#pathwork au

[jaode]

Day 1

My work this month is a demonolatry pathworking for the kitch witch. 30 days of communion with food and meditation.

The focus is on my writing in order to move forward in my occult goals. The hopes of developing a tarot perspective of communion with the divine.

My first day is dedicated to Duke Bune, the 26th Spirit.

My dish prepared was my version of Au Gratin Zucchini. Garlic and ginger with medium cheddar and topped with diced tomatoes. My focus is on dishes that are healthy and affordable yet simple to prepare. The focus should be on the communion and not the appetites of the humans involved. This can be accomplished alone or with a small group. I find a small dining party best in order to keep the dishes easier to prepare and the focus on the spirit.

[alienpornunlimited]

When your friend is like “Hey let me tell you about my extensive Woody/Buzz Lightyear AU that’s got all these space opera/Firefly/Star Trek vibes” and you’re like “I can’t believe I have to find a way to put a hit out on you for making me really emotional and invested in finding ways for a cowboy and a spaceman to fuck.”

Thank you for being that friend.

Listen it’s Woody/Buzz and Woody is a Sheriff on a small dusty colony world on the outskirts of Star Command space and Buzz is a stranded space marine tbh and he jacks off thinking about dusty gritty cowboys A’IGHT LETS DO THIS.

The dust got everywhere. Into his armor, past the seals of his ship's interior, through windows and doorways in every building in town- it was ever-present and Buzz found himself falling into a routine with it.

Namely, wasting time washing it off more than was strictly necessary.

The ship automatically took in water from the occasional rain, from the atmosphere, so there was no shortage of that at least, and what it took in was purified and re-used and sterilized over and over. At the very least he didn't have to feel guilty about wasting water, running it hot and wincing as he stepped under the spray, skin prickling like it always did outside of his armor. Plenty of time to stand and let the dust get washed off him, turning the white tile under his feet briefly red-brown before it swirled away into the drain to be cleaned and put back into the pumping system.

Watching the dust go felt good. It felt clean, getting the lingering itch of it out of his system for at least a little while longer.

Less good was the ache of his erection, freed from the armor and stiffly waiting for attention. No amount of scowling down at his own body could make that go away, settling to lean his forehead against the wall of the shower so the spray hit his back, tingling where it trickled down over connection points of exposed metal, swallowing hard.

/Woodrow./ There wasn't any sense in trying to deny the thought- he'd spent enough time trying to force another into the nebulous fantasy of touching himself to know it was hopeless. He'd tried thinking of Warp, of shapely Tangean women, but no use. It always came back to the /Sheriff/ and he let it, taking a long breath before dragging his thumb along his cock, a shudder running up his spine.

How would it feel, to touch Woodrow? He looked...rough, harsh. Prickly stubble and scars that had healed into pathwork lines. He had leaner hands, strong and fast and calloused- just as rough as the rest of him- mm, best not to think of that, his own grip soft as he stroked himself in a steady, slowly rhythm, unhurried and vision unfocused.

There was a feral air around him, intensity that bordered on violence, an energy that filled his movements- Buzz had already been on the receiving end of it's more threatening nature, and while his initial summation had been that the Sheriff was an annoyance, and then that he was dangerous, now the thought of it was exciting- he bit his lip and thought about wirey muscle. Woodrow was smaller than him. Lighter, certainly. But he'd gotten Buzz off-guard before, he could do it again.

Oh! Well, that concept certainly did it for him, squeezing himself firmly with a grunt. There's a fantasy- being knocked back by the grounder, pushed onto that (horrible, lumpy, uncomfortable) mattress in the guest room. Woodrow's jaw, scratchy with stubble against his throat, rough hands against him-

He'd tried his damndest to look unimpressed when the sheriff was riding one of the creatures across this planet. Be it his own mount Bullseye, or something half-wild dragged in at the end of a tether, but there'd been...something there. Something about the motions of the Sheriff's body while on something moving.

The way he held on with his thighs, legs shifting, the curve of his torso as he moved and adjusted to keep balance. He'd wanted a closer look.

His imagination obliged. Hard, lean muscle flexing, a tanned torso with prominent lines where his collar rested, where his sleeves ended. His hips jerked forwards against his hand as he thought of pushing up, against Woodrow, watching him shift like that on him to stay steady. He had no idea of what the Sheriff liked, but...he could imagine just about any scenario.

He wasn't sure what else to imagine, how to sculpt his mental image of the rest of the Sheriff. Just absent musings, wondering how he might look- a nice cock jutting from brown curls- part of him wondered how it'd feel to stroke fingers through the soft curls of pubic hair, wondered if his thighs would also be rough to the touch, lightly furred like his arms. Not that it mattered, really, his imagination kept coming back to Woodrow's face, his amber eyes with the predatory glint. A glimpse of teeth behind lips- crooked and handsome.

Buzz had never considered that humans didn't always look like they did on Star Command. Humans on stations were...well-taken care of. Smooth-skinned and bright eyed, with perfect teeth and a healthy glow to them. Woodrow looked like something out of a history book, from a more savage time.

He hissed through his teeth as he pumped himself harder, feeling the warning coil of pressure in his belly, the tightness in his balls.

In the fantasy, Woodrow was over him, moving with lean grace and harshness, and he drawled and cussed (such a foul mouth!) and bit out 'Spaceman-' and 'Ranger-' and /Harder!/ Then leaning to kiss him rough hands against his body, splayed out against his chest and the taste- he could imagine it. Bitter and tainted with tobacco, with smoke and the salty, meaty tinge everything in the kitchen seemed to pick up-

"Woody-" Buzz choked out as he came, eyes squeezed shut and pressing his weight against the wall, a sudden wave of relaxed fatigue sweeping over him as his seed spilled over his hand and against the shower tile, riding out the waves of pleasant release until he was aware of the water against him cooling, ship's heater exhausted, and the warm afterglow of a fantasy replaced by the quiet shame of salacious imagination.

And then it was time to be done. Time to dry off with the air-jets and slide back into his armor and go back into the dust, until it covered and clogged and filled every seam of his armor again, and he'd repeat the process.

He knew he was in big trouble when he found himself looking forwards to it.