#content warning: war

[1ore]

speaking of deserts, im sad this article isn't available to read publicly because it whips ass, but i can do what i always do. quote heavily

From 'Without Form and Void: The American Desert as Trope and Terrain' by John Beck:

The Hebrew word tohu is usually translated in two ways. It can denote an arid wilderness, a desert, and it can refer to chaos. In this latter sense it is usually paired with bohu, which signifies emptiness, desolation, formlessness, confusion. Tohu-bohu, desert and desolation, chaos and confusion, or “without form and void,” as it is translated in Genesis. Chaos itself denotes a vast chasm, an abyss; in other words, it is a gap. Yet can a gap be without form, since it exists as the opening between things, as the interval that separates? [...] the abyssal chaos, which is also an arid wilderness, is far from being the vacuum of worthlessness it is often read as being. It is, instead, the ground of potentiality, the necessary generative stuff of creation. The void, then[...] is a place rather than a nonplace, and, as the place where God performs His differentiating acts—dividing earth from sky, sea from land, day from night—it is the location of differentiation itself, the place of infinite multiplicity. An actual desert place is thus burdened with a double conceptual significance: it is read at the same time as evidence of an absolute void and as the place for boundless free play, and deserts invariably elicit responses of both terror and ecstasy, of disgust and liberation. The idea of a desert, then, at least in cultures that draw upon Hebrew and Christian traditions, involves a cluster of notions including vacancy, expansiveness, and fearful potentiality. Not surprisingly, actual deserts carry the burden of this metaphorical overlay, a burden that manifests itself not just in the artistic responses to the physical space but in the institutional practices that govern its economic and political uses. The impact of this metaphorical construction of landscape is nowhere more pronounced than in the deserts of the southwestern United States.

[...] From the overarching conception of the desert as vacancy, at least five main rhetorical tropes emerge[...] first, that acceptance of the desert’s emptiness, and thus its uselessness, allows the space to become the venue for unhindered experimentation, a testing ground both physical and spiritual. Second, the desert is a metaphor of apocalypse, evidence of the ultimate wasteland. Third, the desert is often apprehended as the limit to reason, its vastness and tendency to alter habits of perception making it a physical challenge to expected modes of comprehension. Following from this, the desert can become either a venue for an escape from modernity, an elemental alternative to the rational order of “civilized” life, or, conversely, representative of the chaos of an unordered primal “nature” that must be resisted and expunged. Finally, as the American desert lies within the economically emergent post–World War II “New West,” the desert can increasingly be seen as representative of aspects of contemporary capitalism: a space without boundaries, unhindered and unregulated by old practices and habits[...]

[...] What is striking is how these rhetorical constructions accommodate both negative and positive readings at the same time. The desert is glorious and horrible, a refuge and a danger, horizonless and thus a threat to sanity, and so on. These paradoxes not only appear irresolvable, they tend also to be intrinsic to the ways in which the terrain is put to use, both figuratively and literally. This is a space of everything and nothing, a space of visual intoxication and invisible toxicity. In this ostensibly most exposed of environments, exposure functions, perversely and disturbingly, as a form of concealment.

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[...] For a nation concerned with agricultural expansion as the primary civilizing force, hitting arid lands meant that “the project of mastering the continent seemed to have reached a non-negotiable limit. By all the conventional standards of value and habitability, the desert was an irrational environment, a betrayal of abundance fulfilled everywhere in North America."[...]

[...]The American desert, like its biblical counterparts, could be a site for testing, for challenging and overcoming the temptations of civilized life. While the desert became, after the mid-nineteenth century, a site of economic value due to the discovery of minerals, by the turn of the century monetary gain was not the only attractive force drawing people toward a reconciliation with the desert West. Growing dissatisfaction with American capitalist culture among the well-off, educated middle classes made the deserts inviting as a purgative space of romantic sublimity and aesthetic purity. Even as the evangelism of Progressive irrigationists began to display an increased confidence in the possibility of redemption for the terrain through cultivation, as if technology could finally fill the gap and convert the land to the righteousness of agriculture, aesthetes like Rutgers art historian John C. Van Dyke were writing about the visual splendor of a land that should remain untouched by base economic interests.

The conflict between contesting impulses toward either exploitation or conservation of the land is, then, present from the beginning of U.S. interest in its desert dominion, yet both positions derive at least part of their authority from the imposition of ideas of vacancy onto the terrain. Both read the space as empty and see this emptiness as its source of value, whether it be to extract from, build upon, or contemplate as evidence of some cosmic truth. Yet this notional vacancy, saturated as it is in the Hebrew and Christian traditions of desert iconography, functions also as a form of selective blindness that eliminates consideration of native inhabitants, indigenous traditions, and other, alternative spiritual and utilitarian values that may have prior claim to the land. Speculators and aesthetes alike need the tropes of emptiness and uselessness in order to validate their construction of the landscape as available space. Do the Pueblo Indians, for example, see the terrain they have inhabited for thousands of years as a gap, a vacancy, a howling wilderness?[...]

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[...]Given the persistence of desert readings that seem to find apocalypse in the terrain even before the military managed to enact one, is it possible that the landscape somehow invites thoughts of destruction? For a topography that reveals to the human gaze the elemental resistance of the nonhuman to recuperation must then suffer the vengeance of a frustrated conqueror. Is the pursuit of desert destruction an implosion of anxiety in the face of the inscrutable landscape? Faced with a space that refuses settlement and that, in its taciturnity, overturns the logic of expansion and ownership, reason folds in on itself and results in the mentality summed up by the now infamous comment of the general during the Vietnam War that “we had to destroy the city in order to save it.”[...] Could the desert, as a particular topographical site, stand for the terminal point in an entire history of U.S. pursuit of a tabula rasa? Such a history would include, but would not by any means be exhausted by, policies of deforestation, the extermination of Indians and of buffalo, the gridding of the territories, and the marking-off of national parks as managed wilderness. Manifest destiny is here rewritten to mean an unlimited attack on the desert as Other, which culminates in the desert as all-encompassing, the obliterated, uninterrupted space of absolute power.

[...]This is precisely what Leslie Marmon Silko’s Tayo, traumatized by battle and captivity in the Pacific, perceives in a moment of clarity as he cries with relief “at finally seeing the pattern” that connects the alienating deterioration of his southwestern Laguna Pueblo community and military operations overseas:

He had been so close to it, caught up in it for so long that its simplicity struck him deep inside his chest: Trinity Site, where they exploded the first atomic bomb, was only three hundred miles to the southeast, at White Sands. And the top-secret laboratories where the bomb had been created were deep in the Jemez Mountains, on land the Government took from Cochiti Pueblo: Los Alamos, only a hundred miles northeast of him now... There was no end to it; it knew no boundaries; and he had arrived at the point of convergence where the fate of all living things, and even the earth, had been laid.

The apocalyptic power of America’s nuclear weapons has not only been achieved by yet another assault on Indian sovereignty, cordoning off and irradiating great swathes of terrain; this power has, in an inversion of crushing irony, brought everything together in one final communion. After Los Alamos, “human beings were one clan again, united by the fate the destroyers planned for all of them, for all living things; united by a circle of death that devoured people in cities twelve thousand miles away, victims who had never known these mesas, who had never seen the delicate colors of the rocks which boiled up their slaughter.”

[m0r1bund]

“1ore, couldn’t you separate these into individual pieces so that they aren’t a mile long” absolutely not. I hope you understand. Image captions are enclosed under the cut for length, continue reading below or at m0r1bund.com ▶︎

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[Image: A sketch page of two space marine-lookin’ gals. The one on the top right is a Sibyl, or some kind of warrior-priest, and she looks like your average lawful good paladin. She is outfitted in heavy power armor, wielding a huge claymore and a cog-shaped shield that’s just out of view. She has a somewhat dour profile with a strong jaw, sharp chin, and aquiline nose. A streak of grey runs through her long, black hair, and her undereyes are adorned with dark and heavy mascara, or maybe facepaint. Two wing-shaped ornaments rise from the air canister/jump pack on her back, adorned with prayer tags.

Her counterpart on the left, the ex-Sibyl, is outfitted in a similar fashion. She looks more like the frontrunner of a heavy metal band, though. Her armor is defaced with paintings of teeth and eyes, studded to hell and back, and singed in places. Several broken wing ornaments hang from the hem of her tattered shawl, like a fringe, and they sway as she raises up a bolter the size of her forearm. She has equally strong features as her cohort, but they’re softened a bit, with a broad nose that bows slightly at the end, and a more rounded jawline. Her head is shaved in a messy undercut, with long, white bangs flopping over the left half of her face. She wears black lipstick and smiles unhingedly, eyes wide enough to show her black sclera.

The right half of her face is overtaken with the inky black tendrils of some sort of shapeshifting disease. They creep down to where her right arm would otherwise be, unravelling like strings of smoke, or roots. The many cords of tissue come together at the end and form a huge, clawed hand.

Various sketches show the Sibyl and ex-Sibyl locked in bloody combat with each other. Contending with the shapeshifter is an ordeal—she advances on the Sibyl, limbs passing like smoke through her sword and shield, but the Sibyl holds her own. Though the Sibyl wears a helmet, and the ex-Sibyl a mask, they seem to lock eyes with one another.

Even when she is grievously injured and bleeding out, the Sibyl rebukes her foe. She weakly balls her fist around the ex-Sibyl’s shawl and pushes her away. The ex-Sibyl unmasks out of respect and cradles the Sibyl’s body, but it’s hard to say whether the woman perceives her deranged smile as respectful. Another drawing shows the ex-Sibyl dragging her old enemy’s body away, leaving bloody smears in the dirt.

When the Sibyl comes to, she’s not dead—just lying on an altar with her wounds mysteriously dressed. She maybe wishes she was dead, though, judging from her indignant expression. She finds and confronts the ex-Sibyl with a kitchen knife, but it’s hard to hold a knife to that shit-eating grin when it’s the same shit-eating grin that saved her life.

The rest of the drawings unravel in many different directions. Other encounters are shown, with the two Sibyls getting maybe a little bit too close in the heat of battle. In one, the ex-Sibyl kisses the Sibyl’s knuckles like a knight swearing fealty; in another, the Sibyl tries very very very hard to read a holy text while the ex-Sibyl wraps her monstrous arms around her, tendrils creeping in unhelpful directions.

One drawing shows the Sibyl spearing her rival clear through the torso. The ex-Sibyl is unbothered, flesh unravelling into those cords of shapeshifting tissue. “Is there even anything human left in you?” asks the Sibyl, to which her foe responds “How am I supposed to know if you keep dismembering me?”

A series of margin doodles shows the Sibyl holding the ex-Sibyl at gunpoint, straining, and saying “If I go to hell for this I’m taking you with me.” The ex-Sibyl gasps, touches her face with glee, and says “PROMISE???”

Another comic shows our old friends, the Chief and her research assistant, discussing the new arrivals. The R.A. wraps her arms around the Chief’s big shoulders and says “There were other women in your company? This is great! You must be so happy to see them again!”

The Chief strains. “Um—”

At that, the Sibyl rocks up and postures at the two women, smiling menacingly. “Irene Lysimachia Isidoros,” she says, addressing the Chief with her full name.

The Chief strains harder. “Hello, sister.”

The Sibyl continues. “Heh… So the rumors are true. You’ve gone soft. Of course, I always knew you were a weak-willed fool.”

The Chief’s silence is interrupted only by the sound of the R.A.’s opinion taking a swandive, but before either of them can say anything, the ex-Sibyl kicks down the door and says “HEY. PRIESTESS.”

The Sibyl turns to look, and is rendered speechless by the shock of seeing her old enemy again. It ends when the ex-Sibyl points a gun at her (entirely good humoredly! Really!) and says “FUCK YOU”

There’s also a riff on Ward Sutton’s ‘Sickos Guy’ comic somewhere in there, yeah. Just for laughs. The ex-Sibyl presses her face up against a window, grinning and saying “Yes… Ha ha ha… YES!”]

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Hello. Last week I woke up with a thought that went something like this:

The Chief is probably more than enough disgraced space marine for one woman to handle.

~But what if I made another ooooone~

so uhhhh enjoy the walking Otep song. The Theseus’ (relation)ship.

They are… Sibyls, or warrior-priests, or something. Religious guides who keep the rest of their company in line and safeguard them against ‘temptation’ or whatever. The one on the left is an ex-Sibyl who got a little fucked up by the endeme, and was dropped by the Empire like a bad habit. Her cohort on the right was dispatched to replace her. No they don’t have names yet ): help

They meet on the fields of war and quickly become nemeses. They both know that belief is fragile, and much of it hinges on carefully-constructed Imperial propaganda… So whenever the ex-Sibyl blasphemes, it sits in the back of the Sibyl’s head for weeks like an inoperable bullet wound. Of course, the Sibyl demands nothing short of perfection and perfect devotion from herself. She’s never had a chip in her armor until now. The more she thinks about it, the angrier she gets. This rivalry becomes Extremely personal and she Will be the one to wipe that deranged grin off of the ex-Sibyl’s face, dammit.

The feeling is mutual. Somehow they always find each other, and lock themselves in blood combat until they’re the only ones left still going at it. The ex-Sibyl has the great (mis)fortune of being an unkillable lesbian, and though the same can’t be said of her rival, that doesn’t mean much when they’re both walking tanks made of bullets and power armor. They are fully committed to their mutually assured destruction e.g. dragging each other kicking and screaming to hell.

At least, until the Sibyl is mortally injured in battle. This is unacceptable to her blood rival. What is she going to do if she loses her nemesis? Get another one? Absolutely not. Never felt this way before and never will again. The ex-Sibyl personally drags her back to her Foul Den of Iniquity and tends her rival’s wounds with all the love and devotion that she was never shown, while she was still serving. Likewise, this is the single most selfless act of kindness that the Sibyl has ever experienced, committed by the single most vile woman she has ever had the misfortune of meeting. One thing does not compute with the other. It would be so easy to just kill her and get over it, but suddenly that’s starting to feel like a herculean task, and not just because of the whole ‘unkillable lesbian’ thing.

This may have some kind of effect on the blood rivalry. They will Not be talking about it.

Other things:

 The ex-Sibyl’s collection of wing crests are trophies taken in battle from other members of her former company. Not necessarily from those she killed, but most people just assume they are. (Meanwhile someone, somewhere comes back with one or both crests comically missing.)   

The Chief previously worked with the ex-Sibyl, who was both more agreeable and less agreeable than her replacement. More agreeable because of her warmer and more empathetic demeanor; less agreeable because she was keenly aware that the Chief carries some, err, emotional baggage from the whole Markus debacle. It’s hard to be vulnerable with the one who is watching you for the slightest sign of weakness, waiting for you to slip up. The ex-Sibyl goes M.I.A. sometime after their dispatch to Earth, so her successor doesn’t really meet the Chief or learn about all this until it’s public knowledge.   

Shamelessly stealing lore that whips from the most unfortunately-named chaos space marine warband in 40k: the ex-Sibyl never unmasks on the battlefield except when facing her worstie <3 love wins.   

Gender dynamics are whatever (read: I think about it so much that I don’t want to think about it) but I still picture the Chief as a black sheep for being the only woman in her company. That the two Sibyls come after her is probably significant. Somehow less isolated and more isolated because they are two very different but equally awful people to deal with. Messy messy.   

yeah that’s the Chief’s actual real full name  

[cccrouton]

he can have death sticks sometimes. as a treat.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E

Chapter Rating: E (choking, force choking, vaginal sex, brief blowjob, mild dom elements)

AO3

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE

SIX

A composition crafted by the insatiable craving for Qimir, a dream descends upon you. Layered with softness and simulated sensory aphrodisiacs, you step into your dream with wanton expectations for the stranger who knows exactly how to touch you.

Should be troubling. Would be if not for the comforting reassurance of sleep.

Here in the dark where stars shimmer through the black backlit canopy, there is a bed and the outline of the helmeted stranger who inhabits your dreams sitting on the edge of it. His upper half is disrobed and in the flicker of that campfire in the distance that’s always in your dreams now, your eyes drink in the muscle but drift to the scars. Slightly lifted on his skin, they meld one into the other and you know them for what they are. Naked and vulnerable, you step toward him. Briefly your fingers dust along similar scars lining your right side.

Scars of the past.

Scars of the saber.

Scars of the discarded.

Was he discarded too?

You reach out to him, chest squeezing tight with a longing for him. It’s easier to be brave in dreams. Easier still when you share something in common.

You dare to rest your hand on his shoulder.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says.

“Aw, you missed me.”

“And you missed me.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says. “Even if your mind drifts to—what’s his name?”

Qimir.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. To you.”

He’s right but you’re still not willing to gift the name. Makes it too real. But it is real isn’t it?

Not here. Not in a dream.

“I had the opportunity to take him,” you say quietly, unprompted, rubbing your thumb gently across the skin of his shoulder. “We were a heap on the floor, chests beating in synchronization. I still remember his breath on my lips, the way his hand fit in mine. Couldn’t treasure the touch. The want—the want was so overpowering—like being dragged underneath tumultuous waves. I couldn’t breathe.”

“So you came up for air.”

“I gasped for air. But that want—” Your eyes flutter closed.

“It persists.”

“Yes.” A whisper. “And I knew you could accept it. Maybe even mutually want it too. And here—in my dreams—it’s safer. Maybe even allowed.” Your eyes open again.

He stands, your hand slipping away from his shoulder, and reaches out, grasping your wrist tight as he whirls you into him. Practically a possession clutched against his chest, your back presses against the warmth of his skin. It’s been some time since you’ve been held in this way. Strongly. Tightly. Safely. A sigh of relief slips from your lips. His hand wraps around your waist, fingers sprawling as they gradually climb up your body. You awake to the current of his touch. Mapping out the curve of your breasts, he squeezes once and then trails his fingers over your shoulder and dusts them down your arm. Crawls them across your fingers and entangles them with his own before he lifts them to your sternum. Gently, he slides them further upward, caressing your throat.

That shame tugs at you. Memories of certain hands around your throat can induce panic but his hands—his hands induce thrill and excitement. You want more of it but you feel like you shouldn’t.

“Is this why you came?” His words break through your thought spiral and pull you back to him.

“No—and yes,” you admit. “I need you—to guide me. Teach me.”

There’s a shaky, modulated breath as his other hand smooths down your side and around your hip, pulling you tighter against his body. The helmet is cool against your temple as he rests his head against yours.

“But you still deny it. Suppress it.”

You swallow, your linked hands still lingering at the skin of your neck. Deny what? Suppress what? It can’t possibly be desire as it pools between your legs. You realize he’s speaking of the force.

“But I want—I want—”

His hand slips down your body, finger beginning to worry at your clit and the words you were going to say are lost in a small moan.

“Not enough. Not yet.”

“How do you—”

“Mmm. Your shame betrays you.” His voice robotically rumbles at a slowed cadence in your ear. “It holds you back. It’s why you still just stand here, not asking and especially not taking what you want.”

“I don’t know—” A small whine escapes as he circles your clit, the steady pressure of his firm cock bumping into your ass as he grinds against you. “—how to let go,” you whisper.

“Don’t know how or won’t?” His hand stills.

“Please—please don’t stop.”

“Release your shame. Loose your desire.”

“I—can’t.”

He untangles himself from you. Grasping you by the shoulders, he twists you to face him. Your heart hammers erratically as your eyes fall to his body as his hands slip from your shoulders. Sculpted arms dangling at his sides, he flexes his fingers as he holds himself tall and patient. His breathing is as ragged as yours, and in the lift of his chest, you spy a faint mole and search out more of them. They reveal themselves on his collarbone and further down his body where you instinctively reach out and skim along his side, thumbing downward along the angular line that defines his abs. You brush your index against the mole there. You want to kiss each of them but you don’t. You withdraw your hand and glance back up to the helmet.

A tilt of his head and those metal teeth mock you, tease you, smile at the pathetic way you waver between who you are and who you long to be. Or you imagine that must be what he thinks of you. But then he gently takes your hand and places it on his chest, assisting you in tracing his skin.

“You can,” he says, voice low and almost soft. “You are free here.” Of your own volition, your other hand traverses his body, fingers tucking in around his waistband. “That’s it. Keep going.” A sharp intake of breath. “Show me what else you can do.”

Enthusiasm builds in your chest and you remember what it’s like to have the force at your fingertips. It wouldn’t be so bad to use it here, right? You’re not really using it. Closing your eyes, you grasp at it with an open palm against his chest. A slight tug in your mind and his pants are on the ground. A push and he’s falling backwards onto the sheets. They wrinkle as he rights himself into a better position while your eyes drink in his whole appearance. His body is gorgeous and you can assume his face must be too and if not, it’s easy to picture Qimir’s easy smile and flirtatious eyes. His cock throbs in anticipation as you crawl onto the bed and briefly cup his balls, eliciting an expelled sigh. You run your tongue along the taut skin, tasting the salt from the bit of precum on his tip before you wrap your lips around and suck. He groans, then jerks impulsively, the head of his shaft hitting the back of your throat before you grin and withdraw. He pulls up on elbows, that helmet tilted as his chest heaves. You know he watches you eagerly but impatient now.

You straddle him. Slumping over his chest, knees against each of his hips, hovering just above his enthusiastic cock, you palm his chest. It’s just as you had imagined doing to Qimir—only better. Slipping up and back down his body, you carve out the lines and curves with your hands. Your fingers inch along his skin, savoring every placement and touch. Shudder and spasm of his muscles. The stillness he maintains as he allows you to explore all of him and act out what once was a fantasy of Qimir, quickly becomes a reality of this helmeted stranger who lives in your dream and he’s all that resides in your mind now.

“That’s it. Good,” he praises, tone dipping deeper and you swallow. “Don’t put that on a leash now.”

Bending over his chest, you press your lips to his skin, teeth dragging down to his nipple. You swirl your tongue across the peak, drawing it into your mouth. His modulated moan sends a thrill through your core and you bite down.

“Fuck,” he murmurs.

Your eyes flick up to where his would be without the helmet. “Too much?”

“Hardly. I was merely expressing my surprise. Didn’t think you had it in—”

You bite his other nipple before he can finish that sentence and his words are replaced by a hiss and swear as you run your fingernails down his skin, relishing in the way the flesh blossoms pink in parallel streaks.

This isn’t what you had planned for Qimir.

Those fantasies were laced with butter and sweetness—sculpted soft. Tender.

But something about this man makes you feel possessively primal. Like he can handle the claw and bite of every one of your demons. Thrive in the shroud of your shadow. Revel in your darkest impulses. Accept every part of you that you can’t even imagine accepting yourself. It’s the certainty that he will teach you in time that makes you need him even more.

You sink down onto him, unhurried, as every girthy inch fills your wet cunt. The thought of chasing pleasure is all that consumes you.

A curse. Yours or his? Doesn’t matter.

A praise. An encouragement. He utters words that coax out every raw desire that resides in you. Rolling your hips, your hand inches up to his neck, fingers clamping tight but not too tight, knuckles accessorizing the jutting line of that cortosis covered jaw.

“Do you like that?” You ask, as he thrusts upward from beneath you.

Your hips slam him back down, thighs squeezing tight to keep him steady. To keep control.

This is your dream. Your desire.

“Yes,” he breathes, stilted and shaking. There’s a bead of sweat gathered at the base of his neck. His own hand rises, cupped in a half moon and the force vibrates through your body, becoming a vise around your own neck. “Do you?”

Eyes darkening, you rise and sink down on him again in answer. “More,” you demand.

He obliges as you squeeze him tighter too. He lets out a groan as breathing becomes more difficult, driving you to ride him harder. A choked, almost pained moan slips from your lips.

“Better?”

You manage a nod, self-control snapping as you continue to ride the warmth of his cock, chasing your own pleasure heightened by his rattled, strained sighs. Faster. Rougher. Barely breathing but driven by greed. Chest nearly bursting. Your hips rise and fall with the rhythm of his harried breaths and the silent repetition of how good his cock feels stretching you.

Or you thought it was silent.

Until he responds, “you take it so well.”

Another curse spills from your lips.

That’s it,” he says in a ragged coo. “Keep with it. A little more. Just a little more.”

Your hands slip from his neck and dig into the soft skin of his chest, knuckles knocking against the tautness of his muscle as he meets your fervor with his own eager, swift thrusts from below. One hand falls to your thigh and he grasps tight as your air is still constrained in your lungs. It’s a new kind of feverish high. An ecstasy as your eyes roll back, whimpers buried deep in your chest as each thrust from him and grinding of your hips guides you to that climatic precipice.

You hover there in that plane of almost—almost—almost—

His hand skims up your thigh and he circles your clit with his thumb.

“Mmm, you are doing so well. Feels good doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you answer, the syllable drawn out and dissipating into a whimpering sigh.

He stills and that force chokehold he has on you is used to his advantage as he angles himself deeper, hitting that sweet spot that jolts pleasure through every nerve of your body, constricting your airflow more. You’re afraid you might shatter. But still you fuck him, fast and fierce and freely.

“Yes, that’s it. Come for me,” he beckons.

That voice of his, those practiced hands, and the warm fullness of his cock extracts a broken and guttural cry. Hands flying back, digging into the flesh of his thighs as your walls constrict, your back arches with the internal coil of your body.

“Now,” he commands. “Let yourself go.”

Another thrust and you groan, all tension relenting and washing away with a few more staccatoed sighs and sputtered breaths. Eyes shut tight, you steady your breathing, settling into silent streams of satisfaction. Stars dot your eyelids and you drift—drift—drift in a thoughtless sea. The stars fade. The drifting ceases. Slowly, your fingers spread out, rubbing soothing circles into his skin.

“Mmm, such a good girl,” he says and relinquishes the force grip on your throat. “You did so well.”

Gulping in air, your eyes fly open as you crumple over his chest and his fingers thread through your hair.

—

“Stay with me,” he says, grasping your wrist and pulling you closer. His fingers skim across yours and he toys with them, helmet resting on top of your head. “Don’t withdraw into yourself.”

You press your lips against his collarbone and trail them along his neck, where he tilts his chin up just enough to give you better access under his helmet. You push away the questions that beg for an answer with the placement of kisses against his cooled skin. You can save them for another dream. Throwing your leg up over his, you note he’s still surprisingly hard. He commanded your pleasure but held back on his.

“Don’t you think it’s a little hypocritical,” you mumble against his chest.

His fingers scrawl amatory letters across the back of your hands. “What?”

“You tell me to unleash my desire while you hold onto yours.”

“Is it hypocritical if the reasons for denying such desires vastly differ? I feel no shame. Controlled denial for the sake of the exciting and inevitable release over a long course of time is rewarding. I don’t punish myself. You and I are not the same.”

“Why couldn’t you just say you enjoy edging?”

“Semantics.”

A chuckle against his chest and you wonder if you can work him back up into a frenzy with the tug of the force. It hums for you, begging you to access it again in the enclosure of the stranger’s arms. If he wasn’t wearing that helmet, you could give him a fuller, more exhilarating experience. Or at least you tell yourself that’s the reason when really you just want to see his face. Your desires have shifted. You now seek equitable vulnerability in this exchange of intimacy.

Skimming your fingers up his chest and hovering just under his chin, they curl around the edge of the helmet. Slowly, gauging his reaction, you lift. You spy the faintest glimpse of some facial hair. But his hands curl around your wrists; a plea.

“I want to see you. Your face,” you mumble.

“It seems you understand the lesson.”

“Do I? I unleashed desire, as you said, but the want has returned.”

His fingers are gentle on your wrists as he continues to hold them, thumbing up and down. “Desire can never be satiated. Not fully. When you thirst, you drink. When you hunger, you eat. But that want only goes away for a short time. You see, desire is a need. You need to want. Without it, you waste away. With it, you find passion. And passion—is your strength.”

“I was taught there can be no contentment if you chase every want. No gratitude. Taught that I must free myself from my emotions and find peace only in what is destined to come to me by a greater will than my own.”

“Peace is a lie,” he says. “There is only passion.”

Such a simple statement, yet very much against what you were told all your life. You were taught to suppress everything. Abide by a million rules and be over criticized when you break one. That untamed passion, the kind he speaks of, is the path to the dark side. But here, in the stranger’s arms, it doesn’t feel dark to be guided by passion.

No.

It feels unburdensome.

Warm. Safe. Light.

Though you will still abide by what you know best by day, you realize the numbness is all but gone here in his arms by night. And you're drawn to this man and his lessons. Sworn to them.

Your desire to see his face is even greater now.

Bargaining for more than you deserve, maybe even taking advantage of the lesson, you yank up on the helmet. But before you can register his face, the haze shifts and the screaming of your name tears you from sleep.

[pmpknsoup]

im a firm believer the bees were out getting absolutely trashed with team fnki in that one episode

[tigerbears]

Homestuck Spoilers Out of Context.

[nozomi-mats]

17th shard commission done back in 2021! Ishar’s Cryptic.

[armoralor]

inspired by these iconic lesbian posts (x x x) ✰ reminder that TERFs can fuck off, and if you reblog this you love trans & nb women ❤️

[kingsleepyhead]

ive been thinking abt this movie all week (couple character doodles + an oc cuz of course)

[iron-crakka]

you WILL eat the bugs

you WILL live in the pod

[din-miller]

Blue Ink

Pairing: Clone Trooper Fives x AFAB reader

Word count: 1.4K

Summary: You got Fives’ tattoo tattooed on your hip and lets just say you won’t be leaving the bedroom for a few days.

Warnings: 18+, hand job, respectful possessiveness, fluff

A/N: I have no excuse for this. It’s my birthday and I wanted to write smutty smut. The divider is brought to you by @djarrex . The summary is lacking finesse but please read. Rex’s version < cause I’m obsessed with tattoos apparently. And after seven months I finally finished the clone wars and have thoughts

Fives hands are all over you. Pushing and pulling, fabric going this way, your body going that way. Hands hard and fast then slow and gentle. Too much and not enough.

And then it stopped.

He stopped.

Fives’ mouth separated from your skin, your neck suddenly cold without the warmth of his lips and you made a noise of protest. His left hand, which is currently settled on your hip, carefully explored the unexpected bulk of cloth underneath your shirt. He must have been able to tell what it is because his hand fell away from your body like it had been burned.

“You’re hurt.” He said, alarmed, drawing back as his hand hovered over your side.

It took you a second to chase away the lust over taking your mind to figure out what he’s talking about but once you do, you laughed, “No, I’m perfectly fine, my love.”

His hand grabbed the hem of your shirt and slowly started to lift it up, giving you plenty of opportunity to stop him. When you don’t he lifts the shirt all the way up and his eyes narrowed in on your bandaged hip, “Explain this then.”

“It’s not what it looks like-,”

“Really? ‘Cause it looks like a bacta patch to me,” He dropped the fabric and started pulling you towards the front door, any signs of arousal vanished as concern overtook his expression, “We need to get you to Kix. He’ll patch you up while I find whoever is responsible for this and break every bone in their body.”

“I did it to myself,” You rushed to say, not wanting to hear from Rex that your boyfriend tore apart the mess hall in search of a person that doesn’t exist, “Well technically it was Jesse, but I asked him to.”

“I’m going to kill that osi’kovid.”

“Would you-,” You stepped in front of the door, blocking his escape, “Please just listen to me?”

“Gladly,” He said and you breathed out a sigh of relief, only it’s short lived as Fives tried to push past you, “After I kill my brother.”

“Maker, you’re impossible!” You exclaimed, yanking your shirt off. Once the fabric was discarded somewhere to your right, your fingers found the edge of the bacta patch but before you could rip it off, Fives’ hands brushed yours away. His fingertips ran over the edge of the patch until it found a small gap where it had separated from your skin. Delicately, more so than it really called for, he pulled the patch from your skin.

Then he just stared.

Eyes tracing every ink made line, every detail that is displayed on your skin before those eyes darken, brown orbs becoming black as lust swallowed all colour.

Fives crowed you against the door, your back hitting the wood and you couldn’t suppress the shiver that raced down your spine, nor the involuntary gasp that left your mouth. Fives doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look away from the blue ink and you should probably start panicking.

Then, taking you by complete surprise, Fives is on his knees in front of you, face inches away from your hip as he closely examines the tattoo. His tongue darted out to wet his lips while his thumbs hooked under the band of your pants. With your help he pulled them over your butt and down your legs.

A low whine left your mouth when he groaned appreciatively at the sight of your bare pussy that is meant for his eyes only and your hip marked with his tattoo, “How long have you been walking around with this?”

“Since last night.”

His lips hovered over the tattoo before pressing an open mouth kiss just shy of the ink, “Who else knows?”

“Jesse. He did the tattoo,” You answered, knees quivering in anticipation when his lips trailed lower toward your sex, arousal gathering between your folds, “Kix too. He insisted on being the one to apply the tattoo bacta patch.”

“Good.” He hummed, satisfied with your answer. Whether it’s because Kix was making sure you got proper care, or that him and Jesse are the only people who’ve seen your tattooed skin, you’re not sure. Probably both knowing Fives.

“It looks healed.” He commented and pulled back, looking up at you, eagerly waiting for your response as his tongue pushed past his lips to wet them again. The sight made a wanton need shoot through your body.

“It is.” You confirmed, eyes falling shut as your walls fluttered helplessly around nothing, feeling empty and you really want him to just forget the tattoo for the moment and bend you over the nearest surface until you’re a sobbing mess.

His lips pressed against the middle of the tattoo without warning and your back arched towards him, a breathless sigh passed your lips. His tongue, warm and wet, lapped at the inked skin, “Tell me if this hurts at all.”

“You’re good Fives. You're always so good to me.”

His lips formed a seal over the tattoo in response to your praise and he gave an experimental suck, watching your facial expressions for any sign of pain. There is none. The tattoo is completely healed; matter of fact you left the patch only longer then Kix said too, just to be cautious.

He’s careful not to bruise your skin as he shifts from sucking to nibbling at the tattoo. Your hand shot down to his head, fingers tangled in his brown locks as his teeth bit down with just enough pressure that your toes curled against the floor beneath you, “Fives!”

“Yeah, shit, bed,” He said breathlessly, squeezing the base of his cock over the material of his pants as a few colourful curses fell from his lips, “Lay down for me.”

You did as he said and with deft fingers you undid your chest band, letting your breast bounce free as Fives’ groaned, “You’re killing me here. I’m not sure how long I’ll last.” He admitted with a tinge of embarrassment filling his words.

“That’s okay, my love. We have all night.” You softly reassured him with your back flat against the sheet, your body naked across the beds silk fabric as your arousal soaked the sheets. You beckoned him over with a finger and a sly smirk on your lips.

Fives mirrored your expression and straddled your thighs, trapping your lower half against the bed, clothing removed and his cock heavy in his hand as he stroked himself above you, pre-cum aiding as lubricant as he began thrusting into his own fist, your name falling from his lips.

You made a move to replace his hand with your own, a need to feel his hard velvety heat in your palm, but he’s quick to grab it and he somehow managed to lock both of your wrists in his free hand, placing them above your head, watching as your body stretched tall for him.

Maybe it’s the way you yield underneath his touch or maybe it’s the tattoo, his tattoo, on your skin that sent him crashing over the edge, a wrecked moan filling the room, bouncing off the walls and going straight to your core.

His orgasm is intense and vocal as cum paints your body – more precisely, your tattoo – in hot spurts as he breathed heavily, barely managing to keep himself upright as his cock twitched feebly, drops of cum slowly dripped down his length and onto your hip.

“Oh, Kriff,” Fives swore, running the swollen tip of his cock through his spent, rubbing his cum across the tattoo, another claim of his on you, “Don’t take this the wrong way, cyar’ika, but seeing you inked with my tattoo is fueling me with this possessive side. You are your own person, but fuck, all I can see is how you’re now claimed as mine.”

“So you're not mad?” You asked playfully, freeing a hand to cup his check. He tilted his head down to press a kiss to the inner part of your wrist.

Fives released your other hand and lowered himself slowly down until your chest met his, letting his weight press you further into the mattress and you made a noise of satisfaction, not caring about the drying cum smearing between your pelvic and his. You leaned up to capture his lips in a hungry kiss.

Fives groaned, pulling back from you enough to growl, “Let me show you just how not mad I am.”

“Your wording could use some improvement.”

“I guess I should put my mouth to better use then.” He winked before disappearing between your thighs.

[1ore]

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we protested but not enough, we opposed them but not enough. I was in my bed, around my bed America was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house. I took a chair outside and watched the sun. In the sixth month of a disastrous reign in the house of money in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money, our great country of money, we (forgive us) lived happily during the war.

We Lived Happily During the War

By Ilya Kaminsky

[m0r1bund]

shoulda never let you go (everybody knows, everybody knows) three years and baby, don’tcha know, it’s time to let it go

My piece for the Commander of Your Heart zine. This was such a blast to be a part of, getting to see everyone’s pieces develop over the last few months and learning about their relationships with their Commanders… I only started playing Guild Wars 2 in ~May of last year, and yet the community has been so warm and welcoming to this newbie. Thank you for bringing me aboard, it was a pleasure and an honor!

As for this piece… I originally wanted to do something saccharine-sweet for Valentine’s Day, but Heart of Thorns won in the end. It’s been living rent-free in my brain since @snoodls and I finished it last year. I’ve been acting accordingly normal e.g. constructing elaborate Trahearne AUs and putting Commander Yuri Six-Cants into situations, which is outside the scope of this description, but if you want you can see it all here.

YIPPEE

[16mistypaw]

Misty's Whumptober 2024

Day 9 (Obsession)

*Content warning*implied/mentioned past sexual assault*

Sky was usually one of the most comfortable with touch in the group, often displaying his affection physically. Wars knew this, saw how Sky craved contact with the others.

Wars saw this, and knew he was afraid.

Sky was usually one of the most comfortable with touch in the group. Often he displayed his affection physically, offering a reassuring pat or shoulder bump, or even a hug sometimes, especially with the younger ones.

Wars knew this. Saw how Sky craved contact with the others.

Wars also saw how Sky was afraid of it.

Sky hid it well, the only tells a slight twitch in his expression or a well suppressed flinch. He was always aware of everyone around him, how close they were and their general position. It was difficult if not impossible to sneak up on him.

Wars saw all this, and was reminded of himself.

Regardless, they all had their secrets and Sky had seemingly decided this would be one of them. Warriors wasn't sure if he wanted to know what the younger, only by a few years but still younger, Hero had gone through to make him so scared of something that he clearly wanted. So he let it be.

Or rather, he would have if it hadn't become a problem.

He hadn't thought anything of it when they were dropped in his era, hadn't known that disaster was about to strike. In hindsight, he really should have known better. After all, villains and heroes alike had been pulled together here from multiple timelines. Some of which from both sides had stuck around even after the war was over.

So when a certain white demon caught sight of them and Sky froze, it took Wars just a moment too long to make the connection. And then chaos erupted in the middle of the street as Sky drew his blade and attacked, causing panic from civilians as the others drew their own weapons. Wars lunged after Sky in an attempt to stop him as Ghirahim sidestepped the strike, grabbing Sky's wrist, and Wars’ fingers barely grasped the back of his tunic before the three of them were abruptly teleported away.

Wars stumbled back as they rematerialised, familiar with the sensation but still disoriented by it, while Sky fell to his knees and the only thing saving his face from meeting ground was Ghirahim still holding him up by the wrist.

“As much as I love dramatics, Sky child, there's no need to be making such a scene.” Ghirahim scolded lightly. Sky hauled himself to his feet, trying to pull his hand free.

“Let go.” Sky growled.

“Ah, but it’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” Sky’s wrist was twisted until his sword fell, and then he was being pulled forward into a crushing embrace. A pale hand grabbed his chin, forcing it up as Ghirahim leaned down. Breath brushed his ear, and Sky was suddenly aware of how close their faces were, and then nothing at all. “Did you forget about our red string? It was inevitable we’d meet again.”

“Release him and step aside!” Wars had recovered, and now held Fi pointing directly at the demon. Sky was motionless in Ghirahim’s hold, stiff as a rod.

“Captain, you wouldn’t want to ruin such a reunion, would you?” Wars swung at Ghirahim, fully expecting it when Ghirahim removed one arm from Sky to catch the blade. He released the blade the moment Ghirahim grabbed it, following the momentum to grab Sky and pull him out of Ghirahim’s other arm.

“Don’t touch him again.” Wars ordered. Sky was coming to in his arms, and he quickly let go, putting himself between the two.

“I was merely defending myself.” Ghirahim huffed, dropping Fi back to the ground. “This one has always been a bit too eager to draw his sword. Isn't that right, foolish boy?”

‘Did you really just draw your sword? Foolish boy.’ Ornate stone surrounded the two figures, trapping him in the rounded room with the demon in front of him. Clawed hands gripped his shoulders, a body pressed against his back and cool cheek brushing against his own.

“You…” Sky growled, hand fisting around a sword that wasn’t there. “Wars. Move.”

“No.” He blocked Sky from pushing past him to confront the demon unarmed.

“Move!” Sky shouted.

“No!” Sky pushed against Wars, who stubbornly stood in his way.

“It seems I should take my leave.” Ghirahim said, glancing between the two Heroes. “Goodbye, Sky child.” In a shower of diamonds he was gone.

Sky abruptly threw himself away from Wars, landing roughly on the ground.

“Sky!” Sky flinched, pushing himself upright to sit with Fi cradled in his lap. His hand fisted into his hair, and he squeezed his eyes closed.

“Go away.” He whispered. “Go away. He's gone. ‘m not a child, he's gone.”

Wars stared as Sky dissolved into incoherent mumbling. “Sky?”

“I’m not a child!” Sky snapped, finally meeting Warriors’ eyes with his own, furious tears threatening to spill over.

“I never said you were, Link.” Wars sat down beside Sky, close but carefully not touching. “The creep is gone, it’s alright.”

“No.” Sky shook his head firmly. “He was. Gone, that is. But he’s back now. So he wasn’t really gone then. But I killed his master, and he disappeared. I thought that was it, didn’t think to look for him. Didn’t think he would have made it out after he vanished into smoke and the portal we were fighting in closed.”

“He did more than just hurt you, didn’t he?” He phrased it like a question, though he already suspected the answer.

“He did.” Sky confirmed. “Liked to take me by surprise, grabbing me from behind. Wouldn’t hurt me, not until we started fighting, but before that…” He trailed off, pulling his sailcloth tighter around him as the tears finally fell. “I never knew touch could be so unpleasant, unsettling. Disgusting even. He’d hold me tight, so I couldn’t get away, lick my blood if I was injured and make a show of enjoying it. Would run his hands over me when I struggled against him, like he was examining me. I think he found me a curiosity, a Hylian who was able to stand up to him.”

Sky knew he was rambling at this point, had already shared more than he wanted to, but couldn’t seem to stop himself as the words kept pouring out.

“He took something important to me and corrupted it. My people, on Skyloft, tend to show affection through touch. A hug, an arm around the shoulder, teasing bumps against each other. It’s our love language, it’s part of our culture. And he made me afraid of it. Twisted it around. I crave it, yet I’m afraid of it. It’s a comfort, but now it’s a fear, and yet I can’t help but want it even though it hurts me. I don’t know how to fix it, if I can fix it.”

At last he ran out of things to say, curling into himself as if to hide. A flash of blue briefly covered his vision, and he glanced up before a warm, gentle weight settled over his shoulders. Wars’ huge scarf rested over his sailcloth, adding it’s own weight to the others.

“I understand. And I’m not just saying that.” Wars cut off Sky’s protest before it even formed. “I’ve been through the same shit. Had a sorceress wage an entire war because of me. Originally she just wanted the Hero’s spirit, but at some point it changed and she wanted not just my spirit, but me as well. She was obsessive over it. To the point one of the places where I fought her had my stolen belongings on display, and walls and walls of portraits. She even had shadow creatures that took on my likeness.”

“At one point during the war, I went missing for a time. No one but Lana knows what happened during that time, and that’s only because she and the sorceress were two parts of a whole. They recombined at the end of the war, and Lana got both of their memories. No one knows, and I don’t intend for anyone to ever find out. But believe me when I say I understand.”

“I don’t know if it will ever get better, but I sincerely hope it does.” Wars leaned closer to Sky, an invitation if he chose to accept it. He did, bumping their shoulders together, and then leaning on him fully as he broke once more.

“I hope so too.”

[orrianreaper]

" That is NOT my name and you damn well know it! "

I realised I never actually posed this, because I was going to post it with companion peice of who he's talking to. and I never finished said companion piece. So have some old art of my tempest, Lightbringer/ Pirate Captain, Merianus Blacktide!

Sometime during what would either be before or during S1, Meri's childhood friend turned flame legion convert starts harassing his friends who're actively in the legions to try and get his attention, because he's Obsessed with him. It eventually culminates in a confrontation during a ritual Ovidius Suneater is trying to conduct, Ovidius asking Meri to join him, to be His. Meri ends up tackling Ovidius into the surrounding lava (with a frost aura up to protect himself, he's not that stupid) and Ovidius ends up with a mess up arm and the ritual is wrecked. Needless to say when Ovidius eventually leaves the cult he's in and makes a deal with the Whispers, Meri is absolutely furious to hear about it and wants Ovidius kept as far away from him as possible.

[dinoserious]

beast wars fanart