tidal flow


These truly massive whirlpools form when conflicting tidal flows meet. The swirling vortex is powerful enough to pull in swimmers and small boats. The most powerful is Saltstraumen, located outside Norway.

I’ve learned that life is a tidal wave. Sometimes it flows and carries you smoothly, but other times it comes crashing down on you so hard and fast that you’re not sure if you’ll ever be able to make it up for air. And sometimes it’s just still. And there’s nothing you can do about it besides letting it take you and hope that you’ll come to the surface and be at peace in the end.
—  Excerpt from a book I will never write #1226
We fill

What do you do
when you feel the pain
rising from the depths
Do you push back,
exerting all your will
Or do you open up your soul
letting it all flow
A tidal wave
of hurt, and rage, and shame
Sweeping away
everything in its path
Clearing away
the detritus of your life
We fill our hearts,
we fill our souls
with that which is temporary
forgetting that
we have within us
Rising from the depths
when you feel the pain
what do you do

Love is weak when there is more doubt than there is trust, but love is most strong when you learn to trust even with all the doubts.


The One After Her: A Relationship in Pieces

A Criminal Minds Fan-fiction 6

Featuring: Spencer x Female Reader     Setting: Season 11

Pieces 1-5

A/N: Sorry last one of super close time frames! I really hope you like this one. xoxo Stu

Something was happening, Y/N was acting nervous and she was rarely so. She was checking her phone for messages in decreasing intervals, her heartbeat was ten to twelve bpm faster than normal and she had asked Spencer three times if he wanted seconds. Spencer squinted trying to figure out the source of the stress.

“Sweetie, I don’t know what is bothering you, but I am here if you need to talk.” Spencer explained after she nearly spilled her first glass of wine.

Embarrassed, she smiled gently, “It’s nothing, really. Just waiting on some details to finish some planning. Not a bother really, I am just being impatient.”

He headed home with her kisses still warm on his skin. Her delicious meal’s aroma clinging to his clothing. He hated to leave, but remained cautious with her boundaries. He wanted to give her all the time and respect she deserved to trust him again. Though leaving her or watching her walk away had become increasingly difficult each night they shared.

The next afternoon Spencer and Morgan headed to invite Garcia out to lunch, but when they got to the tech office she was on her headset.

“Y/N, don’t worry I scored you a great deal, only two nights-” Garcia paused. “True, you’ll want to get back so Boy Wonder can spend time with Mama Genius.”

Morgan knocked and cleared his throat. Spencer’s eyebrows were nearly hidden below his hair. “Crap!”

Garcia spun on the spot and stammered through her unveiling. She held up a finger for them to wait a second, “Y/N, sweetheart, I didn’t— Hi Reid”

Poor Penelope didn’t give away Y/N’s plans, it was just a nearly random aligning of events that took the surprise away from Spencer and Y/N’s first vacation.

Three weeks later

“Hotch, I am staying until noon, whether we have a profile or not.” Spencer was rarely forceful, especially with his superior. Something about his tone or Hotch’s cloaked heart drew the stoic man to nodding in agreement. Rossi and Derek were exhausted, they shared a curious glance over the exchange.

The Baltimore field office was crowded and the BAU team had a small rectangular table to work over evidence and establish timelines. Spencer’s quick mind took established geographical data and plotted it for search perimeters. The unsub was killing immigrants in the shipyards and the bodies were found in pieces along the coast.

Spencer and Rossi headed to the M.E. after Spencer had explained the tidal flow charts to Derek and Hotch, narrowing down the dispersal site. There were four known bodies while two were too eroded to identify. After deducing that the unsub had to have great anatomical knowledge, seclusion and skill. They had some progress narrowing down the trades or hobbies of the unsub.

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Capillary Towers are Tyranid plants that reach the upper atmosphere (and beyond). Where they grow, Reclamation Pools then start to appear. The towers are linked to them via underground roots. Later, the towers link up with the sucking proboscis feeding tubes of hive ships in low orbit, which then pump the biomass upwards and distribute it to the waiting biovessels.

The capillary towers are capable of growing in the deepest of seas, able to sustain the pressure of the depths and the coldest of waters. As they grow the planet’s tidal flow is altered by their powerful metabolic filtration systems, used to draw all biomass.


Dendronephthya australis - cauliflower animals #marineexplorer by John Turnbull
Via Flickr:
D. australis is a soft coral; the cauliflower “florets” are in fact hundreds of tiny animals feeding in the current. The colonies can contract and inflate depending on the tidal flow. There is a field of colonies growing at Bare Island, but the species is threatened by water quality and physical damage from human activities like anchoring.

The Stand 1978

I’ve seen in my dash a list of ‘100 books you should read’ or something like that, ‘The Stand’ was among them and I totally get why, it’s a book that really makes you question a lot of things about yourself, society, good vs. evil and how difficult it is at times to distinguish one from the other.

What is it about?
After a lethal strain of the flu erradicates 90% of the human population the survivors must come together choosing between two mystical figures they see in dreams and take their stand in how is this new world going to be.


I am amazed by this book, frist we have all this struggle with the government trying to deny the existance (going as far as to send the army to radio and TV stations to hold the reporters and locutors at gunpoint to keep them on the line) of this new strain of the flu– called Captain Trips or Project Blue– because they know the fucked up but don’t want to admit it even though probably everyone, including them, will die for it. Honestly terrifying and realistic af.

And then it’s over, most people die of the flu, kill themselves or die in some accident (like some immune people does at a section of the book called ‘No great loss’).

And we have our protagonists (all of them immune to the virus) : Stuart (Stu) Redman a man who worked in a fabric, Francine (Fran/Frannie) Goldsmith a college student who is pregnant, Larry Underwood a somewhat known singer, Nick Andros a deaf-mute guy turned deputy during the plague, Tom Cullen a slightly retarded guy that was left alone in his home town, Harold Launer a very smart teenager and aspiring writer, Lloyd Henreid a convict and thief, The Trashcan Man a pyromaniac and Nadine Cross an ex-teacher.

There are a lot more of characters but these are the most important ones I think.

And we have the two important figures that leas the two communities of survivors:
*Abigail Freemantle (Mother Abigail) a deeply religious 108 year old black woman that leads the Free Zone community in Boulder Colorado and she represents the Good.

*Randall Flagg (also known as the Dark Man, the Walking Dude, R.F, the Smiling Man, etc.) he is some sort of super natural creature (almost like a god) that is reborn out of chaos and destruction and at the aftermath of the Captain Trips plague he seizes the opportunity to create a society where he is God in Las Vegas, Nevada (refered constantly as the West) whose immediate goal is to destroy de Free Zone community.

One of the points I loved the most about this book it’s the possitive and amazing representation of Nick’s and Tom’s disability, they are smart, resourceful and most definitely my favorite characters in the book ( M-O-O-N that sepells I love my boys) really kudos to King for that!

Then we have the question of ageism in a lot of modern novels, we rarely see old people be active and useful, they are usually given the role of grandparents or mentors, but in The Stand 70+ year olds are totally there doing dangereous missions for the community (Judge Farris and Glen Bateman) or leading them (Mother Abigail) and that was amazingly refreshing.

We have a bisexual character! A fierce woman named Dayna, and it is thrown so casually in the book, I LOVE IT (also bless Stu’s heart, he didn’t even know what bi was and when he knew he didn’t care).

The Trashcan Man, OK so at the beginning I gave 0 fucks about him and felt his backstory/introduction was dragging on forever, and while I certainly have no Love for him, his role at the final act of the book it’s A+ (you go Trashy!!)

The morally gray characters, even if I talked about the dichtonomy of good vs. evil as a theme in this book it’s not so simple as that because every single character in this book it’s complex and flawed, Larry Underwood seems to me the perfect example, before the flu he was a FUCKING asshole and his own mother told him (ouch) as much, but through the book he changes little by little (not completely) and becomes a leader, someone trustworthy and loyal to a boot. And he is not the only one Mother Abigail and her meesages from God who seems ruthless (and the FUCKING thingy with the Dark Man tho) and yes even cruel.

Believe me this book it’s gonna blow your mind.

Movie/TV adaptations:

There’s only 1: The Stand from 1994

It’s really good, very accurate to the book the cast is FUCKING amazing (Rob Lowe plays Nick Andros and Molly Ringald plays Frannie, they gave me life) totally recommended


“No one can tell what goes between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.

“The place where you made your stand never mattered. Only that you were there… and still on your feet.”

“Above, the stars shone hard and bright, sparks struck off the dark skin of the universe.”

“Superstition, like true love, needs time to grow and reflect upon itself.”

“In his heart hope– that indestructible weed of the human heart– had begun to bloom again.”

“Sixty-four has a way of forgetting what twenty-one was like.”

“Love didn’t grow very well in a place where there was only fear, just as plants didn’t grow very well in a place where it was always dark.”

Love is what moves the world, I’ve always thought… it is the only thing which allows men and women to stand in a world where gravity seems to want to pull them down… being them low… and make them crawl.“

"I am afraid, but I have been afraid before. All he can take from me is what I would have to give up someday anyhow– my life. I will not let him break me down. I will not let him make me less than I am, if I can help it.”

“Movies, after all, are only illusion of motion comprised of thousands of still photographs. The imagination however, moves with its own tidal flow.”

Next book: “The Dead Zone”

Saint Is A Sinner Too

Chapter 42: This Is Gonna Hurt

Pairing: Isabella Moretti (OFC) x Mob Boss Negan

Warnings: Mention of injuries. Mention of murder. Lots of probably inaccurate medical stuff.

Previous chapter // Masterlist

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So I saw this wonderful picture and it inspired me to write a short fic…


Hannibal made his way slowly, through the quiet woods. He wasn’t quite sure when this became a ritual, but for the past several years he had done the same thing on this very day. A small cardboard box was under one arm, apart from that the Doctor came with just himself, in more casual attire than he usually donned. He was, after all, on a nature walk as such.

The trees began to thin out as he approached the lake. Well, it was an inlet in reality, a small neck of water joined this expanse to the sea. Streams flowed into the expanse from the risen hills that surrounded it. It was a beautiful analogy to life, ever flowing and moving and changing. It was why he had started to do this. Looking to the sky, the weather was perfect as always, divinity looking fondly upon his task. Hannibal couldn’t remember a year it had rained or even been overcast.

Boots now clunked on the wood of the jetty, it jutted out into the water like a long weathered finger, pointing coincidentally, or perhaps not, towards the corner of the lake that narrowed in its exit into the greater beyond. One he reached the end, he set the small box on the wood carefully, before he gracefully laid down on the surface himself, belly down and head hanging over the edge to stare into the green blue depths. For a moment he just observed the nearly still water below, so clear he could almost make out the details of the rocks on the bed. Sediment and smaller rocks moved gently, swirling, in the ebbs of the tidal flow. Hannibal let the peaceful tranquillity settle around his morose mood. He could only hear the gentle lapping of the water.

“Happy Birthday, Mischa.” He whispered to his own distorted reflection, trying to pick out the features in himself that favoured his sister’s own face. Propping up on his elbows, he took the box and opened it, fingers moving precisely and slowly, making the action reverent. Within lay the broken remains of a plain, white, porcelain teacup. He took a fragment and held it over the water, releasing it to break the glassy surface and then begin to float down. Hannibal watched the white shard’s journey until he could no longer make it out, settled on the bed or moving gently across it. His imagination made the thing dance and swirl, in a carefree manner. He selected the next fragment, held it out and dropped it.


Will was focussed on the crab intently, the thin rope had entangled itself quite complexly around the claw and several legs of the anxious creature. He hummed gently, the vibrations passing through the water until the crab felt them, the jittery movements of his limbs stilled. Will smiled, bubbles escaping his nose and making their way to break the surface of the water far above them.

With a final pull, the rope came free of it’s knot and slipped away from the creature. Will held on to the offending item tightly so it would not ensnare a new victim. Flexing its freed limbs for a brief moment, the crab scurried off. Contentment settled on the man as he began to stretch, having curled up tightly to complete his job. His body rolled and he unfurled his tail gracefully, large fins spreading and waving slightly in the movement of the water. Arms stretched out, then bent, resting hands behind his head as he laid upon the bed of the lake. Clear blue eyes stared up through his environment, passed the clear surface that was the roof of his home, to the sky above. White clouds moving, flowing with the breeze that formed them. The normal waves of the surface water were broken up by minute ripples, one coming after the other. Eyebrows drew together for a brief moment before memory kicked in.

Rolling to his side, the merman pushed himself away from the floor and his powerful tail pulsed, propelling him quickly and elegantly through the deep water, making his way to his vantage spot. Nearing the rocks, his fingers found the familiar crevices that allowed him to haul himself out from the water. Will laid, stomach flat on the cold, hard surface. He peered over the rock, slowly, breathing the air that was able to maintain him, but still feeling alien to him. Keeping his body still, he observed the man, as he had the last few years, laying down as he was, slowly dropping those shards into the expanse below him. The sadness was palpable. At first he had felt angry at the man for dropping the sharp objects in the water, but as the years passed that feeling had dissipated leaving only curiosity and a kind of affection. He watched humans often in this place, together or alone, smiling, laughing, sometimes crying. But there was something altogether different about this human, a deep feeling of sadness seemed to vibrate from him. A unique and utterly lonely being, Will could see this quite clearly, and he could relate entirely. Fingertips itched to reach out and breach the divide between them. To know, to see and be seen. Worrying his lip, he hesitated. His mind was set to what he had planned, nerves laced through him.

Sliding back into the water, he efficiently made his way to the cove he called home. A dogfish rested on the surface of a rock, turning slightly as the merman entered, then resting it’s head back down. Will was familiar with most if the creatures that lingered around him, that particular one he had named Winston. Although it meant nothing to the creature, it gave him a feeling of warmth to have a deeper connection to those around him. Depositing the rope that he still held into a large metal box he had salvaged, he deftly moved to a small rock on the floor. Fingers moved the rock before digging in the sediment, after a short while his fingers found the white edge of the teacup. He had spent hours, the year before, salvaging the pieces. Then more days had been spent making a paste that would hold the pieces, more still assembling them. For some reason it was cathartic, like a balm over a wound he was not aware of. It had laid here, quite safe, awaiting to be returned to the man. Will very carefully cleaned the remaining dirt from the thing, it was hardly perfect but he had felt the need to do something. To fix something for the man. He cupped the thing protectively in his hands, and made his way to the jetty, Winston’s eyes watching him go.

Will had decided to swim around the edge of the lake so as not to be detected by the man, he now laid still a few meters directly underneath the human laying on the jetty and peeked a little further out to watch the man’s face. He was handsome, a stoic beauty about his features in their stillness and concentration. Sharp and strong, utterly dignified in his isolation, almost God like. Will had never been this close to a human before, but he seemed to be drawn towards this man.


The final fragment had been dropped some time ago now and he had just been content to watch the life within the water. Hannibal moved to sit up but bubbles broke the surface near the edge of the platform. Dropping his chin his eyes searched the water and his breath hitched as he met a pair of bright blue eyes, intent on his face and submerged a meter or so beneath the surface.

A long moment passed between the two beings, assessments of the nature of the blue eyed man quickly passing through his consciousness and quickly being dismissed. No, he was definitely alive. No, he was in no danger. Stranger still, he seemed in no need to breath. The stab of anger at being observed in his ritual disappeared. A graceful swirl of movement, a flash of scaled muscle, made Hannibal’s eyes widen, uncharacteristically taken aback.

He had seen him now, and there was no going back. Holding the cup gingerly, he wondered how to initiate the exchange. A thought occurred to him, a memory.

A sad boy who had sat on the jetty above, moved to tears. A girl joining him, taking his hand and kissing him. The boy had smiled afterwards.

Will flicked his tail, movement pushing him up and breaking the surface. One hand holding the precious cup, the other gripped the wood of the platform. Blinking water from his eyes he observed the man, inches from him, his sadness shattered by surprise.

Hannibal was well aware his mouth was hanging open, the face before him was not of this world. Dark, long hair was plastered to the pale skin of the Merman’s, face. The blue eyes staring straight into the very core of him. Pink lips parted around nervous breaths, carefully sculptured features made the being utterly breathtaking. Closing his mouth, he searched for something to say, rehearsed courtesy and social cues fleeing from him. Something white flashed in his peripheral vision, as the other hand of the being came to rest on the platform, placing the item carefully next to Hannibal. He needn’t have worried, the Doctors temporary loss for words was quickly ended.

Will pulled himself up, closing the distance between them and pushing his lips softly onto the other man’s. Breath left his own nose as the initial shock left the man, mouth softening on his own. He felt breath travelling over his skin from the man’s own exhale, he had never experienced anything like it and the flesh of his body became bumpy. A hand touched his face tenderly and fingers laced through his hair, holding on to the kiss. The moment was warm and long, no one had ever touched Will before. It was overwhelming. Lips separated and they fed warmed air into one another’s mouths. Releasing the wood, Will slipped under the water, hair slipping through fingers that held their place. Turning his body in the water, the Merman quickly retreated, a mixture of reluctance and giddiness clouding his mind as he darted away.

“Wait!” Hannibal called out to the being, a flash of tail and he was gone. Like the shards, only his imagination keeping the image alive. Hand still held the air where the man had been, his heart pounded. Inhaling deeply, he memorized the scent and taste of the other. Earthy, salty, fresh and compelling to his palate. His curiosity was strangely lacking, he only felt need and eagerness to capture that being again in his fingers.

Sighing deeply, he shifted the position he had held, realising the Merman would not return. Hannibal did not wipe the water from his face, lest the memory of the sweet kiss be distanced all the quicker. Remembering the item the other had left, he turned his head. Eyebrows quickly drew together as he pushed himself up, and curled fingers around the vessel gently. Hannibal almost forgot to breath as he observed the cup. His cup. The cup he had shattered last year, it was indeed the very same, maker’s mark still clear on the base. A substance had been used to piece it together and it made the cup all the more beautiful, the veins sparkled, silver with flecks of green and blue. Like his eyes.

Warmth settled on his eyes as he squeezed them shut. A single tear escaped and slowly travelled over Hannibal’s cheek. The teacup had come back together.  



In beginning this, we must understand that there is no beginning. In understanding, we must accord ourselves certain latitudes; we are after all amidst the chaos of the normal. Such chaos is, in point of fact, borne of certain curvatures and shapings of which we are not, at least initially, entirely cognizant.

We perceive the world as outside ourselves; the arrangement of disorder as a thing and of itself. Order is that which is perceptible, and so we find ourselves equating the breaking-apart of perception to be like unto a shattering of of some ceramic vase, some clay cup. Its destruction seems without sense; as individually featureless as the shards and the spaces between that which we once thought whole.

The particular configuration of experience we are used to – that is to say, that which we conceive of as being the default, is wrung out of that same chaotic normality. The breadth of possibility is immense, and yet we willingly confine ourselves to narrow prescriptiveness for the sake of convention.

All this is to say that we use others to reckon upon our position and boundaries. The curvature, the very arc of of normality is self-referential, and needs must be so in order to preserve integrity.

And yet, it is is this self-referential quality which places us at the mouth of a great river – the estuary from which everything flows hereafter into the sea of the Soul. The same sea which is reflected in every mere, lake, spring and well which humankind has called holy since we were born to know.

As an enclosed space, the normal has provided us with safe-harbour – a notion of stability which has insulated us against the sheer power and fluidity of that same sea. From within this place, we were able to finally observe the times and tides as if from a position apart – to take a breath before heading inland in search of higher ground, from which we might survey our seeming domain.

That same higher ground was sought precisely because of tidal flow, the implacable rise and ebb which could seem so placid, and yet drag us down with savage undertow, down into the dark and lightless depths.

From on high, the rip and curl of wave, the roaring pulse of onrush and flood could do little; the pounding breakers receding into the distance. Only in dreaming terror, burning lust or frenzied rage would the echo be remembered, would the pulse of the blood come to recall us to our origins. Only in extasis, when we came to ourselves once more. Only in the fury, the nocturnal archaism of the primordial would we coalesce, would we come together, not as single entities long divided by distance and time, but as the coven and the band, the horde and army bound together in primordial kinship, eschewing division and separation.

No longer simply holding position, requiring another to define location and form, but as court and constellation; each utterly alone in the howling silence, isolate and containing an unuttered vastness.

For those same wells and springs were well guarded, their waters deep and hungry; even amidst the solid lands, fathomless dark portals now freezing the marrow. These our bloody passages, our ever-swallowing receivers of sacrifice.

In-betweennesses abound; the waters were never thin. Instead, thick and and all encompassing, so these Soul-portals recall the bloodlit archaisms of our origins.


Blood and honey. These mark out the daemonic – the sweet nectar and the bitter draught. From the ferment of the normal, its very death and dissolution comes the wine. And that same death and dissolution comes from its distillation and concentration; the inescapable vitalism found within its every portion.

The same cup which was so all encompassing now brims over. The void begs to be filled; that which is no longer capable becomes its own monument; the ruins breaking up the landscape like jagged teeth; shards that lie in wait to open veins, to return us to the understanding of our own labyrinthine nature. The monstrous daemon at our very heart waits in darkness like a burning star within the earth; the immortal congress of kosmic Eros giving birth to a terrible, awful understanding.

There is no word which is poetry. No verse which is rhythm entire, or rune all-encompassing. Conveyance flounders, speech is dumbstruck and silence echoes with an ache that shall never be satiated.

This is the pain of Gethsemane, the thorny spear which wounds us as we are bound to the Tree, that windy gallows at the crossroads of Golgotha upon which we hang for nine whole nights, walking the paths of the dead without moving.

We thirst, but are given no mead. We hunger, but are given no bread.

Utterly alone, so we hang in sacrifice. We are anointed, blessed by own blood, sacrificing ourselves to the upwelling of the Soul, self now obsessed, possessed by Self. Memory and Thought now raise twin heads, converge to feast upon our very body, drink our blood, bringing ten thousand wild hunters to feast upon this prey, now brought inexorably to bay.

Behold then, the feast in all its frenzy, all its wine-dark essence; this most primordial revelation.

The daemonic polarity is inescapable; the magnetic pulse draws countless familiars. In counterpoint, it is we who become once more the Stranger, the endless wanderer with the ravenous hunger for Gnosis.

We, who were given no bread, no mead, may devour all things, and in doing so, bring forth communion. We are nourished by the Soul, which liberates the Spirit from its own bondage, and engenders an orgia of ambrosial wonder, a shining blood-glow of poetic mead that burns like the very sun itself, a whirling wheel as terrible and glorious as blackest Time Beyond Time.

We cannibalise ourselves, even as we devour and our devoured by courts of intimate and terrible deities; the freezing wastes inhabit our very marrow and we are consumed by the Heraclitan fire.

All is fury. And in that bloody inundation, that primordial drowning, we are thrice baptised in the battle-sweat which cools and purifies us anew, to stand as feral children of the pleromatic Allfather; lone harriers and fighters who fight and die and rise again in the Primal Night of Images.

Warrior-poets, vagabonds, singers, lovers, aristocrats of the Soul; we who listen to the rhythm and the runes, the tides and the pulse, who go forth and back and in between.

We who know naught, and in knowing naught, may know precisely what is needful; who love Wisdom as the dark and fierce Lady she is, hidden in all things, so we raise our voices as we sing forever:

Be Whole!


The Moon

I’ve written about the Sun sign - our essence, our divine mission, the principle we’re trying to live up to - and the Rising sign - the path we take to get there, our personality, our appearance. After getting to know these two aspects of your chart, it’s time to move onto the third most important, the Moon sign. The Moon is our innermost self. The core of our being. The part of yourself you’ll never be able to shake because it was formed in your earliest years. The Moon represents our emotional inheritance from our family, specifically our mother. The sign our Moon is in shows how we perceived our mother - a homemaker in Cancer, a fighting spirit in Aries, an eccentric in Aquarius. Because we are so bonded with our mothers in childhood (or the mothering figure in your life), through symbiosis we take on some of her characteristics. We are heavily shaped by this early experience.

And so the Moon tends to show itself as our instinctual reactions. It is our more unconscious side, and it pops up when we are in danger (emotional or physical). It is also our emotional needs and desires, what we need to feel comfortable. What makes us feel safe. It is how we express ourselves emotionally, whether we keep it all inside (Capricorn), display it dramatically (Leo), or intellectualize it (Gemini). It’s important to understand your Moon sign because we all have an emotional subconscious side that will rear its head in moments of weakness - not that emotion is weak, it’s just that sometimes we’re trying to keep our head above water and rely on our conscious minds instead of our hearts. But the heart, our true emotional self, always finds its way into our actions. Society views this way of acting as instinctual, animalistic. The werewolf transformed into a wild animal on the night of the Full Moon. The woman is branded with PMS and PMDD when she follows the lead of her emotions around that time of the month (the menstrual cycle is 28 days, just like the cycle of the moon). Society has shunned this natural wisdom of the lunar cycle, of the tidal flowing of the soul. And yet, everyone has a Moon in their charts, men and women alike. When we cut ourselves off from this side of ourselves, we cut ourselves off from our ancestry, our hearts, our foundation.

The sign of your Moon sign shows how you express your emotions and what you need to feel secure. Our self-image is also reflected in the Moon, just as the Sun’s light (our essence) is reflected on the Moon’s surface. If the needs of your Moon aren’t met, your self-esteem will plummet while your insecurity grows larger. The house placement of your Moon shows the area of life you feel comfortable and secure. What comes easily to you. And where you may find emotional fulfillment. In the third house, you are comfortable in the intellectual realm. In the seventh house, in the land of relationships. In the tenth house, you are comfortable in the career world. In the fourth, you feel safe in your home with your family.

The Sun is the masculine, externalizing force, the principle going out into the world and making something of himself. The Moon is the feminine, receptive, internalizing force, at home re-producing the means for life. We all have this balance of masculine and feminine energy, yin and yang. Although the Sun sign is very important and shows your vital energy force, you need to balance your life out with the Moon, your sensitivity and receptivity. We are all a blend of consciousness and unconsciousness, light and dark.

Sam Winchester Dirty Imagine: Patching Up

A/N: As a reminder, requests are still closed.


Sam limped through the door with his hand holding onto his side for dear life. He was being supported by his older brother Dean, whose scared and worried facial expression sent (Y/N) in a state of panic.

“What the hell happened?!” she exclaimed.

Sam winced as Dean gingerly lowered him onto the table. 

“Turns out we were wrong. It’s not a bunch of angry spirits we’re after; it’s a big ass vampire clan.” Dean gruffly responded. 

She frowned in confusion. That couldn’t have been right. Everything they investigated led them to believe that the mass killings that were happening in the town they were in were led by a group of spirits who were in a murderous cult back in the 1970s. Nothing told them that it was vampires instead.

 She quickly shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense..”

“I know it doesn’t,” Dean answered back rather harshly, “so something’s up. We need to go back and look at everything we’ve got so far. Obviously something went wrong - I just don’t know what it is.”

Sam uncomfortably shifted his seating position on the table, causing him to painfully groan. (Y/N) immediately rushed to his side with her first aid kit in hand and started to clean and dress his wounds. Sam did nothing but stare at her and smile graciously at her. “Thanks (Y/N)”. 

Her eyes lit up as she responded, “Anytime, Sam.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at his younger brother and stared between the two of them intently. Sam quickly locked eyes with his brother but uncomfortably looked away as (Y/N) told him to take off his shirt so she could stitch up a knife wound. 

Dean smirked and decided that some alone time between his brother and his brother’s crush was in needed at the moment. 

“Well,” Dean spoke loudly, “I guess I should go find Cas…he uh, he disappeared. Probably went to go find a White Castle, uh…bye.”

With that, he shrugged on his coat and left before (Y/N) and Sam could bid him goodbye. 

“That was weird.” (Y/N) muttered. Sam nervously nodded in agreement.

In a way, (Y/N) was thankful that Sam was attacked by the vampires. Not in a bad way, like she hated him. But she was grateful because it gave her a chance to gawk at Sam’s chiseled body without looking like a total creep. 

Her breathing shook as she cleaned up the blood and medicated the cuts and bruises littered on his torso. She had just gotten to the knife wound on Sam’s chest when he cleared his throat apprehensively. 

“Uh, (Y/N)?”

(Y/N) immediately snapped out of her trance, heart beating faster than ever. “What, what is it?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You were kind of…staring at my chest..”

(Y/N)’s face burned with embarrassment as she did her best to avoid Sam’s stare and stitch up the last of the knife wound. As she brushed her fingers over it, Sam hissed quietly in pain. 

(Y/N) mumbled a “sorry” as she healed him and forced herself to not run her hand completely over his very warm and toned chest. 

She had turned around to throw away the soiled bandages and cloths but froze in place when, in a moment of bravery, Sam had wrapped his arms around (Y/N) and pulled him into his warm and comforting chest.

(Y/N) couldn’t see or feel it, but Sam was shaking as he kissed her temple and moved his kisses slowly down the side her face until he reached her neck. Her breathing became erratic as she fluttered her eyes shut and let him suck softly on her neck.

“S-Sam..” she stuttered. He mumbled a “hmm?” against her skin as a response. 

“W-what are yo-u doing? Oh…” she let out a tiny gasp as Sam grabbed her breast through her thin t-shirt in one hand and started to squeeze it gently. She moaned softly against him until Sam grumbled with desire against her neck. He turned (Y/N) around and intertwined his hands in hers as Sam sat back down on the table with (Y/N) in between his legs.

Sam’s lips brushed ever so softly against (Y/N)’s as he wrapped her arms around her waist. Her soft hands caressed his biceps as he finally kissed her.

Their lips melded together in a warm embrace. Heads were spinning, body temperatures were rising, hearts were soaring. Sam kissed her as if she were an angel made from stardust and diamonds, holding her in his embrace as if she would disappear the second he let go. (Y/N) clung onto him for dear life as if this was all a dream, like she would wake up to her phone alarm as if kissing Sam had never happened. She let her lips be kissed by a man with all of the glory, love, and joy that she wanted to be loved by. It was a miracle, being kissed like this. And both of them swore that in that very moment, they were infinite. 

Sam hands gently trailed up and down her body as they kissed, and it wasn’t until he grabbed her bum that (Y/N) had pulled away unexpectedly. 

“Sam, I-”

“Please.” his voice was hoarse. It was desperate and oh, so full of love. 

He grabbed the back of her head and rested his forehead against hers as she stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes. 

“Please let this happen.” he nearly begged, “I don’t care if this is a mistake, I don’t care if you don’t think anything is going to come out of this. But please, just let this happen. I love you so much; you have no idea how long I’ve waited for something like this to happen. Just…please.”

She melted under his words and nodded as he pressed her tight against his chest again, only breaking away to undress her and vice versa. 

Within seconds, there was a pile of clothes on the floor. Sam picked up (Y/N) and wrapped her legs around his waist as he stumbled blindly into his bedroom. There, they got tangled up in the sheets as he laid her down and worshiped her body. 

(Y/N) moaned lightly under him as Sam kissed down her thighs and pressed his lips to her clit. He gently sucked on it as she grabbed onto his hair and threw her head back against the sheets. 

A finger was inserted, then another. Sam thrusted in and out with his fingers and looked up, making eye contact with (Y/N). He grew hard at the sight of her above him: eyes wide open, chest heaving, mouth spilling out perfectly angelical moans and whimpers. Sam moaned into her core, making her come instantly into his face and allowing him to lick up her juices. 

She sat up and pulled Sam onto the bed. Her face was flushed and her breathing was unstable, but it didn’t matter. (Y/N) pushed Sam onto the sheets and straddled him, kissing his neck and traveling down to his hard member. Sam delicately groaned as she sucked on the tip, running her tongue over it and pumping the rest with her hand. 

She took him further into his mouth, sucking harder the further she went down. He gently fisted her hair in his hands as (Y/N) went down on him. The moans and choppy breaths that were elicited from his mouth made her wet again immediately. As (Y/N) allowed him to touch the back of her throat, she gagged slightly, but made Sam moan as loud as he could. 

“Stop!” he nearly whined. (Y/N) pulled her mouth off of him.

“Ride me.” Sam nearly begged. Without any hesitation, (Y/N) straddled him and grinded herself over his rock hard shaft, teasing him a little bit. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Sam groaned. His fingers dug into (Y/N)’s waist and she bit her lip to refrain herself from moaning. Eventually, she stopped teasing and finally slowly slid herself down over his large member. Once she sunk down on him, (Y/N)’s vision was flooded with stars. She let out a loud gasp as he became buried to the hilt and Sam painfully waited for her to adjust to his size. It took everything in him to not pound her right where she sat.

Finally, (Y/N) began to move. She bounced up and down on him perfectly, his member squeezing walls that had never been reached before. A deep moan bubbled from (Y/N)’s lips as she squeezed and contracted around him. 

Sam suddenly began to jostle his hips against hers, no longer being able to sit idly by as he realized he was able to completely fill (Y/N) up. (Y/N) whimpered as he bounced her on his stiff cock, making the experience all the more pleasurable for the both of them. She tried to lean forward to kiss him, but they were panting too much for them to really kiss one another - and so Sam heaved himself into a sitting position as he bucked her lips harshly against hers.

Sam panted and groaned underneath her as he fucked her. (Y/N) wrapped her arms around his neck and she allowed him to fill her up over and over again, clinging on for dear life as she allowed herself to be ravished by Sam Winchester. 

(Y/N) felt Sam’s hands around her tighten as she moaned and dug her nails into his shoulder. Sam grunted, he knew there were going to be noticeable marks by the time this was over. 

“Ah! Oh God, Sam!” (Y/N) nearly screamed as she felt herself near her orgasm. 

“Fuck, (Y/N)…” Sam grunted. 

Their orgasms came over them like a tidal wave, flowing out from the deepest parts of their bodies and flooding the air. Loud moans and groans could be heard as they climaxed with Sam buried deep inside of (Y/N). It was a type of euphoria that had never been experienced before, and it was something that could never be experienced with another person. (Y/N) had always loved Sam from the start, but the amazing sex they just had made her love him all the more. Sam felt the exact same way.

As (Y/N) gently lifted herself off of him, Sam lay down with (Y/N) on top of his hot body. They were both excruciatingly tired and sweaty, but it didn’t matter. At this moment in time, both were seen as beautiful in each other’s eyes. 

As they lay there in silence, the anxiety Sam had felt when he first kissed (Y/N) swelled up again, making his throat become dry and his hands tremble slightly as he held her. 

“I love you.” he blurted out into the dimly lit room. 

(Y/N) froze under his touch. Her heart skipped multiple beats as she heard Sam say the three words she always wanted to hear him say.

“I love you too.” she replied back almost immediately, leaning up and kissing him passionately. 

Both Sam and (Y/N) smiled into the kiss as they held each other as two people in love for the first time.

ok so yall with your typical gems given to stan and ford in the crystal pines au

but have you considered: cape may diamonds

o kbut stan and ford’s gemstones are cape may diamonds because hell i just found out about them theyre not actually diamonds, theyre a type of quartz. and it’s funny because the diamond part of the name actually came from a scam to get it to sell more even tho it’s aCTually pure quartz

cape may diamonds look like this

they tend to wash down from the delaware river to the beaches on cape may point, new jersey but geologists say a lot of them are from local desposits.

The Kechemeche Indians were the first to find the fascinating and beautiful stones now known as "Cape May Diamonds.” The translucent gems were held in high esteem by the Kechemeche “who attached mystical powers and a sacred trust to their possession.” They believed the curious stones possessed supernatural powers, “influencing the success, well-being and good fortune of the possessor.” Larger, flawless stones were often given as a token to seal the bonds of friendship. "Cape May Diamonds" are pure quartz crystals and are found in a variety of sizes and colors. 

The actual source of these amazing gems is in the faraway upper reaches of the Delaware River. Pieces of quartz crystal are eroded and broken off from veins and pockets by the swift running waters of streams. Then begins the some 200 mile journey that takes thousands of years to complete. The strong tidal flow against the hulk of the sunken concrete ship “Atlantus” is the cause for them to wash ashore here in such great abundance. When polished and faceted, these gems have the actual appearance of real diamonds. Before the advent of modern gem scanning equipment, many a pawn broker was fooled by a “Cape May Diamond.”

cape may diamonds are gemstones found on the beaches of new jersey, the ‘diamond’ in the name came from some pawn broker getting ripped off, they have a nice sandy childhood color and are very souvenir-like

it’s perfect, people

Jack emerged from down below with a big smile. “I’ve synced the navigation computer with the Hub. Gwen’s calculated the likely tidal flows of last night, so we’ll follow that out to sea. And if there’s so much as a flutter of wings from anything in the water, the sensors in the bow will pick it up and adjust our bearings. So, sailor boy, all we have to do is sit back.”

“Can I not… you know,” ventured Ianto.

Jack knew what Ianto wanted to do, and it wasn’t every day you got to cruse past the assorted sailors and yachters out on a blowy day in the Bristol Channel. “If you want to stand by the wheel looking cool, that’s okay with me,” he grinned.

Ianto slipped on a pair of shades and stood proudly on the deck.

—  The Sin Eaters
Torchwood Audio Book

Myxilla incrustans

…is a species of encrusting Myxillid demosponge which ranges from the Faroe Islands, off the coasts of Norway south along the Atlantic to the Mediterranean Sea. M. incrustans is typically found between the low water mark to a depth of 400m, where it will encrust on vertical rocks and areas exposed to tidal flows. 

M. incrustans is also known to occur in the North west Pacific Ocean and in Japanese waters where it is typically known to encrust the shells of clams in the genus Chalmys


Animalia-Porifera-Demospongiae-Poecilosclerida-Myxillidae-Myxilla-M. incrustans

Image: Cwmhiraeth

Am Alsterufer, Hamburg, Northern Germany. The Alster is a right tributary of the Elbe river. With its source in Schleswig-Holstein, it flows through much of Hamburg and joins the Elbe in central Hamburg. While the Elbe is a tidal navigation of international significance and prone to flooding, the Alster is a non-tidal, slow-flowing and in some places, seemingly untouched idyll of nature, elsewhere it’s a tamed and landscaped urban space. In the city center, the river forms two lakes, both prominent features in Hamburg’s cityscape.

Bad or good, movies nearly always have a strange diminishing effect on works of fantasy (of course there are exceptions; The Wizard of Oz is an example which springs immediately to mind). In discussions, people are willing to cast various parts endlessly. I’ve always thought Robert Duvall would make a splendid Randall Flagg, but I’ve heard people suggest such people as Clint Eastwood, Bruce Dern and Christopher Walken. They all sound good, just as Bruce Springsteen would seem to make an interesting Larry Underwood, if ever he chose to try acting (and, based on his videos, I think he would do very well … although my personal choice would be Marshall Crenshaw). But in the end, I think it’s best for Stu, Larry, Glen, Frannie, Ralph, Tom Cullen, Lloyd, and that dark fellow to belong to the reader, who will visualize them through the lens of the imagination in a vivid and constantly changing way no camera can duplicate. Movies, after all, are only an illusion of motion comprised of thousands of still photographs. The imagination, however, moves with its own tidal flow. Films, even the best of them, freeze fiction - anyone who has ever seen One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest and then reads Ken Kesey’s novel will find it hard or impossible not to see Jack Nicholson’s face on Randle Patrick McMurphy. That is not necessarily bad … but it is limiting. The glory of a good tale is that it is limitless and fluid; a good tale belongs to each reader in its own particular way.
—  Stephen King


Rob Mulholland

“Tide Flow - Time Flow”

Mirrored Stainless Steel Figures Approx 1.85 mtrs High

Installation at the Caol Ruadh Sculpture Park 2012  on the kyles of Bute, Argyll, Scotland

Exhibition open from 24th June to October 2012

Rob Mulholland’s latest installation ‘ Tide Flow – Time Flow ‘ is part of a group exhibition at the newly opened Caol Ruadh Sculpture Park overlooking the Kyles of Bute, Argyll, Scotland.

“‘ Tide Flow – Time Flow ‘ has been installed on the shores of the Kyles of Bute. As the tide ebbs and flows, the reflections of the sun and sea constantly alter the appearance of the mirrored stainless steel forms creating a kinetic surface that moves to the rhythm of the sea. The Cretaceous sea-forms, standing alongside the human figures, are a reference to our genetic past and ask us to consider our evolutionary journey thus far. ”