|| almost 30yo delusional whump lover ||
805 posts
Tonytonychopprano - Sailors With No God, No Glory - Tumblr Blog
finally letting go of my horrible guilt for *checks notes* using the internet 🤭
early stages of friendship are Soooo embarrassing like yea sorry....... it's me again............ i enjoy talking to you and spending time with you....... you can shoot me point blank if you want i dont mind
writing tip #3635:
some readers may not be sure if you are endorsing bad things that happen in your novel, and this may cause them concern. to combat this, state upfront that you do endorse them
i keep seeing fucking car wrecks “based on your likes” like who among you is the symphorophile
kids these days dont understand projecting your middle school anger due to being an outcast into vitriolic hate of justin bieber
priests or nuns sold to be romantic pets send post
tumblr friendships are great because you get to bond purely over what curses youre both afflicted with
my aisha
she's got nasty baby bird eyes and way too many antennae
i may not have birthday art but I DO have this
down with found family. UP with FOUND DIVORCE!!!!!!!!!!!!!
WHUMP/TOBER DAY 1 - public use, stress position, “if you cry”
cw: forced nudity, noncon (semi explicit AND fade to black); war crimes/mass murder.
nb: rimworld fanfic but you dont need to know anything except Wasters (gene modded humans who live on coca-based drugs) and baseliners (humans)
word: idk it only took an hour so like 500ish?
She stands before the post, flowing robes hanging off her gaunt body like a corpse's shroud. With an analytical flick of her eyes she takes in the location of the hook and manacles--a foot taller than her arms can reach, and spaced so widely it'll break her pelvis. A fabric-wrapped block is welded to the center, level with her waist. Surrounding her are three dozen or more pirates, clad in patchleather and synthread and human skin tanned so well, one could forgive the nipples, navels, and nostrils left behind as sewing errors.
Heliodoria knows what this is.
She knows what the waster pirates do to baseliners, to show their dominance over the helpless soft-skins who farm their fields and toil their lives away. Drinking and merrymaking are a rarity for her people. She was foolish to allow the ceremony to proceed; no matter the celebration, she should never have let her warriors--herself--weaken. A hateful bitterness pulls at her chest as one of the wasters, a thick-bodied woman with a buzzcut and a poorly-fitted glass eye bulging from her skull, hoists her up by her thin waist and hooks her to the post. Her toes brush the rough wood above the manacles and Heliodoria cringes internally. Braces for it.
"Right-o," the woman says, scraping a knife-tip of yayo out of a tin and snorting it. She watches Heliodoria dangle. Her grey skin is stretched over a bony, exaggerated skull with ghoulishly hollow eyes. Her nose is an empty hole. "So you're the bitch with the psychic powers? You fucked us up," she says, with no small note of wonder in her voice. "But you don't look like shit hangin' up there."
Heliodoria remembers. The screaming, the crackling scent of flesh like pigs roasting over a fire.
First, her people. Days of meditation later--theirs.
Woodsmoke and ashes that rained on the ruins of their raiding camp like snow. She'd called down archotech hellfire on every last miserable hut and shack they infested, and it had felt good. Wreathed in blue flame, gouts of jellied fire leaping off her outstretched hands and burning homes, melting flesh, Heliodoria stood in the center of the camp amidst a ring of burning huts and threw her head back and laughed into the noontime sun. Kept laughing, until a waster snuck up behind her and brained her with the butt of his shotgun.
Now she's here. It doesn't seem quite so exhilarating anymore.
The woman grabs Heliodoria's ankles, spreading her legs so wide they wrench painfully in their sockets. A bone-deep burning sparks in her calves, arcs up the muscles of her legs and blazes hot and sharp in the small of her back. The metal edge of the block digs painfully into her stomach and forces her to bend at an obscene angle. By pointing her toes she's able to take some of the strain off her wrists, but the ropes are still stretched so taut they leave white marks in her skin. And in moments her feet ache so fiercely she's forced to relax again, and the ropes take another savage bite of her wrists. When the waster latches the manacles she pinches a wedge of skin between the iron and a bead of blood wells up there; unexpectedly, she apologizes, licks her thumb and wipes it away. "Sorry 'bout that, dovey-lovey," she mumbles. Her accent is as broad and thick as she is. "Boys don' wanna fight for it, is all."
Despite the sweat beading on her forehead Heliodoria feels herself grow cold. She bites her lip. Around her, the wasters group more tightly; where she could see dry fields and burnt wreckage she now sees only torsos and the weapons belted to them.
The woman pulls out a knife, slits her dress up the back. Cool air slithers into the gap. "Be a real nice treat, eh?" she booms. It is curiously affected. "Get tired of rebuildin' your fuckin' life, come and visit the bitch what done it to you." The noise of ripping fabric does nothing to drown out her voice or the cheering that comes after. The woman cuts a few more slices into Heliodoria's robes, making a show of dropping the tattered fabric to the ground. She digs her fingernails into the post and grimaces, presses her forehead into the wood. Squeezes her eyes shut so tight blue swirls dance and mutate behind the lids.
She doesn't have to be here while they do it.
But before the waster pulls away, she leans in close. Whispers: "Look. We’re both women. I don' truck with this shit. So I'll let you know what them boys tol' me--you cry, and they'll go real easy on you."
A bead of sweat darts down her back and curves down her ass. One of the wasters follows it with his hand, strokes her inner thigh, the curls between her legs. He laughs. Heliodoria cringes.
No--it doesn't matter what she does. Easy is not a word waster pirates use often. Especially not on their enemies. Already the miserable xenos are queueing up, snorting powder off knives or passing their flake-pipes back and forth, unzipping their pants and stroking themselves through their clothing. Something solid and warm presses against her and she tenses, but he only grinds against her for a moment before wandering away after, chuckling, apparently content with simple humiliation. Anger flares in her gut, sharpened to a razor by the edge of the block cutting into her belly.
Heliodoria grits her teeth, glances at the setting sun. Waster parties are legendary in length and scope throughout every rimworld in charted space. She looks to her left, to the woman who chained her up. When their eyes meet and she sees the hatred in Heliodoria's dry eyes, she only shrugs. Sighs. She locks the manacles in place and leaves with her head hanging low.
Whoops and cheers explode from the group around them, and the crowd descends.
So bluesky isn't safe for artists and writers at all
being so so brave despite the horrors (stomach bug)
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like fuck me. “activated charcoal removes the hormones from your body” borderline pseudoscience 😭
as soon as i can practice more than when im not luteal its over for everyone
take that dirk strider tag off yhat post about my life or so help me god