PĂșca doodles!

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PĂșca doodles!

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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A certain fisherman [...] went to the same place again to fish, and he put a row of hooks on his heels in case he met the PĂșca again; he attached them like a horseman's spurs. When evening drew near, he made a halter of the fishing-line for the PĂșca. The PĂșca met him the second time. He himself caught the PĂșca, put the fishing-line over his head like a halter, and started to ride him. He drove him wherever he wanted to go, and he kept putting his heels with the hooks like spurs to the PĂșca's sides, so that the PĂșca was shedding blood from the pricks of the hooks.
Excerpt from "The PĂșca: A Multi-Functional Irish Supernatural Entity" by DeasĂșn Breatnach
buy a print of this piece here :>
The pĂșca (or pooka, or puck - there are many variants on their name, depending on who is telling the story) is a mischievous creature of Irish and English folklore, a shapeshifter who may appear as any number of creatures, most often a wild colt. Naughty children are warned against eating overripe blackberries because they may have been entered by the pĂșca. If you accept a ride from the pĂșca, you may expect a wild, white-knuckle gallop and that will likely end quite abruptly when you are thrown from their back. Spurs may protect you, but if you don't have any, don't worry too much. These are creatures of mischief rather than of malice, and they are often protective or helpful spirits.
Watercolour and coloured pencil on paper. Inspired by The PĂșca: A Multifunctional Irish Supernatural Entity by DeasĂșn Breatnach and Tamsin by Peter S Beagle
Eivor⊠please đ you had perfect pronunciation of "PĂșca" then not even five seconds later forgot said word.... I find this behavior unbelievably adorable and officially deem Eivor the cutest girl in all of Ireland.
Photo of me in a park in Chicago, early September 2009, wearing a coyote tail and playing a snakeskin banjo. I initially captioned it âIâm such a pĂșca.â

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The Golden Harvest: Planting the Otherworld
The Burren didn't just witness the delivery; it participated. As Ethan leaned against the ancient, silver-barked hawthorn, the ground beneath him began to churn like a slow-motion whirlpool of rich, black peat and glowing blue embers. The air was no longer just mist; it was a thick, shimmering curtain of "Between-Time" that separated the world of men from the realm of the Pooka.
The delivery was less a biological labor and more a magical extraction. Ethan felt a profound, liquid heat radiate from his core, a sensation of molten gold sliding through his veins toward the point of release.
With a sharp, ozone-scented gasp, the first egg emerged. It didn't fall; it was pulled by the roots of the tree. It was perfectly oval, the size of a large hare, its shell a semi-translucent gold that vibrated with a soft, melodic hum. The other five followed in a rhythmic, pulsing sequence. As each egg left his body, the agonizing pressure that had defined Ethan's last eight days vanished, replaced by a cold, tingling void. The glowing roots of the hawthorn reached out like wooden fingers, gently guiding the six golden ovals into the soft, luminescent hollow in the earth. Once the clutch was settled, the peat began to fold back over them, hiding the harvest from mortal eyes.
Throughout the ordeal, the Pooka remained a statue of midnight fur on the limestone ridge.
Its golden eyes were the only part of it that seemed alive, glowing with an intensity that rivaled the eggs. There was no fatherly warmth in that gazeâonly the cold, ancient satisfaction of a cycle successfully renewed.
As the last egg was buried, the Pooka stood taller, its long ears swiveling toward the tree. It let out a single, low vibrationâa sound that Ethan felt in his marrowâbefore it turned and dissolved into the mist, its silhouette flickering and then vanishing entirely.
Ethan slumped further against the tree, his body feeling impossibly light. His abdomen, once a lumpy mountain of golden potential, was now visibly deflated, the skin wrinkled and cooling in the Irish night. The golden flecks in his eyes began to dim, retreating back into his natural hazel, though a faint, shimmering residue of the Pookaâs magic remained on his skin like fine, golden dust.
The "Thinning" was over. The gateway was closing.