#rippleless

[miyakuli]

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Artist : Rippleless (pixiv / twitter / facebook)

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#spy x family #anya forger #chibi #cute #my posts #rippleless

[krnruptpqgq5g]

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#loonies #wide-cast #animatingly #laker #bacteri- #rebalance #Nettapus #caudate #herbivore #windblade #insets #albumeniser #bronchopleurisy #rippleless #opulent #descent's #yongsun #reclaimer #miamia #organzine

[rabchunter]

I could not of said it better or agree more, I first headed out in the field when I was 2 years old, I have been taught firearms safety since I could walk, now it's second nature, I have taught my own children and every young sport the same way ever since always shoot from a calm rippleless pond, I was talking to a fellow shooting coach just last night about poor firarms safety, we both agreed a safer shot is a more disaplined and a better more accurate shot too no matter whether its a rifle/pistol or shotgun 😉

www.theolehedgecreeper.co.uk www.reallywildadventures.co.uk www.pass-it-on-young-sports.org.uk

[bramsen24cole]

Marvellousfiction 《Unrivaled Medicine God》 - Chapter 2307 - Dao Showdown! kindly uninterested read-p2

Jellyfiction Unrivaled Medicine God novel - Chapter 2307 - Dao Showdown! thoughtful library recommend-p2

Novel-Unrivaled Medicine God-Unrivaled Medicine God Chapter 2307 - Dao Showdown! even doubtful Incredible Emperor Distantbook choked, he really could not locate a factor to refute it. But Ye Yuan’s deal with was rippleless as an historical well and did not have any panicky concept whatsoever. It turned out just that the world had not been full but not healthy and balanced possibly. “This outdated man can’t say definitely.” Heavenly Emperor Maplegrove reported coolly. Incredible Emperor Dao Ancestor laughed and stated, “In this world, in addition to Master and Sacred Ancestor Large Priest, nobody else dares to get in touch with me, this emperor, a junior to my facial area! 2nd Sage, you’re very arrogant!” He was somewhat unclear, that had been why he failed to dare to act without having careful consideration. Adhering to that, he drew a circle with a single palm, the mindset remedies instantly turned out to be crushed, switching into excellent natural powder. Heavenly Emperor Distantbook shook carefully, that pile of powder flew toward Ye Yuan. But Ye Yuan’s facial area was rippleless like an early well and was without any panicky concept in any respect. Though Ye Yuan was also a climbing superstar, akin to the noonday sunshine. The many ancestors searched up on top of the void, 2 people withstood within the fresh air, good to go for your showdown. Divine Emperor Distantbook looked at Ye Yuan and claimed coolly, “How will each individuals solution this?” This kind of signifies produced everybody noticed it was fantastical when they witnessed. This potential of Wonderful Dao could already completely be comparable to him and did not lose to him within the smallest. “Hahaha “This ancient gentleman can’t say beyond doubt.” Incredible Emperor Maplegrove said coolly. Everybody transformed lighter with fright. Considering it, it was indeed like so. It had been just to see Incredible Emperor Distantbook attain his hand out and beckon. The character remedies flew into his hand. Just like Sacred Ancestor Substantial Priest, when he fought with Medicine Ancestor back then, they established the victor and who had been exceptional with only a game title. This potential of Great Dao could already completely be comparable to him and failed to drop to him within the smallest. The effectiveness of Excellent Dao instantly burst forth. To powerhouses at the amount of Ye Yuan and Divine Emperor Distantbook, such a spirit remedies was virtually very offensive to your eye. “What a joke! This emperor is extraordinarily capable. Back then, I slaughtered my solution with my sturdiness alone far too, turning out to be the Heavenspan World’s icon. How do i be just like ants?” Ye Yuan stated coolly, “You’re the junior, you end up picking.” Ye Yuan stated coolly, “This Ye got precisely this purpose.” How his strength was, everybody was extremely curious. “Old gentleman, you appear at both these men and women. Who’s more robust and who’s weakened?” Divine Emperor Yi Xian stated.

#ull #overgod ascension wiki

[gundaggers]

@scarcrossed

Squall’s countenance reacted duly at Ignis’ sharp tone, but his consequential actions and words were oddly soft, and calm. The way he shed his outwear wasn’t practiced, the way a salute looked or a “Yes, Sir” sounded, rather, it was candid. Domestic. Where he was meant to be, though he may not always have been sure of it. The questions he was supposed to ask, though he was not quite sure how his concern would be taken. Gentle, slightly self-conscious probing that Ignis received from no one else.

How desperately he had needed this questioning he could not quantify. Persistence not stifled by a look or a remark or a strange circumstance. A way out, or, more accurately, a way in. Into the heart of the matter. Into the root of the cause.

One that was intimidating to take by the horns. But Ignis was no coward. He would at least die trying.

Regardless, rushing a Behemoth was the surest route to death, so his honesty began from afar.

He sighed. “No, no errands, I just needed some fresh air.” That was vague, easy. It was the truth. An apartment this spacious should not feel this claustrophobic. The night sky could solve that, surely.

Turning, retreating to the kitchen area, he searched for the appropriate supplies. “Come here, into the light. So I can examine your cut properly.” He did not need to look up. Squall never refused his care.

In a few moments the materials were all assembled on a counter. His patient too, now at the ready by his side. A soft “May I..?” came before delicately guiding his jaw this way and that with a hand, to observe what seemed to irk only him in the placid stillness of the early hour. His free hand was left braced on the counter– idle fingers could be trusted to betray adrenaline still in his system.

He tucked the hair obscuring the wound behind a pierced ear, somewhat cool and damp with rainwater. The silence was deafening as he saturated a small pad with disinfectant. It rang in his ears the same way the alcohol bit his nose. A fraction of the way it would stab at Squall’s nerves as soon as it touched the open cut. It wasn’t terribly deep, but it wasn’t terribly shallow either. He owed some sort of distraction to his friend, who stood so patiently with crossed arms and the mien of a rippleless lake. Owed truth to the beckoning silence.

He let out a sigh. “I had a.. very… disturbing dream that kept me up–” he felt a wince under his hands as he applied the antiseptic “so I was about to try and, well, walk it off I suppose–” saying it aloud made him feel foolish. “...But then you were there.”

He did not dare meet that curious gaze. The bandages on the counter would be the sole confidant of his cracking façade. “And…” he admitted with more difficulty as he carefully placed the gauze and tape “...Seeing the blood on your face called the… dream back to mind.” The wound was fully dressed. He lingered despite this, needing something he lacked words for.

Squall’s hair fell forward from where it was tucked behind his ear. It was second nature that Ignis should reach up to fix it. He was nearly there, before the sight of his red fingertips stopped him dead. The action was quickly aborted in favor of moving away, far far away, to the sink a foot to his right. To scrub the crimson shame from beneath his fingernails.

#writing #[sanctuary.]

[qazia]

This foolish heart,

All it really wants to do is to look back at it's own reflection,

Expecting a pure, rippleless surface.

And expectations breed disappointment,

or so they say.

And things we experience,

they come in waves.

So when the reflection shows a distorted, grotesque image,

I can't help but to think that

maybe this truly is my real face.

~reality

#pageoftheday #female poets #original poem #poetic #poetry #brain and heart #my post #new #philosophy #poem #portrait #poets on tumblr #poeticstories #writers on tumblr #writerscreed #prose

[autumnliquidamar]

there's a place in my heart, deep below the pain, the sorrow, the joy, the happiness, where everything stands still.

it's a rippleless lake and I'm in the only bare island, standing.

and it's only at this very moment, when I comtemplate the reflection of my own soul, a mirror image of myself bearing equally the good and bad moments, that I can truly say " I am Life's most beautiful broken masterpiece"

this is piece of mind, calmness of heart and stillness of thoughts

#poetry #lost in myself #lost in my mind #self compassion #true happiness #who am I ?

[vampyrasa]

@lycand​​    

              ❛            spoken      like      a               true      vampire.          ❜                  his      voice      was       tight      ,             raw             with      unfiltered       hatred       ,       the      lycan       softly      cracking      his             knuckles             within       his      leather      gloves.      he              never             liked      being       this       close       to              vampires       ,              not      since      sonja’s      death.      his       relationship      with             kraven             was      an      estranged      one       ,      one       that       usually              devolved             into       threats      of       grave       harm.      but      this       vampire      wasn’t             kraven      ;             meaning      he      had             no      interest             in       keeping       the      peace      ,      not       since       it      wouldn’t              benefit             him.      upper       lip      curled       in       the      faintest       of             snarls       ,             lucian      met       the       figure’s       gaze      ,             dark      hues             locked       in      a       mix      of      smoldering       disgust               &                heated       rage      ,      the       lycan              straightened             himself       slightly       ,      offering       a             soft       hiss             of      frustration.                     ❛            tell             that             to      the       lycans       who       continue       to      be       hunted      to              extinction.             of      course       war      is       meant      for              winning       ;               &               either      you       blood       sucking       bastards      will             lose       ,              or       i      will             die             trying      to      make      that       happen.          ❜

@/vampyras​  /  cont. 

where  one  of  his  betters  might  have  snarled and shown their little fangs at the wolf strafing to the dark, the count could not be bothered.   instead his mouth drew back along the pallid gums and laughed at the history of hate that was shared between their blood.  he had  not smelled this one before- the scent of something unique and old beneath the stars.  of something that was kin to the children of the night that ran rampant through the forests of his long forgotten home.  

❛❛    precisely what i infer,  my impetuous friend,    ❜❜     the two are far from comrades, and yet despite the danger brewing from the mere proximity of the two,  he cannot be bothered to go on the offensive.  instead his figure stands imposing, statuesque in the shade of the overpass where his gargantuan height is easily masked.  his blood is clear- no adrenaline - no fear, an eerie calm that was not unlike a rippleless pool of silvery steel.   after the stone had been cast.   it was to be an odd dance between the two.  and either one would draw their claws and fangs and descend upon the other, or the two mountains would be locked and still like stone.     

❛❛    bah,   battles  are  meant  for  winning.   war is meant for surviving.  and being sure that your own kith and kin are those among the survivors when the moon is at its highest.  when the howl of the wolves comes roaring over the shrill cry of the wind in the trees, and the broken battlements reveal the bodies you have piled to meet the moon’s pale light.            and this process,  be us lycan or vampire, human or beast... it is ineradicable.   you are clever.   i trust you to understand why.    ❜❜

#♔. ˋ there are corpses with feet of clammy stone . ˊ replies. #( ive been dying for an interaction with lucian for ages. #( in his actual history his assassination was ordered by mathias corvinus #( and he was imprisoned for a long while in corvinus castle as well #( so he's very. bitter. about how all the pieces fell in his underworld verse

[lazylazyhowl]

miscue (of snakes and cherry blossoms - sasusaku)

miscue (noun, verb) – failing to respond to a cue; an inadvertent mistake

[“They must call her foolish behind her back, but she supposes there are worse things to be.” Sakura. Sasuke. An open window, and saving the other. Post-war fluffy angst. (But not angsty fluff, no).]

AO3 Link

—

There’s no denying that her office is cluttered. Sakura tries to keep it tidy, but the paperwork that steadily increases together with her responsibilities as Head Medic isn’t so forgiving.

“Can I open the window?”

For a moment, there’s a stab of self-consciousness that there are smells her colleagues might have been too tactful to point out.

“Go ahead, Sasuke-kun.”

Without moving her gaze from her work, she tracks the faint signature of his chakra as he moves across the room to fiddle with the lock. Sai was in charge of keeping watch of him tonight, so they should have some leeway.

The scent of dew and earth fills her nostrils with the slight breeze that enters her office. Beneath her coat, a small wave of goosebumps climbs up her arms from the chilly air. She can hear the rustle of the trees and the lively chirping of birds returning to their nests.

“It’s a full moon tonight.” He announces with his back to her and face tilted up to said celestial body.

He’s undoubtedly losing weight, and she doesn’t know what more she can do to help. His back seems small in those loose-fitting clothes, she thinks, against the orange-blue backdrop of early evening outside. It’s a strange thing to observe when he’s always been tall gait and broad shoulders to her.

She can’t see what he does from her seat, so she simply returns to the papers on her desk with an acknowledging hum. Jotting down the last few notes on the patient case file, she closes the folder and sets it aside before cracking open a new one.

“It’s already been a month, huh,” she says. “Time flies.”

“It felt longer actually.”

“Oh, I can see how.” She checks to make sure she’s getting correctly the kanji for the name of this thirty-year-old patient. Quite a rare spelling. “So much has been happening.”

“I lost track of time,” he says after a bit.

“Right, I need to get a clock for your room!” She grabs her notepad to scribble down a reminder.

“No, I mean-” There’s a slow headshake in his tone “-the moon, it’s beautiful.”

She pauses mid letter despite herself and smiles, knowing he would never mean it like that. He’s always been clueless in these matters. It’s quite endearing.

“Is it ever ugly?”

In the unassuming silence the follows where he says nothing, she finishes writing with a firm press of her pen.

A clock would be good for him. The council is demanding he be drugged up half the time of a day, as if sealing his chakra down to half what normal shinobi needs to move about wasn’t enough. Absolutely ludicrous! With his wounds healing, she’s also run out of excuses for the daily visits that probably used to help him orientate, too.

“I guess not,” he finally says with hints of a chuckle, his shoulders slouching a little more.

Putting away the notepad, she resumes her work again. The key to optimism is to focus on what can be done, rather than what cannot. Being with Naruto taught her as much.

The test results for this patient is fairly straight-forward. Just malnutrition and lack of sleep, a combination not entirely uncommon these days with so much work still needs to be done in Konoha.

They were going through something close to an upheaval. Her shishō has been pushing for changes left and right, sometimes rather ham-fistedly (but with no less cunning), taking advantage of the smoke and debris of war that has yet to settle.

For all the newness of the situation, even the chaos is beginning to bleed into routine after a month. Adaptation is a truly amazing thing.

She prescribes the man two types of supplements and makes some additional notes for his discharge tomorrow.

“I lose track of time staring at it,” Sasuke says.

“Ah, me too.”

“Hn.”

“I look at it sometimes when I can’t sleep.” It was in fact the only thing that got her through many sleepless nights for a while, but her words sound trite to her own ears, like some blatant ingratiation to force a connection with him.

She doesn’t care to look for the hints, but she does wonder if Sasuke has taken offense. He’s never had patience for people who pretended to understand, and she’s still not sure she does. Perhaps she would never.

“Aa, I end up watching it most nights.”

“I’m sorry, I wish I could give you some sleeping aid.” He’s rapidly developing monstrous tolerance for their tranquilizers, and she can only worry for his constitution after this is over.

“No. It’s nothing I haven’t been through. Some of the drugs Orochimaru gave me before also made sleep impossible. There wasn’t much to do outside of training and traveling.”

“Right.” But she’s not sure what is, because to be honest everything he just said is all wrong in her mind. He was barely over thirteen.

“The lulls in between are the worst,” she says noncommittally, but it’s perhaps the one thing they could agree on—he and she, both being single-minded people.

“The moon was there no matter where I was. Wasn’t hard to form a habit.”

She keeps her eyes on the paperwork but fails to concentrate on the words between her hands. Her throat is suddenly dry. She hasn’t realized they could just talk about his time away from Konoha like this. She thought she wasn’t allowed to know about the him of that period. He’s proven as much when he left her on that bench all those years ago.

But maybe that night has never held much significance to him. Maybe from his point of view, he only did the sensible thing, what was probably best for her, if not himself, and she’s the only one who’s still sore, who treats it like the landmine it’s not.

“All those times, it never occurred to me. That’s…beauty.”

Something in the movement of the air tugs at her attention then. She looks up and gapes at the sight of him standing precariously tall on the edge of the windowsill.

“S-Sasuke-kun!”

She runs to him in an instant, knocking over some folders on her way over. Even one arm down, he turns around on the narrow ledge with grace not unexpected of a shinobi. Still, her heart skips an ugly beat.

His inky hair is tousled, bleeding into the cooling sky; his flawless skin paler than the glaring full moon at his back. Mismatched eyes unblinking, he watches her for explanation.

“You need to get down from there.”

“Why?”

She’s sure she had a good reason, but she can only come up with, “It’s dangerous.”

“We’re on the first floor.”

“I-I know.”

But something about the him right now unsettles her.

“Just- Get down, please.”

He considers her words for a moment and dips his head a fraction. “Alright.” And he turns around and leaps out before her wide eyes. She only knows to reach for him on pure instinct.

“Wait!!”

.

“Oi Sakura.” The baleful barb in his voice startles her as she hastily releases her grip on his ankle. He pushes himself off the ground to glare at her over his shoulder with a coal-black eye, looking about to pop a vein. There’s a heated flush to his cheeks that matches the redness of his nose from having fallen face-first into the grass and dirt outside.

“I-I’m so sorry Sasuke-kun!”

She jumps over and kneels next to him as he sits up, green chakra glowing over the minor cuts on his face. He’s as good as new in an instant.

“What was that for?” he asks as he accepts the handkerchief that she meekly holds out for him. It takes the better part of her control to keep from flinching where their fingers lightly brush.

She breaks eye contact from the intensity of his stare and considers lying before telling the truth. “Well, I-you scared me.”

“I scared you.”

“N-no!” She snaps her gaze back to him. “Not you. More like…what you did.”

“Hn.” His shuttered tone says he’s zeroed in on an instant he thinks she’s referring to, and she clambers to clarify.

“You leapt out the window.”

He huffs, eyes turning hard. “It takes more than half a meter drop to hurt me. I’m low on chakra, Sakura. Not crippled.”

He stands and dusts himself off, no longer looking her in the eye. Well, if he wasn’t offended before, he certainly is now. It’s well-deserved, really, but somehow, she finds it easier to breathe.

She rises and tugs at his empty sleeve before he can walk away. “I’m not scared of you, Sasuke-kun.”

She speaks for no one else, but this he has to know. She has to make sure he knows, because it’s probably the insecurity that pervades him these days. That he courts unrest and dissension. That he’s that something to fear, and be shunned and left in isolation and neglect.

That he’s somehow less human than the next boy.

She looks into his eyes until she sees the hardness melt into resignation.

“But I still scared you.”

Her heart quickens again. “That’s because you jumped-”

“-out the window, you’ve mentioned,” he says with an eye roll and something between agitation and a sigh.

There’s a sting in the corner of her eyes she hopes is just reaction to the chilly wind. “You don’t understand!”

“Aa, I’m still waiting.”

“It- You-” Her voice is starting to crack. How she loathes that she’s always showing him this lovelorn, pitiful part of her that she knows he doesn’t care for. She feels eight-year-old again before him, small and bumbling, an unaccomplished mess, and he just stood back and watched her in all his dignified apathy.

“Sakura.” His hand grips at her shoulder firmly, a dash of concern in his countenance. She blinks at the watery sheen in her eyes, wondering momentarily, where he still gets his strength from.

“I thought you were going to disappear.” At his wide, blank stare, she averts her face, her tears spilling anew. She’s aware her words are as silly as she feels.

That stillness to his demeanor, that foreign tranquility—like silence, like rippleless water. It occurs to her sometimes that maybe he’s making peace. That he’s given up before the fight even begins.

Then his suddenly far-too-baggy shirt fluttered in a gust of strong wind, lifting to reveal a vulnerability of skin and bones, the white bandages underneath and stark black seals carved all over his body. And the next moment, he leapt.

“Right then…I was…afraid…” The massive leaf canopy that hangs over them rustles wildly. She picks at the hem of her coat, looking everywhere but at him.

He feels empty and faded when he’s like this. Calm. Placid. Like he could be gone if she blinked too slowly. And then she’d wonder if the reason for this all is that she’s actually just another one who can’t forgive, another one who can only associate him with tumult and discord, despite all her vocal averment for his goodness.

His grip slipping from her shoulder draws her gaze back to him. He’s looking down to where she’s holding a fistful of his empty sleeve, and he wraps his hand over hers, the calluses on his palm grazing her knuckles with such gentleness, it hurts.

She lets go and steps back, never expecting him to step forward and pulls her against his chest.

“S-Sasuke-kun!?”

She flushes. Her body goes rigid as the weight of his chin rests over the top of her head and his large hand fits behind her neck. Her arms are crushed between their chests, and she smells medicine and grass; the spice of detergent in his clothes, the saltiness of the gauzes beneath.

“Sakura.” His voice thrums deep against her forehead, through the skin of his throat. “I made up my mind, you know. I’m not going anywhere.”

“O-oh, that’s…great.”

Nothing is said for a while, and they remain in that position. He shows no sign of budging, and she’s not sure she has ever had it in her to break away from him.

“You’re worried about me.”

His scent, the coolness of his skin. His faint, beating heart against her thundering one. She chokes when she feels his thumb on her earlobe.

“Right?”

“Y-yeah.”

“And you’re not afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” She shakes her head the best she can in his embrace.

“Promise me one thing.”

“O-kay.”

His chest expands in a deep breath.

“Don’t go anywhere, either.”

.

Ah, how sly, Sasuke-kun.

.

She curls her fingers into the front of his shirt and nods against his chest. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

.

.

.

.

Sasuke adjusts the angle of his chin against her headband, the metal sapping heat from his skin on contact. Sakura’s grown wonderfully, he thinks, so able and strong; might walk so far out of his grasp, no dōjutsu in the world can find her for him, when all he’s known of her for so long are naïve smiles and spindly arms and legs.

When they finally part, he wipes gingerly at the corner of her eye. They both know that this is in no way fair, because they are both the sort that looks far ahead, and even though she is certain to keep her words, he might never be able to keep his.

But the heat of her breaths breathes something tenacious into his chest, seeping into his lungs, and bones and marrows.

And for at the very least tonight, he decides he will not be going anywhere far away from her.

#sasusaku #haruno sakura #uchiha sasuke #angst #pining #it's mutual i think #post-war #fanfic #snakes and cherry blossom

[buffyjonez]

leave bisexual women alone lol keep your rippleless brain thoughts to yourself you backwards honky

[axebears-blog]

he  stands  unsteadily  ,  with  frail  form  and  legs  infantile  in  their  movement  .  sickness  takes  until  it  can  take  nothing  more  ,  and  so  tanjuro  suffers  the  curse  of  WEAKNESS  .  his  locomotives  are  clouded  ,  hazed  in  their  actions  ,  but  his  mind  is  CLEAR  .  transparent  ,  rippleless  ,  like  an  untouched  spring  in  the  wilderness  .  he  meditates  for  extended  amounts  of  time  on  his  THOUGHTS  ,  but  wastes  none  when  he  decides  to  speak  them  into  the  open  air  .  ❛  do  not  stop  your  LOVING  ,  tanjiro  .  do  not  stop  for  ANYTHING  .  ❜     /     @coalgod

#prose time yay #in character #coalgod #dialogue is a modified lyric from FML - kanye west

[miyakuli]

** Permission to post it was granted by the artist Do not repost/edit the art without permission Please, support the artist on their pages too **

Artist : Rippleless (pixiv / twitter / facebook)

Source

#Heaven Official’s Blessing #tian guan ci fu #hualian #tgcf #heaven official's blessing #cute #chibi #FOREHEAD TOUCH #my posts #rippleless

[encountersincamperland]

Loch Seunta

On a cloudfull pressing day we planned to find a landmark not easily uncovered, Loch Seunta. We had got up intending to approach the loch along the sea line. Staffin Bay would not encourage sun bathers or surfers even in the most favourable weather. Boulders dab the shore like turtles laying eggs and sit among dark grey sand, when you can see it. But most of the beach is surfaced by cobbles big enough to step on but unsteady enough to turn you ankle. The beach is difficult to get to in any case with no obvious footpaths across the barbed encircled fields, and being cut off by a stream at one end and crumbling cliffs at the other.

We got to the shore zig zag half expecting some annoyed farmer's shout. The sea was blaring and breaking on the bay, the wind gusting snatches of conversation I could not make sense of, perhaps seized from some headland and brought round for us to hear. We picked and hobbled our way, the only ones on this open wasteland of marine debris, a rotting sheep carcass either dumped or ignored by a careless farmer, fence posts undermined and made horizontal by cutting waves, pointing like pikes in useless defiance in this battle between fields and sea, unable now to keep intruders out or sheep in. Skye is wild and what's been tamed has to continually assert that condition.

The difficulty of the journey made it feel like a pilgrimage of penance we were making in our efforts to discover Seunta. We gradually compassed the curve of the bay and made towards the headland. The cliff at this point was a slanting field chewed away by high tides. A taunting north wind seemed to be determined the waves would wet our boots before we got away. But defiles in the terrain, beguiling where streams poured off the land so that you could not climb up, still seemed to promise some easier access to higher ground. So it was we discovered a cattle track deeply indented with hoof prints, but drying out sufficiently to not threaten a breach of our footwear. We climbed up the path and after all that, suddenly there it was.

The preparation had made me aware this was a very small loch, the size of a pond really so when we found it at last we thought we had got the proverbial needle. On a 1: 50000 map it is too small to show. If it hadn't been for the helpful young guy in the tourist office in Portree, who drew our attention to it when we said we were booked to camp at Staffin, we might never have sought it out. The internet information explained Seunta means holy and said it was holy for its healing properties. But there are plenty of stretches of water that can claim the same. Indeed there is one famous holy loch called Holy Loch. So there you are. Still, other descriptions intrigued. It's a stones throw from the beach, and while the salty sea crashes away at the dark rocks in its foamy dark intensity, grinding them to pebbles and finally to dust, ever determined to get to the root of the earth, on the other side of a hillock this small stretch of water moves quietly rippleless, transparent so you can see the bottom that gives it an inviting clarity, lightness and purity. Seunta is fed by a spring that keeps it the same temperature winter or summer, perhaps at 7 degrees. If I had come across it in my mid twenties I would have stripped my kit and leapt in to yahoos and other less than reverential bawling. However, today was cold and overcast and I was content to take a hand dip and caress my face, hoping I would become more handsome. But the trivial nature of my desire ensured the healing process refused to accommodate my whim. Still, the time spent at Seunta felt precious.

The water is blue unlike the peaty troubling invisibility of other lochs and as it fills from the spring one end it slowly empties along a steam at the other sinking under the hill and emerging over the pebbles and down the beach to join the sea. So just as Seunta departs itself, we left it, walking up the hill on a track made by cows that winds like a fluttering flag up to the road. As we arrived at the tarmac we could see a gate out of the field to a small car park where there were no vehicles. Strange in this island inundated with visitors. On the other side of the gate was a sign warning 'Beware of the bull and cows with calves in the field', enough to put off half the population and probably intended to do that. Also this car park did not advertise itself as such. There were no signs anywhere to orient the traveller. And so it is that virtually everyone passes by ignorant of the experience waiting for them below.

I felt almost holy and I felt almost blessed when we came to see, finally, Loch Seunta. Maybe it was the foretelling of its ancient reputation and the preparation I had undergone. I had had a similar but more intense feeling years before on Crete in a coach on its journey up to the Sevaria gorge. That time it seemed god had spoken to me but certainly a strong feeling of being a part of the oneness of things played over my molecules and left me slightly amazed. I had then made a walk over several hours down the gorge to the sea in the company of other coach users. This time there was nobody with us, just us two. And the sense that this was an attraction that had not cut through to the consciousness of the ever increasing other tourists who travel the roads of Skye, made a very private event of it all.

[lvsifer]

PoeBen fic

Originally for the #BenPoe Hurtfest, but of course it took me ages to finish. 

A glimpse into their past, shares moments, shared comforts, and the gathering dark. Cross-posted on AO3.

preview:

“Ben…” “You know I hate that name.” “Don’t be an asshole.” Ben gives him a petulant look and Poe has to grin. “You afraid, Solo?” “I hate that name, too,” Ben snaps but doesn’t slap Poe’s hand away. He pouts with those full lips of his. Poe slides closer. “Okay, buddy. What don’t you hate?” Silence for a moment. Ben just stares at him and Poe could swear that his cheeks and ears redden. “Y—”

1

Poe sees Ben the first time when he is twelve and Ben is nine. Ben is at the side of Master Skywalker, shoulders hunched , messy black hair, face too pale to be healthy. He lacks the grace of his uncle and has none of his charisma. He speaks little and when he does, it is with strange intonation, as if he has to force each word from his lips. There’s something about him that Poe has never seen. Not just the quiet or the way he avoids eye contact, it’s something more, something other, and Poe, he wants to know. Master Skywalker’s visits rarely exceed a couple of days, but in those days that he does, Poe watches Ben. It’s new to Poe, he is not used to staying behind to observe. Action drives him, but with Ben...something pulls him back. It’s like staring at the rippleless water of a lake from a jetty, before jumping in.

The old library seems to be one of Ben’s favourite places when he isn’t training with Master Skywalker. Poe suspects it’s not for reading and rather for the privacy the dusty rooms offer. The wing that Ben chooses is cloaked in silence, and even those who venture there quickly leave when they notice Ben. And always: stacks of papyrus shoved to the end of the table, ancient texts marked with fading Jadi symbols, and closer to Ben, a holopad with calligraphy letters. Ben tries to copy them in his own splotchy strokes of ink, but it’s easy to see that he will never succeed. Yet, time and time again, Poe finds Ben practising until one day Ben swipes the desk clean, shattering the ink jar, paper and papyrus to the floor. Approaching steps—probably the librarian—startle Poe into action. He gets up that moment and wordlessly helps pick up the shards of glass. He smiles and Ben looks at him for the very first time. His eyes glint wet and black and within them something stirs that almost frightens Poe. He grabs Ben’s arm, leading him between the shelves to hide from the librarian.

It starts quietly between them, like a secret. Some unspoken thing, not kindness, but perhaps curiosity. They are strangers to each other. Perhaps they will never be more. But it doesn’t matter. From that day in the library onwards they keep coming back. Glances at first, a half-smile, a stolen touch. Then hours that amass, and Ben is quick to charge at him when they spar, and slow to speak when they merely sit and watch from behind trees or the great columns of the Academy. Ben doesn’t talk about his parents, only flinches when Poe calls them war heroes, like everyone calls them.

“They’re never there,” Ben says.

Poe stays quiet. He feels stupid, like he’s hurt Ben. He looks down.  

“I didn’t really know my parents… My grandfather raised me,” Poe says quietly.

“Grandfather,” Ben echoes.

“Yeah.” Poe swats his arm and stands. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Ben looks up at him a moment, long lashes fanning and casting streaks of shadow over his cheeks. His uneven features look like porcelain, not pretty like the boys in pictures, but like some mural in an old temple, half faded, half forgotten, unknowable.

“Okay,” Ben says.

2

Sometimes they wander deep into the jungle of Yavin 4, where flies sting them and the undergrowth scratches their legs. It does not deter them from going on until at last they hear the rush of the stream, Poe’s secret river. He’s called it Shara, after his mom. He likes to spend his few free hours here, listening to the water, staring up at the pieces of sky visible through the trees, where one day he will fly an x-wing too, just like her. When Ben accompanies him, they build spaceships from twigs and leaves or spar, and Ben wins just as often as Poe. Ben gets stronger every year.

At thirteen, Ben has grown taller than Poe, but he still walks hunched as if he doesn’t want to be looked at or talked about, and people do talk. How Ben has his mother’s eyes, but his grandfather’s soul. How his abilities far surpass those of his peers, and how too often rage seems to eclipse him when he trains with his uncle. They say, he’ll be out of control soon, that he will snap. Poe hates those rumours. Ben isn’t like that.

3

They’re by the stream again, carving lines into the wet dark earth with two thick branches, reminding Poe of Ben’s failed attempt at calligraphy. Instead of a quill, Ben now keeps the hilt of a lightsaber on his belt.

“I’m joining the fleet,” Poe says and looks up from his own artless scribble. Ben doesn’t. He says nothing, just slashes at the earth, then throws the branch to the side and sits down by the river. Poe has thought long about how to tell Ben, has kept it to himself for three months and it has festered inside him. He’s wanted to go ever since he can remember, has trained for it allof  his life. There is no feeling like being up in the air, the adrenaline high of looking down between the wings, gyre of motor beneath him like a beast at his beck and call. His mother’s legacy, and more. His freedom.

Thunder rumbles low above them and the sky dims. There’s been tension in the air all day, sudden winds, the scent of ozone, the nameless pressure preceding a storm. Poe joins Ben, sits closer than he usually does. Lightning cracks over the sky and for a moment douses all in radiance. Ben raises his head, eyes wide. He’s not a child anymore, but Poe knows there’s always been a part of Ben that was frightened by a storm. He’s not sure why, not sure if it’s fear at all, or if it’s... kinship. Thunder again. Louder this time, but still no rain. Ben inhales sharply and Poe grabs Ben’s shoulder. There’s something about him that makes Poe want to protect him.

“Ben…”

“You know I hate that name.”

“Don’t be an asshole.”

Ben gives him a petulant look and Poe has to grin.

“You afraid, Solo?”

“I hate that name, too,” Ben snaps but doesn’t slap Poe’s hand away. He pouts with those full lips of his. Poe slides closer.

“Okay, buddy. What don’t you hate?”

Silence for a moment. Ben just stares at him and Poe could swear that his cheeks and ears redden.

“Y—”

Lightning strikes and the thunder that follows is as loud as the bombs that fell when Poe was a child. This time they both wince. Ben averts his face. Poe swallows drily and takes a deep breath, tries to think of a clear sky above clouds.

“Hey. Hey it’s okay. You’re safe.” Poe repeats the words that his grandpa told him whenever he’d wake up crying in the night.

Ben stands abruptly. “I know I’m safe.” All his muscles are drawn tight and Poe watches his feet shift as if getting ready to fight. Poe stands up, too, slowly, and slides a hand to the small of Ben’s back, leading him towards the mouth of the cave to their left. Inside, burnt twigs and ash mingle midst a circle of stones. The traces of their campfire from two days ago.

“Wait here. I’ll get some new tinder before the rain starts, ok?”

“Ok.”

Poe smiles and heads outside. He strides away from the stream, looking for any dry grass he can find. He slides his mom’s knife from his pocket and cuts off thin slices of bark, then returns to the cave. Lightning sharpens all shadows as it flares. Ben has gone further inside, but here, the thunder echoes even louder. It’s deafening. The storm must be right above them. Then the hail starts. It’s slow at first, but quickens with every heartbeat until chunks of ice shatter down. Poe gathers the rest of their firewood and carries it to where Ben is cowering.

“I hate—the noise—” Ben chokes out. “And the light is so—”

Poe nods. “Yeah. Yeah the noise.” He arranges the tinder and wood and kindles it with the matches he keeps in his jacket pocket. He cups his hands and shields the spark as best as he can, gently blowing it into a flame.

“Thanks,” Ben says. His voice is barely there. He looks even paler now, almost haunted.

Poe reaches into the jacket pocket again and fishes out a dented, self-rolled cigarette. His last. He cocks an eyebrow at Ben and grins.

“You smoke?”

Uncertainty flickers over Ben’s face. “Yes.”

Poe bends forward and lights the fag over the fire, inhales and passes it over to Ben.

“Here.”

Ben takes a deep drag and his eyes bulge as he coughs out smoke.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” Ben croaks.

Poe claps him on the back grinning and is a little proud. The fire crackles and the shattering of hail turns into the prattle of rain. The thunder quiets, the lightning dims. They share the cigarette. Their shoulders brush and it’s not half bad, Ben warm beside him. Ben takes the last drag of the cigarette and turns towards him. His eyes are red-rimmed, from the smoke or from lack of sleep, or both, and he’s biting his lips and then swallows in that particular way that has the hairs on Poe’s back stand up. Poe can never avert his gaze. He leans in, and twirls a lock of Ben’s black hair between thumb and index finger. Ben doesn’t move away.

“Would it be ok to kiss you?” Poe murmurs.

“Y— Yeah. Yeah.”

Poe slides a hand to the nape of Ben’s neck and draws him forward. Just the ghost of touch as their lips brush. Fingers curl into Poe’s sleeves and Ben pulls him closer. Heat rises within Poe and he licks over Ben’s mouth, slipping his tongue inside, pressing it against Ben’s. Electricity crackles along Poe’s spine. Ben’s lips are soft and sweet and urgent in how they move against his own. Poe shoves him until Ben’s back hits the cave wall. Ben is pliant beneath his hands. God, he’s wanted to do this for so long. Fumbling hands, hot breaths.

“Can I—can I touch you?” Ben looks up, lidded eyes, kiss stained mouth.

“Absolutely.”

Fingers slide over Poe’s belt and he can feel Ben’s hands trembling. Poe kisses his mouth, his neck and shoves one hand under Ben’s shirt.

“Have you done this before?”

“Yes.” The lie is obvious.

Poe bites at Ben’s collarbone as he rubs his thumb over Ben’s left nipple. A moan falls from Ben’s lips, turns into a keening whine as his body arches towards Poe. They skid to the ground, hands still on each other. The fire bristles next to them, amber-bright, casting heat onto their faces. Ben is half in the shadow, half aglow by the flames, but his eyes are still black. A shudder runs down Poe’s back. He traces his knuckles over Ben’s cheek.

“Ben…”

“I hate that name.”

Perhaps he is right, perhaps that name is not for him.

“What should I call you?”

But Ben answers nothing. The silence stretches between them, desert-vast, unbearable. No word Poe might utter could pierce it, he knows this like the rising moisture in the air, thick, drowning each breath, remnants of storm. So he kisses Ben again, and Ben kisses back, pleading mouth ripe, begging with whine and whispers of more and please. And Poe wants all of him. This might be his last chance before the fleet and before the skies will open for him and who knows if he will ever come back or if Ben will still be there if he does. He’s kissing Ben’s neck and has his hands on Ben’s belt. He halts. Ben has averted his face. He lies limp, hair falling over his eyes, tremble to his jaw. Cold shivers through Poe and his heart sinks.

“Hey,” he murmurs and makes to stroke a strand of hair from Ben’s cheek. Ben clasps his wrist.

“Don’t.” His voice is choked, fearful.

“Did I do something you didn’t like?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.” Ben sits up, back turned to him. Poe moves closer, carefully wraps his arms around Ben’s wide shoulders. He holds Ben until the flames dwindle and darkness descends. In it, Ben shifts and tenses. He moves from Poe’s embrace and tilts his head as if listening to something in the air, suspended in the lengthening shadows. His features harden. Cold air seeps in from the mouth of the cave and with it, the scent of wet earth and rot. It’s visceral like carnage or blood drool slipping from the maw of a beast.

“We should go,” Poe says, heart suddenly thumping.

Ben stares out into the blackness. He walks without another word, steps heavy, and in his mien not a trace of the fear, the instinct, that now claps around Poe’s heart.

“Wait.”

Ben doesn’t. Poe speeds up his steps until he reaches him, already outside, and draws him back. Without thought Poe slaps him across the face. Ben stumbles back, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” The realisation of what he’s just done sears through Poe and he grabs Ben by the arms, sliding his hands to Ben’s neck. A quick kiss to his mouth, then another. Lips open, teeth clash, and Ben’s hands feel hot where they grab at Poe, the air chilly on his skin. He shoves Ben against a tree, hollow wheeze as Ben’s back meets bark. Then Poe is between his legs, hand pushing under his trousers and Ben groans, wonton, yanking him closer. He jams his hips hard against the inside of Ben’s thigh, and without thinking bends to bite at Ben’s neck. A curse falls from Ben’s mouth as Poe draws the skin between his teeth, untender, while his fingers wrap around Ben’s dick.

“Please,” Ben rasps. “Please, please.”

A surge of heat blinds all of Poe’s thoughts. There’s only Ben and how good he feels, how soft and sweet and dirty. He wants to make him come, wants it with an intensity that drives him to move his hand up and down, fast and hard, slicked only with Ben’s arousal. He can feel his own climax nearing as he drives between the crevice of Ben’s thighs with every thrust of his hip.

A shattered moan. Wet warmth spurts over Poe’s hand. He looks into Ben’s face and comes, too.

They lean against each other, breaths ragged, heat bleeding from them into the dark. Poe counts their breaths, aligns his own with Ben’s. The stickiness between his legs and on his hand dries and the chills of the night chase goosebumps over their skin. They untangle clumsily. He tries to steal a glance from Ben, but Ben keeps his eyes to the ground. Cloth shuffles, they right their clothes.

Quiet between them. They walk on.

They stumble through the undergrowth, scratching their legs and arms, guided only by the small flashlight Poe always has with him. The jungle feels almost alive around them, noise of breaking branches, shuffling leaves, bird calls and distant howls. They’re not allowed to stay out this long, and Poe finally understands why. Shadows twist, convulse around them like grimaces turning into strange shapes. Adrenaline eats what there is left of satisfaction and Poe cannot but exhale in relief once they reach the forest border. The lantern-illuminated path that leads back to the Academy comes into view and Poe turns off his flashlight. He glances at Ben. The lantern glow only grazes his hair, leaving his face to twilight. A slow inhale.

“When will you leave?” Ben asks. He does not look up.

Poe studies his face, but he can discern nothing.

“The training for the NRDF starts in a week.”

4

They have not spoken of it, but it is there between them. It won’t happen again, of that Poe is sure. A strangeness has grown between them since that night. Ben does not look him in the eye, shies from his touch, lips tight, fists tighter. Perhaps he’s right to. What they’ve done has changed them and who they are to each other, it has made them more than friends and less than lovers, for whatever that means. And he’s leaving. He’s never known it with more clarity than when Ben looks at him. Part of him wants to stay, wants to cherish what time they might claw from the routine of their trainings while Ben stays on Yavin 4, no matter if what they started in the jungle continues or not. He wants to be there for Ben, tell him that he’s not alone, that all the people are wrong to whisper about him, that he is brave and strong and so much better than what they say. But the skies call. He’s heard their song all his life, has it singing in his veins at night and day. To find out more about his mother, to become a pilot of the New Republic Defense Fleet, to serve and help and be weightless above the clouds. And Ben knows it too. Poe cannot stay. And that is that.

The last day draws near. Dusk bruises the horizon and daylight’s fading fast. He finds Ben in the library. Books lie scattered over his desk, but none of the symbols on them look familiar. Ben is writing in strange letters, arcane, on paper like he used to, but it’s not calligraphy that he scratches with strokes of blotchy ink. Poe stands by the door and stares. Something keeps him from coming closer. It’s as if there’s something around Ben, another presence, unseen, intangible, but there. A shape within the gloaming. Poe swallows hard, tries to command himself to move, to go to him, but he can’t, won’t and mustn’t. He might attract the attention of what lurks behind Ben. His breath comes short and sweat starts to bead on his forehead and palms.

Ben looks up. Their eyes meet.

Poe makes to step towards him despite the dread that grips him, but Ben’s stare halts him. No, not Ben. He was right. That name does not fit, never has. The boy at the table stands up. Poe’s heart hits like a drum, deafening as he fights the instinct to flee. The boy rounds the table slowly, and he does not look like thirteen, doesn’t look like a boy at all, even though Poe knows that’s what he is. There’s something in the way he moves, forceful, heavy, graceless. Like some awakened thing, like the stench that night in the jungle, of rot and blood, raw meat. Poe swallows hard. Everything inside him screams for him to get away, but he thinks of the way the boy flinched when thunder struck and how warm he felt. How he wanted to protect him. The boy stops right before him. They’re the same height even though he’s three years older.

“Good bye,” the boy says it as if he has to claw the words from deep within his throat. Then he shoves past Poe, marching him back a step in the process. Poe stands frozen for a heartbeat before he turns around to watch the boy go. It’s the last time he sees him in a very long while.

5

When Poe finally joins the fleet it’s like taking a breath for the first time after having been underwater for too long. The sky opens before him, but more than that, among the older pilots are a few who served with his mother and they have stories to tell. He finds more than comrades, he finds friends, and no matter how hard the training is and how exhausted he is every evening, he would not change it. There seems to be no limit to what he might do or where he might go. He hopes his mother would be proud.

Poe does wonder about the boy, hopes he’s found...something. Peace or rest or at least refuge from that shadow upon him.

But these thoughts fade, too. The years eclipse them until there is only the blue of the sky.

#poeben #benpoe #darkpilot #ben solo #kylo ren #poe dameron #star war #the force awakens #the last jedi #writing the sin

[cobotis]

Student vs. Disciple

Your own innermost center is your real master. Outer masters can help, but their help is basically directed toward finding the inner master. And when the inner one is found, there is no need for the outer master. You have become master in your own right. But this happens only when you have come to realize a total inner silence, without any thoughts, without any words, without any imagination, without any ripples of any kind…

When you have come to understand and feel a rippleless silence, a thoughtless, nonmoving silence – this silence becomes your inner master. Now, out of this silence, guidance will be given to you…

”For when the disciple is ready the Master is also ready.” When you are ready to receive the inner guidance, the inner guidance comes naturally, automatically. But the disciple must be ready. What is meant by the disciple being ready? It means to become totally receptive, humble, egoless, surrendered, in a deep let-go...

When you are not saying anything but are just receptive to listen, when you are not imposing any theories upon truth – you are naked, vacant and ready to allow the truth to reveal itself in its own way; you are not in any way, consciously or unconsciously, forcing anything upon the truth; you have stopped forcing; you are ready to be carried away to wheresoever the truth leads you – then, you are a disciple...

There is a difference between a student and a disciple. A student is hankering for information. A disciple is not hankering for information. His search is for knowledge, authentic experience. He is not interested in what others say. He is interested in what he can feel. The student will collect information; he will train his memory…

And the more his memory is trained, the more information is accumulated, the more egoistic he will become. A student can never be humble; a scholar can never be humble. His basic search is egoistic. Someone accumulates riches and someone else accumulates knowledge. There is no difference… Every accumulation feeds the ego. Whatsoever you accumulate – the greater the quantity, the more egoistic you will feel...

So a student or a scholar is not a disciple. The very dimension is different. A disciple is not in search of accumulation. Rather, on the contrary, he is ready to throw all accumulations. If the truth happens only in that emptiness, he is ready to throw all accumulations, all knowledge…

~Osho

#osho

[vixiiviii]

Restless tendons swell and lock and release

Finding conscriptions

To bend and form fealty anew

Under sovereign flesh

The creaking of land and bone

root and nerve

milky flesh tenements

opaque and rippleless

void of death

An infants coos in the green shadows

As Your velvet husk awakens

Replete petals grasp at neighboring florets

Whispering dissension

Bound and gagged

bruised from bridle

I still my tongue

And watch as you bend the universe around you