#monsoon shed

[shedmaker]

Silpauline Tarpaulins

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[shouyuus]

cheesy af but pussydrunk Vi accidentally mentioning marriage?

she... she would tho.

so painfully 18+, mndi, merry xmas to the gays and only the gays

just fucking you slow, after pulling a good few orgasms out of you already with her mouth and her fingers, after you've also made her eyes roll back with nothing but your tongue on her clit, your fingers reaching up to tug on her pierced nipples, the buds made that much more sensitive by the metal rods, her mind caught somewhere between her lips and the high cap of the ceiling in your dorm, the winter sun pale and timid, peering behind a sheaf of clouds, shining through the half-drawn blinds.

"fuck, sweet girl -- feel so good -- mmm --" she mumbles, not all that sure what she's even saying anymore, her hips rocking against you of it's own accord, her thumb pushed against the pad of your tongue as you moan around her finger, spit slicking across your lips.

"vi -- vi -- please, please, please --" you groan, hips bucking up weakly even as she rucks down over you, her breath breaking at the catch of your oversensitive clits rubbing against one another. she squeezes out a breath, frowning down at the mess of slick skin and reddening skin at the place where both your bodies connect, her mind a blissed out smear of want and love and not much else.

"feel so good, pretty, wanna make you cum again -- yeah? you want that?" she asks, hooking one of your legs over her shoulder, you tossing your head back into the sheets, fingers scrabbling at her thighs as she adjusts her angle and your cunts are slotting against each other in just the right way.

"wanna make you mine -- you mine, pretty girl? holy fuck --" and she's rambling, she knows she's rambling, the words just pouring from her before she has the chance to think them through, "all mine -- mmngh -- gonna be mine forever? yeah? god fuck, wanna fuck this pussy for the rest of my life -- you want that, pretty? wanna be mine forever? want me to wife you up? fuck yeah -- that'd be nice wouldn't it?"

you keen, the sound going straight to her clit as she gasps, and then you're cumming too, hard and fast, gushing against her, the peak of it so sudden she doesn't quite know what to do, but its so hot watching you come undone like this that it has her gasping a second later, her high hitting just has hard, her fingers digging into your thigh as she rides her her orgasm against you, even though you're oversensitive and twitching, she holds your hips, rocking into you till you're squirming, pushing weakly at her arms.

"holy shit vi..." you breathe, fighting to catch your breath.

vi chuckles, collapsing down next to you, an arm thrown casually over your middle as you cuddle in next to her.

after a few seconds you turn.

"d-did you mean it?"

"mean what, pretty girl?" she asks, turning slightly, her eyes still glazed out and dark, her cheeks bright with the glow of her recent orgasm. you lick your lips; she's so, so beautiful like this, fucked out and messy, and a little lovesick as she looks over your face.

"when you..." you gulp, "when you said you... wanted me to be yours... forever...?"

vi blinks at you for a few seconds before her pink cheeks stain an even darker shade of damson.

"holy fuck -- i -- sorry, i didn't know i said that out loud -- i didn't mean to --" she scrambles up, shaking her head. you chase her up, tugging on her arms.

"no, no! it's -- i mean -- i didn't mind -- i just --" you swallow, licking at your suddenly dry lips, "did you... did you really mean it?"

"i -- i don't wanna make you feel uncomfortable or anything but..." vi peers at you, almost shy as she twists her fingers in her lap, the blush now spreading down her neck into her chest and back. you bite back a giggle as you pillow your cheek on her shoulder.

"it... it doesn't make me uncomfy, i just... i just wanna know if you meant it."

vi licks her lips, glancing back at you.

"i-if i meant it... would you... would you say yes?"

you chew on the inside of your cheek, your eyes flickering up to meet hers.

a beat of silence passes between you before you smile, slow and indulgent.

"yeah. yeah... i would."

vi's expression breaks into shock, and then unbridled ecstasy. she stares at you, her eyes so wide they almost look like dinner plate, before she's dragging you forward into her lap, kissing you so hard you have to thump your fists against her chest to remind her to let you go.

"i -- sorry -- fuck -- that was -- i -- you -- god i love you so much, you know that?" she asks, cupping your cheeks and pressing her forehead to yours.

you laugh, toppling into her, the pair of you still naked, but the room is bubbling over with warmth.

"yeah, i know. i love you too, vi."

vi laughs, nodding, before she traces both thumbs along your cheeks and tilts your face up towards hers again.

"hey pretty girl... tell me again..."

you let out a shy little giggle, but vi holds you fast. her eyes soft on yours.

"will you marry me?"

you nod, your cheeks still squished between her palms, but your own hands find their way to her wrists as you turn to press a soft kiss to the pad of her hand.

"yes, vi. yes, i will."

[gazeofseer]

Soul Connection💙

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

'Love is too much glorified to ones dream

And quite petrified to savor it in life.........

Before you give up I want you to give in..

To your soul and find the other end of the

String that aches, arches, and embeds

you every night wondering

If there is no one for me what is this

love mourning for then..?'

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Pick A Image

And let your heart guide you allow that feeling to stir out and take you in the message calling upon you ;

Image.1

Best Friends, Platonic, Caring, Values, Spouse, Wrong Place with the Right Person

Message : The soul of yours is on a journey, of self discovery be it understanding what you truly want and need as an soul through life of human, to knowing it later after many lessons down the line that makes you see all the wrong things first and then things awaits on you to be corrected,

The connection you have is a Platonic one in this lifetime above mentioned are the forms you might have already met them or they are quite close but there is a wall of strangeness in between or a veil of unknown who is yet to arrive they are important part of your journey this makes you sad to not love like others, settle like others, but you are not one of them right? You are here for different things..they would be one of your greatest chapters that makes you worth the go towards the next.

Even if there is a separation it will be quite endearing and worth it. Because they would still wish the best from afar for you.

'Maybe love was about a moment of relief for the one who was on a quest of the living'

- S ✍🏽☘️

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Image.2

Karmic Bond, Purpose, Intent, Contract, Redemption, Salvation

Message : The dreams can weigh at times to, even if things seems enraging you hold it well behind a smile that a moment of ignorance and you would disappear amidst of the crowd to find your corner, comfort, of space where you shed all your emotions into a flow of thoughts that keeps you under greys before it rains.

There is a ache in your abdominal or chest, or a heavy guilt of feeling sorry towards something I am not able to see what exactly as I see you even feel hard to speak up like two Gulps down you take and sigh of eye rolls you go after doing any kinds of talk, your soul has a karmic bond it can be anyone in your family, but I see more in your social and friends group maybe even a colleague or romantic person, there is so much gloom, blues, and black here, a contract of hurt has begun that needs to be redeemed by the one who did to set the other person free with that state of feeling.

It will be really quite peaceful, refreshing yet painful as this heaviness will set both of your souls to move ahead in your life journey without holding anything back that can drown you at any time.

Timeline is near to 2-3 years it seems to be near the end by this year or next year's july.. monsoon is prominent and winter too.

The beauty of life is, there can be an end to whatever happens within it, but beautiful things hurt too badly like love

- S ♥️

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Image.3

Twin flame, Reflection, Transcend, Frequency, Attune, Trance, Mirror

Message : The idea or myth has a say that karma mirrors when it comes to twin flame but the reality has always been different and distinctive, You imbibe each other's nature timely..if you drink coffee now they might be having tea..

But the very same evening there will be a swap and you would wonder why did chose this when I am a specific this person; is how mirroring situations occurs in between you and your twin flame, I see you don't like to be too stereotypically girl but you have your own way to carry femininity same goes for masculinity,

To find a balance between the frequency of your energy will bring the space of mirrors into existence your twin flame is also seeking you the dreams you had about someone's safe touch but you have never been touched a dagger slashing something into two, all this is a sign of confirmation.

You will meet them when everything is balanced and attuned like a manifestation this entirely depends on how is your energy, divine timing, purpose, frequency, and attuning of your souls.

We exist under the same sky sharing the same breath, the day we will meet what exchanges is the trance of our being till date gets seen, heard and felt a dream come true.

- S🌊

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Image.4

Soulmates, Inner Knowing, Fidelity, Longing

Message : Everything speaks to you about love, hope and light no matter how much dark and cold things around may get there is warmth within, it is the longing towards your soulmate every songs remind you of the visions that you could possibly have with them not the delusions but the kisses on cheeks leaves a smile on your face by now for real as if you felt it happen for real but it is yet to.

I see you are quite pure at heart to see shades and imposters which makes you get influenced at a flinch but god's grace you deal with things very well that even through a mishap you come out like a boon.

It is a part and parcel of the growth towards enlightenment but just be cautious in case things can snap at you anytime even if you are ready for a war no need to invite one to prove everytime that you can do it. trust me this is from your soul mate you keep hurting yourself and they feel really helpless right now to not be able to help you through, so just let go of conflicts if it is around ignore..dodge deal it with grace or address it collectively instead of going and reacting rashly on your own.

To look feel and experience one's soul all you need is love inside your heart's core to connect beyond all the veils of falls and lows, that elevates you heightens you through grounding your roots of existence deeply in each other's heart through foot imprints.

- S🩷

'*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*''*•.¸♡ ♡¸.•*'

Paid Readings are Open Check my Pinned Post !!

[random-imagines-blog]

Imagine accidentally summoning a storm during an intimate moment with Arthur Curry.

There were a lot of times when your powers came in handy. Were there enemies approaching on a ship? Create a monsoon, drive them right away. Going for a trip to the shoreline for supplies or even just for a date with Arthur? Make it beautiful, make it sunny, make it the ideal weather for whatever it was that you wanted to do - you had control. Or at least you did most of the time...

Right now, everything was perfect. You were on a secluded island with your boyfriend - no, that sounded so juvenile. As if any part of Arthur could be described as ... boy. It was a hundred percent man.

You were enjoying the solitude. No one looking over you, whether from the underwater world or the human one. That was rare, with Arthur being who he was. Someone who had saved the world. Both worlds, in fact. You sat on the sandy shores, watching the tide roll in, mirroring the twilight stars above. Not a cloud in the sky, thanks to you. Only the lightest touch of a fog coming in, adding to the atmosphere.

Things grew more intimate with this privacy. Kissing turned into a make out session, as if you were teenagers. Touches were caresses, and then needy gripping, pulling closer, feeling one another up, exploring the body of the one that you loved despite already knowing it off by heart. Clothing was shed, clothes laying over the sand, getting weighed down by it so it wouldn’t get stolen by one of the seabirds flying above.

And to put it lightly, Arthur was a man who was master of all things wet.

He went between your legs and made sure that you were, using his warm mouth, causing overwhelming sensations. Causing you to reach out to grab hold of something, keep yourself grounded, but there was nothing to hold except for his luscious head of hair, pulling on it, making him moan and use his tongue faster, circling and circling...

And was cut off by rain pelting against the top of his head, thunder rolling in like the sound of a hundred horsemen charging, lightning brighter than the paparazzi’s cameras at one of Bruce’s parties. He raised his head, looking amused, just as you were starting to feel your afterglow turn into humiliation.

“Too much?” He asked, tone raspy, clearly enjoying himself.

“God, just enough,” You laughed, grabbing him between your thighs and turning you both over so that you could do the same to him.

Requested by: Anonymous

[deadboyfriendd]

I Hope This Letter Finds You Well.

Summary: It is already so hot that it burns. The sheriff had faced many things. He had killed men with his bare hands, he had been covered in so much blood that he couldn't decipher theirs from his own. He had known starvation, heatstroke, and tragedy. Though, he had never known this.

A culmination of letters shared between family and new friends turns into a stand-off at the tarmac of Tucson, Arizona.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Sheriff/Wyatt Earp!Steve Harrington x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, death of a spouse, period-appropriate death, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse, ride a cowboy, feminine rage embodied (I couldn't give her a gun this time because, if I did, everyone would be dead), eventual discussion of The Civil War and the politics that came from it.

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 4.5k

Author's Note: This is it. Bisbee is here and it feels like I'm breathing life back into my cowboys through my sheriff. This is so, so special to me and @dr-aculaaa, and I cannot wait to tell you all their stories.

Find the series masterlist here!

“When the lambs is lost in the mountain, he said. They is cry. Sometime come the mother. Sometime the wolf.” Cormac McCarthy, Blood Meridian

Nellie, 

I believe that the face of death is a woman, and that she is beautiful. 

I believe that she may have loved my betrothed, at least as long as there was breath in his lungs and a thrum in his chest. I believe that William looked into her dark eyes and followed her into that unknown place, and I know, there, he might finally find something to still his mind. 

I believe that she kissed him good and hard, Nellie, in a way that I could not have done– that she danced her spindly dance clear across the desert, through the plains of the midlands, and splashed in the bayou of Louisiana until she found him. 

I believe that death is a friend to our family, that her sinewy arms loom over our men in an embrace that we can not provide, and I believe that she is warm. Much warmer than you or I have been created to be. I believe she walks alongside us, whispers into the ear of our husbands, and laughs as they dance their troublesome dances. 

I believe she is kind, much kinder than us, for why else would our men leave the safety of us for her? I cannot fathom it, Nellie. 

I no longer believe that death is cold and harsh, for I know that no man could be as cruel as she. 

We were always cut from the same cloth, in life, and now in death. 

Signed, your cousin. 

+

He could have said that he never wanted any trouble, and he could have said he didn’t go around picking fights, yet both seemed to find him with speed and vigor. He sought them out, begged for the metallic heat to seep from behind his teeth and drip down his lips like ambrosia. The boy could not read nor write, yet also harbored a taste for mindless violence– his gangly teenage frame a harbinger of death. 

The monsoon was fast approaching, dark clouds filling the sky in an apocalyptic haze, though the Lord knew this land needed it. The rain came down in heavy sheets, droplets weighing deep against the flesh and warm in strides. The powder dust beneath it stirred and settled in waves, and he prayed for no wind, for the wall of dust that would overtake them in the future just might suffocate him. He cried out in thirst, having mistaken this anguish for freedom. All he could do was turn his mouth towards the sky and hope it would wash away the rawness in his throat.

This heaviness did not go away with time nor age. The boy-now-man sifted through the powder silt of the remnants of his life the same way he sifted through these crises as a child, though with more sure steps and a heavier hand for subtlety. He no longer craved ambrose violence gilded in the candied sheen of shed blood, though it did not stop searching for him. 

He was out with lanterns, in search of himself. 

There used to be nothing here but a broad expanse of mirage, the heat rising from the sand and warping the distance into a false lake like a sick joke. He remembered the settlement. The miners came first, then the saloons, and dance halls. The cattle drovers and thieves would follow suit to reap their fortunes, but the plume of the mines came first. 

Still there is hope, an old miner had said to him, for I know of two Bibles in town. 

Though men of God and men of war both have strange affinities, it would seem. 

War, much like God, was here long before man. It crouched its ugly pose and waited for his arrival. The ultimate trade awaits the ultimate practitioner. 

Today, the oak planks, rotted from years in the sun, groan in the same anguish beneath his boots and he ignores it as much as the God he prayed to ignored his own cries. The bright orange of globe mallow presses its way between the planks, soft resilience even in this heat. When he reaches down to touch it, it crumbles between hardened finger pads. 

This township felt like a tunnel, a vignette blurring the Gaussian edges of its structures that settled like graves. His boots sunk a lowly sulk through the banks of the roads where wagon wheels had pushed them from their packing. He still felt the nothingness here, vast openness in which he awaited a tomahawk crowning, sinking into the same sand on his knees, candy-coated in that gilded red gloss. 

Through the nothingness there was a stirring, his eyes fixated on the microburst brewing along the mountain's edge in the distance. 

Thunder fades to wheels along tracks.

You’d watched the land turn from green to brown and back again. You’d watch the sun wick the water from the soil and feel it warm your skin. There’s a certain disdain that fills your chest like liquid when you picture Nellie on this trail. There was no train west to take. There was no railway. 

Did Nellie still look like her mother? Had her mouth begun to crease with a perpetual smile? Was her hair still long and did she still let it fall in ringlets down her back? Surely, she had not sounded the same in her letters, though, this sullen stranger had still signed the letters with the same swooping motions. 

As the trees became sparse and turned into gangly, reaching boojums, you realized just how far from home you had been. You had never left the great state of Louisiana but, had run those riverbeds and marshes ragged with bare feet, had run heels hard against the hollow tomb of that old paddle boat. Could you be as wild as the West? Would it love you in the same way the marshes had? Wrap you in its mossy embrace and let you sink beneath stagnant water in wait?

But for what? 

The sharecropping had been a logical by-product of everything your father had fought for in the war, rock salt and nails and hand over first for years under the lead of General Benjamin F. Butler, though no one could foresee the way the plantation had hemorrhaged money after he took on nearly ten hired men, or the way the land had would have dwindled to nothing had you not taken that ghastly, ugly burden against your back, one heavy enough to spur you west. One heavy enough that even the sting of the sunburn did nothing to quell the ache that you still felt in your chest against it. 

You watched the life drain from this land, music and the lush green of the coming summer turning to sweltering, daguerreotype daydreams. You pressed your palm against the glass and sighed. 

It was already warm enough to burn. 

When you pressed your face against the glass, you could feel the rumble of the hardened earth beneath the sodden tracks. The dried parchment of letters scraped against themselves where they pooled in the makeshift reservoir of your dresses ruched into your lap– just high enough so that your ankles could feel any movement within the waning stagnation of air in the train car. 

You tore the one on top open with your thumb– the last one to remain unopened. Its straight edge was too sharp and angled perfectly as you pulled at it, the edge of your thumb already pooling cherry beads of blood where it rippled. 

“Shit.” you cursed.

Gilded eyes peered towards you, slicing through the silence of this welling heat like ice. Had it been dark, they would have glowed. Ladies in Parisian hats tailing the woeful gazes of their well-tailored merchant husbands turning towards the spectacle that was you. Young. Unmarried. Unaccompanied and profane in your lack of grace aboard the train to the lawless lands. Maybe, by God’s hand, you had been cut from the same cloth as this lawless place– the rumble of the tracks a song to the listlessness that stirred in your chest like silt in distant waters. 

You dismissed the judgment, the venom of it all sliding off of you like that same water against a duck’s back, turning your attention back towards the product of your own disdain: Nellie’s letter, signed, sealed, and delivered to your last known location. 

Cousin, 

Your father has sent word about your arrival in Tucson, and I will meet you at the train depot in due time. I do hope that, in time, the heat of this land may dry your tears in the same way it has mine. 

I fear that you may not recognize me upon your arrival to Tucson, my face has grown harder and my body less soft. You will become this way, too. I am tough. I am afraid this place has weathered me like old leather. 

I have asked the sheriff to accompany me to the train depot in Tucson, and he has happily obliged. I didn’t think you would mind much, either. 

The sheriff is a nice man, as I am sure you have come to find, however, this land has hardened him in the same way it has hardened Edward and I. In the same way, it took Wilhelm as payment for some grander, more horrendous scheme.  I do not ask you to excuse his shortcomings– or mine– but I do ask that you try to understand us. 

Though it is better now than it has ever been, this place is still not like Louisiana. This land is lawless. This land is tough. This land does not make promises or send prayers. It exists as it is, rough and unbinding– blistering for all it is worth. 

We are the law, here. 

If we lose our morality, we lose everything. 

I will see you soon. I love you. 

Nellie. 

It was an unspoken truth that there was something broken much deeper within them that they had shared some form of solidarity within. Somehow, in some way, Nellie and Steve had shared something they never wanted you to see, but, even now, something was different about her in more recent letters that you couldn’t quite differentiate. 

Perhaps it was the way she told you she loved you. She hadn’t written those three words since writing of Wilhelm’s death. Maybe she said it then in search of the love she had lost, had looked for shreds of it to mend herself back together. Maybe Edward had done that for her, and maybe now she had some left to give. You hoped that much for her.

Edward was an entity unknown to you– a phantom in his own respects. He reaped his own form of morosity in the way he loved Nellie. He did so in a way that was devouring, in a way that encompassed her in every respect. You had been well past the persuasion of beautiful faces, for a face much like his was the face that launched a thousand ships. Another puppet wielded by The Devil, he was. That holy shape becomes a devil, best. 

It was an unholy thing, to resurrect the dead. And, you supposed, Edward had done just that. Nellie’s letters came to an abrupt halt after the announcement of the Death of Wilhelm. Your family, the only remaining kinship to her lineage, had not received a letter from her in over a year. 

You’d thought of all of the ways she could have died, but the most plausible cause was a broken heart. Even now, as rolling hills turned to planes and back again, as you watched the horrors that this land reaped, you could not see any of them taking your cousin. No, she was a force to be reckoned with. Not even this land could break her will. No, if she were to die here, now, it would have been by her hand. 

And then, by some unforsaken force beyond even your father’s control, Nellie breathed once more. Her letters were flowery, her writing curling into crashing waves of stories told. You watched as this solemn stranger breathed life back into Nellie, something as cruel and unusual as beauty in this place unseen and unheard of for years, beauty unseen to Nellie since Wilhem was killed. 

You knew of only unholy things that fed upon the dead– that breathed an ugly, hot breath back into their lungs and pulled them from the sodden earth in which they lay. Edward was not entirely truthful, that much you could tell. 

You supposed you and Edward had shared that sentiment, in some way. 

+

The Whispering Sands was still not the ritzy bar. That was still located in the lobby of The Grand Hotel, just footsteps from where The Sheriff stood now, planks still singing their groaning songs of protest beneath his legs, still stiff with sleep or nerves or years of failed prayer. 

His footfall fell heavy against the hollow floors, the weight of him reverberating against the early hum of the bar. The dealer was still as straight as a Christmastime wreath, though, now, he knew that this one could at least shoot in the right direction. You no longer needed to carry when you walked through, your spare now confined to below the counter out of sheer caution and the guiding hands of ghosts alone. The doors didn’t hang crooked anymore, the dealer making fast work of fixing all of the things Nellie had pushed to the back burner in relentless disembowelment of her own self-preservation that she so readily gave to him in the form of softened twine and spoken promises tightened around ring fingers. 

The Sheriff would not be so easy. His self-preservation ran deeper than that. 

Nellie knew it, knew that his roots were wrapped around something vital within him, something deeper than hers– something from a time before her, before this town, and before the West was wild.  

The echo of him reverberated off of the walls of the bar, bounced off of the piano, and rattled the windows. It demanded her attention long before the brass bell of the front door rang and the heavy oak clattered against the frame. 

8:50. Like clockwork. 

In the times before, just after Wilhelm, he would stop in and buy a cigar, though, to this day, she had never seen him smoke. She never inquired it, and he never inquired her. 

There was a solidarity in their grief, and it never quite, even now that she felt happy more times than not. She had a sneaking suspicion he was there for something other than a cigar every morning, but she pulled one from the humidor and took his money anyway. There had been a time where she insisted it was on the house. It wasn’t worth the fight, now. 

He looked different today. Still sullen is his strange, tortured way, but there was almost something beautiful about it, about the way he ruminated in this state of torture. Even in the way his stagnation had turned into just that with time, something seemed to still sit there in wait, leaden in the pit of his chest. 

He looked like the face of a handbill like this, enveloped in all black. Square-toed boots with black trousers that made him look ganglier than he was, made him loom over Nellie more than he already did. His black frock coat dusted his calves at a three-quarter length, and a black bolo tie covered as much of the stark white high-collar as possible. On the hat rack by the door sat his usual wide-brimmed Stetson, and, from just behind the plain silver of his belt buckle, the Colt Burtline Special shone in the light. 

He looked fit for a funeral.

He walked like he beckoned the apocalypse in clouds of rolling thunder behind him. When his heels pressed into the softened sand, the earth quaked beneath it. The weight of him made the stagecoach groan on its hinges– leaden and heavy with the weight of something bigger than settled silt within his chest, kicked up like the sand behind horse hooves and stagecoach wheels. 

Parchment sat like lead in his lap, curdling there and souring something that had sat too long. Cracking fingers curled around your words like poison, sweetened with sasparilla whiskey, golden ambergris letters seeping into him and warming his throat like bile and molten gold. He opened the first one with a nimbleness unlike one he had ever known, and read it once more:

25 April, 1894

To the Sheriff that this letter finds, 

I am afraid your letter has found me in a state of disrepair. I have never been one for niceties and I am afraid I do not have it in me to start now. 

My betrothed had never known peace in life, and I am afraid that he may not ever know it in death, wherever that plane Hell may be. 

Maybe it is I that has died, and maybe it is I that walks across this Hell. Maybe it is my own doing that brought me to this. Maybe I am the creature of my own undoing. I am not a nice girl, Steve. Not the nice girl you think I might be. 

We were raised like leather, stretched and scraped to be tough in the way that our mothers were, unbending and unbreaking as they had been. They were not forgiving, nor were they kind. Nellie was once that way, too. Though, I fear that your desert sun has softened her. That it changed something deeper within her in a way that she may be someone I no longer recognize. 

I plan to arrive in Tucson by train on the first of October. Maybe this sun will soften me in the same way it has softened my cousin. Maybe I don’t want it to. 

Though I hope for my tomorrow to be kind, I have an inkling that it never will be, for this life had never had a kindness to offer. 

I’ll be the one in white. 

I will see you then, Sheriff. 

He pictures the way you will step off the train, white linens spilling over the threshold of it by some sickened grace of the hand of an unkind God. He both relished in it and could not bear the thought. He thought of linens hiked over knees and rucked up under the fabric of itself, a  depiction of the implosion of his world. 

He had already lived this, soft hair against soft legs and white linens shed in a dustbowl around shared space and soft, breathlessness passed between lips. He had felt this kind of softness before– had known this tender touch of a woman outside of the mother he never had. 

It was the first time he had ever been touched gently. 

Even Nellie’s hand seemed gruff as it gripped his shoulders in a grounding movement, his eyes slowing with the movement of reading and dissipating into blankness an indicator that he had gone somewhere that even she would never be allowed to see. It was a look she had known all too well.

“I’m afraid she might not like me much.” He whispered, low enough for Eddie to not be able to hear– or, at least, low enough so he could pretend not to. She knew what he meant by this, another feeling chased after her own reanimated heart. 

Nevertheless, she avoided the philosophical nature of it all, answering him with the only thought she had: “I’m afraid she might not like anyone much, Steve.” She starts, and the questioning gaze he gives her urges her to continue. 

“It wasn’t easy for her, either, Steve.” She starts with another sigh, now more like the weight was being pressed out of her lungs from the weight that she felt, “Most of the time, it was out right hard.” 

“We’ve all had it hard, Nellie. Nothing about this life has been particularly easy.” Steve says back. He didn’t mean it to be as harsh as it was. She knew that, though it didn’t stop that initial sting of his dismissiveness.  

“William wasn’t a nice man, no matter how much she loved him.” She tells him, louder this time and too fast. Eddie couldn’t help the the way his eyes are drawn to her from where they are fixed to the periscope of landscape before them, “Forgive her if she isn’t welcoming.” 

+ 

To the Lady that may find this letter, I hope it finds her well

Tucson still radiates heat at this time of year, the mirage at the end of town makes the expanse of land between here and the mountains feel both endless and right in front of you at the same time. It warps like the heat is melting space and time itself. Nevertheless, the first blooms of orange mallow have begun to open in a patch where the stagecoach stopped. 

He doesn’t know what comes over him, but he was inclined to plock them from the ground and brush the dirt from their roots. 

It seems the desert knew you would board the train in New Orleans and set west for us, and wanted to welcome you with its kindest hello. The desert is not kind, but she would make an exception for someone like you, I would suppose. 

The wheels screech along the wrought iron of the track as they slow to a halt– and he swears, just for a single, fleeting moment, his heart stops with them. There is a stream of people that step down. Ladies with large hats and square-shouldered men in frock coats not unlike his. He wonders if you will know your face before Nellie does– wonders if he knows who you are just from the curls of your letters. 

And then, you were there. 

You were unremarkable in every way possible, though, at a closer glance, you had chosen to forego a bustle and corset. Instead, the pliant lines of your body undefined against a white buttoned shirt and a long dark skirt. A plain, flat-brimmed stetson sat against the crown of your head, just enough to obscure your face from his view. 

Your cousin is very kind. I like to think that you are kind like her, though, I also hope that you are tough in the same way that she is.

He steps forward, his hands sticky with sweat or the sap of the stems of the orange mallow crushed beneath a pressing grip, he isn’t sure. As he steps on to the tarmac, he remembers his manners– remembers that he isn’t an animal and you are not inherently dangerous, and pulls off his hat, pressing it to his chest as he holds an arm out stiffly towards you without any further introduction. 

You see the star against his chest, pressed silver pinned there like a placard on the spectacle of the man before you, and know that this is him– that this is the entity whom has spilled his heart to you over parchment and ink and blood, “Well, now, those are awfully pretty, sheriff.” You say to him, looking down at the crushed orange matter in his hands. They have already begun to wilt. 

“I have an affinity for pretty things.” 

He flirts shamelessly with you, and something deep within you stirrs. It is not the schoolgirl crush you harbored with William. It isn’t even akin to love, but something worse and something ugly. His letters and flowery words and then his backtracking and condolences meddle into one ugly mass of insult. No, this thing that rose in you was not love, nor was it even a cousin. It was hate. Blinding, furious hate.

“And I have an affinity for men who can make up their minds.” You nod towards him, reaching towards the tarmac for the cracking handle of your green steamer trunk, especially now that the gangly, lean man you presume is Edward reaches for it. 

There is a moment in time where everyone freezes. Both Nellie and her husband, as well as the sheriff before you. They are walking a thin line, one akin to the silver thread between life and death. The tension is palpable, and Nellie shatters the thing you cling to for resolve like glass:

“Now you’re being outright childish–”

She sucks in a breath when you snap, the wild dogs that live within your chest writhing and pulling against chains as you release whatever hurt and pain you held in your heart towards her. Everything you had wanted to say, everything you wanted to scream back at her once she had resurrected. You weilded them now as weapons against her. 

“You sure are one to talk about childish, Nellie. You ran in the other direction when things got hard, and then you up and died on us.” 

“I’m not dead. I was never dead.”

“Well, I have a hard time believing that.”

The Sheriff and the tall man take a step back behind Nellie, shrink away from your thunderous roar as if you might actually bite. The leather of your handle and the steamer dropping from your hand with had resonant patriarchal basso against the tarmac. Time has frozen in place, but people continue to swirl around you in a flurry of haste and posthaste annoyance. Silver tears well against the pink line of her eyes, and you are acutely aware that yours are a mirror image.

Steve had faced many things. He had killed men with his bare hands, he had been covered in so much blood that he couldn’t decipher theirs from his own. He had known starvation, heartstroke, and tragedy. Though, he had never known this– his wife was only ever tender. 

He can see the rage drip from your mouth like hot, molten tar, can see the tears well in your eyes like casted silver against the mold of your face– the way a single one cools and leaves a residual streak against the ashen skin of your cheek. You want to love Nellie, in the same way she wanted to love Edward, and in the way he loved his wife. He can see it, that burning want so bad that it becomes hatred. That kind of love whose flame burns blue. 

He knows Nellie loves you, too, but also knows how dangerous it is to speak it aloud– lest that vile maiden Death may hear it. 

Your eyes stare holes into him, burn against his abdomen from where you fix them. He had heard of women becoming alight with lust born from rage before, but had not though of you to be insane enough to eye him in a familiar way right here on the tarmac. That blue flame affixed to him and warming him from the inside, as well. 

“That’s an awfully ugly belt buckle, sheriff.” You speak, finally, breaking the silence and restoring some semblance of order to this congregation. 

This place is not forgiving, nor is it kind. I hope that your heart is not faint, and I hope that this place is kinder to you than it has been to us. 

With warmest regards, 

Steven Harrington

[stradakiev]

Anyone else watch the dw deleted scenes from 15s season (series one on Disney) for Doctor who day? I loved them but I’m so bummed all of those moments weren’t included in the episodes. They provided much needed character work and plot explanation.

If you haven’t watched it the link is at the bottom of the post.

Starting with scene 09-12A from the giggle that moment with Donna demanding unit to protect her who family explains how Rose gets connected with unit. And we just love any Donna moment like that honestly <3 you used my family so you can protect them yessssss 👏🏻

The giggle scene 27- literally just funny. It doesn’t need to be included but I CACKLED at them opening and closing those doors with no background music.

Space babies scene 16- I don’t know how much I would need this scene included. Space babies is the episode I’ve re-watched the least because it’s plot and character work we left wanting. (So it probably should’ve been left in) I like seeing Ruby tell the story (while later watching over done) to the babies because the exposition makes sense for the context and it’s a really sweet way to build her character. Then when the doctor starts heading off the way she questions him is really funny to me. It shows more of her character in the tone she talks to the doctor, and then chooses to follow him. It’s a very small moment that makes their friendship more believable because she’s telling the sweet story and he’s being wacky and it’s amazing.

Space babies scene 40-42- does this scene start with them being lost in the ship??? The left left again thing bc if so that’s hilarious and once again develops ruby and 15s friendship and respective characters more (I love hot dumbasses that are technically smart). It also builds more of the setting and the story. It’s their version of 12 and Clara climbing through the dalek as we learn so much from the story by their environment. Also I just love Ruby stepping in the boogies and being grossed out. “Why does it keep shedding its skin” plants an important question for the audience without feeling like we jumped to the answer. I also just love 15 smiling while saying “into the belly of the beast”

Space babies scene 63- we may have gotten another scene similar to this one but this face is figuring something out

And this one has realized it

The devils chord scene 9a- “SOMEONE HAS STOLEN MUSIC” I love how exasperated he is in this moment (it shows us what he cares about) then ruby trying to comfort him but being so awkward it’s too perfect and again shows their friendship in such a small moment

The devils chord scene 23- I think this scene connects how the maestro finds the doctor and Ruby and connect their stories early on from them playing the piano. I don’t think the whole scene would need to be included because it goes on for a while, but I do love jinx monsoon serving cunt. 

The devils chord scene 72- WHY WAS THIS CUT OUT!! This connects the musical scene so that it actually seems a part of the story and not just a random extra

The devils chord scene 74- this is usually RTDs bread and butter but I’ve missed it this season. He is usually so good at showing what is happening to the rest of the world in these moments and lending larger context to the story and this scene does that in such a silly way. It also make the musical scene less weird just like scene 72.

73 yards scene 3-4- it shows how long she waited but my favorite part is when she kicks the tardis because it shows he actually affected by her situation and frustrated. It also reminded me of Clara fighting with the tardis.

73 yards scene 53-54 THIS SCENEEEEEE AHHHH it would have given ruby so much more depthhhh. We would’ve seen here actually affected by her circumstances. She is HEARTBROKEN that the woman was still there she thought she had solved it but she hadn’t. This is crushing and instead in the episode it seems like she is not affected by her plan not working and still being stuck in this timeline. 

The legend of ruby Sunday scene 41-45- not necessary to include we get a very similar scene in the episode, but I loved watching it again in a different way. 

Empire of death scene 35- I loveeee the doctor kissing the tardis 🥰 the memory tardis disappear makes the situation more dire which would’ve added to the story. Also the part where he says “we will fight sutekh” and ruby responds “with my mothers name” it shows her having as much doubt about the plan as the audience has and shows ruby giving the doctor pushback. Also the doctor saying that sutekh has eyes everywhere hints to the fact that he knows about Melanie.

The empire of death scene 59-63- who in their right mind cut this???? Like you didn’t think it would be important to know how they got the whistle and how it worked? While it was still a cheap plot tool that “technically” goes against rules of the show it’s a plot tool that’s been used before (11 and Clara and their button in into the tardis) it still would’ve made it make sense. And they had a good cheap explanation for it that they’re fighting a god so the get to do one thing like that (i.e. when they fight gods the rules of reality are flexible some things like bigeneration or getting to hand yourself a whistle happen). It’s also a fun moment with the doctor winking at himself and saying they need to moisturize and playing music of the jukebox (connecting them back to the devils chord)

[ramayantika]

Proshitabhartruka Nayika .・。.・゜✭・

My bracelets are gone.

Tears, those sweet friends, departed forever.

Courage left instantly

and my heart

went fastest of all.

They set off in concert

when my beloved decided

to leave.

You should go too, life—

why lag behind that troop

of dear comrades?

~Erotic Love Poems from India

»»————> ●○●○●○●○ <————««

I tugged at his sleeve for one last time, in hopes that my tearful eyes would bid him to stay by my side. His face too lost its pallor. His warm hand caressed mine as his eyes gazed deep into mine, telling them that staying was impossible.

And then when he memorized the curls falling on the sides of my cheeks, my kohl-smudged eyes, the pearl nose-ring and a sad smile on my lips, his eyes travelled downward to the little one growing inside me.

"Will you come back before this child enters the world?"

"Can't make promises, my love."

"Make one right now, so that the gods let you come home to welcome a mother and a baby."

"May the gods wish the same, priye"

Days are desolate, and the nights empty. No warm sheets to the right side of the bed, and no hand to touch the sensations of this playful child in my womb. My friends bring sweets and savoury delights, and my mother narrates the tales of little Krishna for the baby. But who shall kiss my forehead and look at me with shining eyes and whisper me in my ears how divinely beautiful I look in the shade of motherhood?

But then for a moment, I think about my husband's side. Which father would like to stay away from his growing child. Would he not desire to feel his baby's kicks and laugh in delight? Would he not be sad and shed a lonely tear down his cheek at night alone in his chamber thinking about all that he misses about this newfound fatherhood?

How can a husband stay calm when overseas knowing his wife sits alone gazing at the moon, in hopes of him coming home soon? He would want to serve me the weirdest mixture of sweet delights and sour pickels just so I can be pleased.

I sigh in despair and put my head on my mother's lap.

He doesn't even have friends to come over his house daily.

Oh lord, when does his sojourn end?

खाली है तेरे बिना दोनो अखियाँ, तुम गए कहाँ?

Sometimes the nights are warm, and I forget about motherhood. There are desires that I long to give in and fulfill. I want him to touch my skin, and leave light kisses all over me, adoring him like his most cherished thing.

A few monsoons ago, I was making my way to my home when he caught my hand and whisked me to the riverbank. As the rain fell down the mighty clouds, his lips caught my lips, drenched from those moist showers. And then when the clouds raged with thunder, I shivered in fright, but his arms caught me in a tight embrace, as we laughed and admired our warm but wet cheeks, and all was well.

That evening I went home with a wet and discarded veil, and a skirt tied loosely around my hips. I was won and desired in the rain.

But it's autumn now. Dry and empty. The dark clouds have gone on a sojourn too and so has my beloved. No kisses in the rain fall over my being doused in fiery desires.

"मारे के मैं तो सिमट गयी, चुनरी मेरी मुझसे लिपट गयी

ऐसे में तूने जो ली अंगड़ाई, परबत से काली घटा टकराई

पानी ने कैसी ये आग लगाईं"

I caress my stomach, making the baby inside me to go to sleep, and look outside the window. The slight chilly breeze from dawn rushes inside my warm chamber. My fingers feel slightly cold and I almost turn my body to tickle my husband's neck with these cool fingers.

What do I find?

An empty bed and an empty pillow.

**

My friend can play the veena well. I remember once we attended a festival, and he loved the musical performance so much that he held my wrist and twirled me around amidst the large crowd.

Her music is lovely, but she plays a melancholic tune.

If he were here, he would be penning poetry for me by now.

***

Everybody has gone home. My girlfriends too. Just like the moon shining in all her glory remains alone, I in this well-lit courtyard stand alone in these silks and jewels.

The moon's splendour falls short now. How long until I gaze at his moon-like face?

The breeze whispers something in my ear. And that's it.

An empty courtyard...

***

"Sakhi, a man from that faraway town has got a letter for you about your husband's arrival. My brother is arriving a week later from that place."

»»——⍟——««

Taglist: @eugenephosgene @tamatar-bac @swayamev @navaratna @the-rarest-love @arachneofthoughts @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @pulihora @krishna-priyatama @vedajananixx

I literally wrote it one day with watching some dance videos related to this and countless articles and paintings.

I wanted to leave this at her loneliness because that's what this nayika does mostly

But you all know me. And I msyelf like to be hopeful. The husband has to come back now when? We never know.

That's hopeful. Maybe he kept his promise and they have a cute child and dance around

Or......

[their-dearest]

On the fourth day.

It was a melancholic, save for the pitter patter of the rain against Ruu’s straw hat.

“...” And for once, Paimon was as meek as a weakened mouse. Her small hands balled into a trembling fist, as tears welled up her eyes.

“So please go on ahead! I'll just be resting here for a while.”

The boy spoke with an earnest, yet tired smile. And he knows he’s at fault. He reached out to comfort her, but his hand stopped midway. As much as he wished to venture forth, the boy knew that his tale ends here.

Ruu stared at the pair for a long time, sculpting their forms into his memory. The mighty Traveller with their golden hair and the little floating spirits. He won’t admit it out loud, but…

‘...I am happy to meet you both.’

“We'll meet again someday for sure!” It took all of his strength to keep himself awake.

And on their fourth encounter, the golden Traveller and their floating spirit named Paimon left Tsurumi Island. The tired figure would watch Paimon steal glances everytime they grew farther from the sacred grounds. His eyes would never leave them until their golden and ivory hues melted with the uncharted seas, far beyond his sight. Beyond the little island he called home.

‘After two thousand years,’ Ruu's eyes, as he gazed at the weeping evening sky, ‘I’m finally free.’

For 2,000 years, he carried a heavy responsibility on his small shoulders. But thanks to the outsiders, the weight on his heart was lifted, just like the fog that governs over Tsurumi, but his eyes grew heavier. He is no stranger to death, of course. But being at its mercy felt… calming this time. Maybe it’s because he can finally rest on his own terms. At his own desire.

To say he’s exhausted is a travesty, humorous even. The mirthless joke earned a chuckle from him.

‘So… tiring.’

The world swirled under his feet, melting into an array of color and textures. Every step he took sinks to the muddy ground beneath him, swallowing the heel of his sandal in its greedy surface.

“That was my good shoe.” He protested, but his words barely reached a whisper. With a sigh, he dragged his muddy footing to the Sacred Grounds, an ancient perch said to be the nestling ground of their late goddess.

Bundles of thin, indigo leaves greeted his murky view, waving at his entrance. The Nestling Grounds, although withering, stood high and mighty against the iridescent weeds and glowing grass beneath its rotting roots. He’s only been here a few times, all of which involve intricate rituals and ceremonies.

And yet no matter how many times he's seen this place, he always found himself rendered speechless. Each breath he took reverberated on the hollow trunk of the ancient tree. His eyes, heavy from sorrow, were filled with unshed tears.

All the suffering, agony, and bloodshed he endured, finally got over him.

Tear after tear, the boy clung tightly against his soaked coat and sought any fleeting warmth it had to offer, but to no avail.

The young boy’s body rests against the dying tree as he steeled himself for what’s to come. He yearned for peace, but he mourned for his people, for the opportunities, for himself. It almost felt like a dream. A sorrowful dream after a thousand-year nightmare.

Slowly, the rain shower had picked up in pace, as it morphed into a heavy downpour and mingled with his newly-shed tears. Kama would’ve enjoyed this moment, but alas, he joined the Ferryman’s boat long ago, just like the others.

Oh, How he missed the cold breeze of the monsoons,how he missed the rain streaming on his cheek, how he missed the sound of the roaring thunder from the distance—

‘Wait… thunder?’ His mind was flooded with a million thoughts at once.

‘That can’t be. Kapatcir is dead. I saw the Serai Islands with my own eyes!’

But a silver lining of hope shimmers in his mind.:

‘She won’t come all this way for me, would she?’

Those thoughts snapped him out of his tiresome trance, pulling him away from its prying grasp. Just as he's about to speak, another voice boomed within him.

“Cease your worries,” A familiar and unforgettable voice echoes within his mind, “Ruu.”

A small, yet shaky gasp left his lips. His dreary eyes gaze across the stone walls of the mountain, only to be met by the thundering rain in front of him. “Kapatcir?”

An agonising drawn-out static fills the air, and ounces of adrenaline rushed through his bloodless veins.

“Take a deep breath.” Her tone was not sharp and cold, a lovely contrast to the icy daggers that dripped down his skin. It was odd, he never heard this tone for a long time. And the last time he did came from none other than… his dearest mother.

And breathe he did. His lungs, deflated for almost two millenniums, relished the way the air swirled in him. If he were to tell his younger self about gaining the favour of the Thunderbird herself, poor little Ruu would look at him like a madman.

“How are you alive, Kanna Kapatcir? I thought you were—”

“—Dead?” She knew as much as he did, but saying those words still sting her heartless form. Death is a face common to even gods, and yet she finds herself at a lost.

To lose herself in grief, in sorrow, and soon, in madness. How far had she fallen? The Harbinger of Thunder and Storms reduced into a rabid best… she owe the Shogun her silent gratitude.

“My story has come to its end. Tragically, yes, but I am no longer with the living.”

There was no wind, no pain against his flesh, but those words made him stiff as a corpse, fitting for a dying boy like him.

‘She’s dead. Kanna Kapatcir, the Thunderbird is dead.’

“But,” a single question floated in his flooded mind, “How can you talk to me?”

A beat, before another.

“When that strange Traveler used my pinion, I felt something pulled me from the Depths. That said Traveler made a bridge for our souls.”

Kapatcir, the Mother of Thunder, muses. But her words took a tone sounding almost human… motherly, even.

With a deep sigh, the goddess continued once more, “Your story is far from over, Fledgling.”

Every word, every syllable she spoke was a soothing balm to his wounded soul. A long, exasperated yawn left his quivering lips, the familiar weight on his eyelids returned.

“What… what do you mean? I died a long time ago.”

But the goddess only responded with a hum. A hum shifting into a gentle lullaby, a familiar lullaby. Her voice, combined with her chirps, lured him in the tiresome trance.

“Rest your worries here, Ruu.”

‘"Ruu." She remembered my name!.

And with that, a boy named Ruu fell into a deep slumber, the sound of thunder echoed in his last moments.

Within the womb of Tsurumi lies a small, yet peculiar egg. Enveloped in a nest of Electro, the young fledgling slumbers once more, awaiting for a piece of its mother to be reborn.

It is quiet, save for the gentle humming of the thunder that once enveloped the foggy shores.

[shinymoonbird]

Anaya Nayanar, also known as Anaya and Anayar, is a Nayanar saint, venerated in the Hindu Shaivite sect. Anaya is considered to be the 14th of the 63 Nayanars. His playing of the Panchakshara (five-syllable mantra 🌟na, ma, śi, vā, ya🌟) on his flute so pleased the god, Shiva, that he took Anaya away to the eternal world.

🌟

The life of Anayar is described in the Thirutthondar Puranam (Periya Puranam) by Sekkizhar, which documents the Histories of the 63 Nayanmar. Anaya is described as a cowherd (ஆயர் or Aayar). Anayar was born and lived his life in Tirumangalam (Thirumangalam), currently in the Indian state of Tamil Nadu. Tirumangalam is a place of pilgrimage, famous for its Samavedeshvarar Temple, dedicated to Supreme Lord Shiva. Aanaayar used to tend cows. He used to take the cows for grazing in the pastures outside of the town. He used to protect the cattle from disease and beasts of prey. Anayar used to smear Sacred Ash on His body. In the meadows, He used to play the Panchakshara (Five-Letter) Mantra of Supreme Lord Shiva on his flute. Music was his way of worshipping Lord Shiva. A verse from Periya Puranam tells about how he crafted a flute from bamboo, as prescribed in the science of music (Gandharva Shastra).

🌟

One day at the onset of the monsoon, Anayar started playing the Holy Five Letter Word on His flute under the Konrai tree, which is sacred to Lord Shiva, in a garden of blossoming konrai trees. The Periya Puranam devotes several verses to describe the natural beauty of the location.

✨Aanaaya Naayanaar spread sweet melody all aound, playing on his flute with supreme skill, according to the prescribed technique. The basic note of the music - Panchaakshara - streamed sweetly like celestial nectar mixed with honey into the ears of the listeners. Entranced by this the herd of cows forgot to chew the cud, after cropping the tender shoots of grass; the little calves with mouths on the udders of the cows let the foaming milk drip down on the ground; the might-horned bulls and the wild animals like the deer came near, with the hairs of the body standing on end. The dancing peacocks stood still; the flocks of birds with their hearts filled with melody, kept quiet as in a swoon; the herdsmen left tasks incomplete. The 'Naagas', inhabitants of the underworld came out of their caverns; the celestial ladies gathered in the heavens and stood quite charmed; the other denizens of the outer space - the Gandharvas, Charanaas and the Kinnaras - too crowded the sky in their chariots. The heavenly damsels feeding their pet parrots on nectar under the shade of the Kalpaka tree, hurried to drink in the sweet music. Both the weak and the strong were caught in the same spell - the serpent with the venomous fangs leaned gently on the peacock; the unmoving lion and the huge tusker kept company; the deer with the grass in its mouth stood by the side of the tiger. ✨All nature too came under this spell - the wind ceased to blow and the blossoming branches of the trees stirred not; the streams and brooks meshing down the mountain stopped dead in their tracks; the clouds lay quiet and shed no drops of rain; the lightning did not flash and there was not a ripple in the wide seas. ✨Thus all things - movable and immovable - lay ensnared in the mesh of the nectarine music that flowed from the sweet-red lips of Aanaaya Naayanaar touching his flute. ✨Ah, the sweet music welling up from the gushing love of the player for the feet of his Lord, which filled earth and heaven then filled the ears of the indwelling Lord dancing in the Golden Hall, hard to reach for all those lacking in real Love.

✨Next, the Lord, with His consort, the very soul of compassion - He from whom all sound and music arise - the three-eyed Supreme being - appeared in the heavens, seated on His Bull-Mount. ✨His crowding hosts kept utterly quiet, so as not to disturb the music of the Panchakshara which the dancing Lord relished so much! ✨The Lord then declared: "Come unto Me, in the same pose as you now are, to enable the righteous devotees to savour your music ever" ✨This Naayanaar willingly complied! ✨The celestials rained flowers on earth; the sages chanted the Vedic hymns, while the flute continued with melody. ✨The Lord and His devotee then entered the Golden Hall at Chidambaram.

🌟

Note: Rasikas may recall in this context the techniques of music portrayed in Silappadhikaram and the effect of Sri Krishna playing on His flute graphically described by Sage Suka, Periyaazhvaar and Arunagirinathar.

A rasika is a term for an aesthete of Indian classical music. The term is derived from the Sanskrit word 'rasa', meaning full of passion, elegant, and with discrimination. Connoisseur - An expert able to appreciate a field; especially in the fine arts.

🌟

[sailorsenshishitposter]

Samuraiden Valentine's Day

Femboy Raiden was requested so I decided to turn it into a Valentie's Day special. Warning: highly cursed smut. Expect to never listen to Snake Eater again

Raiden posed seductively on his bed. He had invited Sam over for the evening and was getting ready to give said Brazilian a strip tease. "Bonito, how can we do this if you're mostly metal?" The cyborg then placed a clawed finger over the mans lips. "Just let me do this or I swear that I'm going to fucking gag you!" Sam then felt something begin to rise and it wasn't a metal gear ray.

Anyway back to Jack. Raiden had decided to pick a special outfit for tonight. He had doktor cutosmize his body so that his chest now resembled a lacey red bra and his crotch plate was now a matching set of panties. He had dyed his hair a light pink and put on some white cat ears. Also included were his usual pumps but in hot red. The cyborg then started posing Bayonetta style, giving high kicks to the air as he rested. "Would you fuck me? I'd fuck me. I'd fuck me HARD!"

"Jack, we can do your little movie questionnaires tomorrow. Right now I'm gonna show you the difference between a tool and a sword." Raiden then pushed Sam on to the bed and waved his finger. "Not until I've finished my dance." He then started grinding on top of Samuel. "Oh good. Why that's very good! Yes I like that!" the Brazilian moaned. They began to share a passionate kiss only for Raiden to bite too hard, nearly ripping off the mans lip in the process. This was the price one would pay for frenching a jaw made of steel but he was hardly complaining.

"Sorry..." the cyborg said. "I'm not quite used to this body yet." Sam laughed. "Nevermind it blondie. Better yet, I encourage it!" Raiden paused. "What are you saying!?" Sam then smacked the cyborgs ass like a drum. "More. Hurt me MORE!" Just like that and he was turned on. By that I mean the switch to let Jack out had been hit. "I think it's time I give you a demonstration..."

Jack then pulled out l' étranger and used it's whip form on the man beneath him. He hit each cheek in rythmn to hollaback girl. "Had enough yet puta?" Sam groaned. "That's Spanish, not Portuguese. You better show me a good time Jack!" Crap. It seemed like he did something wrong. "On to plan B then." Jack thought. "I think I'll show you what I learned after finishing off Vamp. Let's just say I'm very skilled in the art of being a snake eater."

Jack then shredded Sam's pants with his razor sharp claws until he found what he was looking for. He then said "It's Metal Gear Rising time!" and began to pump Sam's errect cock. Before he could let Sam become a snake beater, he unhinged his jaw and removed the metal plating. He then swallowed his penis whole like he had some strange vore fetish. Soon Sam climaxed and cried "THERE WILL BE CUM, SHED!"

Jack then swallowed because he knew this would be his only source of electrolytes for the night. He then crawled on the bed next to his lover and said "boowomp". Sam was just getting started though. "Let's dance!"  He tore off the lingerie and felt Jacks pecks. He tried to see if his nipples were hard and felt around. He then heard a click and released that his boyfriend was coming apart at the seams.

Sam noticed a small section of wires poking out. He began to gently press his finger into the crease and heard Jack begin to moan. He took this as a sign to continue and started penetrating deeper with his finger. Jack then rolled his head around and let out a loud "MEEEEOOOOOOWWWW". The screen quickly shifts to their next door neighbour Adam. Loud Russian cursing could be heard and it was then that he decided that tonight was when he was going to call animal control.

Sam felt a jolt pass through his finger and pulled his hand back. It probably wasn't the smartest idea to use his metal hand. He then made a mental note to ask Monsoon about how electricity works. Now it was time for him to reach third base. He spread the cyborgs thighs and took out some lube, only to find that Raiden had no sort of entrance. He was like Ken but instead of being moulded plastic it was steel.

"Where is it!?" Sam searched frantically but the only brown eyes he could find were his own two that were looking downward. "What's taking so long Sam?" The Brazilian wasn't sure how to phrase this. "Erm Jack, where is-, how do you-, I can't fin-". The cyborg tried to calm him down. "What's wrong. This is never a problem with Rose." Sam just started at him. "Who?"

"My wife but she isn't relevant to this story. What she does is give me a strap-on and then that's how we do it." Sam was shocked. "But- but... that gorgeous ass. Why would such a pretty boy have one if he wasn't going go use it?" Now it was Raiden's turn to laugh. "Sam, this is a metal gear game. Everyone has enough cake for a bakery."

"That's it! Shut it off!" Sam turned off his VR headset. He thought he could at least be with blondie like this but virtual reality was cruel. He then turned on Titanic and let his hair down. He was wearing a women's business dress. "Why can't I be the Rose to your Jack?!" He then began to sob while Bladewolf prayed that if a god did exist then he would take away his hearing abilities.

[mekkyz-dubz]

❗ TW // Abuse ❗

🌧️ A Monsoon Whirlwind 🌧️

⛅️😴🛏️☁️

I woke up in a dreamy bed To find myself another shed I noticed the clouds going dreary rain To brew another storm they wanted

I was excited about the rain To make me feel showered in the mist A blissful Derecho blowing through the storm They would have never bored me the most

⛈️😧🍃⛈️

A sudden thunderstorm crackling my ears I was flinched hard that I almost gave myself a heart attack A blissful wisps become angrier and angrier That I would've been scared of the cyclones at least

A tornado was created in a very bad mood They demanded themselves to demolish its path to cope A swirling cotton thickens and intensifies So much that I had to seek shelter like a scaredy cat

A monsoon whirlwind stares at me They are going to charge at me like a bull I became more terrified and frozen I had to run away like a running sheep

I ran and ran and ran into the shelter The monsoon cyclone keeps chasing me so much I accidentally tripped fall onto the ground It was too late as the monsoon funnel sucked me in like a vacuum

⛈️🌪️⚡⛈️

I woke up in an angry shed To find myself a self-care I noticed the circulating wisps inside a funnel I was mesmerized by the inside of a beautiful monsoon photogenically But I have to ask them

Why are you angry at us? I said My mom kept pressuring me to become a demolitionist, they said She wanted me to destroy the town so we could be destructive but I don't want to She angered and kicked me out that I became evicted and rethinking my life choices

The more stories I hear from a tornado, the more relatable thoughts I gave like an emotionalist I asked Monsoon why they wanted to destroy the town in the first place They said that it's for coping mechanism and that is all I became more aware that their coping mechanism was going bleak

⚡😔🌪️⚡

I told them that it was considered unhealthy If they continued they would've became a sadder rope I gave them alternatives to make us happy So far they wanted me to fly for fun and opted for touching down the debris instead

I asked them first if I wanted to be friends They said, sure to keep me company I told them to call them Monsoon They liked the name I called them that they became a wedge-sized funnel to make them happy

The tornado is getting happy to become the wedge While I was excitedly flying like a witch in a broom They started touching down the debris and a building on a flat path Until they finally dissipate in a good light

☀️🍃🌻☁️

I woke up in a dreamy grass To find myself a thankful world I noticed the skies going blooming day Until I saw a letter to read to make me grateful

It was all a thankful message from a tornado, thanks to me.

"Thank you for helping me dealing with my past childhood, friend. -Monsoon"

🌻 Thank you... 🌻

[swellbloom-kids]

Some Notes on the Bakunawa

It holds the universe in its coils of void. Time rides on its back, flowing outwards in a spiral. The Bakunawa wishes to devour the moon and plunge the world into eternal night. It makes itself felt in the physical world through anything that spirals - tornadoes, whirlpools, snakes biting their own tails.

—Swellbloom Kids Appendix C: The Sais Marias

The Bakunawa is an eldritch embodiment of chaos in my Philippine mythology tabletop Swellbloom Kids.

I chose spirals as the central imagery for the Bakunawa. Spirals evoke a sense of infinity - whereas a circle is closed and complete, a spiral goes on and on and on. It is round like a circle, but a definite path from the center is visible, and its outward motion implies expansion. It cannot be contained. I'm also reminded of a coiled snake every time I see a spiral. Therefore, what better symbol for an infinite being than an infinite shape? Spirals feel divine to me.

Snakes are also extremely interesting to me. They are regarded as sacred in various belief systems across different cultures, not to mention have a strong duality. Their poison kills, but they gain new life as they shed their skin. Contributing to this were also the images of the Ouroboros, Apophis, and Jörmungandr.

The Bakunawa is not necessarily evil. It is chaos incarnate, but in the sense of entropy - how things naturally fall into disarray. The eventuality of the universe. In Swellbloom Kids, when the world inevitably ends at the hands of either the Heat Haze Boy (El Niño) or the Monsoon Girl (La Niña), the Bakunawa will be there to swallow the leftovers.

Check out Swellbloom Kids here:

[pengamedown]

as a prisoner I'd earned my stripes freely,

taking flight on and fight to all cells preconceived;

I couldn't seem to escape myself to nth degree.

such a high, behind the glass next to the door type

funhouse mirrors never got me on my good side

really had to ask myself what's what, why & why?

it took time way too long for myself buzzing bye

to start seeking air to live in for me, perfect sized.

I had to shed some shit to get free.

and sometimes that shed's blood.

somewhere I'd read flood waters waver & run

behave between eyes like strangers do, unpredictable

flows thru plenty space til dried up without a trace.

unmentionable: what washes away is irreplaceable,

the crash of violence levied against dry silence

only makes victims & fools in waves of monsoons:

we.

whether whatever or together, we -

a highly volatile, mobile & emotional sea of unwise,

rolling with the high tides of maroon'd lives.

with no redemption story ark or invested audibles

won't be soon before long; we'll still pool it together

and learn the lap notes to our survival swan song.

but sometimes those notes must be off-key...

and this little number's won it for me -

"keep swimming 'til the wings dry on the fly."

[quanxui]

the other day, i went hiking with my crush despite the monsoon in my place. we weren't sure if we were sweating or drenched in rain but it was so fun! we sat on this shed near the edge with lots of big rocks and took pictures cause it had the view of my whole town and then we talked for a while and then we went to have a cup of bland tea in the mountaintop cafe and then we walked down holding hands fingers interlocked cause it was so slippery and slope downhill. all this before he goes back to his place three hours away tomorrow. also i cant help but think that im such a great date thinker hehehehehehe

[blueberryaesthetics]

FFXIV Write 2023: #8 - Shed

She’s not entirely sure how sand gets absolutely everywhere. Gritty and coarse, it somehow manages to find its way through the wooden slats that are sealed against monsoons. She finds it in the fingers of her gardening gloves, which make dealing with the errant cacti that emerge all the more difficult. It dulls her shears and spade.

Adelle settles back on her heels. If not for all the sand, it would be rather quaint. It’s well built for her tools, and has hooks and shelves and space enough for everything she might need while working in her garden. Trays of seeds, of drying tea leaves, bundles of herbs tied to the ceiling and kept out of the sun. The extra pots stacked in the far back corner need to be inspected for signs of cracking.

With the sand taken care of, however, she’s finally ready to yank out the rolls of twisted, lattice-like wire and prepare a higher perch for her squash plants. Their vines are ready to choke the corn they’ve twisted up, and a canopy of wide, dark leaves sounds delightful. Sure, it will die back before too long but that’s the fun of planning the next rotation.

Another tug, a third, and she’s half startled by the hand that reaches in around her shoulder.

“Together?”

She turns back, lifts a hand to shade her eyes, and beams up at Khu delightedly. “Thank you, my love. I am so unused to having someone to do this with…” They turn back to their task. It’s far easier to work it free with four hands instead of two.