#brown headed gull

[bestgullpoll]

Round 2, Side A: Match 29

[Image ID: Two pictures of gulls. The left is a Mediterranean gull swimming on water. The right is a brown-headed gull swimming on water. /End ID]

The Mediterranean gull (Ichthyaetus melanocephalus) is a small gull that lives and breeds around the coasts of Europe, the Mediterranean, and northern Africa. Their range has expanded in recent decades. They typically measure 36-38 cm (14-15 in) in length and 92-100 cm (36-39 in) in wingspan. They have a black head, white eye crescents, white body, pale grey back and wings with white primaries, dark red legs, and dark red bill with black band. They eat fish, insects, and carrion.

The brown-headed gull (Chroicocephalus brunnicephalus) is a mid-sized gull that breeds in central Asia and inner Mongolia and migrates to winter on the coasts and large inland lakes of India. They typically measure 40-45 cm (16-18 in) in length. They have white underparts, grey upperparts, brown head, white eye crescents, and red bill and legs. Their grey wings are black at the tips with white "mirrors." They eat fish, insects, and carrion.

Mediterranean gull image by Martin Olsson

brown-headed gull image by M V Shreeram

[alonglistofbirds]

[1818/10977] Brown-headed gull - Chroicocephalus brunnicephalus

Order: Charadriiformes Suborder: Lari Family: Laridae (gulls, terns and skimmers)

Photo credit: Rahul Singh via Macaulay Library

[dansnaturepictures]

18/07/2023-Lakeside and home

Photos from today in this set: 1. Pretty hogweed. 2. Speckled Wood, another key butterfly to see in more great time doing a Big Butterfly Count with a few seen their numbers are good currently. 3. Broken-backed bug on fleabane, something it was lovely to see and discover. 4 and 5. Views at Lakeside at lunch time on a lovely lunch time walk. 6. Young Great Crested Grebe, I enjoyed seeing these gorgeous birds on the sparkling water and hearing their sweet chirps, I do love seeing them and it's great to see them doing well. 7. Bramble flower at Lakeside. 8. Scarlet pimpernel in the front garden, loads of it has sprung up in other people's gardens and out the front which is great to see I do like these pretty mini flowers, one of the first I learnt when getting into them more. 9. Hanging basket looking nice in the evening sunlight at home. 10. Greylag Goose at Lakeside.

Red Admiral, lots of Small Whites, Gatekeepers and Meadow Browns, Holly Blue one I'm enjoying here of late and Six-spot Burnet completed the butterfly count well. There's only one of the target species for the count I've not yet seen in one this year during the official count already, the Jersey Tiger moth which I've only seen once ever so this feels good. Small Skipper butterfly, bees, Lesser Black-backed Gull, Black-headed Gull seen well again including young, Moorhen and a Carrion Crow I enjoyed hearing were other highlights at Lakeside. Magpie, Jackdaw, Woodpigeon, Collared Dove and House Sparrow were nice to see at home today as well as our first sunflower of the year in the back garden always a cheery moment. Cuckoo-pint and guelder rose berries, creeping cinquefoil, common mallow, ragwort, bright yellow wild parsnip, bird's-foot trefoil including some orange, purple loosestrife, great willowherb, red bartsia and wild carrot were good flowers to see at Lakeside. It was good to here Buzzard at Lakeside.

[identifyingbirdsinposts]

Black-Headed Gull (Non-breeding)

[targaryenimagines]

The Khaleesi’s Queen

Dark!Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2,559

Summary: Daenerys doesn’t like to be interrupted; not when she has everything she could ever want within her grasp.

Warning(s): G!P Daenerys, slightly rough (and possessive) sex, oral (R!Receiving).

Author’s Note: Changed up the prompt, which I hope is okay Tried to figure it out the first way, but I wasn’t doing it any justice in the slightest. I suppose this can be seen as a continuation of My Khaleesi, but it can be a stand-alone too. (This is told mainly through Dany’s POV, if you’d like me to make a partner through the Reader’s just let me know!)

Series Masterlist

“Do you take me as some sort of fool, Councilor?”

The question is asked in an airy tone, one that a person would use when making a remark about the weather or the coming crop season, but the fiery undercurrent, like iron piercing through the sky, kept the man it was directed to in place. Violet eyes locked on dark brown, a message clear within them: Speak. Now. I’m running out of patience.

“O-Of cou-course not, Your Majesty,” the man stumbles, trying to alleviate the situation. “I-I just wished to tell y-you what your ancestors used t-to do.”

A sneer works itself across a beautiful face. “Yes,” she drawls, disgust clear in her tone. “But those same ancestors didn’t have the bond I do with my son.” Rising from her chair, Daenerys pins the cowering man in place with her gaze. “What will you have me do, Councilor? Have sex with my queen on the back of my son’s back in hopes of creating another?” She takes another measured step closer. “Do you think I’m unaware of what’s being said about me? That I’m oblivious to the gossip and rumors being spread?” Daenerys is a mere five feet from the man now. “Everyone within the Seven Kingdoms knows about my bond with my children, but you choose to council me into doing something that’d be sacrilegious in their eyes? That’d create even more discord within the land?”

Daenerys pauses then, tilting her head as she surveys the cowering man— from his balding head down to his recently polished shoes— and her gaze darkens further.

“So, I have to ask, do you take me for a fool?” She reiterates. “Because you must if you think I wouldn’t question you or your motives.”

He shakes his head, practically throwing himself at his Queen’s feet. “I-I swear to you, Your Majesty, I’m just a lo-lowly scholar. Ju-Just trying to help.” Fear weasels its way down his spine when he felt her lean closer to him. “I-I swear it.”

A breathy chuckle echoes across the room, barren of any form of amusement. “Oh? You swear it?” Crouching down, Daenerys forces the man to look into violet eyes. “I must believe you then.”

Snapping her fingers, the shadows around the edges of the room come to life as figures clad in obsidian black step from them, silver spears glinting under the light.

“Grey Worm.” The Captain of the Queensguard steps forward, back dutifully straight. “Nādīnagon zirȳla.”

At once Grey Worm, and another Unsullied, step forward and clasp the now begging man under his armpits and begin dragging him from the room. His cries for mercy falling on deaf ears: “N-No. Ple-Please, Your Majesty! Don’t do this. Please.”

Dark oak doors close with a resounding bang, cutting off his pleading.

Silence settles once more over the office, save for the faint crashing of waves against the surf outside and the cries of gulls. If Daenerys closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was back in Essos. Back when things were simple but infinitely more complex. Settling back into her high-backed seat, Daenerys lets loose a soft sigh.

“Did you just have that man executed for telling you something you didn’t wish to hear?” A teasing voice breaks through the silence, the warm cadence of it bringing a smile to Daenerys’ lips. Looking down, she’s met by the sparkling gaze of her wife. “Or did you have that man executed for interrupting us?”

Huffing out a laugh, filled to the brim with adoration, Daenerys pulls you from your kneeling position, placing her hands on your hips once you’re comfortably straddling her. “I didn’t have him executed, ñuha perzys.” She places a delicate kiss to the corner of your lips. “I just wanted to have him leave my presence in a timely manner.”

You nuzzle closer to her. “And to do that you had to scare him? Are you certain it has nothing to do with his untimely entrance?” Wiggling on her lap, Daenerys has to bite back a groan as your familiar weight bears down on her growing erection. One that had found its home in your mouth a mere twenty minutes before— only to be unceremoniously ripped out when the man had knocked, requesting an immediate audience. “I know how you get when certain things don’t go your way.”

“Careful,” Daenerys warns, nipping at your exposed neck. Delighted in the way your breath hitches at the slightest bit of pressure to the small area underneath your jaw. “It’s not polite to tease your Queen.”

Rocking your hips more, you quip back. “It’s a good thing you’re not my Queen then.” Dipping your head, you press a heated kiss to her lips, groaning when her hardness hits just the right spot through her tailored pants. “You will always be my Khaleesi.”

The sound of the title, the first one she had ever truly earned, falling so sweetly from your lips, when the taste of you was still heavy on her tongue, brings a small snarl forth from deep within her chest, rumbling out across the relative stillness of the room. Standing, Daenerys grips you tightly by the waist and deposits you on her desk, uncaring of the various baubles that fall off due to the action. She easily finds her home between your thighs, pressed flush to your beautiful form.

“A Khaleesi is very different from a Queen,” Daenerys purrs, pressing another heated kiss to your lips. Running her tongue against the bottommost one, a husky sound of contentment being made when you let her gain access to the warm heat of your mouth. Fighting for dominance, one that she easily wins, Daenerys plunders further into your mouth, running her tongue along the roof of it, savoring the taste of you. Once she starts to become impeded by the lack of air, she pulls back and nearly comes undone at the wanton expression across your face— kiss swollen lips, lust darkened eyes, a delicate sheen of sweat along your brow. Exquisite. “A Khaleesi takes without question. A Khaleesi is rough, making sure her claim is known, but a Queen is soft, gentle.” Driving her hips into you, Daenerys snarls. “Are you certain you want a Khaleesi instead of a Queen?”

Throwing your arms around her, Daenerys is pressed firmly down, both your fronts flushed together. “Yes,” you hiss, nails digging into her shoulders. “I want my Khaleesi to claim me. To show me that I’ll only ever belong to her.” Your hips cant once more, trying desperately to get some friction. “Show me what a Westerosi Queen could never accomplish.”

At the mere thought of you being claimed by another, at anyone else having the privilege of seeing you come undone, Daenerys’ world view narrows to only you, only bringing you pleasure, so that you’d never think about leaving her.

She’d turn this world into nothing but fire and ash before she’d ever let that happen.

Nostrils flaring due to the possessive fire roaring within her chest, Daenerys takes in the delicate symphony of scents that wash over her due to the action: the sweetness of your bath oils mixed with the heady scent of sweat and the musky undertone of your arousal, strong despite the layers that separated her from the source of it.

“Lean back,” she growls, pressing one last deep kiss to your lips before she began to make her way down your body. Nimble fingers tearing at the buttons and fabric that she comes across, tongue and teeth lavishing the newly exposed skin with attention, until you’re lying delicious bare, save the last bit of your smallclothes, across the dark wood of her desk. The sight of your laid open, and waiting, for her brings a jolt of arousal straight through her body, but she didn’t wish to satisfy her own needs. Not yet. For now, she’d remind you that she’d only ever be the one to give you this sort of pleasure, that no one would ever be able to replace her. Daenerys settles onto her knees between your thighs, rubbing her nose lightly across the patch of darkening fabric at the apex of them. “Don’t even think about cumming until I say you can.” Violet eyes rise to meet your own, expression stern. “Do you understand?”

Nodding, almost frantically, you spread your legs further, giving her more room to maneuver within. Taking advantage of the additional space, Daenerys mouths over your soaking center, tongue flexing against the sodden material that kept it covered from her, as her hands clasped your hips to keep you in place. The sound of breathy moans and pleading whines from above her sending a delicious thrill down her spine.

"Do you have any idea what you do to me?" The question is rhetorical, she doesn't expect you to answer, but the questioning keen in response brings a soft smile to her lips for the briefest of moments. Pressing closer, Daenerys finally tears at the last barrier keeping you from her, the sight, and the scent, of your glistening center causing her own mouth to water in renewed hunger. "I crave you, ñuha perzys. More and more with each passing moment. I crave to bring you as much pleasure as you can withstand." Daenerys places a delicate kiss to your throbbing clit. "I crave your taste." Lowering her head, she dips her tongue teasingly into your entrance, savoring the flavor that could only ever come from you. "I crave the sounds you make as I ruin you."

Without preamble Daenerys buries her head between your thighs, thrusting her tongue as far into you as she could reach, the keening cry of pleasure tearing itself from your lips music to her ears. You pulse around her tongue, inner muscles flexing, as you try to pull her deeper into your depths, the feeling a reminder of how exquisitely tight you always are for her, something that brings another jolt of arousal coursing through her, making Daenerys aware of the throbbing between her own legs. Forcing her thoughts away from her own need, Daenerys consumes you, tongue lashing across your clit before diving back into your slick hole, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as she keeps you in place, despite your clear desire to chase whatever friction you could find. Your desperation for her, the clear need you had for her, almost made her take pity on you, almost allowing her to let you fuck her tongue, but the only thing you'd be cumming on in the near future would be her cock -- nothing more and nothing less.

Taking notice of the heightened pitch of your cries, the growling rasp building within your moans, Daenerys knows that you're close, that you're almost cresting the peak of the pleasure she's giving you, which means, with a small bit of reluctance, Daenerys tears herself away from you, tongue running along her bottom lip, savoring the remnants of you upon it. Your responding whine allows for a satisfied smirk to grace her beautiful face, soothed that you clearly wanted her as much as she wanted you.

Maneuvering quickly, Daenerys didn't have time to deal with all of the buckles that she wore, not to mention her boots, she simply opened her zipper and shoved her tailored pants as far down as they would go, her erection finally free once more, poised to claim what had always belonged to her. Rubbing herself against your wet heat, Daenerys arches a brow. "Do you want this?" It was the last warning she would give you before she claimed her wife completely, as a Khaleesi should. "You still have time to choose your Queen."

With a heaving chest, and narrowed eyes, you spit back. "The only woman I could ever want is my Khaleesi." You hook your legs around her hips, arching against her. "So, fuck me."

Not giving you a chance to rethink your words, not that she believed you would, Daenerys thrusts into her wife, the slick channel greeting her like an old friend, the feel of it causing a deep snarl to rumble from her chest. If she could manage running Westeros from right here, then Daenerys would never leave, but the times that she could make herself at home between your legs once more were that much more important to her when she could manage to find the time -- her devotion to you superseding all else barring the devotion she had to her son.

"Yes," you hiss, nails digging harshly into her clothed back. "It feels so good, Dany. So good."

Lowering her head, Daenerys harshly bites the sensitive spot just below your ear, tongue soothing the burn that no doubt appeared due to the action. "You're so beautiful." She nuzzles against a slightly older mark she had left a few days prior, quickly going to work to make it as fresh as the one she had just left. Slamming with more force into you, delighting in the sharp keen that's torn from your lips, and the way you flutter around her, due to the action, Daenerys finally detaches from your neck. "The most beautiful woman I've ever seen and you're all mine."

Nodding frantically, you arch against her lithe body. "I will only ever be yours, Dany." Taking her by the face, you press a needy kiss to her lips, all tongue and teeth as you pant against her. Clearly trying to stem off the encroaching orgasm. "I will only ever want you."

"And you'll only ever have me." Legs beginning to burn due to the power behind her thrusts, and the familiar fluttering within her belly, telling her that she wouldn't be able to last that much longer, Daenerys tugs at your bottom lip. "Cum for me, my queen. Cum for your Khaleesi."

As if a switch had a finally been flipped, your body arches completely off the desk, arms and legs slightly spasming, as your inner muscles tighten completely around her, and a fresh wave of wetness coats you both. The feeling coupled with the delicious sight, causes Daenerys to come with her own groan of your name, her hips still softly thrusting as she leads you through the last waves of your own orgasm.

Once you stop shaking, for the most part, Daenerys leans forward and places a delicate kiss to your brow, still firmly planted inside of you, nuzzling against your sweat-stained temple. "You were wonderful, ñuha perzys, but don't think that I've had my fill of you yet." She runs her hands down your sides, rubbing gently across your lower abdomen. "I still have to put my heir in you."

With a delightfully tired smile, you run your fingers through sweat-matted locks, the silvery-gold still looking radiant despite it all. "I love you, Khaleesi."

Violet eyes flutter shut at the title, the affection in which it falls from your lips, warmth suffusing itself within her chest because of it. Cradling your face delicately between her hands, Daenerys confesses. "I love that you still call me that."

You huff out a laugh, pressing a light kiss to her inner wrist. "Even if we're in Westeros now, Dany, you will always be my Khaleesi. No matter what."

"And you," Daenerys replies, adoration clear within her tone and gaze. "Will forever be my darling Queen."

[teejaystumbles]

Idea/Ask for Mermay?

I love the line: "A bird may love a fish but where would they live?" With mermaid/dreamling twist?

Thanks! :)

this made me go feral over the idea of harpy!Dream and merman Hob! I wrote this in about two-three hours and it's not edited or anything but I hope you like it even if the question where they would live is not answered 😅

I may write more for them/expand on this scene or draw them, but it won't be today.

Anyway Happy Mermay everybody! Let's gooooooo!

Dream sees the glint of scales under the waves and veers in its direction. With a smirk he drops down, claws outstretched-

When he realises his mistake it is too late. He cannot break his descent without risking dropping into the sea. His claws glance off the coppery scales, leaving long sharp scratches behind. A long copper coloured fishtail rises from the water and slaps at him, missing Dream's right wing only by a few centimetres. He hastily pulls himself up into the air again with a heavy flap of his wings and stares down in disbelief.

A dark-haired man's head rises from the waves and yells at him, "Oi, mate, watch it! I'm not a fucking sturgeon!"

A merman! Dream has heard of such creatures before but he has never seen one in his life. Admittedly, he has not been around these shores for long. He cocks his head, curious. The merman frowns and shouts, "Hey, I've never seen you around here before. Aren't harpies usually living in the South? Where it's warmer?"

Dream scoffs and flaps his wings again to stay in the air.

"If you want to interrogate me, perhaps you can accompany me to a place where I can rest my wings. I'm not a seagull, I can't just land on the water."

The merman stares at him open-mouthed, a perplexed look on his face. Dream frowns. Has he not used the correct language? But then the merman nods and flaps his tail. There's a blush on his cheeks and he pulls at the fin on the side of his head where an ear would be.

"Yeah, sorry, 'course. Follow me. It's not far, there's a rock close by."

Dream had seen the rock earlier and nods before steering towards it. The merman ducks back into the water and with a flash of his brown-golden fin he is off, faster than Dream expected. He follows, pondering his decision. What is he doing, seeking conversation with this being? He is not usually one for social interaction. He came here to be alone.

--

Hob notices the shadow above and thinks it’s just a gull flying overhead. He doesn’t look up, there’s no flying predator large enough for a merman to worry about. When suddenly a sharp line of pain is scored into his flesh he thrashes his tail on instinct, trying to knock the attacker down. What the fuck?

He surfaces quickly and looks up. There’s a giant bird flying above him, flapping its black wings to gain some height and distance from Hob’s fin. Except it’s not a bird. It’s a man with bird wings! A harpy, his memory supplies.

Angry and shocked, he shouts the first thing that comes to mind: "Oi, mate, watch it! I'm not a fucking sturgeon!"

He feels stupid straight afterwards, talking to a stranger like that, what if the harpy can’t even understand him?

Hob has heard about harpies. They don’t live in these colder climates, though, or at least that’s what he’s been told. They stick to the Mediterranean, being sensitive to cold. Shows how much there is to learn still. Hob loves to learn new things. 

The bird man cocks his head as if considering Hob’s words. He shouts again, testing if the creature can understand him, "Hey, I've never seen you around here before. Aren't harpies usually living in the South? Where it's warmer?"

The harpy scoffs, a very human sound and says, "If you want to interrogate me, perhaps you can accompany me to a place where I can rest my wings. I'm not a seagull, I can't just land on the water."

Hob gapes at the man. So he can understand him! The harpy’s voice is deep and carries far without being raised. Hob stares at the harpy’s sharp face, his plush lips pouting at him. He narrows his piercing blue eyes at Hob and Hob hastily jerks himself out of his stupor. Embarrassed, he pulls his ear fin.

"Yeah, sorry, 'course. Follow me. It's not far, there's a rock close by."

The creature nods and Hob dives, swimming towards the rocks a few hundred metres away. They are close to the shore and there are plenty of cliffs and rocks nearby.

Hob reaches the rock first and watches the harpy approach. The being lands gracefully, its sharp black claws gripping the rock for support. It has black wings instead of arms and the feathers shimmer purple and blue in the sunlight. Its legs are also densely feathered, plumage covering its body up to the hips. The man’s torso is white, his face human and beautiful with a shock of unruly black hair framing his sharp cheeks and falling over his brows. Hob knows he’s staring but the harpy is the most stunning thing he has ever seen. Dangerous and beautiful, all sharp claws and bones and feathers that look both sharp enough to cut and so soft that Hob desperately wants to touch them to find out how they feel. He restlessly jerks his tail and hisses when he feels the sting of the wound the harpy gave him. He had completely forgotten about it. He lifts his body to the surface to inspect the wound. It’s not that bad, just a shallow scratch. The harpy shifts restlessly behind him.

“I apologise for my error. Do you require medical assistance?”

The harpy’s deep and dulcet voice rolls over Hob like a wave of warm water and he sighs, temporarily forgetting that he has been asked a question. He stares back up at the bird man, lost in a fuzzy haze.

“Are you alright?” the being’s inquiring voice draws him back to reality. Hob blinks and then frowns. He ducks a bit deeper into the water, eyeing the other warily.

“Sorry, I…I’m fine, it’s just a scratch. But tell me,” he says, deciding that it’s better to set things straight right away, “are you a siren? Your voice, it’s…it’s messing with my head.”

--

Dream’s back stiffens when the merman asks him if he’s a siren. Has he been involuntarily charming the other? He curses himself and carefully focuses on stopping any latent magic from entering his voice when he answers, “I apologise. Again. I was not aware I was doing it. It’s been a long time since I…talked to anyone.”

The merman raises an eyebrow but seems mollified and ready to listen, rather than just swimming off. He seems to be a very curious person, too curious for his own good. Dream sighs and shuffles his wings nervously.

“There is indeed a siren in my family line. Some of her magic has been passed down…to me. And some of my siblings. I do not use it…intentionally.”

No need to tell the merman that the mentioned siren is his mother and that Dream has indeed inherited quite a lot of her powers. He truly is not in the habit of using his voice to charm others. He prefers to not be around others anyway.

The merman blinks, seemingly fascinated. Dream studies him more closely. He is an adult male with copper skin and dark brown, almost black hair that flows over his shoulders and down his chest into the water. Dream wonders how long it is. The man’s face is handsome, with a strong nose that would make any harpy envious and amber eyes that look kindly up at Dream, shining with curiosity and intelligence.

“Apology accepted. Just please don’t use it on me anymore,” the merman says easily and draws himself a bit more onto the rock. Dream notes the length of his hair, the wet ends curling just around his dark brown nipples. The feathers at Dream’s neck stand up as he fights his irritation at the alluring display. He draws his gaze away from the merman’s chest to meet his eyes again. The man is smiling guilelessly.

“My name is Hob,” he says brightly, “can I ask your name, stranger?”

Dream straightens and tries to answer with dignity, hoping the other has not noticed his staring.

“I am called Dream. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Hob.”

He is surprised that he means it.

[acti-veg]

It’s important to understand that this panzootic “is a man-made problem,” says Vincent Munster, who heads the Virus Ecology Section at the U.S. National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases.

Avian flu is not uncommon in wild birds, particularly in its natural hosts: ducks, geese, gulls, terns, swans and other waterfowl. They carry a low pathogenic form, a mild virus that may be asymptomatic. It spreads seasonally, when multiple species congregate at migration stopover sites or cluster together to nest.

But when avian flu spills over into poultry, it can morph into a highly contagious, fatal virus.

The current panzootic began when this H5N1 strain jumped from domestic poultry back into wild birds — which happened because of modern livestock production methods. Humans further facilitated spillover by destroying wetlands, which crowds migrating birds into small scraps of habitat, often with poultry farms nearby.

When farms encroach wetlands, it creates the perfect interface for this type of virus, Walzer says. It’s a veritable petri dish of opportunity for avian flu to swap genes and mutate into potentially more virulent or transmissible strains. This environment allowed the virus to infect chickens, geese and ducks –– and jump back into the wild in a virulent form.

“The emergence of Highly Pathogenic Avian Influenza is a direct result of commercial, large-scale poultry farming,” Munster says. There are more than 34 billion chickens on Earth, according to Food and Agriculture Organization estimates.

[chrrybombshells]

Keep Each Other Company

Honeymoon imagine with Mark, because I imagine once his girl, is finally his forever, he's going to be insatiable.

Word Count: 1,850 Warnings: Smut (minors DNI), daddy kink, eating out, overstimulation and typos.

The sound of crashing waves and the calls of sea gulls could be heard as you lie in bed in your beach bungalow. It was your honeymoon, and the warm golden sun beamed into your room as the white curtains danced in the ocean breeze. Everything was perfect. Your now husband, which still made you giddy to say, left you alone in your suite so you could get some much needed sleep. Mark, on the other hand, decided to take this opportunity to sit on the sand and play his guitar. It’s so rare for him to have quiet time like this, so he wanted to take advantage of it. He stopped strumming when he heard your stirring, looking back from his spot, through the double doors, to see you lazily lift your head. He knew you had just awoken from the kind of nap that left you a little delirious and unsure of your surroundings, your cute snores were a dead give away. 

“Hey sleepyhead.” Mark called out. He gently placed his guitar down and sauntered over to you. His eyes couldn’t help but travel along your body, which laid spread out against the crisp white sheets. He’s seen your body before, he could worship it all day if he had the time, but this is different. He feels like he’s seeing you for the first time. But he guesses, in a way, he is. You’re his now and he’s yours. Legally bound, for all the world to see, he had officially dedicated the rest of his life to being with you and it was the best decision he had ever made. 

You rolled over to your back, looking up at Mark at the end of the bed. A stretch took over your body and you couldn’t help but involuntary moan and the feeling of your muscles being awakened, but the sound stirred something in your husband. His eyes shifted from his usual soft brown to something a little darker, a little more mischievous. He leaned over you, slowly, purposefully, until he was faced to face with you, your body trapped beneath his. His fingers traced along your cheekbone and a shiver went down your spine as you watched the way he was gazing at you. 

“You know, my love, we were so busy with the wedding arrangements, I didn’t get to give you a proper wedding night.” Mark whispered deeply. The tone in his voice was like warm honey, dripping of promise of a long and eventful evening. “Why don’t I show you what it’s going to be like to be my wife, to be my girl, forever.” 

You nod shyly as goosebumps rise on your skin. Mark was so close and he smelled of his cologne and a faint smell of sea water. He leaned down and left feather like kisses on your neck and jaw. Mark kissed your skin lazily. He knew all the places that would make you melt in seconds, but he was in absolutely no rush. This was your time together, you were the only company he cared to keep.

“Mark” you whispered softly. You felt electricity coursing through your veins as his hands slid across your skin so softly, it was almost like it wasn’t there at all. “You have goosebumps” Mark whispered, lifting away from your neck to look you in the eye. “Do I still make you nervous?” He asked as his fingers traveled up to your cheek to feel the warmth underneath that rushed there. The question perplexed you. This man, your husband, was your best friend and confidant, but in this moment, his gaze was strong enough to see into your soul, and somehow his eyes were still filled with love and a deep seared desire that you’ve never seen before. “Just be a good girl and trust me.” Mark leaned down, taking your jaw into his grip, and kissed you, deep and slow. You sighed and felt a tear roll down your cheek as you pulled you closer into his body. This kiss was slow, but strong, you felt so secure in your place in his arms. He really loved you and it was like his whole body was screaming to let you know. 

“Lift your arms for me, Princess” He requested after the kiss was broken. He regretfully let you go as you lifted the thin dress over your head. You didn’t have much underneath, which was no issue at all for your lover. He couldn’t help but smile as he looked over you. “I still can’t believe you’re mine.” He stated, mostly to himself, but when he caught you looking back at him, his smile only grew as he returned to his position over you. Wordlessly, he commanded your body to lay back on the bed. You melted into the soft white comforter, while Mark took the opportunity to return to his spot at the crook of your neck. He kissed the area, sucking it gently to get the gasp that you couldn’t keep in any longer. He slowly moved downward in his quest to worship your body, the way every husband should. He kissed both sides of your collarbone, the center of your chest, before turning to the spot right above your racing heart. He kissed the area and looked up at you. “I promise to never break it.” He swears to you in a low strong voice, an overwhelming feeling rushed over you when you took in how serious he was. He refused to break eye contact until you had acknowledged his commitment. “I know.” You whispered back. Once he was satisfied with your answer, he kissed the spot again before continuing downward. When he reached your breast, he gave each of them a firm squeeze, pinching each nipple with just enough force to have your back arching and your eyes rolling back. He let the left one free so he could kiss the hardened area, before sucking it lightly and letting his teeth graze across its expanse. Once satisfied with your heavy breathing and quiet gasps, he repeated the action on the opposite side. 

“Mark” you sighed. “My love” he answered back. He kept his journey down, but kept his fingers teasing your nipples, loving the way you were at his mercy, no matter how small the touch was. The man of your dreams kissed your stomach, each of your hip bones, and the top of the band of your underwear. Finally, he released your upper body to take care of his final destination. “You’re so wet” he cooed as he gently opened your legs apart with his hands. The wet patch of your panties was evident under the warm glow of the setting sun. Mark looked up with a smirk as his middle finger traced the outline of the spot. You whined and closed your eyes tightly, you always swore his teasing would be the death of you one day. “I don’t know what I want to do with my pretty little bride. Part of me wants to tease her as long as it takes for her to feel nothing other than her throbbing pussy, but then again, I also could make her cum so many times, that she cant even lift herself off the bed” Mark pondered the endless possibilities as he continued to tease you through the outside of your panties. “Please” you begged, grabbing on to his wrist. Mark’s eyes met yours questioning why you were interrupting his train of thought. “Oh little girl, let Daddy choose for you. If all you can say is please, you’re not helping. If anything you’re making it harder for yourself.” Mark took hold of your panties and slid them down your legs, making sure to kiss both thighs and calves while doing so. “I think I’ve decided, but too bad for you, you’re going to have to wait to find out what your wedding gift will be.”

The smirk on Mark’s face grew as he threw your panties carelessly behind him. He pulled your legs down to the end of the bed in a swift motion. He bent down so he was face to face with your most sensitive area.  With your legs pushed back, he had a completely unobstructed view of you. He just looked for a moment, which felt like a decade, before leaning down and placing soft kisses across your clit and opening. Your hands instinctually reached for his hair. His new short hair was harder to grasp, but you made due with what you had. The feather-like kisses turned into rougher licks. The noises he made were obscene to say the least, but with your whole body practically on fire, you could care less as he put the bundle of nerves between his soft plush lips. “I’m so close” you tried to warn Mark, but your words left no affect on him. He continued to move his tongue in ways that your brain couldn’t bother trying to understand. It only took a few strokes of his tongue to have you moaning his name and your legs trying to snap close. And although you thought you were done, your husband was fare from finished. He continued to kitten lick your clit, your body tried to pull away, but his strong arms wrapped themselves around your legs so he can keep them open and his hand could keep you grounded by your stomach. “Mark!”  You cried out once you felt one if his hands push back against your pubic bone to expose your clit to him even more. And you all but choked as you felt one of his hands leave your stomach to trace your opening. Without much resistance, Mark was able to push two of his thick fingers inside of you, filling you in away the made your head spin. He curved his fingers ever so slightly to hit the small spongy spot inside you. Your mouth dropped, but no noise came out. You were going to cum again and this time you didn’t have the strength to warn him. HIs tongue was still mercilessly toying with your clit and you couldn’t tell if you wanted him to stop or to keep going. But what you wanted mattered very little to him. He continued to eat you out like you were the best meal he has ever had, and if you asked him, he would swear to it on his grave. 

The second orgasm ripped through you, causing your body to shake and whither on the bed. This time you gripped his hair to pull you off of your throbbing pussy. “Mark, please. Give me, give me a moment” you begged breathlessly. Mark moaned as he watched you and licked your taste of his lips. He wiped the excess off with the back of his hand before standing up and looking you dead in the eye as he unbuckled his belt. 

“Did you forget already?" He shook his head calmly, "I decided your wedding gift. I’m gonna make sure you don’t leave this bed tonight...or tomorrow” Mark smiled as he unzipped his jeans. 

[jules-writes-stories]

WIP | A Love That Bleeds

This is my Villains Week WIP. It's probably the closest I've ever come to writing anything considered Dead Dove (not because I'm anti, just hasn't happened yet--no TW for this excerpt). It's also the first story I will likely post, knowing it is still incredibly rough. But I'm trying to move past the unachievable quest for perfection and just share what I'm creating like a normal person lol. So here's Amarantha before she was Hybern's General, before Tamlin and Jurian's eyeball, and UTM...

Amarantha | Villains Week 2024 | Coming (hopefully) Day 7

Amarantha, eldest daughter of the House Ó Ceallaigh, hero of the Turas, was drunk. But the toasts had kept coming. And the warriors kept filling her cup. Father told her to switch to water, but she had not listened. Her head was fuzzy and the world spun on an unfamiliar axis. Several times the young Fae caught herself smiling for no reason.

She growled at the dour look on an old male’s face. He was staring at her from behind a painting. “What? Never seen a female win the Turas? Sail around the Isle in record time? Old gull.” Closing an eye allowed her to focus better. 

There was a small laugh from behind. Amarantha turned, palming her small dagger. There, in the empty corridor, was a human girl. It was her girl, from the Hall.

Amarantha resheathed her dagger and lifted her head, befitting the status of a legend. “Hasn’t anyone warned you it is dangerous to sneak up on the High Fae, mortal?” She tried to look down her nose into those enormous green eyes. It made her dizzy. So pretty. 

The human’s little rounded ears turned pink. Amarantha almost smiled again. “I beg forgiveness, Lady. I assumed one like me could not sneak up on a High Fae like you.” Her eyes sparkled with a wicked little light as they flicked towards the Fae’s pointed ears. 

Amarantha huffed. Clever creature. “Why are you lurking at these hours?” 

At this, the human curtsied, holding up her gray shift in her slender hands. She bore the brand of a crown along the inside of her wrist. Property of the King of Hybern himself. Of course. The royal household was known for hoarding the loveliest and strongest mortal slaves. They bred them regularly to keep them so. 

“His Majesty’s Steward sent me to your chamber. I was coming to find you. Her face flushed. She pulled parchment from her sleeve and lowered her head, holding out the roll.

Amarantha opened the letter and read the sloping words. A Gift. From the King of Hybern. Her dark eyes looked up at the human, who was watching her face with a keen gaze. Clever little creature indeed. 

She almost sent the slave back. The High Fae did not need another responsibility. Her narrow nineteen year old shoulders were buckling under her new role in Hybern’s court, watching out for a rebellious little sister, and trying to carve out her name on the Cliff of Legends. 

But it would be a terrible dishonor to refuse a gift. There were suddenly whispers coming from an alcove, the rustle of clothing, then a grunting sound. Amarantha needed to get out of the darkened hallway. It was not safe. She circled the slender, branded wrist. “Come.” 

She pulled the smaller female along several more doors until they approached her guest suite. It was a wing of honor, well appointed and luxurious. After locking the double doors and applying several wards, she allowed herself a chance to study the girl. 

She was more slender than Amarantha, and several inches shorter, but of a similar age. Human years were easy to discern. Her brown hair was tightly coiled, like little springs, and her skin was sun kissed. But it was those mermaid eyes Amarantha found herself falling into. 

She tore her gaze away and sat on the edge of the bed. The girl remained completely still in the moonlight, a lovely statue rescued from the ocean.

The warrior and seafarer was becoming a damned bard…

“Why did the King send you?” Amarantha asked, her eyes narrowing, as she continued to study her gift. The human was lovely and the new tug beneath her navel was back. Her breasts were small and firm. Amarantha imagined her nipples would be the color of the sky at dusk. Cauldron.

She cleared her throat, face burning. It was surely red as her hair. 

The human seemed confused. “It's tradition, my Lady. The victor of the Turas is gifted a slave from the King’s collection. His Grace noted your interest in– me– in the Hall.” She lowered her head full of curls once more. 

Amarantha felt like a fool. How was she to know of this tradition? Females were never permitted to race before, had never been offered a place in the Turas, and the only reason she was here, in this castle, instead of a cell, was because she’d won. It had been the gamble of her immortal lifetime. 

“Of course, dumb girl.” Amarantha scoffed. A shadow of anger might have passed across the slave’s soft features, but it may have been the flicker of flames from the hearth. “Well, what does the King call you?” 

When the girl did not immediately answer, she barked out, “What is your name?” 

“Peata, Mistress.” Her voice was a purr. Pet, in Old Hybernian. How fitting. It was common for the Fae to name their slaves after animals, objects, or even assign them roles.

[thevikingwoman]

written for @idrellegames Wayfarer’s 3rd anniversary!

Fandom: Wayfarer IF | Words: 740 | Read on Ao3

Illia Strand | before episode 1 | gen Rating: Teen. Illia receives bad news, contemplating your place in the world, spoilers for ep1, rough times, complicated family

Legacy

It’s beautiful weather when the news reach Illia Strand. The sun is out, but it’s not too hot and a pleasant breeze brings fresh air through the streets. The large port city is an oft used stopping spot for Wayfarers heading home – home to the Spire – so it’s not strange that Varyn’s letter finds her here. It takes her two times to understand the content of it.

The Spire is gone.

Her home is gone.

She’s numb. She stands there, in the street outside the apothecary that sometimes serves as a delivery hub for wayfarers. She has no idea how long time passes, or how many times she reads the letter. Illia doesn’t move until someone bumps into her, swearing and swearing again when they discover she’s magiani. She mumbles an excuse and puts the letter away, shoving it into her pack.

What if she’d received Sero’s summons in time? What if she’d been at the Spire?

She wanders aimlessly, cobblestone and dirt under her feet. The busy calls of the market, jumping aside for a noble in a carriage. She doesn’t really notice any of it.

It was too complicated getting out of Vestra. The civil war has ripped the country apart, people seeing enemies everywhere. The countryside torn up, dead cattle and fields burned or crops left to rot. It was a wonder she even got Sero’s letter at all. Varyn’s network is strong, though – but not strong enough to prevent an assault on their home. Is it burnt? Rubble? She wonders if her fellow wayfarers are dead, bloated corpses in the snow like those in war. Aeran… She balks at the thought, willing it away. It’s no use. Don’t dream up information you don’t have, Varyn always said. Illia sucks in air, attempting the calming breaths of her mentor. It doesn’t help much.

She finds herself at the harbor. The gulls scream and the port is bustling, busy sailors loading and unloading. Off-duty crew looking for entertainment, or just a nice meal and a change of view. It’s tedious to be at sea, she knows.

Of course, there’s a familiar flag on a large ship at the end of the dock. She knows her family has been busy. Her father keen on expanding his power, though for all she knows it’s Aristos who runs the business now. She has avoided the ships when she saw them, likely as she is to run into one of her siblings. Her parents’ legacy, a family trade empire, every child captain of their own ship if they should wish. All except one, of course.

Illia can’t help but walk closer, some sort of bitter curiosity perhaps. The ship is big, and must have been here long enough to trade, sailors bringing goods aboard. Familiar Coveran is barked out as orders and idle chit chat both. The captain is by the gangplank, arguing with an official. She freezes. The same brown hair and grey eyes as herself. Same freckles, just fewer of them, scattered across the bridge of their nose. Lorsan, their sibling.

To see them here, now –

Illia wonders what they would do if she went to them. Would she be welcomed or turned away? Would Lorsan even recognize her? She’s a far cry from the forgotten little sister who got shoved out of their life many years past. But, she’s alone now. The letter in her pack tells her so, tells her to run. And Tol Covere and the Strand fleet is one place to run. She imagines Lorsan, greeting her like the long lost sibling she is. Mother, tearfully hugging her. Her father, saying she did well for their name after all. Maybe that one is a stretch.

Lorsan opens their pack and draws out brass scale. The magic unfolds itself, the scale balancing in the air. Some last-minute haggling, spices probably. A simple instrument, easy to use, and every merchant’s stable if they can afford it. The Strand family can, but it’s not something she can use. She’d break the delicate magic with a simple careless touch.

No.

She does not belong in the Strand fleet. Their legacy is not hers.

She belongs with the Wayfarer Order, even if it no longer exists. Some were scatted, Varyn said. Perhaps she can find them. That is to be her legacy now, bitter as it is.

Illia turns from away the dock, her feet leading her back to the city.

[bestgullpoll]

Round 1, Side A: Match 11

[Image ID: Two pictures of gulls. The left is an Iceland gull walking on dirt. The right is a brown-headed gull standing on a concrete ledge. /End ID]

The Iceland gull (Larus glaucoides) is a large gull that breeds in the Arctic regions of Canada and Greenland -- not Iceland. They migrate to winter in the northern Atlantic (including Iceland) and Pacific. They typically measure 50-64 cm (20-25 in) in length and 115-150 cm (45-59 in) in wingspan. They have white underparts and head, pale grey upperparts and wings, pink legs, and yellow bill with small red spot. Their wingtips range from white to black depending on the subspecies. They eat fish, molluscs, eggs, and carrion.

The brown-headed gull (Chroicocephalus brunnicephalus) is a mid-sized gull that breeds in central Asia and inner Mongolia and migrates to winter on the coasts and large inland lakes of India. They typically measure 40-45 cm (16-18 in) in length. They have white underparts, grey upperparts, brown head, white eye crescents, and red bill and legs. Their grey wings are black at the tips with white "mirrors." They eat fish, insects, and carrion.

Iceland gull image by Seabamirum

brown-headed gull image by Rushen

[wilbursprincess]

wil and reader are at the beach but the reader is scared of the ocean and doesn't want to go swimming, the reader still wants to understand what he likes about it so wilbur picks them up and carries them bridal style out into the sea while making sure they don't touch the water

“Do You Have Any Idea What’s In The Ocean?”

Wilbur Soot x Gender Neutral Reader

Warnings: None :)

Greetings, lovely @sootwilb! I’m actually afraid of the ocean… like have you seen what’s in there??? Have you seen photos of shipwrecks??? Yuck. I grew up swimming in lakes, and the few times I’ve been in the ocean, I was terrified. Never again.

Fic below cut!

“You’re not going in the water, baby?” Wilbur asks, and I peek up from my book to see him standing with the waves lapping at his ankles.

I shake my head. “Do you have any idea what’s in the ocean? I’ll pass.”

He nods sympathetically. “I get it. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

Wilbur dives into the ocean, and I dive back into my book. Or, at least, I try to. I keep looking up at my boyfriend splashing around, having the time of his life. He’s always loved swimming in the Brighton sea, and I’ve always hung back.

“Will?”

He pokes his head up out of the water, splashing his way back to shore. “What’s up?”

“I want to see what you like so much about the ocean,” I admit, setting down my book and pulling off my cover-up. “Will you carry me out into it?”

Eyes lighting up, Wilbur scoops me into his arms, the cold, salty water on his skin making me shiver. “Of course, darling.”

Carefully, so I don’t touch the water, he carries me out, stopping when the sea water laps at his waist. “Still good?”

“Mostly,” I laugh. “It’s peaceful out here.”

Wilbur grins, kissing my forehead. “Just us and the gulls.

“And all the bodies, shipwrecks, and deadly animals that live in the sea,” I retort. “But yea, it’s peaceful.”

His brown eyes crinkle in amusement. “Deadly animals, huh?”

He’s carrying me deeper and deeper into the ocean, slowly, but I’m not as scared as I thought. It’s nice to have the drops splashing my legs, being in his arms, and getting to experience this together.

[surlifen]

second batch of gulls! all already claimed

first is a brown-headed, or brown-hooded, or black-headed gull... I didn't decide because they are all so similar and this design takes plenty of liberties with species features. but they're based on a black-headed gull in the middle of getting its breeding plumage!

second is a pacific gull! they've got those wild huge beaks

third is a glaucous-winged gull with an ocean rainbow theme!

fourth is a sabine's gull, themed around lovebirds and peaches!

fifth is a gray gull with a misty forest theme!

and last, a sooty gull with an 80's slasher theme -- look at the red tips on their bills and you'll understand my vision

[inaconstantstateofchange]

Bond!AU | Wyll & Ansur [Pt. 3]

Part One | Two

Wyll is slightly less surprised when he finds himself in the clearing again after closing his eye beside the smoldering cinders of his campfire. Such a thing happening twice is still circumstantial – albeit somewhat odd – but thrice? That makes a pattern, and Wyll’s life over the past year has increasingly depended on him taking note of those patterns.

He considers the space around him with more interest, now that he knows it to be something more than a mere dream. The pool draws the eye first, filling the center of the clearing as it does. He resists its allure, however, determined to finalize his surveillance before he allows himself to see if his little friend yet remains a part of this confounding dreamscape. The trees surrounding the clearing appear as solid and well-defined as the rest of the clearing, but as he makes toward them, they fade out in time with his steps. By the time he stands before them, they seem like nothing so much as the memory of trees — gray, wavering, and ephemeral. 

Beyond them, in the formless fog, he hears the crashing of distant waves, and the furious shrieking of the gulls, songbirds of his youth. He swallows hard, the click of it catching in his throat. His good eye prickles, and his empty socket aches. 

He turns away from the far-off call, trying to convince himself it does not make of him a coward. No longer so keen to unravel the mysteries of the dreamscape, he slumps to the ground in his ‘usual’ spot, against the rocks that have supported him twice before. He doesn’t imagine they will mind doing so again. Eager for a distraction, he looks for his little friend. After the last two meetings, he no longer expects to see it in the same form, watching solely for that tell-tale bronze. 

He gazes into the pool for some time, inspecting it intently, and finding his breathing unconsciously matching the gentle lapping of the water. He settles into a state similar to what he imagined meditation must be like, when he heard it described as a child. He is aware of every splash and rustle before him, but every one that does not resolve itself in some new form of his friend is noted, then disregarded. Somehow, this sustained focus does not exhaust him — as he is certain it must, were he to attempt it upon waking. Instead, it feels almost rejuvenating, the aches of his body carried away along with the rest. The aching of his mind is not so easily disregarded, but he fancies it too, is somewhat soothed. 

After a time, his attention is drawn to a portion of the pool, something about it sticking with him, rather than flowing through. He makes the decision – barely a thought, really – to trust his instincts, and keeps his attention focused upon it. Some minutes later, his patience is rewarded, as a tiny brown snout he had taken for a twig ‘til now pokes further out from the water, revealing dark eyes and a head striped with bronze. Below the water the coloration continues, muted but still visible, as the light reflects off of the angled patterns of its shell. 

Wyll smiles helplessly down at the turtle, which cannot be any larger than the palm of his hand. “I hope you have avoided further mishaps, friend.”

The turtle turns its head to stare at him, and, for no reason he can clearly define, he perceives it to be disgruntled. He considers it for a moment, then owns that he does not greatly enjoy having his own blunders thrown back in his face — something the devil he is sworn to is all too happy to engage in, under the guise of “counsel”. 

He bows his head to the little creature. “Apologies; that was ill-done of me. I meant only to wish you well, and inquire after your health. Although… I suppose you likely can’t talk, which means that is also quite rude—” 

Turtles certainly can’t roll their eyes, but Wyll discovers that mysterious turtles one encounters in a dreamscape can manage a very convincing impression. With a gurgling huff, the little thing clambers its way onto the sun-warmed surface of a small rock, settling in to bask. Its head is still angled loosely in his direction, which he decides to treat as invitation enough. It clearly does not have any great trouble making its opinion known, no matter the limitations of its form. 

Wyll has a fair few more stories under his belt now than he did when he first awoke in this clearing, and he shuffles through them in his mind, searching for the best of them to entertain his companion. If they are to meet only sparingly, as seems to be the case, then he will no doubt have plenty more at their next encounter. 

Leaning back fully against the rock behind him, he settles upon his choice, and begins his tale.

“So this particular wizard – although those toffs out in Waterdeep would likely take umbrage with him claiming that title – had struck upon the brilliant idea of employing both a choker and a gargoyle as guards…”

[mutant-distraction]

Sanjay Pandit

Brown-headed gull

[doomandgloomfromthetomb]

Prairiewolf -Deep Time

One more plug for Prairiewolf's new album — Deep Time! It's out today on digital, LP and CD (the latter edition with a mystery bonus disc 👻). Very proud of it, though it's really Jeremy and Stefan who make this shit sound so good. Also shout-outs to Matt Loewen for his insanely great clarinet solo on "Revisionist Mystery;" Sean Conrad for his expert mastering; our labels Centripetal Force (North America) and Worried Songs (UK/Euro). And thanks to anyone out there who listens! I'll shut up now, but after the jump, you can read what one of our favorite writers, Brent Sirota, had to say about the album:

Prairiewolf make easy listening music for an age of fracture. They almost do it in spite of themselves. No one can seriously question the head music bona fides of the members of this Colorado-based trio. Guitarist Stefan Beck has already assembled a formidable discography of jewel-toned guitar zone-outs under his Golden Brown moniker. And keyboardist and guitarist Jeremy Erwin and bassist Tyler Wilcox have both made their reputations as chroniclers of the vast world of out music. Erwin helms the indispensable Heat Warps blog, a performance-by-performance archive of Miles Davis’s labyrinthine electric period. And Wilcox has been covering the ragged edges of psychedelia and experimental rock at Aquarium Drunkard and other publications, not to mention his own virtual basement for heads, the great bootleg blog Doom and Gloom from the Tomb. These guys come by it honestly. And yet, given their backgrounds, Prairiewolf’s self-titled debut last spring was remarkably free of face-melters, brown acid blowouts, and ascendant spiritual jazz odysseys. Instead, they dropped a record of beautiful, elegant, low-key cosmic groovers that sounded like the piped-in background music to a resort hotel on Jupiter. It was an unlikely psychedelia, brocaded with mid-twentieth century sonic threading from the hi-fi era: vintage synthesizers, smears of spaghetti western, luxe tropical details, the faint schmaltz of space age pop. Imagine something like a Harmonia residency in the airport lounge. And yet somehow it all worked brilliantly. Prairiewolf became last summer’s cool-down standard.

After a year woodshedding around Colorado’s Front Range region, the Prairiewolf boys have fired up their trusty Korg SR-120 drum machine for another outstanding collection of suborbital exotica. The appropriately titled Deep Time operates in its own chronology, unspooling at its unhurried pace. All its incongruous period and stylistic references—the new age pulses, Hawaiian steel, shaggy hippie rambles, lysergic guitar spirals, and orchestral synthesizer flourishes—float atop the album’s own singular temporality. Deep Time makes its own time. From the moment Beck folds his slide guitar, origami-like, into a sound resembling the call of gulls on the tranquil album opener, “Peach Blossom Paradise,” there is a sense of departure from everyday life. The shimmering “Lighthouse” has a similar sunbaked nonchalance, like an afternoon passed day-drinking in a seaside bar. That they named their lush, kaleidoscopic downtempo track “The Meander” pretty much says it all. The ranging, propulsive “Saying Yes to Everything” seems like a nod in the direction of Rose City Band’s brand of wookie krautrock. And the motorik noir of “Demon Cicadas in the Night” also goes hard. Beck and Erwin’s intertwined guitar jam on the eerie album standout “The Cold Curve” evolves into something that sounds like primitive computer music. A genteel bassline from Wilcox on another album highlight, “Revisionist Mystery,” sets the stage for a loopy space jazz turn from guest clarinetist Matt Loewen of Rayonism. The title of post-rock cowboy tune “Another Tomorrow” might refer to the alternative future that so many critics heard in the music of Prairiewolf’s first album. Or it might simply refer to the persistence of time, however deep.

Either way, I’m thankful for the way Prairiewolf make each of their tunes a little oasis or sanctuary, each subsisting according to its own crystalline little logic for a few minutes. It is no simple task to filter out the omnipresent anger and anxiety of everyday life these days. But Prairiewolf are out here making it seem easy.

Brent S. Sirota