#thangka painting

[jadeseadragon]

@tibetan_buddhism

[tibetanthangkapaintings]

Enlightenment is nothing other than the state beyond all obstacles, in the same way that from the peak of a very high mountain one always sees the sun. ~ Chögya Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche

[nancydrewwouldnever]

Unknown Tibetan Artist, Thangka of Four Mandalas of the Vajravali Series, ca. 1429-1456, gouache on cotton (The Rubin Museum of Art, New York)

[whatevergreen]

Thangka of Mahakala. Tibet, late 17th century

[de-mykel]

Umika Mediratta Shriram. An Oasis in All of This, 2023.

acrylic on canvas

[queenoftreasures]

Discovering Tibet at Norbulingka Institute, Dharamshala

After his exile from Tibet in 1959, the 14th Dalai Lama established his home in the beautiful mountain town of Dharamshala, Himachal Pradesh, India. Keeping the spiritual and peaceful country alive in India, the Tibetan community offers arts and culture courses at the serene Norbulingka Institute of Tibetan Culture For most of us, Tibet is a land lost in time. Most of the first-generation people…

[sanrielle]

Amazing fanart by Joanacchi! Posted here on tumblr with their blessing. Each one is based on a style that reflects a particular ancient culture's art history. (See below for descriptions provided by the artist!)

Store (buy these prints!) Twitter Instagram

Aang: Tibetan Thangka

"Thangkas are traditional Tibetan tapestries that have been used for religious and educational purposes since ancient times! The techniques applied can vary greatly, but they usually use silk or cotton fabrics to paint or embroider on. What you can depict in a Thangka is really versatile, and I wanted to represent things that make up Aang as a character."

Zuko and Azula: Japanese Ukiyo-e

"Ukiyo-e is a style that has been around Japan between the 17th and 19th century, and focused mainly in representing daily life, theater(kabuki), natural landscapes, and sometimes historical characters or legends!

Ukiyo-e was developed to be more of a fast and commercial type of art, so many drawings we see are actually woodblock prints, so the artist could do many copies of the same art!

I based my Zuko and Azula pieces on the work of Utagawa Kuniyoshi (1798-1861) one of the last ukiyo-e masters in Japan! He has a specific piece which featured a fire demon fighting a lord that fought back with lighting, and that really matched Zuko and Azula's main techniques!”

Toph: Chinese Portraiture from Ming and Qing Dynasties

"Ming Dynasty (1368-1644) was one of the longest in China! It was also a period where lots of artistic evolutions were happening, especially when it comes to use of colour! There was not a predilection for portraits during this time, but there are a lot of pieces depicting idealized women and goddesses from the standards of the time. For this portrait of Toph, I imagined something that maybe their parents commissioned, depicting a soft and delicate Toph which we know is not what she is about ♥️

Qing Dynasty (1644-1912) was the last Chinese Dynasty to reign before the Revolution. One of the most famous emperors of this period was Qianlong, and he really liked Western art! He commissioned a lot of portraits of his subordinates, and I chose a portrait of one of his bodyguards as a reference for the second Toph portrait, which I believe is much more like how she would want to be represented! The poem on top talks about the bodyguards' achievements during a specific war. I had no time to come up with a poem for Toph, so I just used the same one for the composition!”

Sokka and Katara: Inuit Lithograph

"For a long time, Inuit art expressed itself in utilitarian ways. The Nomadic lifestyle of early Inuit tribes played a huge part in that: most art pieces are carved in useful tools, clothing, or children's toys, small and easy to be transported, and depicted scenes and patterns representing their daily lives!

That changed a lot during the colonization. Since the settling of the Inuit tribes, many art pieces began to be created in order to be exported to foreigns, so they started to sculpt bigger and more decorative pieces.

Lithography, which is a type of printmaking, was introduced to Inuit people by James Houston, that learned the technique from the japanese. The art form was quickly embraced by the inuit, as part of the process is very similar to carving. Prints that are produced by inuit artists are still being sold today!

As lithography is not an old art style and it's still commercially relevant to the Inuit communities, since creating these in 2021 I have been donating regularly to the Inuit Art Foundation, not only all the money I get from selling some prints of these but a bit more, at least once a year. Hopefully, I can increase donations this year!”

[johnwickb1tsch]

Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (AND x Constantine😜) Imagine WIP Part 9

Here we go my lovelies! @treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @tammykelly @lilspookymeh @kurai-hono-blog

Wick could have been an asshole about buying a brand new kitchen, sundries included–but instead he merely shrugs off Constantine's hostile question. "Seemed like the least I could do."

Constantine glares, but lets it go, begrudgingly sitting down to a delectable meal cooked by the man he knows, deep down, that you've never been able to forget. 

At Tex's midday administering of magical medicine, he takes your hand after you finish, refusing to let go. "Set with me a while, Rattlesnake." He pats the couch, on which there is no room unless you were to sit in his lap–undoubtedly his hope.

With a sigh and a knowing smirk you settle back in your chair. Your eyes are drawn to the burn upon his chest. He will carry that mark for the rest of his life, even if the magic is lifted.

You think on what Papa Midnite said to Constantine. "Take some big feeling..."

It kind of floors you, to think of the energy it took for Constantine to conjure that working out of thin air.

For you.

You told him a little bit about the boys. How they hurt you–and, how they saved your life. How you loved them, and how they destroyed you in their abandonment. No matter how you framed it, Constantine blamed them for the bullet wound forever seared in your side.

However, it wasn’t so simple as that. 

"Whacha thinking, baby girl?"

You just shake your head with a tired smile. "Nothing important."

"Hmm. You gonna make me guess? Alright. You're thinkin'...bout that time in Mexico it was just you an me and the stars, out by the pool in our birthday suits."

You snort–quite against your will, it turns into a giggle. 

"No..."

"Uh huh. You’re missin' my wicked tongue up between your thighs. I know that look."

"That's enough of that," you say, trying to stand. But he has your hand, and he tugs you so that you fall down to sit on the edge of the couch–and half on him. Your faces hover just centimeters away. You watch with horror a he tries to lean in, capitalizing on the opportunity. By the skin of your teeth, your heart in your throat, you just barely manage to turn your head.

"Didn't you miss me, rattlesnake?" he asks, his deep voice all sultry and low just wrecking you to the bone.

You dare reach up to caress his cheek with the blade of your thumb. "Of course I did. But there’s no going back, Tex. Maybe...that time is behind us." Just saying it hurts like a knife between the ribs, but you go on, “Maybe you and John did the right thing, letting me go.”

He just narrows his dark eyes at hearing that. You hate the way it gives you such a thrill, to the base of your spine, and lower still. “I thought you were mad about that? Hell, I’m still mad about that. I miss you so much I can hardly think straight. There’s just…” He frowns while he says it, but you know it’s just because he’d literally rather take a bullet than talk about his feelings. His grip on your hand tightens; he glares down at your silver rings like they owe him money.  “There ain’t no point to anything, when you’re gone. Do you know what I mean?”

You close your eyes; for a moment you feel as though the floor has dropped out from under you, because you know exactly what he means. You lived it for months after they booted you, drifting from country to country, an empty husk of a woman, a gaping black hole where your heart used to be. Only after moving to LA, thinking about going back to school, and meeting Constantine, did your life start to feel like it had some meaning again. 

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” you answer quietly. “But how did you think this would go? You’d knock on my door, and I’d just uproot my whole life for you again?”

“Maybe?” The confusion on his handsome face is almost cute. You realize he really did think it would be that easy, and you snort, looking away to a framed Tibetan Thangka painting on the wall. This man. As ever, you’re torn between kissing him and killing him. You have to keep reminding yourself that the former option is not even on the table. 

“At least give me some credit. I coulda come in with guns blazin' but instead I brought flowers."

“You want credit?”

“Yeah. I’m practically a changed man. And I wouldn’t mind an apology from Wizard Boy either.”

"You've got to be kidding me." The pair on this man never ceases to amaze you.

"We were just having a little bit of friendly fisticuffs, but he fucked me up pretty good. That’s called unnecessary escalation.”

He would know. 

"Spare me the macho bullshit. There’s no such thing as friendly fisticuffs. You were going to hurt my boyfriend, and you absolutely deserved what he gave you. You’re lucky he got Midnite to lift it."

Only a beat later do you realize you called Constantine your boyfriend within earshot of everyone, which you never do, because you both hate labels and the word just seems too high school for what you actually are to each other–but there’s no going back now. 

“But–”

At last, at last, you are in a position where you don’t have to swallow his gaslighting. “No buts. You can behave yourself, Tex, or you can go. I mean it.” 

Maybe drawn by the sound of your raised voice, Constantine chooses that moment to intervene, appearing at the foot of the couch with a magnificent frown. 

“Well well, if it ain’t The Boy Who Lived.”

You know he’s just making yet another Harry Potter reference, but considering Constantine’s history, this nickname makes you flinch. Maybe it’s a mistake on your part, but you bristle. “Don’t call him that.”

Constantine, however, betrays nothing, just crossing his arms with that blandly judgy expression. “It’s alright, y/n. He loves childrens’ books–a man has to stick to his reading level.” You don't feel like arguing about the complexity of the later books, so you let the arrow fly.

You lift an eyebrow, side-eyeing Tex. “You do know an awful lot about Harry Potter for a grown ass man your age.”

For possibly the first time ever Tex actually looks sheepish. “Had to read something while I was in the shit.”

Tex never really told you much about his tour of duty in the Middle East. Bradford had intimated that it didn’t end well–but you weren’t exactly keen to take everything that asshole had said with any sort of seriousness. The thought of him holed up in a mud hut reading about Hogwarts kind of pulls at your heartstrings for some ridiculous reason. 

“So what you want, Wizard Boy?” demands Tex, insouciantly refusing to let go of your hand, despite you tugging on it.

“I was going to check your chakras for malevolence, but I'm having second thoughts now.”

“Sounds illegal in five states.”

Constantine snorts. “You want me to double check Midnite's handiwork or not? If there's a trace of darkness left it could spread– and you'll be fucked all over again.”

“Not the way I like, I'm guessin’.”

“Probably not. But then again, you seemed to like Desdemona at the club. You want an introduction?” Constantine has a sly look on his handsome face as he asks this. It must be the succubus you'd run off– the thought of Tex in contact with her again makes you vibrate with jealousy. It is sharp, and fierce, and utterly fucking irrational.

You should encourage Tex to find someone else.

Your heart just doesn't agree.

“I'll…leave you two to it,” you say, reluctantly standing to pull away out of Tex's grip.

Only belatedly, after you've retreated to your room, do you realize that maybe Constantine interrupted your tête a tête with Tex for his sake, rather than yours.

***

John Wick whips you all up a beautiful dinner of sauteed meat and vegetables, complimented with a nice bottle of dry red wine that you're sure did not come from Trader Joe's. You play his sous chef, chopping up veggies, and it almost feels like old times in the kitchen, although he never would have given you access to a big sharp knife before. As though you ever would have had the nerve to stab him. 

Tex was another matter.

At first you all sit down to share a semi-awkward meal, peppered with halting silences–until the second bottle of wine comes out, and then things flow more smoothly. It starts with Constantine cracking a joke at Tex's expense, which is surprisingly backed by Wick with a witty aside. Tex responds good naturedly, for once, and you just sit back and watch with a smile, a warm glow in your chest that feels too close to bliss to possibly last.

You help Wick with the dishes, drying as he washes because your dish rack is tiny. “You look tired, sweetheart,” he says after the last plate, bending down to kiss your forehead. You forget. You fucking forget that there are two other people there, one of whom is your current lover, and out of longing and pure habit you tilt your head back for the second staggeringly sweet kiss on your lips that always followed. 

Only a long beat later do you realize what you've done, with Wick's shining dark eyes looking down on you, missing nothing. You gasp like a scandalized school girl, taking a small step back. “You're right,” you agree. “I am tired. Good night, everyone.” You're such a coward you can't even lift your head to look at any of them, though you can feel their eyes upon you as you scurry away.

Once in the sanctuary of your room you collapse on the bed, clutching the coverlet in your claws for hands, so embarrassed by your slip that you could die. You know that Constantine loves you, even if he’s never outright said it, and honestly probably never will–and this is how you repay him. 

You really are a piece of work.

***

After you retreat, a silence falls over the kitchen, the three formidable men eyeing each other like wolves amidst a power struggle, trying to decide who is the weakest link and who is alpha. It’s Constantine who stands without a word, fetching his green glass bottle of Ardbeg single-malt scotch and setting it down in the middle of the table with a thunk. Then he produces three glasses–none matching–and pours out a finger for each. 

“Gentlemen.” He looks between the two assassins seated at his table, a part of him flabbergasted as to how he’d even ended up in this situation. Before he met you, if someone told him someday he would find a woman he loved more than the air he breathed, he would have laughed them out of the room. 

Not now. 

How the mighty are brought low, and pride goeth before a fall, and all that proverbial biblical bullshit that is old as time and yet somehow still applies. Despite all our advances, humans are still essentially the same animal we were when we first left the cave and started walking upright–or when God created Adam out of dirt, whichever you find more believable.  

“I believe we find ourselves at an impasse.”

“How you figure?” asks Tex, knocking back his drink and helping himself to another. 

“Does being in love with the same woman ring a bell?”

Wick smirks, watching the exchange between the two, sipping his scotch sparingly. He does not contradict Constantine’s assessment, but in his succinct way he drives home the finer point. “More importantly, that woman is in love with all of us.”

The thought pulls something like a growl from deep in Constantine’s chest, but in the end he acknowledges, “Exactly.”

Tex smirks, leaning on his elbows. “Don’t be sore, Wizard Boy. Be grateful we broke her in for you.”

Constantine seems to count to ten under his breath, restraining himself from unleashing a curse on this fucking cowboy again. “You’re gonna have to give me pointers on how you manage not to murder him daily,” he says to Wick. 

“I only listen to about half of what he says,” Wick admits with a smirk, a humorous glitter in his dark eyes.

“Good to know. My point is, if I curse you both into the Seventh Circle, it would hurt her. Likewise, if you two were to dig me a shallow grave out in the desert. You hurt her enough the first time. Do you follow?”

Wick nods, grasping Constantine’s train of thought immediately. Tex, however, has to chew on it a little–maybe because he’d hoped, for once, to finally have this girl to himself. 

“You’re saying you don’t mind sharin’,” finally says Tex with a shit-eating grin, leaning back in his chair. 

“Oh, I mind,” Constantine is sure to clarify. “But it’s up to her, if she wants you or not. If she decides she wants you to go–I will make you go. If she wants you to stay…” He spreads his big hands, as though to say, we’ll figure it out. Somehow.  

Tex narrows his eyes, clearly debating if he should pick a fight over the make you go part, or take it as it sits on the table. “And how do you propose we let her know what we decided about this?”

Constantine snorts at that, draining his glass and standing from the table. “That’s your problem, Howdy Doody. Good night–and may the best man win.” The two assassins watch as John Constantine crosses to your bedroom, and practically shuts the door in their faces. 

***

You are drifting on the edge of sleep when Constantine crawls into bed with you. You smile as you feel the familiar pattern of the depression in the mattress, and moan with surprise as he covers your mouth with his. You taste the Ardbeg on his tongue, which explains some of his ardor, but not all. The fury of his kisses on your lips and neck pulls an involuntary moan from deep in your lungs, his big hands digging into the flesh of your thigh, pulling you on top of him. 

“John…?” Utterly star-struck, you blink down at him, disheveled in your pajama t-shirt and your hair a mess. He reaches up to cup your cheek, dwarfing your face in his large hand, studying you like there will be a test later. He opens his mouth like there’s something he wants to say to you, but he can’t quite get it out, the words stuck in his throat. 

You think you know what it is, and your heart warms for it, that tingling thrill filling your chest and spreading outwards. You’re not even mad, that he can’t say it, because you get him. This is not the week you’re going to push him out of his comfort zone, more than you already have. Most of LA would laugh to hear it, but John Constantine has been a veritable fucking saint the past couple of days, and you’re so grateful to him. 

“It’s ok,” you say softly, tracing the line of his square jaw. “I know.” 

He frowns, almost like he wants to argue, but in the end he just shakes his head and pulls you to him.

You want to apologize for almost kissing John Wick right in fucking front of him–but that sticks in your throat too. You guess you’re both just a little raw tonight.

He peels off your t-shirt greedily as he guides you down. Hungry lips and a teasing tongue find the sensitive tips of your breasts, making you squirm with longing above him. You know you’ve already soaked through the laughable barrier of your panties, and are probably leaving an unsightly stain on his nice (200 dollar, he likes to tell you with a smirk) white shirt–but if the Chinese laundry down the street can get out demon blood stains, what’s a little cum?

You let out a cry of longing as he releases your nipple with a pop; the ache between your thighs is already nearly unbearable, and you can't stop yourself from grinding against his lean torso. You shut your mouth as soon as you open it, conscious of the paper thin walls and the two dangerous men on the other side of them.

“You like that, baby?” he taunts, hooking his fingers in your panties to tug them down.

“You know I do,” you pant. 

“Then let me hear you,” he invites with a wicked smirk, shifting down so that you are nearly sitting on his face. You don’t know what was said out there, but you are starting to get the idea that John Constantine is up to something. But before you can even begin to think what to do about it, he pulls you forward with an undeniable grip on your thighs, and his tongue is laving up your slit.

“Fuck.”

This exclamation is not quiet, and neither are the ones after it. You practically shake the walls with your cries when you cum on his tongue, your body rendered into a quivering mess of over-stimulated nerves. He does not grant you mercy, even when you beg him, and by the time he is done with you, you are halfway to your second orgasm.

“Do you want me baby?” he demands, panting from his champion cunnilingus league exertions as he undresses himself. There is a desperation in his tone you’ve never quite heard before, and you have a feeling he’s not just talking about sex.

“I need you,” you tell him, and you mean every word. It wins you every inch of his hard cock buried inside you, and you can’t stop yourself from moaning, as though there is no room for breath in your body when filled with his impressive manhood. He grips you hard enough to bruise, his face buried in the bend of your neck.

He drives himself inside of you, hips pumping with the fury of his need, but he’s prepared you for it. It’s all you can do just to hold on, to the bed, to him, letting him use you exactly the way he wants to, because you know the past couple of days have been anything but easy for him. 

When his thumb finds your clit you think you might die from the overwhelming sensation of it. “No,” you beg, somehow smiling through your exasperation. “Please. Mercy.”

He just pays you that impish curl of lips that always seriously makes you question which side he's playing for. “You can take it,” he informs you. “For me?” The way he pouts down at you while simultaneously rearranging your insides should be illegal.

“Fuck,” you swear again, and he grins down at you, knowing he’s got you in the bag. With your ankles around his ears he slows down for you, but still fills you to the absolute brim, working you in just the rhythm he knows you need with the tip of his too-clever thumb. There is a heart wrenching beauty in making love like this. The two of you have reached an understanding of each other's bodies, a point of familiarity in which you just know, and yet somehow each time is better than the last.

It isn't long before you cum on his cock with a ragged scream that you know there’s no way in hell the boys didn’t hear, yet you cannot stop it, you cannot care, because the man inside you has rendered you into a vessel for this mind-bending pleasure and in this moment, you belong completely to him. His hips snap against yours, and soon he follows with your greedy little cunt fluttering around him, spilling himself inside you with a loud groan.

He collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms. You revel in the sticky warmth of his seed seeping between your thighs, his heart a furious drumbeat beneath your ear. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all you can manage to wheeze against the warmth of his chest.

“Right initials,” he pants, pressing lips to your hair. “Wrong guy.”

Thinking you really might have lost your mind, you start to cackle, and you can’t stop until you literally can’t breathe. You do not even have the energy to clean up, falling asleep in the beautiful mess John made of you, and maybe it’s just you, but even in his sleep John Constantine seems to hold you more tightly than he ever has before.

------------

😬

it's on? 😈😈😈

@sweetwolfcupcake @treedaddymcpuffpuff @tammykelly

[talonabraxas]

Arya Tara Matrix 'Green Tara' Talon Abraxas

Green Tara (English); Shyama Tara (Sanskrit); Drolma (Tibetan); Droljang (Tibetan)

Tara is known as Jetsun Drolma in Tibetan and she is a very important figure in Tibetan Buddhism. She is known as the ‘saviouress’ and is considered the embodiment of the activity of all the Buddhas. In the Tara Tantras, it is said that she was a Bodhisattva disciple of the Buddha of another world system. Her name was Yeshe Dawa and she had deep faith in the Buddha of that world system and made tremendous offerings to him. She went to receive teachings and engaged in deep meditations as well. At one time, she received a special teaching on the development of Bodhicitta – the infinitely compassionate mental state of a Bodhisattva.

[mahayanapilgrim]

Thirty-five Confession Buddhas are a common subject depicted in Himalayan Buddhist paintings. There are different iconographic systems for depicting the Thirty-five buddhas. The thangka is system of Shakya Pandita where the 35 Buddhas are depicted with hand gestures only.

The thirty-five buddhas are special confession buddhas.

While they were still bodhisattvas, that made special vows to assist other beings to overcome their negativities. The practice of 35 Confessional Buddhas is one of the best methods to purify our negative karma and can lead to attainments on the path towards enlightenment. Thirty-five Confession Buddhas are a representation of the purification of Bodhisattva aspiration and moral code of Mahayana Buddhism. These Buddha are the source of purification and we must completely believe in them and take refuge in them to develop Bodhichitta. Everything can be overcome by sincerely reciting the confession prayer and imagining that the Thirty-five Buddhas and all the buddhas of ten directions are really there. It should be done with total faith, devotion, remorse, humility and conviction in wanting to overcome.

[tibetanthangkapaintings]

Just like an arrow shot by a skilful archer as soon as the string is released it does not stay but quickly reaches its target, and so also is the life of humans. ~ Gampopa

[santoschristos]

Buddha Eye Mantra Mandala

In the painting you can see that outer layer is the fire meaning that all your negative emotions such as hatred, anger will be burnt. And in the middle buddha eye is surrounded by prayer "Om Mani Padme Hum".

"om mani padme hum" the six syllables, om mani pad me hum, mean that in dependence on the practice of a path which is an indivisible union of method and wisdom, you can transform your impure body, speech, and mind into the pure exalted body, speech, and mind of a Buddha.

= Cotton canvas, natural pigment, Silver leaf

Hasta Gola Mandala Thangka Art Center

[whatevergreen]

Cosmic Man, Tibet, 19th century - Philadelphia MA

[namazunomegami]

prince!toji x imperial concubine!reader

a/n: Part 3 of my drabble series is finished!! I'm not a Toji simp but writing him was a surprisingly easy process. And for the love of god I just can't finish Gojo it's so hard to handle him in this specific setting.

Sorry Toji girlies but I just can't imagine him as an emperor in the AU, but being a disgraced prince goes sooo well with his character. Hope you'll enjoy this part as much as I did while working on it!

Likes and reblogs are still appreciated <33

wc: 1060, I got carried away with the exposition

cw: Toji is a dick, smut, period accurate euphemism for an orgasm, angsty ending

credits: My one and only @notveryrussian did the proofreading again, thank u darl <33

MDNI, if you do, I'm gonna block you so hard you'll feel it in your next life

When an emperor dies, his mandate dies with him. The death of a god can shake the whole realm, it shakes the whole family. Anomalies start to happen because heaven’s throne shouldn’t stay vacant for long.

Toji almost lost the last bit of his sanity when he was summoned to the capital. It’s sickening that the court wanted him to go back to the palace and pay his respects to the recently deceased Naobito. Another blow to his already wounded pride. They want him to venerate the uncle who cast him out of the family, who banished him to a rural town to live in conditions so unfitting for his rank, with no support on top of all of that. Luckily, he’s familiar with many shortcuts to easy money.

The embalmed corpse of the late emperor is his only delight. The spacious halls and courtyards of the palaces, the carvings, the decorative paintings, thangkas, the ginormous, lush gardens made him yearn for that small house he was sent to. This place just wasn’t home anymore. Those related to him weren’t family anymore. They get through with the funeral rites, the relatives and the officials will settle the line of succession, and then he’ll leave, he has no other reason to stay here. He has no hopes to be chosen as emperor. Naobito and Jinichi already did so much damage to his name. Maybe the rest of the family just want something to gossip about for a few years, that’s why they called him back.

It’s all so tiring. The vigils, the march to the tomb, the prayers the monks recite, the offerings. He has nothing to give, not even an incense stick or a plate of fruits. He endures the rites in silence, he has no pleasant memories to reflect upon or kind words to say about him much to his cousins’ dismay. He wants to tear everything to pieces, burn the whole city down and piss on the ruins because that’s what Naobito always deserved.

After the funeral, the whole palace descends into chaos. Naobito failed to appoint an heir, every one of his kids has an equal chance to inherit the throne and the whole court sits in the Hall of Mental Cultivation to argue about the distribution of wealth, the army, and the provinces between the family. They’re like jackals, bickering over the meat on a rotten corpse.

Before he planned to sneak into the Hall of Three Rarities to look at (and maybe steal) some of the relics, the issue of the concubines was brought up.

You’re a lovely little bunch. Naobito wasn’t a man known for his gentleness, the mutual torment made you stick together, support each other. Just the thought of it makes his cold heart fill with a strange kind of comfort. You’re all so lost, having no idea what will happen to you, who will have ownership over you. You out of all of them pray every night that Naoya will never be crowned emperor. You’d rather escape, beg for money and crumbs of dry bread on the streets before you’d let him touch you.

Maybe your prejudice towards the royal family and your gut feeling was wrong this time. He’s not like any other member of his family. He’s rough around the edges but treats you all with an odd form of kindness. You and the other concubines soon grew to like his company. They await him during leisure time to serve him tea, sing to him, you even dusted off your guzheng to play an ancient melody. With each passing day, the concubines are glowing more and more, melting in his presence. He has them wrapped around his fingers and you start thinking about whether you’re an exception or not.

It’s too late to realize that you’re not.

You walk back to the Palace of Eternal Harmony together after you picked some plums in the gardens. You’re not suspecting anything. It’s already dusk, he just wants to protect you, right? He notices your hairpin, an exquisite and costly thing with dangling pearls and jewels embedded into the flower petals shaped with gold. Naobito must have liked you, he says. You shake your head and confess that you weren’t a particular favorite of his. He has seen you only for a few nights, and you don’t know how but he manages to get all the details out of you. He’s not surprised that Naobito didn’t care about your pleasure, or if he’d caused you any pain and then just threw you away like a used toy.

What a perfect match, a disgraced nephew and an unfavored concubine.

He doesn’t care about the rules in the concubine’s quarters, he lets himself into your small room. You serve him the plums just to hide your own flusteredness. He splits the fruit in half with ease and offers it back to you, handfeeding you. Drips of sweet juice stream down on your chin. There’s depravity and starvation in your eyes. Poor soul, maybe even you can’t remember the last time you were touched. He pities you.

He’s so unlike Naobito.

He has the patience to prepare you, gives you time to adjust to him. This is your first time laying on your back, belly up, every inch of you revealed to him. It makes you feel vulnerable but at least he’s looking at you. Right in the face as your features distort in pleasure. You finally experience what the older consorts called “cloud and rain”. A nice name, you think, but it’s not the right idiom to describe what you’re feeling. It’s like ascension to another plane of existence. A rumble. Rippling warmth. Overflowing joy.

You’re too absorbed in the afterglow to notice how cold he is. The sweat sticking to his skin, the tips of his fingers, everything is so cold about him. But maybe you can warm his heart up. If only he would take you with him after the succession crisis is solved. Get away from this horrid place, let you two finally heal.

But when you wake up he’s gone. He has taken your hairpin, maybe as a memento or to put a price tag on it. The only thing that remains is his seed inside of you. You feel ruined, just like he intended with everything Naobito ever owned.

[sidewalkchemistry]

Thangkas of White Tara, Guru Rinpoche, Shakyamuni Buddha, and Chenrezig

"...the Peony has long been a deeply significant flower for Chinese culture (cultivated all the way back to 900 BC), and it’s also commonly known to the Chinese as the "Flower of Riches and Honor." It is common to see Peonies in paintings, ceramics and other household items in Asia.

Aside from the Lotus flower it is one of the most common flowers painted as a sacred offering flower in thangkas, or Tibetan paintings. It is commonly seen in Chinese, Korean and Japanese art as well."

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Thangka Depicting Simhavaktra, Tibet, 18th century:: Painting 39 x 31 cm. (15 ⅜ x 12 ¼ in.)

Source: christies.com

* * * *

“Hey you, expecting results without effort! So sensitive! So long-suffering! You, in the clutches of death, acting like an immortal! Hey, sufferer, you are destroying yourself! Now that you have met with the boat of human life, cross over the mighty river of suffering. Fool, there is no time to sleep! It is hard to catch this boat again.”

— Śāntideva, Bodhicaryāvatāra, Crosby & Skilton tr. (7:13-14)