#man! Have I rusted

[heyifinallyhaveablog]

The Defeated

So-

I've been away for the longest time, and well, so far, it seems as if it has been ages since I'd written something here, and @demonkidpliz 's writing kind of prompted me to throw it out here. Not that anyone asked for it.

Goodness, it has been so SO LONG! Just tagging people here for a slight knock. I just, love you all so so much, that I'll probably find my way in here eventually! :D

@demonkidpliz @vidhurvrika @bleedinknight @chaanv @alwaysthesideofwonder @raat-jaaga-paakhi @carminavulcana @pratigyakrishnaki @phandomoftheowl @kalpansh

And anyone else here. Heaven knows I've forgotten such a lot.

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Fandom: Mahabharat/StarPlus Mahabharat

Pairings: Bheema/Draupadi

Warnings: Mentions of War | PTSD | Trauma | Bloodshed

Summary: The Second Pandava deals with ghosts of the War. Alone.

Disclaimer: This is entirely a work of fiction, based on an idea I had while reading C. Rajagopalachari's version of the Mahabharata. But I do have to say this, this has a lot to offer that is different from the Mahabharata that is actually popular. I just hope that this resonates with the readers, and you read this, and find this worth your time and your feedback. Please leave a short comment or a like, whatever you may deem fit. And as always!

THANK YOU!

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Chapter 1:

The Shadows:

“My Lord,” an earnest call beckoned to him in the midst of a dimly-lit Kridangan. The voice doesn’t serve as an intrusion or an offence, since, his pursuit of the arena is more habitual than practical these days. Yet, a phantom lightness in his being bids him to ignore it.

“He might not have heard us, Mother,” another voice caresses his ear, this time from a boy, probably no older than Abhiman-

Vrikodara closes his eyes, in a desparate attempt to stop himself from recalling the name. 

The resignation in the older woman’s conduct seems to register with him.

“Pardon me, Mother,” he says, hoping they had heard him before they left.

Hoping it would stop them.

—----

“I have no use for sparrers, Mother,” he says, much to the chagrin of the widow who had brought her son along for employment in the Palace of the Kurus. The boy’s Father, he was told, was a soldier in the cavalry of Hastinapura. 

“If My Prince may spare us some consideration,” the lady kept her eyes lowered, much to Bhimasena’s relief, “my late husband, once served as a sparrer for the princes and kings in the castle, as did his father before that,”

“The Younger Queen Mother, was kind enough to refer us to you, My Lord,” she continued, breaking the Second Pandava with every word she spoke.

“Mother,” Bheema managed to speak, “I shall be obliged, if you would be kind enough to speak to The Queen,” he turned his eyes towards the boy, “I’m certain, he shall find employment elsewhere herein,”

He left, with folded hands, and his gaze lowered, before the knot in his chest tightened further.

—----

He had bid the lights to remain extinguished in their chamber. His senses do not let him recall the times when he wanted his chamber to be lit brilliantly as day after the evening prayers. 

Another breath mingles with his, just as familiar to him as his own, just as forlorn to him as his own. He affords himself a momentary reprieve of letting his exhalations synchronise with hers. Her shapely silhouette offers him with some semblance of solace. It behooved him to receive her sobriety. After all, he had always known her to receive his thoughts even before they could make their way to his lips.

—----

“There has been no correspondence from Ekachakra, yet again,” she almost whispers.

Bheema’s hands clasp the edge of the bed, brushing close to that of his wife for that year.

Panchaali lets her right hand rest on his left, hoping to partake her husband’s discomfort. Yet, she doubted if an iota of his grief had been assuaged by any measure.

“Hidimba,” Bheema breathes the name, akin to a prayer, as if expecting his firstborn to walk in through the doors, smiling warmly from ear to ear, unscathed, unblemished, probably an older likeness of the boy he had seen earlier today.

“She’s meteing a punishment that befits the sin I have accrued, it seems,” Panchaali’s breath cuts through the air with its characteristic lotus fragrance. She doesn’t strain a tear either.

Crying would make it easier, she chides herself. 

Crying would lessen my penance, her resolve affirms.

“Hidimba has never been unfair, Panchaali,” he tells her impassively, as she feels the tremor in his voice. 

Another confabulation of silences followed.

[messmers]

HE LOOKS LIKE HE WORKS WITH HIS HANDS AND SMELLS LIKE MARLBORO REDS IT MAKES ME SO UHH AND I CANT GET ENOUGH OF IT

[tapeworrmart]

Lone Star 🌟

[evil-cryptile]

Made this in a frenzy as soon as i finished DTTM (i don't think I'll ever recover). Brian singing Hanged Man Rusts into Ashes' microphone will be living rent free in my head for the next millennia

[acrayday]

hanged man rust

on that mechs grind , anyway have that finished version of the wip i posted earlier.  really like this one honestly [image id and flats under the cut]

[begin image ID] 2 digital drawings of Drumbot Brian as merlin from the high noon over Camelot album. image 1 and 2. brian is hung upside down, in the classic position of the hanged man tarot card. his clothing is ripped from under the set of ropes that are holding him up. his blouse is open revealing a vague and damaged engraving saying “BRIAN” , but it is read as “MERLIN”. he has a neutral expression with closed eyes, he also as large patterns of oxidation across his body. the background has a vague dirty pattern on it. end image 2 continuation image 1. Brian has a bright line of light across his face and further. the image becomes much darker except for the lighting on the lower half of the image and the light on Brian  and a bright yellow circle around his head, reminiscent of old Christian painting and that of the hanged man tarot card.[end image ID]

[heavensickness]

Girls when they remember that Marty had everything that Rust really wanted and needed in his life (a loving spouse and children) but he never appreciated his family and lost them in the end, that Rust was a man who would not have made many of the mistakes Marty made (cheating on his wife or abusing his daughter etc.) and could have been a good husband/father, but all that he was given in this life was a shattered marriage of a few years, a dead baby daughter, and the chance to have dinner at the same table with his partner's wife and daughters like an echo of everything he had lost forever; and he never was able to rebuild the family he needed because life doesn't really care whether you "deserve" something or not

[saym0-0]

censorship 😔

i just think jonny would wear a 'modified' fish fear me shirt (ashes did it) over a tassled bikini. .. ..with jorts

[rusted-fairy-wings]

Sorry to be dramatic and manic pixie dream girl on you guys, but the rain on my skin, in my hair, rolling off of me, is one of the best human experiences.

It’s raining here, and i legitimately just walked in it for 45 minutes just because i can. Music blasting, rain jacket unzipped, hood down, stomping my boots as I walked in time with the music. Feeling the cold, feeling the water droplets, sometimes just standing still and soaking it in.

And I just know I must’ve looked ridiculous to everyone else on and near campus.

But dear god, I felt so alive and at peace.

[skytinee]

I have not actually drawn anything in like 9 months at this point I don't know what I'm doing. Take some Vaughnothy I did for an art trade with @thelegendarypusheen-art

alts w different overlays and blur levels under the cut because im indecisive

[whisperingwispp]

Snippet

She sits on the dock's edge, which is directly in front of the bar and the shack that they both call home. Her toes dipped into the water below the dock; the temperature somewhat cooling to the touch compared to the hot, muggy air that surrounded her. Rust observes her from afar as he sits in his lawn chair, a crime book in hand with his beer cooler next to him, a Lone Star beer on top, opened and half emptied.

She usually tries not to think of home, but the increasing temperatures of the summer often make her homesick. The bayous of Louisiana are nothing compared to the frigid streams of the Appalachian Mountains.

While she misses home, she knows that she could never go back, not because of what happened but because there’s nothing left for her there.

[ratatatastic]

MORE SAUNA PICS HAVE BEEN DROPPED MAY GOD HAVE MERCY ON THE WRETCHED

Sasha Cup Day | 7.31.24 (x)

[vanalex]

[spacecasette]

i have true detective brain rot SO BAD. rust cohle.. your offputting and condescending swag has captivated me for real 💯💯

want him to bully me and call me a stupid little girl and fuck me nasty :(

[batemanofficial]

the joy of getting a call back about a morning job vs the despair at the prospect of having two jobs

[sapphanimates]

based on a halloween costume from last year 🎃

[worshipfulmercy]

can i say something