de d s

Let’s not think of Lance’s family, back on Earth.

Let’s not think about his parents, sending their son off to the Garrison because he loves the stars and he knows what he wants and he’s worked so hard to get there—let’s not think about them being told their son is never coming home.

Let’s not think about how his parents told the rest of the family. Let’s not think about trying to explain to his younger siblings that I’m sorry, sweetheart, but Lance won’t be coming home this summer. Let’s not think about his siblings misunderstanding, and asking when he would be coming home. Let’s not think about his parents having to explain what it really means that Lance is d—de—dead. Let’s not think about his siblings finally understanding and crying and screaming at everything that goes wrong for the next few months, because What does it matter, Mama? Why does it matter if I’m good? Lance was good! Lance was good but he’s still gone! I don’t want to be good if it means I’ll go away!

Let’s not think about his parents trying to be strong for their children. Let’s not think about them crying, alone, in the middle of the night, when nobody can interrupt them, because dammit Lance was meant for better things that this; he was meant to shine; he was meant to l  i v e

Let’s not think about Lance’s older siblings and extended family. Let’s not think about his older siblings learning that their baby brother—the one who was trying to do so much with his life, who had so many plans and dreams, who was kind of patient and good and wonderful and insecure, yes, but who took that and used it to make sure none of his siblings ever felt like he did—was gone because of some freak accident that they never got a full answer for because It’s classified. Let’s not think about his older siblings trying to understand why this would happen, how this could happen, how are any of them supposed to just cope and move on now that Lance, the brother who was only sixteen, damn it, he was still a child, was dead and would never call home again on Christmas and Easter and on everyone’s birthdays.

Let’s not think about the younger ones—not the youngest, exactly, who still didn’t really understand that dead meant never coming back and still asked when Lance would come home, but the younger ones, the ones closest in age to Lance—developing separation anxiety, and refusing to go to school because what if while they were gone someone else left, too?

(Let’s not think about Lance, in space, wishing he could go home and see his family and his mother and his siblings and hug them and tell them all about the stars and the wonderful things he had seen. Let’s not think about him, lonely, feeling like a seventh wheel, not knowing where his place is, because at home he knew it was his job to comfort and be his mother’s right hand man, but out here nobody wants his comfort, and there is no mother for him to help. It’s just him, teammates who don’t really seem to like him, and a neverending vastness of stars and heartache.)

Let’s not think about any of that at all.


Allen & Tim | The cute friendship |
Dedicated to my awesome Pri bby! @allenswalkers ♥ (๑❛ ▿ ◠๑ )

vampire!perc’ahlia AU

so for like a couple of days now @alienfirst​ and @fastandfuri0sa and i have been screeching at each other about vampire!perc’ahlia on Twitter (go check out amanda’s twitter for her reply sketches coz omg????) and this ficlet happened oops

“Percy…” Vex sighs, reaching out to touch his cheek, and the look he gives her tightens the squeeze around her heart, “Darling, you aren’t taking anything from me that I’m not giving you willingly. You understand that, right?”

Percy’s eyes close, and he nuzzles a little into her open palm, as if savoring the warmth of her against his cold skin. “I wish you didn’t have to give me these things,” he says a little wistfully, smiling sadly at her, “I wish I didn’t make you feel like you had to give me these things.”

Keep reading

Questioning myself

I’ve been exploring tumblr for a little over a week now.
I couldn’t count the number of pornblogs I’ve come across on my hands even if I were blessed with fifty of them. 😆

But I’ve also come across some very interesting well written blogs.
Mostly of dominants answering questions.
I can not express how they bring some light along the way and how truly appreciated they are. (And I would love to find some submissive points of view)
However they also make me question myself more than ever before.

Am I really submissive? I seem to be very much attracted to de D/s dynamic in a relationship. However the sadistic and masochistic characteristics that are often paired with it scare the hell out of me.

I’m into kinky sex, I’ll admit that. I like to be spanked or even paddled and I love it when a man takes charge or getting tied up.
I have a high pain tolerance but the thought of being humiliated or willfully hurt makes me want to run like hell.

This is all making me question my submissiveness.
Am I really submissive or do I just crave a relationship with some higher level of intensity. A relationship where I feel wanted and cared for.
A relationship where I can look up to my partner and have him teach me, show me how to be my best self. Where I could take care of him without always keeping score of who’s done what for the other?

But isn’t this what makes me submissive? Or just a needy woman with a love for soft kink.

I’m reading about slaves, little girls, pets, … and all I’m feeling is that even though I identify with some aspects, the labels don’t suit me.

Maybe this quest is more about me learning the things I don’t want than finding the label that is me?
Maybe I need to learn how to separate the love, relationship and sexual identity of myself.

pcrtytime  asked:

"Do robots fart?"

                                                         good question. in short, no.
     in a more detailed explanation: negative. however, if robotics were in fact enabled to expel pockets of gas from their internal builds from the anal district, we are certain that they would indeed smell like roses. from this robot, in particular. but as far as we are scientifically aware, it is false. robots do not fart. but they do – at times – relieve toxic clouds of smoke. do not inhale. if inhaled, please contact your doctor / a poison doctor  immediately and seek professional treatment. 

                                                                                      thank you.

Katsuki’s type of music would be anything that is easy listening. Soft rock, anything quiet. Surprisingly, listening to that kind of music helps him feel relaxed and calm.

Izuku likes to listen to pop, anything up-beat and happy. (I’d say he listens to a lot of j-pop/k-pop). 

Katsuki hates the kind of music Izuku listens to, but Izuku really likes Katsuki’s. Whenever Izuku listens to his music, his grouchy boyfriend wishes he’d just turn it off, or he actually does turn it off. It results in Izuku pouting, but then he’ll turn on the type of music Katsuki likes, so that he stops complaining.  

C'est beau de s'arrêter d'un seul coup, de lever la tête et de se rendre compte que malgré tout ce que les autres ont pu dire et bien on a réussi
—  lespiquresaines

                                ❝ —  why, if it isn’t my ol’ pal,    L  U  I  G  I   !  !
                                                      or is it…  
BABY luigi?

                                                                                     …i can’t tell the difference. —  ❞