We ordered lube and rubbers online and because we spent more than $20 they sent us a free (too-big-to-use) dildo. So…

to big to use….?

You know, I’m glad you asked, because it allows me to print a correction.

I originally said it was too big to use, but yesterday I learned an important lesson about determination and believing in yourself.

(via dogslug)

toxicaristocrat asked: ☱ Nephera - Duibhín

I tried to seduce the Jedi diplomat today. I’m just… staring at that sentence, ‘cause it’s an actual thing that I’ve typed. ‘Cause it’s an actual thing I did, Force protect me. Look, I’ve been on a gladiatorial punch-drunk bender for the last six months, I’m on at least three kinds of painkillers, and I think I’ve been adopted into a family of scoundrels, ex-Republic troopers, and failed Jedi, so… don’t question my fucking life choices.

He’d been paying a lot of attention to me, I thought he was showing interest, and frankly, it’s been a long time. So I explained this to him, naked (‘cause it’s worked out well for me in the past).

To which he replied, and I quote: “I won’t succumb to your Sith she-devil wiles! I’m saving myself for a rugged outlaw made of muscles and testosterone! One whom would carry me through flames to our wedding bed for a night of vigorous, yet tender, lovemaking.”

Okay, maybe that’s not exactly what he said, but he did explain that he was only attracted to men, so offering myself to him was… awkward. I think he wanted to offer me something to cover up with, but me laying on his bed, ‘alluringly’ entangled in all of his sheets made that gesture a bit difficult to execute.

We had a pleasant chat after that: got to know each other better, told some funny stories, cleared the air. My body language might have been more emphatic—accompanied by much jiggling and bouncing of my anatomy—than was necessary, but it’s not my fault watching him turn redder than me is so entertaining. I never thought I’d end up befriending one of the mortal enemies of my people. Well, he’s kind of a rubbish Jedi… and I’m kind of a rubbish Sith, so I guess it balances out.

Title: Seven Nation Army Remix Artist: The Glitch Mob 9,717 plays



(via teabooksandhotchicks)

(via kaylocker)

vikinghat asked: Nephera and Jolle / Dhlaran


Jolle spoke to me today. It was just “Hand me that hydrospanner”, “Lift that up and hold it steady”, and a grunt that might have been “Thanks”, but those were the most words I’ve ever heard her direct at me in one sitting. She also ducked into my room a few minutes ago—still getting used to it being ‘my room’—and offered me some kind of seared meat on a skewer (not sure what it used to be when it was walking and squawking, but it tasted good). I think she likes me.


If I could make money by bothering Dhlaran, I’d go down in history as the founder of Bothering Dhlaran, Inc. I’d turn his annoyance into a best-selling franchise. The fucking Hutt Cartel would pack it in upon witnessing my business savvy in capitalizing on this precious resource.

Basically, what I’m saying is that getting under Dhlaran’s skin and cybernetics is too easy—and too damn fun for his own good. I don’t know, maybe he thinks I don’t like him or I’m out to get him… and let’s be real here, I’m totally out to get him, but I do love him. Like, a lot, a lot. Like, stand-by-his-side-until-death a lot.

Honestly, I think he’s going to be a great captain when Holloway’s… not captain anymore.



Aoi Honoo is Too Real

fuck I feel you

(via dogslug)

#About me  


drunk me is the me i really want to be. confident, hilarious and, most importantly, drunk. 

(via portnowhere)

#About me  

There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature.


gorefest asked: ☱ - ethaine, katla.

There is no death, there is the Force.

It’s been a week, but I’m still pounding on that blast door’s transparisteel window, and calling my master’s name as I watch her go to become one with the Force. I still feel the snap of our thread severing, my strength evaporating as I’m staggered by the loss of my counterbalance. I’m still there, defeated and weeping against that insurmountable barrier. Every moment after she left me behind has been made of clear, sharp fragments of those fatal moments: denial, futility, loss.

I know what becomes of a Jedi consumed by loss: they become lost themselves. I followed Siraj into the depths of his personal Hell, and I fled deeper into the darkness when he abandoned me. It was Master Katla’s refusal to relinquish me to my grief and insecurities that lead me out of the dark, but now I must light my own path in the wake of her sacrifice.

My master believed I have the potential to be a great Jedi. Her belief never faltered, even as I did, so I will honor her faith in me, strive to find peace amidst sorrow, and fulfill my duty to the galaxy. I will not yield.

These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-​wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-​wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-​wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-​wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-​wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—​or else they are endlessly self-​aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.

The post-​wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-​pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-​wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-​pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-​absorption without self-​awareness.