questionable-intimacies

[questionable-intimacies]

ANAKIN WAS AT HIS MOST POWERFUL ...

As Darth Vader.

However, the reason for Darth Vader's power was also the reason why Darth Vader grew weaker between 'Empire Strikes Back' and 'Return of the Jedi.'

Did you notice that Darth Vader never used his Force Powers in 'ROTJ,' whereas he liberally employed his Force abilities in 'ESB?'

Keep that little nugget in your mind for a bit.

THE SOURCE OF DARTH VADER'S POWER

A Sith's connection to the Force comes from the emotions a Sith can tap into. Peace is a lie; there is only Passion.

The term 'passion' further implies that it is the intensity with which a Sith feels a particular emotion that affects the potency of their connection to the Force and, consequently, the potency of the Force power.

Some people contend that Anakin, after being dismembered by Obi-Wan, lost much of his connection to the Force. This might be the case if Anakin was a Jedi.

As a Sith, as Darth Vader? Anakin felt constant pain, exacerbated by his armored prosthetics, and was in a continual loop of guilt, self-loathing, and rage at himself, his actions, and his current situation.

As a Sith, Anakin could Force Choke people through a video call.

DARTH VADER'S POWER (II)

However, the cycle of emotional turmoil that fuelled Darth Vader's power had a weakness; Darth Vader could never hope to rise and surpass Darth Sidious.

To believe that he is capable of overthrowing his Master, Darth Vader would have to have hope, and that hope would cripple Darth Vader due to his reliance on the intensity of his negative emotions to give him power.

Did you notice that Darth Vader never used his Force Powers in 'ROTJ,' whereas he liberally employed his Force abilities in 'ESB'?

Empire Strikes Back extensively demonstrates Darth Vader's force abilities and culminates in Darth Vader using his Force Mastery to overwhelm Luke Skywalker during their duel on Cloud City.

But in 'Return of the Jedi,' Darth Vader does not use his force abilities during his duel with Luke.

Darth Vader also does not force choke or use his force abilities to throw the Emperor into the reactor shaft.

Therefore, Darth Vader lost the ability to use the Force between Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi.

The reason was Luke Skywalker.

Luke was one of the last good things that remained of Padme, and the hope of saving Luke broke the loop of emotional trauma that gave Darth Vader his powers.

Darth Vader lost his connection to the Force but gained greater power in exchange.

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BROADEN YOUR HORIZONS

The young man must leave his farm for the city to broaden his horizons;

Wouldn't want him to be the frog in a well;

But when the vista of a star-studded sky shrinks to 4 feet by 6;

Does the young man not feel like croaking?

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Trying to relax while stressed is very stressful.

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My queen.

I was feeling a little goofy so I thought I'd sketch a Reverse AU Salem today. Ended up going a bit overboard I think. Honestly I just like the idea of a Huntress Salem who still has the Grimm corruption.

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others: “so, how ~southern~ are you?”

me: “The entrance of my hometown has a shrimp boat sitting in the main street. At Christmas theres a shrimper Santa and alligators pulling him instead of reindeer.”

others: “what?!”

me:

[questionable-intimacies]

sad thinking about penny again... she was turned into a human girl by team rwby for no reason (and possibly without her knowledge) even though she was already super blatantly a person in the ways that mattered and in fucking volume TWO we had a scene of ruby saying "you have a soul and a heart, i can feel it!" but then everyone randomly decided that it wasn't good enough, actually. also she immediately died by making a big sacrifice that made no sense and then got a supposedly beautiful and bittersweet song that basically boils down to "it's okay that i died because i got to be a human for like 10 minutes"

she was the only one of our heroes who actually deserved good things and that's why she can never have them

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“All right, Snivellus?” said James loudly. Snape reacted so fast it was as though he had been expecting an attack: Dropping his bag, he plunged his hand inside his robes, and his wand was halfway into the air when James shouted, “Expelliarmus!

Snape’s reaction wasn’t just quick—it was survival. How many times, starting at eleven, was he attacked, mocked, and reduced to nothing but the poor kid, targeted for his face and his poverty, turned into a joke by the Marauders? Just how much damage did it take for him to become conditioned to their voices, ready to defend himself at the slightest sound of his bully? Trauma like that doesn’t come from nowhere. And funny, people still say James wasn’t a bully but disarming Snape just for existing?

This wasn’t harmless fun; it was about crushing him.

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ojou-sama that married into a commoner family but kept her pride

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Puritan and Witch

It was no peaceful night.

The moon was bright, the roads were clear, and dry wood sated the appetites of more than one campfire. However, the forest’s silence, hanging over the blanket of lesser lights that rule the night, was a false silence. No animal broke the forest leaves or cracked the dead sticks while they foraged; the wolves did not howl to coordinate their packs’ hunts, the trees did not shake with the flight of the owls, and the dogs at the camp only rattled their chains when they scratched at the dirt and tried to tuck their tails further up between their legs.

For the hardy folk, the cunning peasants whose lives on the roads of this black forest were measured by the bodies buried in ancient, tangled roots, the silence provided an obscene sense of comfort. The forest is dangerous at night, and the good queen, Goodwitch, plays the whore with her beloved General. It is what it is.

No comfort, however, was available for the Puritan wanderer, Cardin Winchester, this night. Not when peace had fled for cheerier horizons, a God-fearing man could not rest his weary head on a feather pillow, and he could smell witchcraft among the peasants he shared that sleepless night.

His eyes glared a fanatical, steely blue from beneath the lowering brows at the ‘Witch,’ a hardy farm girl whose animalistic, pagan curse showed itself in the pair of rabbit ears poking through her long, russet hair out from the top of her head. Shameless in her dress, which clung wantonly to her body on the cusp of ripeness, and in her behavior, in the exchange of bawdy jabs and brief but lasciviously cherished moments of physical contact with the men still awake at their respective campfires. As the Witch meandered past, she would drop bundles of herbs into the flames, and that caused the pungent smell that kept Cardin from his rest, even though he had built his campfire far from the others.

Presently, the Witch came to Cardin’s fire.

“Something to help you sleep, sir?”

The Witch was about to place one of her bundles into Cardin’s fire, but Cardin grabbed the Witch’s wrist. 

“None of that,” Cardin said before releasing the Witch, “honest labor, not pagan herbs, sweetens a man’s sleep.”

The Witch did not flinch at Cardin’s rebuke; neither did she seem to fear the dour Puritan. The Witch was a woman, after all, and no woman could fear a man whose appearance struck like lightning. The experiences of past bloody battles and the zealous self-discipline needed to make full use of such experiences made Cardin seem dignified instead of cruel. His hands were large yet were not ungainly, and he could pull both the trigger of a flintlock pistol and the corsets from a maiden’s breasts with the delicacy of a master sculptor. 

One of those pistols lay in Cardin’s warm, broad lap. It was a practical thing. The dull, iron barrel was long for range and accuracy, while its varnished, gleaming, wood-and-iron body was squat and thick for power. The weapon’s beauty drew in the Witch. Much like the Puritan, its function was expertly fulfilled, without frippery or superfluity in its construction. The austere, ascetic allure of both wielder and weapon fascinated the Witch. The process of stripping away all that was unnecessary was inspiring to the waif’s imagination as a result.

The Witch smoothed out her skirts across her broad, doe-like thighs before she sank into the packed, dry earth within Cardin’s reach. Encouraged by the Puritan’s tolerance of her intrusion, the Witch carefully leaned her chest forward and said.

“These herbs are a medicinal recipe my grandmother taught me just as her mother did. The plants are roots picked from the forest itself. There is no more paganism in my soothing balms as there are fish in the sky.”

Cardin did not turn to look at the Witch. However, it was not because he disliked those who would dabble in such heresies, even though he had burned his share of witches when the witch hunts were at their peak. Neither was it because of some failing or lapse in his understanding of social graces, though one would be hard-pressed to attribute grace to any of the Puritan faith. 

Instead, Cardin’s blue eyes had assumed the glazed stare of a man whose eyes were covered by the translucent film of memory. The campfire light reflected no longer off the spirit that resided behind a man’s God-given windows to their soul, gone as that spirit was on a long journey across time and space. 

“I have seen fish fly like sparrows when I served a time as a Privateer,” Cardin said mechanically, “and just as fish may find themselves in a place nature had not intended them to be, the devil and his minions may, from time to time, wander from their haunts to add to mans’ troubles.”

Cardin fed the flame with kindling, and the Puritan’s voice hardened alongside the fire, flaring hot with renewed vigor. A less innocent memory had seemingly taken its place of honor in Cardin’s mind, and the words he spoke were now woven thick with the emotions that accompanied that memory.

“After all, is it not said that the devil may take on the guise of servants of light? Verily, I have preserved my life with poultices and brews made from herbs far fouler than you could imagine. Yet these life-giving roots could also be turned to evil labors, and if one recognizes evil, one should take shrewd pains to avoid it and thus remain innocent as lambs.”

The Witch stared at the Puritan and considered the zealous, intolerant speech rich with tempered wisdom, so unlike the sermons of the other Witch-Hunters, Priests, and Inquisitors she had crossed paths with. 

“Nevertheless, is it not wise to use the devil’s weapons against him?”

“The Devil may allow his minions success from time to time, but when it counts? No house can stand when it is divided. But lo! What is that commotion I hear?”

Springing to his feet like a Panther who senses prey, Cardin girt upon his broad, blacksome form the wide leather belt and bandolier upon which hung the dark, deadly pistols which were the tools of his bloody trade. At his hip hung neither a long Mistralian Rapier nor a broad sword of Atlesian Steel. Instead, there was a pair of slender and heavy iron rods with a pair of crosses that formed handguards just above their hilts.

Cardin’s stride was the lope of a hungry wolf, and in the breadth of time it took a bird to flap its wings, Cardin was at the front of the crowd that formed a ring around the disturbance with the Witch panting laboriously at his flank.

At the center of the ring was a pair of stout matrons tending to a weeping Maid. The Maid babbled gibberish to Cardin’s ears, but her torn dress and raw wounds were enough for Cardin to step forward and order the Maid to be made comfortable after her ordeal.

Oh, thank you, kindly Puritan!” the Maid abruptly said and stumbled gratefully toward Cardin. Her long, pale arms and her twilight tresses that framed her face just so were an inviting promise of a tempting reward. But as the Maid walked into a stray moonbeam, Cardin’s instincts, an atavistic, primordial sense of danger, brought the Puritan’s hand, which was filled with the butt of a pistol, to the Maid’s face.  

The crack of the pistol shot was an ugly sound that turned the Maid’s pretty face into a hideous, red ruin. The Maid did not fall, however, and it seemed instead that the remaining malevolent, golden eye that hung by a loose sinew from the remains of her shattered skull turned full upon the swift Puritan and the smoking pistol that he held in his iron grip.

The Maid then silently pointed her finger at Cardin and unleashed the hell upon the earth.

“Thou heretical harlot of hell!” Cardin roared to heaven as his free hand drew forth a second pistol, “Let this last meal of lead speed you on the road to perdition!”

The second shot dropped the Maid’s body, but gibbering, misshapened monstrosities quickly filled the gap and rushed at Cardin with their eyes stitched shut and silent screams that came from gaping mouths covered with taut, pale skin.

Cardin's last two pistols drew great gouts of blood from the creatures closest to him, and while more monsters swarmed over the bodies of their pack, Cardin’s puritanical fervor was brought to a righteous boil.

“Bleed, do ye?! Then come forth, fall upon the good Lord’s steel, and be damned to ye!”

Cardin now rushes forward. With no time to refill his pistols, the brawling Puritan pulls his steel rods free from his wide belt. His first swing shattered the wrist of a beast when it tore at his shoulder. A long, springing stride carried Cardin’s second swing forward and caved in the skull of a second creature.

“Arm yourselves, you fools!” Cardin bellowed back toward the campfires, “Die like men or be slaughtered like lambs!”

Heartened by Cardin’s fury, the peasants took up their weapons and fought for their lives. Even the Witch, her herbs and witchcraft forgotten, picked up a brand from a fire and drove monsters back with desperate courage.

So it was that the night passed, and the dawn of the morning revealed the carnage left upon that forest road.

As the peasants broke camp and prepared to continue on their journey, the Witch walked up to Cardin as he placed freshly filled pistols into his holsters.

“Will you not stay with us, Puritan?”

Cardin’s response was to pull the Witch close and kiss her full on the lips. He then said,

“Guard well your virtue and keep your faith in the good Lord and his only begotten Son. Nothing else would you need to protect yourself against the forces of evil.”

Cardin then turned away to walk a known road with an unknown goal, and his lonely, darksome figure was soon etched into the horizon by the light of the morning sun.

[questionable-intimacies]

If you were to walk 100 meters thataway ...

You will reach a magical land.

A realm of fantasy and whimsy.

A place called ~

None of my fucking business.

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The Word

In the beginning, there was the Word.

Silent, increasingly, did the Word become.

Buried as the foundations for words that came after.

To tower as skyscrapers of hypocrisy over the common man.

Decrying those who believe in the Word, written by men.

Forgetting the words of men who told them the Word could not be believed.

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The Thin Blue Line

Once I believed in that thin blue line.

A fragile wall holding back the chaos-tide.

Now. Older. Barely wiser.

I look closer at the line.

A blue wire, barbs intertwined.

Specked with drops of crimson to that sharper eye.

Calling to mind a hangman's noose.

Or the rope that holds the guillotine.

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Dreamers

An American hemmed in by walls tan as leather.

Turns leather into canvas and fills blank space with vibrant dreams.

Of places he has never seen, and colorful Moroccan feasts.

A Moroccan man, a refugee alleyed by sterile shelves.

Pulls cans of processed slop from a torture rack.

Lifeless steel filled with effortless imitations of his life back home.

Believing himself to be living the dream.

Which, then, is the dreamer?

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DEATH and the Half-Breed

The girl with rabbit ears was savagely dressed with strips of frayed cloth, and her skin, caked in the dust of the road and the brown skin which was a misfortune of her birth, was crudely adorned with bestial fangs and little bones shaped into jewelry by a hand far finer than a half-animal, half-woman savage could ever hope to become.

Despite her half-nakedness, the heat in the bar was oppressive enough to draw thin rivers of sweat, which cracked into branches and tributaries across the half-breed's skin. Fine drops raced each other across taut, sleek flesh, and the eyes of the bar's other patrons tracked each moist rivulet's run across the half-breed's bare skin with relentless fascination. The garbage that passed for alcohol in the joint ran their races from chipped glasses down thirsty throats, and the heat shimmers in each man's mind took the shape of the half-breed's strong body in their pickaxe-ruined hands except for her face and the expression she makes at another man's mercy.

Despite the fantasies and the Sioux war drums beating heavily between their legs and the back of their brains, every man in that bar knew that the only kind of woman, even a half-breed, especially a half-breed, who would dare sit alone in a bar was the kind of woman protected by the kind of man who dealt iron fast and loud from his hip, instead of mining iron from the shits. A wise man knew that no woman was worth the loud, fast death that the iron from the hip gives, and only wise men survived in this kind of bar, built in the center of this kind of town.

"Heya! I'm Jaune Arc. Name's short, sweet, and rolls of the tongue."

Every man in the bar stared at the woman with fear now instead of lust. A Fool was going to die, but when fools died, they always needed a wise man to show them the way to the light. Everyone waited now to see which wise man would death volunteer for the job, for from the second floor of the bar, where quiet rooms were reserved for those who needed the silence for quiet deeds, Death's spurs came a-ringing as he walked down the stairs to the bar's first floor.

Death appeared somber and plain; that was how he snuck up on those doomed to die, which was why Jaune Arc didn't run but instead said to Death.

"Cardin Winchester. I was talking to the lady."

Cardin Winchester's eyes, steel blue, stared at Jaune from beneath the brim of a black hat.

"The half-breed knows her place," Cardin said as he pulled out Jaune's 'WANTED' poster from his grey suit jacket.

"Really, Cardin, you?" Jaune said as he placed his hand on the butt of his revolver.

"I'm the Undertaker, and the reward will pay for your coffin."

Jaune's pistol cleared the leather of his holster first, but the half-breed jumped from her seat and caught his arm before he could aim.

Cardin had the time, then, to fire first. Everyone heard one shot, but Jaune died with three red holes in his chest.

Jaune's reward was enough for three coffins. Cardin pocketed the cost and gave Jaune a six-foot hole instead. Death then left town for the gloomy horizon on a white horse; the half-breed girl, blood fresh on her bare skin and with love in her eyes, followed in Death's wake.

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Velvet x Neo (Disguised as Velvet)

Velvet entered her room and stopped. It was her but...a version of her jacking off with a huge dick over Coco's unconscious, cum spewing body. "I...think I'm interrupting." She said sheepishly.

Fake Velvet looked at her...and pointed down. Velvet's knees hit the floor, and then that cock hit her face.

Neo had already gotten the information she came for. Now it was time to leave something behind...namely some kids~

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I always see the dog choking info on here, so here’s what to do if a kitty is choking

Save your kitties, we all know they eat everything anyway. 

http://www.wikihow.com/Save-a-Choking-Cat

http://www.wikihow.com/Perform-CPR-on-a-Cat

[questionable-intimacies]

Whenever the topic of autism self diagnosis comes up, inevitably a comment about "what about people faking it" comes up.

1. Who are you to determine whether they're faking it or not?

2. Is it really worth gatekeeping many people because of the actions of a few?