

“Her duty?” Simon’s voice rose, cutting the minister off sharply. He took another step forward, looming over the man. “Her duty is to survive, not to be thrown into the flames like an offering to your backwards traditions.”

The minister dared to look up, his eyes wide with desperation. “Please, Saahib, you do not understand… This is how it has been for generations. The village...”

“Don't try to lecture an officer of the East India Company. I don’t care about your village,” Simon snapped, his anger barely contained. “I will not let you murder her. Not under my watch.” His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, and he leaned in slightly, his eyes blazing. “If you think you can come here and take her, you’ll have to go through me first.”

The minister’s face paled, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find words, but there was no room for argument. Simon’s authority, his sheer presence, left no space for negotiation.

“Go back to your village,” Simon said coldly, stepping back. “Tell them she is under my protection now. If anyone dares try to harm her, they will face the full force of the British army.”

The minister, trembling, scrambled to gather his turban and stumbled to his feet. He nodded hastily, backing away toward the door. “Yes, Saahib. I will… I will tell them,” he stammered before turning and fleeing from the mansion, leaving Simon standing alone in the heavy silence of the room.

Simon exhaled slowly, his fists unclenching as the tension ebbed from his body. He had made his stance clear, but he knew the battle was far from over. They would return, perhaps with more men, more pressure. But for now, you were safe.

And that, Simon vowed, was all that mattered.

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your-old-sins-tournament · 1 year ago

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12 YEAR OLD OCS; SIDE A

Luphina [@bees-buzzy-blog]

Luphina is a candyfloss dragon that steals near-exclusively sweets and I made her when I was 14 :)!! People that try to capture her always end up with empty wallets and dropped back into the nearest town. She has limited shapeshifting abilities to appear as fully a dragon, fully human, or somewhere in-between, and prefers to stay in a sort of mixed form for the conveniences of human hands and size while still retaining her flight abilities.

She's still pretty close to my heart tbh

Excavator [@enjoliquej]

Behold, a mere mortal man, born with the name Excavator, destined to become part of one of the most fantastical endeavors known to man: Archeological Excavation. Being gifted with a genius and brilliant name as Excavator, and having a career that shared the same name gave him some trouble with introductions.

A bold and thoughtful quote from our hero:

"My name is Excavator, and I am an excavator." -- Excavator

Follow Excavator, the world's WORST and luckiest archeologist as he embarks across the world to different locations that his 12 year old writer was learning about in history class. Watch as his boss constantly fires and re-hires him on account of Excavator's stupidity and luck at finding rare artifacts. Embark on his first adventure when he accidentally hurled himself into a tar pit from clowning around and found the Rosetta Stone buried deep beneath. Join him on his trip to China where he gets thrown into a basket and is forced to float the Pacific Ocean for days until he discovers ancient Chinese scrolls hidden in the basket with him, narrowly escaping being fired by his boss yet again. Follow him to India where he believes he traveled to the 1800s and is mistaken for a butler and cleans precious furniture with bleach which ruins everything until he realizes he was just staying at some guys house the whole time and he didn't time travel to the 1800s.

All this and more on The Silly Adventures of Excavator, The Indiana Jones Wannabe!

#oc #polls #ocs #bracket tournament #side a #old sins #excavator #luphina #ocs you made when you were 12 tournament

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nidhi-writes · 1 year ago

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Deepavali - Great power comes with great responsibility

Growing up in the southern Indian state of Tamilnadu, where Deepavali is celebrated cause of Narakasura’s Defeat by Krishna. Each year I heard the story of how and when it happened, why Krishna killed Narakasura, and how cruel he was.

As the adult age struck I started to work with people from many parts of India, surprisingly that's when I heard that the story of Deepavali/Diwali which they celebrate is very different from the one I did.

Some specified that it celebrated the cause of Lord Rama and Seetha’s return to Ayodhya

Some Specified that it was celebrated cause of Ravana’s Defeat by Lord Rama.

They were surprised when I said in Tamilnadu it is celebrated for the reason I mentioned above, some were quick to point out how wrong I was and how one should know one's true culture and blah blah blah.

It was hard to explain culture and practices vary throughout our country and that's the beauty of it, there is no right or wrong cause every path and every practice leads to the same destiny. Our paths may vary but the destination is one.

So I wanted to read more about this one-line story I heard about how Krishna defeated Narakasura and the origin of it. And man if I say it made me cry, weep.

To dive into this story we have to travel from Kaliyug to Krita(Sathya) Yug

When the earth was in the hands of destruction by the asura Hrinyaksha and to save the earth and defeat Hrinyaksha, the almighty Vishnu took in the form of Varaha, as both Hrinyaksha and Varaha fought, Varaha overpowered Hiranaksha and at the end defeating him and also restored the earth to its original position in the universe

Varaha defeated Hiranaksha with ease and his only exertion was a drop of sweat, which fell to the ground. From that drop, a young warrior rose, his name was Naraka.

Is that when Bhoodevi and her heartbeat as a mother, her eyes watered at the scene of her son rising from her Swami’s drop of sweat. How could she not love him as he is her son, with love Bhoodevi hugged her son and smiled at how strong and a warrior he was. Bhoodevi turned and asked her Prabhu Varaha that her son should be invincible. Varaaha pulled out one of his tusks and gave it to Naraka saying he could use it as a weapon whenever he was in great danger.

Naraka accepted the weapon provided by his father and felt immensely blessed and ready to go to seek his fortune, as his father provided him advice on how to use the power to do only good.

‘Uphold Dharma’ said Varaha and Bhoodevi blessed her son as happy tears fell from her lotus-like eyes.

Just like any mother, her heart is filled with love and confidence for her son. She does not doubt her son becoming powerful in all three worlds and being just like her Swami. Varaha looked at Bhoodevi and smiled at her nodding his head as if he knew what she was thinking, but his smile didn’t seem to be filled with confidence.

Varaha smiled, his son will be powerful but the question is will he uphold the dharma to do good things, will he use his powers to be righteous, cause great power comes with great responsibilities.

As the yugas rolled one by one from Krita(Sathya) to Treta, to Dwaparyug. Lord Vishnu again came down to earth in the form of Krishna, Yadava. He vanquished his Uncle Kamsa and continued to restore dharma on the earth.

Just like the yugas rolled down, Naraka also grew very powerful, as he conquered everything from heaven and earth, he was drunk with power. That's when he snatched the celestial earrings from Aditi, the mother of Devas.

Amid the chaos, Indra the lord of devas sought Krishna’s help to vanquish Naraka. Upon hearing this Satyabama, one of the wives of Krishna, who is none other than Bhoodevi herself, got devastated and her heart ached along with anger boiled on how her son turned out. Her confidence in her son now made her feel like crying a river but as a Bhoodevi she had a job first that is to accompany her swami and solve this problem.

Both Krishna and Sathyabama left Prag-joyitisha-pura on Garuda. But entering the Prag-joyitisha-pura was not easy as the capital has four layers to its defence, The chief defender of Naraka’s capital was Mura, who was so confident that no one could penetrate the defence he had set and was relaxing deep down at the ring of defence.

But can anything be against Parandhaman himself? Krishna took down each defence layer at ease thus causing violent ripples in the water. Mura woke up from his slumber, enraged rushed out to defend and attack Krishna. Mura fell fighting against Krishna who then earned the name Murrari, the enemy of Mura.

Upon hearing the chaos outside Naraka Narakasura himself came out and started to fight against Krishna. The fight went on day and night causing extreme chaos and it became very difficult to say who was winning. As Naraka still had the weapon provided to him by his father Varaha, he took out the deadly tusk and threw it on Krishna, who got stuck by the tusk into his chest and fell unconscious. Naraka let out a victory cry but an enraged Satyabama picked up the bow and started to fight Naraka with so much anger. Naraka was shocked and continued to fight Sathyabama not knowing her real identity just like he did with Krishna.

Sathyabama’s eyes turned red flashing anger and her love for her son was now completely overshadowed by the monster he had become. Amidst the fighting, Krishna woke up and saw Sathyabama fighting and smiled at her. Naraka is shocked to see how Krishna is now awake, no other being can able to be alive after being struck by the deadly weapon, if Krishna is alive then he must be none other than Lord Varaha himself, his father.

Naraka fell on his knees and his father's words rang into his ears ‘Uphold Dharma’. He realized that he had failed his father's words and surrendered to Krishna, who used Sudarshana chakra at Naraka.

As his life slowly leaves Naraka he subconsciously surrenders himself to Krishna and Sathyabama. Sathyabama who was Bhoodevi born again, rushed to him and held him. The cries of sorrow, hurt, love, anger everything heard in her. As she helplessly held her son whose life slowly leaving him, Krishna silently watched the reunion of mother and son. As the tears fell on his body he found light in his dying moment. The darkness has been lifted as the dawn broke.

That day is celebrated as the festival of lights, Deepavali or Diwali, which signifies that we have to emerge from darkness to light.

@whippersnappersbookworm @harinishivaa @thelekhikawrites @willkatfanfromasia @yehshuhua @arachneofthoughts @vibishalakshman @nspwriteups @thirst4light @hollogramhallucination @celestesinsight @curiousgalacticsoul @themorguepoet @tranquilsightseer

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lethalchiralium · 1 year ago

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That's... not really (?) a request the lyrics just reminded me of simon riley:

And I've been meaning to tell you

I think your house is haunted

Your dad is always mad and that must be why

And I think you should come live with

Me and we can be pirates

Then you won't have to cry

Or hide in the closet

And just like a folk song

Our love will be passed on

Please picture me

In the weeds

Before I learned civility

I used to scream ferociously

Any time I wanted

Sweet tea in the summer

Cross my heart, won't tell no other

And though I can't recall your face

I still got love for you

Pack your dolls and a sweater

We'll move to India forever

Passed down like folk songs

Our love lasts so long

(But in case you see potential and feel like it ofc: imagine him and a girl in middle school. They were very close, told each other a lot... so much so that everyone around them thought they were dating but they were just best friends (not really but too young to understand just how deeply they loved each other) and got separated over time and lost contact.) Anyway... hope you have a good day 😊

in honor of speak now (taylor’s version) and of folklore by taylor swift, i give you this

When he saw you again, it was like his lungs were ripped out of his ribcage by an ungodly force.

Your mesmerizing smile made his heart flutter and at that moment, he wished he could change things. Change every time he hid in his closet, change the moment he had to leave you, and change the moment of when he knew he loved you from a desolate night in the arid desert of Mexico to a night where your head was cuddled on his chest, both of you underneath your pink and fluffy blankets when you were both fifteen. He would change the way he left you to believe he had died.

His heartbeat was in his throat, lips dry as he hoped you were alright. He wanted to tell you that he had kept the Manchester United pin you gave to him when you were both fourteen, that it had the needle snipped off so it could settle in his chest pocket of his tactical vest. He hoped you still had that photo booth photo of him and you that was forever saved in your wallet since thirteen.

He wanted to tell you that he still remembered those nights under the stars on the swings, he remembered you fighting off his bullies when you two had first met with a brick in hand, pink lip gloss smile, and scraped up knees. He remembered you pulling him out of that closet at fourteen as his father screamed downstairs, out of his window, in the dark and out of harm. You tucked him into your perfume-drenched pink blankets and wrapped your arms around his bruised chest, hand holding the back of his head to your collarbone as your lips whispered promises into his once bloodied hair.

Don’t walk away. Don’t walk away. Don’t walk away.

You were as beautiful as the day he had left, his breath was shallow and his legs were paralyzed as he watched you determinedly walk past him and towards your destination. He had memorized that walk long ago, one you always made towards him with the world’s brightest smile on your face.

He’d wait all night for you, or until his heart explodes, he had remembered thinking one night as you held his hand, tugging him towards your home. “You can run away with me any time you want, Simon Riley.”

The silence of the people around him made his body be set ablaze, his chest felt as if it was being electrocuted as your smile grew wider.

Do it. Do it now, do it!

Please, don’t walk away, Y/N. Please, not when I finally have you back.

He stood and moved into the middle of the aisle of the church, the priest already speaking the words he needed to hear as he gazed upon your beautiful wedding dress and your boring groom.

Speak now, Simon.

Run away with me any time you want, Simon Riley.

“I object.”

let me know if i should have a part two 🫶

#lethalchiralium #lethal chiralium #AND OF COURSE IM WRITING THIS IN TUMBLR AND THEN IT FUCKING GLITCHES AND I HAVE REWRITE IT #simon ghost riley #simon riley #call of duty #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x f!reader #simon ghost riley call of duty #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley call of duty #simon riley x fem!reader #simon riley x f!reader

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eatmangoesnekkid · 1 year ago

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Magical creative sensuous self-regenerating and self-preserved women can have insecurities when interacting with the dominant world of working 9-5 and production, the intellectual world, the corporate world. We tend to spend more time relaxing, resting, nourishing, creating beauty, in nature, and just being beautiful and the world subtly tries to tell us that we should be doing more. The truth is that a magical woman whose prayers, playfulness, connection to her heart, womb/gut, the unseen, and the creative can magnetize one million dollars and is more valuable than a woman who is always on the go, always busy in input-output mode, lives in her head, teetering on the brink of burnout or excessive talking, lacks deep feeling awareness, and makes one million through her hard work. The frequency, vibration, and quality of breathing, energy, cooking, and loving will be incredibly different and create vastly different outcomes and energetics in the long run. Spiritual Yet Struggling Years ago I became done with all narratives that claimed that mystical magical spiritual women did not have any assets, money or wealth or that we were destined to a life of struggle. If you are tuned in and tapped on for real, there is no mathematical way you can struggle. Please know if you are a magical loving woman, you are pure frequency wired for wealth and abundance, and add value where ever you are in the world as you are. Not everyone has to work hard. Because we are not playing the same game in this life. People talk to you and feel an inner calm within themselves for good reason. When you are aligned with your heart and soul, life simply comes easier to you. The overculture of capitalism and its scarcity traumas have very little effect on magical women. When we release absurd messaging from family like ‘money doesn’t grow on trees’ that closes down our heart and disconnects us from the skill of receiving and our soul’s innate knowing, we make major leaps in our wealth consciousness. Just like money DOES grow on trees, we do have more options for how to live life. If you look too much at the external world and how it fearfully operates, you may begin to feel a lack of power and lose your inherent magic and connection to your soul’s knowing. --India Ame'ye

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belle-keys · 1 year ago

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I'm really missing Cordelia right now and I know how much you adore her too. Do you have any interesting headcanons for her? How about songs that remind you of her? Anyway here's a pic of my Funko she's keeping me company while I work

Cordelia! That's my whole damn cousin! Here are my headcanons:

She lowkey loves to bullshit white Englishmen about her ethnicity. Sometimes they come up to her asking “What’s Arabia like?” or “ Which part of India are you from” or some nonsense lumping all brown people together because they’re ignorant like that. Instead of lecturing them about Persia, she starts playing along and saying things like “Oh yes, I’m actually the lost queen of Rajastan, third in line for the throne”. James wants to punch the men but Cordelia plays along and she and Alastair laugh about it later.

Her chai game is simply not as strong as Alastair’s because cmon, Alastair is the British-Persian king of chai! But they still have chai-making battles which they force Sona to judge.

She likes experimenting with various types of dance as a hobby. From traditional Persian dances to ballet to classical Indian dance. She finds it’s a great way to destress when her Clave duties become taxing. Plus, James thinks it’s super hot.

Her dream vacation destination (after Constantinople) is Petra.

Absolutely no one can beat Cordelia at chess but she absolutely sucks at card games (because girls weren’t really taught to play card games back in the day). However, Lucie happens to be good at card games because the Thieves taught her, and Anna is good at them too because Anna is Anna. Hence, Cordelia’s greatest secret goal is to get as good as them to beat James and Matthew one day and relish in their frowns.

She is deadly scared of bees and she will not hesitate to whip out Cortana and attempt to slay them… often to no avail. “What a great warrior,” mutters Alastair whenever this happens.

Some songs that remind me of her:

La Chute est lente by Alma (she’s a lovergirl)

Cupid by Victoria Monét (she’s a lovergirl)

The Great Mermaid by LE SSERAFIM (she will take absolutely no shit)

War of Hearts by Ruelle (she will beat your ass)

Anywhere But Here by PVRIS (jordelia)

Akasaka Sad by Rina Sawayama (breaking generational trauma)

#cordelia carstairs #jordelia #the last hours #tlh #tsc #chain of thorns #chot #chain of gold #the shadowhunter chronicles #herondaisy #cordelia headcanons

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indianhealthguru · 2 months ago

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youtube

The birth of a child is always a moment of joy. But, In Africa, nearly 500,000 families each year, this joy is accompanied by a serious challenge—congenital heart disease, or CHD. These pediatric heart conditions, which affect the structure and function of the heart, demand urgent attention and specialized care.

#Children Heart Care in Africa #Congenital Heart Issues in Africa #Pediatric Heart Surgery in India #Children Heart Surgery Cost in India #Pediatric Cardiac Hospital for Africans #Best Medical Tourism Destination #Youtube

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lisaoshiola · 2 months ago

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youtube

The birth of a child is always a moment of joy. But, In Africa, nearly 500,000 families each year, this joy is accompanied by a serious challenge—congenital heart disease, or CHD.

#children heart care in africa #congenital heart issues in africa #congenital heart defects #children heart care for africa patients #congenital heart problem of african patients #pediatric heart surgery in india #children heart surgery cost in india #best congenital heart surgeon india #top children heart surgery india for african patient #top pediatric heart surgery hospital india #pediatric cardiac hospital for africans #medical tourism india #medical tourism for african patient #best medical tourism destination #Youtube

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kiatheinsomniac · 1 year ago

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──── 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐄? (𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐒 𝐈 𝐀𝐌) ˊˎ -

☾ ⋆ ﾟ𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 / 𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: a commission for @havatnah who's always a delight to work with and working with me to put out more older Jacob content! 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: older! Jacob Frye x Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 5.9k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: MDNI, NSFW content, smut, canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort

Jack had been an ever-growing problem for you and Jacob as of late. He began as something that neither of you believed would really be an issue: your paths had crossed and then drifted away from each other, like intersecting lines that were destined to meet for a brief period of time and then never encounter one another again.

This was how the two of you had expected fate to play out but it was not the case. First, the Rooks strayed from Jacob’s lead and they instead devoted their loyalty to Jack who had them infect London with his reign of terror, a city that the two of you – alongside Henry and Evie – had freed from the tyranny of the Templars just over two decades ago. You and your partner did all you could to try and regain your strayed friends and fighters, men and women you had once fought side by side with, but your endeavours were fruitless.

Then, members of the brotherhood started showing up dead: all women and all killed gruesomely, in a fashion that would haunt not only the country but the world for generations to come. These were young women that you and Jacob had trained yourselves, young women who had been given a second chance at life and had all their potential torn from their hands with the blade of a mad, heartless killer.

A mad, heartless killer born from the poor, abused boy that Jacob had trained with the intention of giving him a chance to make something good of himself, to be an Assassin.

It’s safe to say that he had never meant for any of this to happen.

It was the fifth killing that had really kicked Jacob into gear: Mary Kelly. You were doing all you could to help your lover in his quest to put an end to the terror that Jack was spreading around England’s capital city like a plague. You joined him in putting pressure on Arthur Weaversbrook to not publish the letters and give the serial killer undeserved notoriety that would only serve to strengthen his standing, you joined him in the investigations of the murders, in doing all you could to hunt down this initiate gone astray.

But on a day that you have regretted ever since, you were at the police station, going through evidence that the investigating officers had found at Scotland Yard all while Jacob was out investigating the scene of the latest crime. You don’t know much of what happened next: only that Jacob left the scene and when you returned to your shared lodgings, they were in a state. There were clear signs of a fight and blood all over the floor that you could only pray didn’t belong to Jacob. But you knew better, you’d been an Assassin for decades by now. You conferred with Abberline to make sure that all his officers were on the lookout for Jacob who was now officially missing and presumed dead. But you couldn’t stand by that, not in your heart. Deep down, you’d like to think that you would know if he was dead, that Evie would know if he was dead. She had shared a womb with him and you shared your heart with him and the idea of him being dead just didn’t sit right with either of you.

The moment Evie arrived in the city – having already been contacted by Jacob and yourself for help in the given circumstances – you cried as you met her on the docks and embraced her more tightly than you had ever held anything or anyone before. It wasn’t until the two of you were outside of your lodgings that your tears finally subsided and you were able to fill her in on everything that had been going on in her absence while she was in India.

It was then that your work to hunt down Jack and find Jacob became a joint effort with Evie, the twin sister of your missing lover. It was a long and tedious effort as you scoured London of Jack’s lieutenants, looking for any lead that could point you to the whereabouts of the madman and consequently Jacob too. For the most part, you held an eerie feeling over you that some element of this was all some elaborate scheme, some game of cat and mouse where you were being led through a maze that would herd you right into the jaws of the sly feline that was stalking you.

You hadn’t been entirely wrong in that sense as Jack led the two of you to Lambeth Asylum: the building in which he had spent a portion of his life and suffered a great deal of abuse. You had felt for him as you had always been able to sense the hardship Jack suffered when you and Jacob had been training him. But that didn’t justify all the harm he had caused and that’s why you joined Evie into the asylum that had something sinister in its atmosphere; a scent, a flavour, a weight, you knew not but you did know that something was wrong.

The fight was hard-won and it took every ounce of stealth and tactic that you and your dear friend could muster, having to sneak up on Jack, having to immobilise the patients he set upon you with non-lethal weapons all while your own lives and safety were in jeopardy. It was not an easy effort at all but the two of you were the ones to come out of it victorious. The moment Jack breathed his final breath, Jacob was all you could think about. Covering up Jack’s identity as an Assassin wasn’t even an afterthought in that moment. All you could do was cradle Jacob’s half-limp body in your hands while Evie did the same on his other side, talking with Inspector Abberline while your thumb gently brushed over the dried blood beneath Jacob’s swollen eye.

He looked weak as his unharmed eye gazed up at your face in the dimness of the cell, glancing between you and his sister as he listened to the sound of conversation that seemed so distant. The two of you murmured assurances to him that he would be ok as you helped him in your arms while officers of Scotland Yard cleared up the building and dealt with the journalists circling around like cultures to a carcass outside. You barely even registered the sensation of hot tears spilling down your cheeks when you finally had Jacob alive in your arms once more.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Since, Jacob has been brought to a hospital to be treated while he rests and recovers. You refuse to leave his side throughout the entire process. You even learn from the nurses how to change his bandages yourself. His most severe injuries were the broken ribs and his eye but you were just beyond thankful that he was only injured and not dead. You were unsure how you could live in a world in which he no longer existed. You help him to clean himself – first with a sponge bath as he lacks the strength to clean himself but then moving onto helping him into the bath back at the lodgings once he has healed enough and the nurses trust you to care for him, one of them dropping by every other day to check on his progress and your treatment of him.

“I can do it…” Jacob groans when it feels as though every muscle in his body is protesting, aching painfully to punish him for even considering moving while he’s in this state.

“But you don’t need to. I’m here to help.” You say as you ease him into the hot water and you hear the sigh of relief that spills past his lips when the steaming bath helps to alleviate the pains that wash like waves on a shore over his beaten body. You sit down on the stool beside the copper tub while you begin to cup water in your hands and pour it over his hair, his shoulders and back that are still healing from various wounds: some now resemble grazes but others have only just had their stitches removed. “I know it's frustrating to be like this, I know that you want to get out there and clean up the mess that Jack’s left behind. But Evie’s handling it and I’m handling you.” You say reassuringly. You watch Jacob’s eyes scrunch close, making him wince a little at his injured eye. It won’t ever heal properly and he’ll never be able to see out of it again, the two of you have since discovered. He is already planning on wearing a patch over it once his recovery is over and he heads back out into the world so that the two of you can join Evie in liberating London once more.

“But you shouldn’t have to be handling me!” He bursts out and you’re not sure whether or not you’re surprised. It seems so unlike the matured Jacob you know to have outbursts like this or raise his voice around you. Beneath the wavering surface of the water, you see his hands clench into fists and then loosen once more as he takes a deep breath. “This never should have happened. You never should have been alone in the city with everything that was going on. You never should have had to face Jack without me by your side.” His voice chokes up with emotion and you watch his jaw tense for a moment as he reels all of his feelings in, not wanting to break down nor misdirect his frustration onto you. “I’m supposed to protect you. What sort of a man am I if I can’t protect the most precious thing in my life?” He asks as he turns his head to face you and you see the anguish across his face.

Tenderly, you cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the wrinkles in his features as you caress his cheek, wetting it with your hands and leaving a little shine in your wake. You lean down and softly kiss him, hoping to reassure him that you think no less of him in his current state by any means.

“Jacob, you’ve done more than anyone could have possibly asked of you. You never meant for any of this to happen, none of it was your intent but you took responsibility anyway. Jack wasn’t just one man, my love. He had taken your Rooks, he had the patients in the asylum. He was a man with an army and you did well to stand your ground against him. I understand that you want to protect me but there’s only so much you can do as one human being and I don’t expect you to be able to move heaven and earth for me.” You smile fondly at him as you wet his hair and slick it back from his face. It’ll need a cut soon and he could do with a shave, you note to yourself as you slick back that one stubborn piece at the front that never wants to comply with the rest of its kind in sweeping away from Jacob’s face. “You’re perfect. You’re courageous, brave, strong.” You lean down to kiss him once more, a peck on his lips as you begin to lather soap into a washcloth to begin carefully cleaning his wounded body with. “You’re all I want, all I need.”

Your words touch Jacob’s heart and he looks at you with an enamoured eye as you clean the upper half of his body with the washcloth, careful with his cuts, scrapes and bruises. You’ve learned by now where each one is, making a mental map of them like landmarks across his body and you expertly avoid each one in order to prevent him from feeling any unnecessary pain as he has already been hurt more than enough.

He swallows hard as he lets you tenderly care for him in his vulnerable state. Vulnerability is not something Jacob had ever felt used to when growing up. There were a few heart-to-heart moments with Evie in their childhood but he never felt able to turn to his father for help and more often than not the emotional burden upon his spirit was the constant comparisons made between himself and his sister – for that reason, he felt as though he could never talk to Evie about this problem that’s haunted him for much of his life like a taunting poltergeist.

But you’re not his father and nor are you Evie. You’re the woman who took the heart right from his chest and has held it close to her own ever since. Jacob realises he’s been staring for too long and he finally averts his eye away, glancing instead at the way the light reflects upon the wavering surface of the soapy water. He allows you to care for him in a way that no one had done for him since he lived with his grandmother when he was so very little. You’re his place of respite, his safe space, and moments ago he had almost tainted such a precious sanctuary with misdirected anger. He was angry, he was frustrated, he was traumatised, but none of that was your fault and you had done nothing but care for him since you had worked so diligently with his sister to rescue him.

Once he’s all washed up, you help him out of the bath and wrap him in the bathrobe you had set upon the rack by the fireplace to warm up. You tie it at his waist and lean down to gently kiss over the scarred lid of his damaged eye. You’ve been making an effort to not shy away from it at all. You love Jacob, regardless of him being scathed or even if he weren’t entirely in one piece, you would always love him. You didn’t want to allow seeds of insecurity where they did not belong in the garden of your love for him. No scar of his could ever put you off him.

You dip back into the bathroom for all but a moment to fetch the shaving kit and washbasin, setting them down on the dining table.

“That is one thing I can do by myself.” He speaks up but you shake your head as you open the case and begin sharpening the blade.

“Perhaps I want to do it for you?” You hum with a playful little smile tugging at the edges of your lips, “I’ve always found it quite romantic when I shave your face for you, don’t you feel the same?” You finish sharpening the blade and set it down while you gather up the barber’s cup and drop a disc of shaving soap into it. You wet the bristled brush and begin mixing it into the cup, working the soap into a foam. You raise a brow at Jacob as you do so. You know he’s still itching to get out into the city to help Evie try and rebuild the city you’d all once worked so hard to liberate. But he would only worsen his condition if he got to work before he had fully recovered. “Chin up.” You say with a little smile, meaning it in more ways than one. You didn’t want Jacob to be miserable during his healing period and you also needed to get a good angle of his face to begin applying the foamy shaving cream that you’d lathered up with the soap and brush in the cup.

He listens to you and you guide his head back a little further with fingertips beneath his chin. Your touch sends little electric jolts through Jacob that then congregate in his heart and dance around it like some sort of maypole. The master assassin fell in love with you for many reasons and the way you make him feel young and alive is certainly one of them.

He gazes up at you with his one eye as you tenderly apply the shaving cream to the lower half of his face, covering the short, unkempt beard he had grown, painting his skin a foamy white. You are in no rush to walk through this routine with him, wanting to take your time. There’s only so much to do in the lodgings while Jacob heals and you’re more than sure that the two of you are going to get bored of sitting in bed while he rests and playing card games together (you’re sure he’s started cheating just to tease you). He finally breaks eye contact with you when you set the brush back into the cup and take up the razor, turning his head to the side so that you can easily reach his right cheek and jaw.

He lets his eyes close as he lets out a soft breath and simply delights in your touch. You’re cautious with the razor and the fingers of your other hand rest on the opposite side of his jaw as you hold his head steady, your touch soft and gentle. Jacob’s always been a tough man — even as a child he was all rough and tumble — but you offer him a softness that he never knew the extent of his yearning for until you walked into his life and then into his heart. That’s not to say that you can’t be firm with him because you most certainly have been when he’s plunged into some reckless plan or he’s acted out of line.

You’re his very image of perfection, no matter how many flaws you might try to point out in himself. His mind is full of thoughts of you as the gentle sounds of scraping of the razor on his cheek is the only sound to fill the air alongside the small splash of water when you rinse the foamy shaving cream from the blade into the basin of water. Everything you do conveys the utter love and tenderness you hold for the master Assassin in your heart. You’ve been caring for him non-stop and Jacob knows he’s blessed to have a lover like you.

You don’t comment on his pensive look as he moves his lips and jaw in whatever position necessary to give him a clean shave, assuming only that he is already making a list in his mind of all the things he needs to do with Evie in order to disband what is left of his gang-gone-astray and to return London to the safe and peaceful city that its people deserve it to be.

However, a look inside Jacob’s mind would prove otherwise. In reality, he is reflecting on the time you spent working together just before he was attacked and abducted by Jack. He loves you with all his heart – and that’s something he can tell you aloud without ever doubting the verity of it for a moment – but the two of you live dangerous lives. The threat of something ever pulling you apart has always loomed over you but to finally be faced with death truly made the reality sink in. He thinks of the ring he still has stashed away in the pocket of his coat. While Jack had him locked up in his cell and he was unsure of whether or not he was going to die, one regret weighed more heavily on his heart than any other: he was going to die and he had never married you.

Jacob knows that he doesn’t need rings and a wedding to prove that he loves you, to make your love more real in some way but the thought of being able to say he’s your husband. Yours. To have that on paper, to have everyone around you recognise the love you have for each other is something he sees as so special. He’s had the ring for a while now but he’s never found the right moment, never managed to muster up the courage. He’s a grown man but sometimes you make him feel like he’s just a boy and seeing a pretty girl for the first time.

You finish shaving his face and you empty out the dirty water in the basin, refilling it so that Jacob can rinse the remainders of the shaving foam from his face by himself. He inspects your work in a little compact mirror you take out from your pocket and he makes it clear with his admiring expression that he’s proud of the good job you’ve done. With a smile (something that has been rare since you and Evie rescued him) he then looks up at you.

“You ever considered being a barber, love?” He asks as he stands up. His hand rises to softly cup your cheek with calloused fingers as he leans in and kisses your opposing cheek, then the corner of your mouth and then gently upon your lips. You giggle a little and smile at his brighter attitude. He’s been so miserable and in pain recently that it’s a good change of pace to see that not only is he doing better physically, but he’s starting to recover mentally too.

“If I did then I wouldn’t get to work by your side.” You quip back. Jacob bites back a smile and rests his forehead against yours, noses nudging together as his arms loop around your lower back and pull you closer, pressing the warmth of your body against his chest. His palms splay out and roam up and down your back in comforting patterns, ever on repeat as he just appreciates having you in his arms. His craving for this had burned him up like a hellfire trying to eat him from within when he thought he’d never see you again. He had always loved holding you but after thinking he would never get the chance to do this again, the word ‘love’ could no longer encapsulate the overwhelming feeling that burrows itself into every fibre of his being, becoming a very part of him.

You lean your body further into his as the two of you just stand and sway on the spot for a while, arms wrapped around one another. Jacob feels your fingers play with the short hair at the back of his neck and he registers the sensation of your skin skimming against his. There is no ring on your finger and to him there is something just so wrong about it. You deserve to know how much he loves you, you deserve his love with a ring worthy of you, you deserve a big ceremony where Jacob gets to show everyone just how loved you are by him. But a part of him feels like he can’t propose yet still, not when he’s in such a state. But then when will the right time come? Will it ever come?

He is no longer able to ponder such things when your lips meet his once more and his hands leave your waist to instead cup your face and hold your face, ensuring that you cannot pull away as he swallows your kisses down as though they’re more vital than oxygen. One of his hands slides to the back of your neck where it gently tangles in your hair while he feels your hands grab at his robe.

“Are you… feeling well enough today?” You ask as you pull away just mere millimetres, lips still grazing against his when you speak, your breath fanning hotly over his mouth. You don’t want to excite him if he’s not yet healed enough to go through with this. He nods his head and steals another kiss from your lips, his eye lidded and simmering with lust as it gazes into yours.

“Yes. I think… perhaps if you were the one taking the lead…” His hands glide down over your sides, pausing to squeeze your hips before then firmly grabbing your soft ass, giving you a playful little pinch there as he steals another few kisses. “What do you say, my love?” There’s a glint in his eye, one that tells you he already knows what your reply will be. You love riding Jacob and he knows it, he can see it in your persistent enthusiasm, can feel it in the way you rock and swirl your hips.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Sir Frye~?” You hum playfully as your fingers curl around the loose belt of his robe and begin leading him slowly abc towards the bedroom. Jacob was already more than thrilled to finally have something other than cards be the most exciting thing to happen in your bed as of late. He’s quickly catching up with your pace as though he were never hurt at all and you feel the backs of your legs bump against the bed by the time his lips have roved down towards your neck in wet trails, his breath puffing against your skin that he’s quickly working up into a fever with his desperate and sensual touches.

You tilt your head back to grant him easier access to your throat and let out a soft sigh at the sensation of his lips ghosting over your pulse, feeling the increasing beat of your heart beneath the love of his kisses. It felt as though it had been far too long since the two of you were intimate like this and so you’re quick to help him remove your clothes. You untuck your shirt from your bottoms and Jacobs exploring fingertips immediately dive beneath it to splay over the soft and warm skin of your belly. He begins working at your bottoms next, undoing them before he’s able to tug them down your legs.

Not wanting him to strain himself too much by having to kneel down to strip you of them, you instead sit down on the bed so that he doesn’t have to reach so far and he near yanks them from your legs in an overly-eager excitement that has the both of you giggling for a moment. Jacob lets out a low groan of approval once he’s removed your undershirt by pulling it over your head, your breasts now bare before his eyes. His hands land on your belly and then push upwards to cup the softness of your chest in his hands as he leans in for another slow kiss, tongue brushing against yours slowly as his fingers slide into the waistband of your pants and slide them down your legs until they fall into a little puddle around your ankles.

You watch as Jacob lays down on the bed and pats his lap, his robe open and revealing his steadily hardening cock that rests upon his abdomen. You heed to his silent invite and straddle his lap but he’s quick to cup the backs of your knees with his hands and encourage you to shimmy up his chest. A faint blush dusts your cheeks as the blood in your veins dances with excitement when you realise what he wants.

“You’re sure? You’re still recovering, I don’t want to hurt-” He cuts you off.

“I’ll be fine, love.” He reassures you, “Just… maybe don’t put your whole weight on this one time…” He opens his mouth to explain himself but simply lets his sentence trail off instead. You know that right now he doesn’t have the strength to support your whole weight like he usually would but he doesn’t want to say it out loud either, feeling ashamed almost for not being able to do that for you at this moment. You don’t let any feelings of shame sink into him though as you’re quick to nod your head and smile as you work your way up his tattooed chest until his gaze shifts from your face to your dampening pussy that’s hovering over his face.

You reach out and grab the headboard of the bed to support yourself with so that you can assist Jacob in pleasing you and prepping you to take his cock after what has now been weeks of not being together. The only prelude to what he plans on doing is his hot breath puffing against your slit and two kisses placed on either side of your inner thighs, giving each leg equal attention as his hands curl around your thighs. You feel a pleasurable shiver scuttle up your spine the moment his tongue draws a stripe between your folds and you lean forwards a little in order to push your hands against the headboard that’s supporting you as you recover from the moment of sudden intense pleasure and ground yourself.

Jacob seems to want you slick and messy for him as he makes a mess of his saliva over your needy pussy, One of your hands goes down to tug slightly at his hair, making him groan against your slick entrance as he begins to dip his tongue in and out of it, licking up your taste while his nose nudges at your clit. The vibrations of his groan go right through you and tear a sweet moan from your lips as you fight the urge to put your weight down upon his face and ride it as you usually would.

Jacob is messy in eating you out and he doesn’t shy away from making lewd slurping and sucking noises as he leaves your hole momentarily in favour of suckling your clit. He rolls his tongue over it to feel how it throbs in need for him and his fingers curl down into your soft flesh to grip you tightly and hold you in place.

You haven’t had the chance to touch yourself as you have been dedicating all of your time and energy to aiding Jacob in his recovery and so you find yourself being much more sensitive than you had originally anticipated.

“W-wait.” You stammer out quietly. He’s so dedicated to his current task that he doesn’t hear you and you try to grab his attention by giving his hair a sharper tug instead, “Jacob, wait.” He pauses and looks up at you from between your legs. He’s an utterly sinful sight: the pupil of his eye blown wide with lust, his nose covered in a mix of his saliva and your wetness as his lips hover just over your clit, breath puffing against it in pants. “I only want to cum on your cock…” You express. HIs face lights up like he’s just a young man again and it’s all you need to return to straddling his lap instead of his face, settling down on his cock and sliding your glistening pussy over it a few times to feel the light throb of the veins that run along the underside of it as you cover it in your wetness.

Jacob sucks in a hissed breath as his hands grab along your hips and thighs, sneaking around behind you to cup your ass too.

“Come on, love… you won’t make me wait any longer, will you?” He asks with such need in his voice to be inside of you, to feel as one with you. It makes you have to bite back a smile as you take him in hand, pumping languidly a few times, before lining him up with your entrance and sinking just the tip into your yearning hole.

You steady your hands onto his abdomen, weary of his injuries at his ribs, and slowly ease yourself down with shallow little thrusts. Jacob pushes up into you just slightly but ultimately lets you lead the pace. You let out a shaky exhale once you’re fully seated on him and take a moment to just grind your hips, feeling his cock kiss the deepest and most sensitive parts of you while your clit catches against him. Your moans sound like the sweetest melodies to Jacob’s ears and his hands roam all over your body to feel your welcoming warmth and softness. He wants the two of you to stay like this forever, to be as close to you as possible forever, he wants you as his wife but he’s too cowardly to seize the moment and finally ask you.

His thoughts are somewhat dispelled when you finally begin riding him, the room filling with the squelching sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your pussy, followed soon by the clap of your skin meeting his. It’s raw and messy and passionate as you abandon all plans of setting a steady pace and instead begin to chase blissful pleasure, wanting to cum as you feel him do the same. Jacob has enough strength to grab your hips and support lifting you so that your legs don’t have to be too strained all while he thrusts up into you too much as he is able without over exerting his injured body.

You look so beautiful above him as you look down at his scarred body like he’s some fine artwork in a gallery, your eyes full of nothing but love and pleasure. Your breasts bounce enticingly and you’re just so warm under his hands, your body just fits his so perfectly and you’re moaning and whimpering and feel so, so good-

“Marry me.” He lets out in a moan as he thrusts up into you and encourages you to lay over his body as you rock your hips in haphazard timing with his.

“W-what?” You ask airily, certain you can’t have heard him right. Jacob wraps his arms around you to hold you close, like he’ll wake from this dream to a reality where you’re far away and Jack is going to kill him if he lets go of you.

“Marry me. I want you to be my wife. I want to spend my life with you.” He snakes a hand between your bodies to rub desperate figure-eights against your clit. He knows it’s probably not the right time to ask this question when you’re covered in a sheen of sweat and are moaning above him because he’s balls deep inside of you but he has the courage now and he can’t bear to stand by and watch as opportunity after opportunity passes to finally tie this knot with you and show you just how dedicated he is to you, just how much he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

“Ok…” You whimper as you feel your orgasm rapidly approaching. “Yes… yes, yes yes!” Your walls squeeze and flutter around him as you cum, milking him of his own orgasm as he drills a last few needy thrusts up into your pliant and sensitive body. He winces a little as he continues to hold you close so that you’ll lay your weight on him but his injuries don’t matter at all to him at this moment. All that matters is that you’ve said yes. You’ll marry him. You’ll spend your lives together regardless of however long or short they may be. There’s no one else he’d want by his side other than you.

Jacob’s nose nudges against the side of your head as the two of you recover your breaths and he’s surrounded by your scent.

“I had- have a ring too. I have done since before bonfire night, I just… I love you more than life itself and I suppose I couldn’t bear the possibility of you saying no.” You prop your chin on his chest in order to look up at him with a blissed out post-orgasmic smile upon your kiss swollen lips.

“How could I ever say no to you~?”

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mariacallous · 3 months ago

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Through local papers and word of mouth, volunteer Daya Shankar keeps track of a very specific cause of death. As soon as he receives news of someone being struck by lightning around his neighborhood in Jharkhand, East India, he picks up his motorcycle and heads to the destination. Sometimes he travels alone, other times with a team of five or six from the organization he volunteers for, the Lightning Resilient India Campaign. It’s a task he is undertaking increasingly often.

Last month, he rode to meet the Manjhi family, who lost an 8-year-old boy, Viresh, and his mother, Subodhra, after a tea stall they were sheltering under was struck during a storm. A lightning bolt can generate temperatures three times hotter than the surface of the sun, with a voltage millions of times higher than a household socket. If it connects with a human, it can stop the heart and respiratory system, damage the brain and nervous system, leave major burns, and cause blunt trauma if victims are flung by the force of being struck. On the day the Manjhis died, lightning also killed another person in the village and injured five others.

Each year, an estimated 24,000 people worldwide are killed by lightning. While a significant number, deaths per head of population have fallen sharply over the past two centuries, thanks largely due to urbanization, the protection of more substantial housing, and improved weather forecasting. But India’s large rural population remains badly affected. Between 2,000 and 3,000 Indians die annually by lightning, most of them working class people aged 10 to 50. Fatalities have risen by more than 50 percent since the turn of the century, outstripping population growth. Compare that to the US, where fatalities have been gradually falling and number around 20 a year. India can experience more than that number of deaths in a day.

For every person who is killed by lightning, roughly another nine are struck and survive, often with life-changing injuries. And with climate change making stormy weather and lightning more common, activists like Daya believe the Indian government is failing to protect its people. “A bare minimum would be to at least spread information about all things lightning at local government level,” says Daya.

India has systems in place to predict dangerous storms. These work by gathering a lot of precise data, says Sanjay Srivastava, chair of the Climate Resilient Observing-Systems Promotion Council (CROPC), an intergovernmental institute that works to develop resilience against climate change impacts. Srivastava is also the convener of the Lightning Resilient India Campaign.

“Detecting the precise location of a lightning cloud-to-ground strike is a calculation mechanism where a minimum of three devices are required,” says Srivastava. These are radio frequency detectors, to detect the radio waves produced by lightning; a doppler weather radar, to detect precipitation and wind patterns associated with storms that may produce lightning; and a lightning detector, a device specifically designed to detect the electromagnetic signals produced by lightning strikes.

As of April 2022, India’s National Remote Sensing Center had 46 lightning-detection sensors installed across the country. Another institute, Indian Institute of Tropical Meteorology, Pune, has 83 in place. These, along with other private and institutional data, monitor and guide India’s lightning strike warning system.

The data shows that Jharkhand and other neighboring regions in East and Central India are among the country’s hot spots, as they are where hot and dry air currents from the northwest meet moist easterly currents. When clouds encounter warmer air, moist air rises until it reaches the subzero temperatures of the upper atmosphere, where it can freeze into ice particles called graupel. As these then collide with other ice particles, they generate electrostatic charges, which can eventually lead to lightning. Rising global temperatures are increasing this phenomenon.

However, despite advancements in meteorology, the full mechanisms behind lightning’s formation and behavior remain partially shrouded in mystery. The precise triggers, the exact nature of how lightning propagates through the atmosphere, and the factors that determine the intensity of each strike are still not fully understood. The risk to human life can be predicted in only fairly broad terms.

And while these early warning systems exist, their information often does not reach people in time. This is why volunteers like Shankar work to inform people on how to stay safe and teach how to build easy-to-make lightning arrestors—devices that neutralize cloud-to-ground lightning.

The day Shankar visited the Manjhis’ house, it was drizzling. On the way he spotted farmers and locals sheltering under trees. He stopped to inform them that standing under a tree during rainfall increases the chances of getting hit by lightning. But they said there was no other place where they could take shelter.

Lightning strike casualties are more prevalent in rural areas where infrastructure is limited. Concrete houses, which can have protective Faraday cage effects, are less prominent there than in cities, while tall vegetation, which workers might shelter under, can attract strikes. Densely populated areas in stormy regions also see more casualties. “We can say there are two factors behind lightning casualties. There are lots of environmental factors, and then there are socioeconomic factors,” says Anand Shankar, who works at the India Meteorological Department at the Ministry of Earth Sciences in the state of Bihar (Anand and Daya are not related).

Increasingly, attention is focusing on air quality too. In recent research for Bihar, which neighbors Jharkhand and is one of the worst affected states in India, Anand found that particulate matter in the air increased lightning activity in the region. Aerosols such as pollution or dust particles can affect the friction between the particles that generate lightning and make it more common.

But to what extent growing casualties in Bihar can definitively be attributed to pollution or global warming isn’t yet clear, says Ashish Kumar, a colleague of Anand’s at the IMD. “We had no data before 2015–16, so we have not come to the conclusion whether this is happening recently due to climate change.” But Kumar doesn’t refrain from pointing out that a warming planet can lead to increased lightning activities. Research has projected that a 1 degree Celsius rise in temperature can lead to a 12 percent increase in lightning strikes.

When Daya reached the Manjhis’ house, the family told him that Viresh and Subodhra had taken shelter under a plastic-roofed tea stall because a storm had hit on their way back home from their farm. “People consider that saving themselves from the water is most important,” he says, but they fall prey to dangerous lightning strikes if they stand under something that can act as a conductor. “The best option for them would have been to find a concrete shelter.”

Spreading this sort of knowledge is why volunteers like Daya hunt for the places where recent lightning deaths have taken place. “We often arrange talk shows and plays and other things in the rural areas, but people are either too busy or not interested. But when such accidents take place, people get aware and are willing to listen,” he says.

Another way the Lightning Resilient India Campaign tries to reach the masses is through schoolchildren. “They are curious and spread the message in their families and communities,” Daya says. Warnings are also pushed through government hooters and through mobile applications like the Damini app, which triggers a warning notification before a lightning strike.

“It is not like a cyclone, where you have seven days and you are evacuating people,” says Srivastava. “It’s instant. So, those 30 minutes or three hours are the golden hours.” But often farmers who live far away from their houses do not bring mobile phones to their fields and leave very early for work, and might miss the warning alert.

Srivastava and Anand agree that the best solution would be to put up more lightning arrestors. But with limited funds and a lack of government support, campaign volunteers have to resort to promoting the use of DIY lightning arrestors in high-risk areas. These can be made by fixing the metal rim of a bicycle wheel high up on a bamboo stick and attaching the rim to the ground using copper wire. “They are not bad for a small area, but their efficiency is limited when compared with bigger lightning arrestors,” says Srivastava.

In the absence of adequate protections, 16 of the 36 states and union territories in India have started accepting lightning strikes as a state disaster, including Bihar and Jharkhand, and so pay out compensation money of 400,000 rupees ($4,766) to the family of a deceased person. This does something to help families handle the economic shock of losing someone, but still leaves thousands unsupported. “Only 10 percent of people die—90 percent are left with a social trauma,” says Srivastava. “We need to create a psychosocial relief and also proper medical treatment for those who survive,” he says.

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sodaabaa · 6 months ago

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noor, part one

benedict bridgerton x OC noorjan begum, a newly minted tawaif, flees the royal court of india to avoid becoming the mistress of a wealthy patron. she makes it to london where she is alerted to an occupation at the royal academy of art. there, she meets the man who will turn her world on its axis.

tropes: knight in shining armor (if you squint), golden retriever boy x black cat girl, tortured artists

tw: none

Noor’s heart pounded with adrenaline as she raced through the city, kerosene lamps blurring by her. Each step took more and more effort, her legs burning with the exertion, not used to such intense movement. She couldn’t dare to look back, afraid she’d see someone trailing behind her. Instead, she focused on the path ahead, illuminated only by the faint glow of the moon and the dim kerosene lamps. Her destination was uncertain, but anywhere seemed safer than the place – the people – she needed to leave behind.

She reached the port, her breaths ragged as she approached the man at the front, guarding the entrance to the ship.

“Adab,” she greeted, pulling her dupatta to cover the bottom half of her face with one hand while she slipped him a few rupees with the other. He greeted her back, taking the money and ushering her in before anyone else could see.

She took a seat on a stack of crates, relieved at her success but exhausted from the journey. She felt the ship rock and a yell from outside signaled their departure. She inhaled, bracing herself for what was to come – little did Noor know, this very ship would irrevocably alter the course of her destiny.

✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚ · .✧˚

A month had passed since Noor fled Lucknow and arrived in London. She grew increasingly homesick as the days passed, her heart aching for the bustling streets of India, the elaborate arches and swirls of the buildings, the music and the dancing but most of all, Noor missed her mother. She longed to hear her mother’s voice, to smell her hair – always perfumed with rose oil, once again. And perhaps, to apologize.

Alas, Noor had made her decision and she must face the consequences. Once, Noor had lived like a princess, residing in a grand kotha – spending her days under the tutelage of her mother, learning to write ghazals, poetry, and polishing her dancing skills. Now, she works in the kitchens of wealthy families throughout London. She walked across the streets of London, traveling to her next job for the morning when a newsboy came rushing up to her.

“Newspaper, madam?” He asked, holding out a newspaper to her. She nodded, giving the boy a few coins for the paper. “Thanks very much!” He ran off.

Noor unrolled the paper, skimming through it. She stopped at the bottom, reading the bold text.

WORKERS WANTED. ROYAL ACADEMY OF THE ARTS.

Her heart pounded in excitement, she yearned to hear and recite poetry once more. Perhaps this was just what she needed. She changed her course, making her way to the Royal Academy of the Arts, hope fueling every step.

Once she arrived, she asked around – pointing to the advertisement in the newspaper so that she might find the appropriate person to talk. Eventually, she was led to a small building behind the academy’s main building. Students passed by, paying no mind to Noor as she stared at the building, unsure how to proceed. She almost gave up, turning back around with a resigned huff. When she turned, she ran into the man she hadn’t known was behind her with an oof.

“My apologies!” The man said, holding her shoulders to prevent her from toppling over.

Noor shook him off, “No, I ran into you. I apologize,” she said. She took a moment to take in the man before her. He wore a navy coat and vest and held a sketchpad with stray papers sticking out from its sides. He was quite tall – Noor had been one of the taller girls at the kotha back in Lucknow but he towered over her nonetheless. He had scruffy, raven hair and his eyes – his eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen, like cold, crisp water on a sweltering summer day.

“Were you looking for something, Miss?” He broke her out of her thoughts.

She stuttered, “Yes, actually. I saw this posted in the newspaper,” she held up the paper for him to see, “do you happen to know where I might go to apply for such an occupation?”

He took the paper, scanning it over before giving her a dazzling smile.

“You’ve come to the right place, follow me,” he said, motioning her to follow him as he walked through the door she had just been staring at. When they entered the dimly lit room, the scene before her took her by surprise. There, in the center, was a woman dressed in nothing but her undergarments whilst dozens of men sat in a circle around, easels placed in front of them.

“We’re looking for models – were you interested?” The man asked.

She looked up at him in shock, “I’m sorry, I’m not certain I expected this –,” she trailed off.

He watched her expectantly, amused at her lack of words.

“What were you expecting?”

“Perhaps something to do with poetry,” she said in earnest.

His eyebrows raised, not expecting such an answer from her.

“What do you know of poetry, Miss…I’m sorry, I believe we still have yet to exchange names,” he said, “Benedict Bridgerton,” giving her a nod in greeting.

“Noor,” she replied.

He smiled, “enchanted.”

“Bridgerton! Will you not join us?” Another man called out from behind him. He waved off the intrusion, keeping his eyes on Noor. He cleared his throat, snapping out of his daze.

“So, what do you know of poetry?” He repeated.

Noor’s eyes narrowed, what did she know of poetry? What did these brutes know of poetry, she should ask.

“Should my suffering find a voice, it will unveil my sense of self to me. Should my silence find an expression, it will hold sway over the universe and find treasures of both worlds,” she recited. He stared at her, taken aback by her recitation, “I have never heard such a poem, nor do I recall the structure from any of my classes.”

Noor smiled, of course he hadn’t, “Mr. Bridgerton, there is an ocean of poetry you are not privy to.” “And you are privy to it,” he paused, “May I interest you in a different occupation, as it seems being an artist's muse is not what you wish?” “And what would this other occupation entail?” She asked, curious.

“Tutor me in the poetry you know. I shall provide a decent wage for you, should you choose to accept the offer.”

Noor paused, running over the offer in her mind. She had been an excellent student back in Lucknow, constantly receiving the praise of her teachers. Her memory served her well when it came to remembering the flowery words and intricate rhythms of the poetry she studied. She could manage to teach this curious man, could she not? At least she knew it would provide a better wage than being a kitchen maid.

“I shall become your tutor in all the poetry I know. When do we begin?”

#bridgerton #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #netflix #bridgerton family

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