gravs

I was tagged a very long time ago by @suckmybigbong @stupidbaby6 @yourlovelymonstrosity and possibly some others?? Sorry if I’ve forgotten….😞 oh and I think this is the only vid of me singing so if you want to hear it stay tuned tho I don’t know why you would lol I want to tag this lovely humans: @coureypie@thelittlefae@godshideouscreation@autocorrect-inspired@bongtokingprincess@earlymorningbonghits@2-grams @idk anyone who wants to smoke weed

anonymous asked:

IDK if you saw the post about how, before the Death Star plans were captured, the asset Bail was sending was *Leia herself* to Obi-Wan. But I'd like an AU based on that. No Death Star Plans, only a 19-year-old-girl strong in the Force, trying to beat the Empire.

She didn’t—

Luke cocked his head, watching the girl in white move through the marketplace. He couldn’t figure out what it was about her, why one minute he had been engrossed in Waing’s new shipment of power converters and the next he was staring at her, totally unable to tear his eyes away. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d gone from one to the other, except he had, and now he was watching her. It was important he watch her, he knew it was important, though he couldn’t figure out how he knew that, or why.

It wasn’t that she stood out—sure, no one wore robes of that clean white, not unless they had a lot of slaves or droids to do the laundry for them, and yeah, she was the sort of pale you generally only saw in traders, who spent more time in artificial grav than sunslight. But she could be a water merchant’s daughter slumming it in Toshe, or an off-worlder, taking in the sights. (Not that they had many sights to see in Toshe, Luke thought with a snort.) And nobody else seemed to notice her; she stopped at Kinqua’s stall and dipped her fingers into the bowl Kinqua left out for tasting, and lifted it to her lips, licked the droplets away.

Luke had seen Kinqua casually lop off a child’s hand for that.

Skywalker,” Waing said, startling Luke out of his thoughts. “You made a decision? Or are you just going to keep feeling up my tech until it agrees to go home with you?”

“Cool your drives, Waing,” Luke said mildly, but he was still staring at the girl in white. She had two droids trundling after her, he realized belatedly—an astromech and a protocol droid, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying at this distance. Their lights were flashing, though, and he wished he could read visual binary.

“Oh, I see,” Waing said after a minute, and Luke could hear them smirking. “My tech isn’t all you’re hoping to take back to the Whitesun-Lars homestead.”

Luke felt his face go hot, and he forced himself to look back at Waing. They were smirking. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coolly, but he couldn’t focus on the power converters anymore. The girl in white, had she—

“Pardon me.”

This close it was abundantly obvious that she wasn’t from Tatooine—no one from this planet carried that air of interestingness with them, like they had a secret that might change the whole course of your life. She must be an off-worlder. “I’m looking for Obi-Wan Kenobi. Do you know where I might find him? I was told he lives near here—”

“Old Ben?” Luke cut in, before Waing could answer. “Do you mean Old Ben?”

The girl in white looked at him for a long moment, and Luke felt the back of his neck heating up. “I don’t know,” she finally said. “Is he near here?”

“Oh, sure,” Luke laughed, more out of relief than anything else. “Old Ben’s just a few klicks from here, he lives near the western gorge—I could take you, if you want,” Luke said quickly, because she looked increasingly put-out, and he felt something in his chest twinge in answer to it.

But she shook her head. “Thank you for the offer, but this is a personal matter.”

“It’ll cost you serious credits if you charter a speeder,” Luke said. “I’m headed that way anyway, let me take you. And your droids. Really,” he said, because she still looked uncertain. “It’s no trouble.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and her dark eyes were very serious. (He liked her eyes, for no particular reason he could figure out.) “My name is Leia,” she finally said, sticking her hand out. 

“Luke,” Luke laughed, taking it and shaking it. It was cool and smooth, and if he’d needed any confirmation she was from off-world, that was it. “Skywalker. My uncle owns a moisture farm in the eastern hemisphere.”

“I’m—not from around here,” she said, and Luke almost laughed because—well, obviously.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Luke said, and something of her tiredness and tightness (why did he know she was tired, down to her bones?) eased. She smiled back, a small smile. Luke counted it as a victory.

“I am C-3PO,” the protocol droid cut in, sticking his head between them as though it would stop them from looking at one another. He was burnished gold, and in the high sunslight it hurt to look at him. “And this is my companion, R2-D2.”

The astromech whistled a greeting, and Luke laughed. “Pleasure to meet—all of you. My speeder’s docked by the Ithorian, if you want…?”

“Hey, Skywalker, aren’t you going to buy anything?” Waing interrupted, and Luke winced, barely managing to tear his eyes away from Leia, who was still smiling, very slightly.

“Sorry, uh—maybe next week?” Luke offered lamely, but he was already ushering Leia and her droids away, and he could hear her laugh, very softly. (His chest fell too full, hearing it.)

It felt strange, formal and right, to help her into the speeder. Her hand in his was a kind of symmetry, inexplicable, the way he knew how a speeder was supposed to fit together, how a full tank of moisture sounded when you rapped it with a knuckle. Organic and totally without reason, their hands fitting together. She still hadn’t told him her surname, if she had a surname. Where she was from. What she was doing here. What her droids were doing here.

Luke couldn’t help but trust her utterly. Otherwise, why did her hand feel like that, resting in his?

What do you need to see Old Ben for?” Luke shouted over the rush of air around the speeder.

I told you,” Leia shouted back. The white hood she wore had fallen back, and her hair was dark. Even carefully styled, those loops over her ears, strands came loose, whipping around her face. “It’s personal!”

They stopped at the farm first, just to refuel and drop off the handful of things Luke did buy—rations, holonews downloads, some sucrose-candies for Aunt Beru. But when they touched down, Owen went white beneath his sunsburn, staring at Leia like she was a creature from another galaxy. “Your Highness,” he breathed, and Luke had to correct him, just an off-worlder looking for Old Ben; don’t pay her any mind. Look, Uncle Owen, I brought you your Almanac—

Leia was silent; picking at a loose thread in her white, white robes.

(Afterwards, she was silent, her arms crossed over her waist. They sped across the desert, which was gathering dark by the armful. “Sorry,” Luke said, trying to keep himself from shivering, “I know it gets cold at night.”

“It’s all right,” Leia said. “On—my planet, it snowed. We had mountains, and we would build whole castles out if it, out of snow. It was beautiful.”

“I’d like to see snow,” Luke said, but he thought it was lost in the sound of the speeder, because she didn’t reply.)

By the time they reached Old Ben’s place, it was dark enough for a lamp to be burning, the light spilling beneath the door and out the window. Luke watched as Leia knocked on the daub doorframe, shivering.

Still, it was worth staying just to watch the flicker of Old Ben’s expression from surprise to shock when he greeted her. He called her by a name that was definitely not ‘leia’ and Luke watched her shoulders hitch. “No,” Leia said finally. “I am Leia Organa, Princess of Alderaan. I am the daughter of Queen Breha Organa and Viceroy Bail Organa, and I am—I am here to beg your aid for the rebellion.”

Luke wasn’t so surprised that he didn’t notice Ben’s eyes cut to him, and then away.

“Princess,” Ben said finally, with an awful heaviness. Luke had brought him ration packs and listened to his stories he had never sounded like that before, like it was something awful and deep beyond saying. “If they sent you to find me, they must be very desperate.”

“No,” she said quickly, and Luke knew she was lying. “No, but—we need Jedi. We cannot go forward, we cannot fight, if the Force is not with us.”

This time, Old Ben’s stare lingered on Leia, then on Luke. He seemed to be making up his mind about something, though Luke couldn’t say what. Old Ben had always struck him as a sort of harmless religious sort; in another world he might have been a Jedi like in the stories, but instead he was a desert madman, talking to the air and clutching at a bit of carbon tubing like it was a lightsaber.

There was nothing harmless about the way he was looking at them now.

“I’ve been happy here,” Old Ben muttered, quietly, like an apology.

“Fine,” Leia said, almost a snarl. Luke could only see her in silhouette, against the light from Old Ben’s hut. He thought suddenly of a predator, something that could leap on the unsuspecting. “But no one ever promised us happiness.”

Luke could see Old Ben’s throat work. “Come in,” he said at last. His gaze darted to Luke, and Luke caught his breath. “What I have to say is—for both of you, now.”

Luke shut off the speeder.

(He had followed Leia into Old Ben’s hut, and didn’t come out the same man. No, not the same man at all.)

Sooo... Explosions!!!

Well, this is my first ever tumblr post(Yay!), sorry if it goes a little wonky. Anyways! Found this blog a few hours ago and have been reading through it on and off. Hilarious, and I just could resist making my own little twisted and hopefully comical contribution. :D

So, we’ve seen the posts about fire, injuries, even the cleaner bot know as Stabby. Even a few about invasions and fights and the like. But what about recreational shooting? With modern-era firearms, not the super-quiet no-recoil sci-fi things everyone always thinks could be in the future. I mean, it seems like everyone enjoys a good ole giant gun going off. You just can’t help but grin! So, without further delay, here we go!

It was - insert unpronounceable alien name(Let’s just call said alien Zeb and for the sake of sanity, use the same gender pronouns as we do.) - Zeb’s first of his two recreational rotations for this cycle. After the long and boring time of this most recent cycle, Zeb figured he could go for a bit of excitement. After all, there was rarely anything to do during a lowly Level 2 patrol. Apparently the captain had… irritated someone higher up.

Shaking his head, Zeb banished those thoughts as the door to the on-ship shooting range opened with a soft hiss. Stepping inside, he checked in with the range master and headed to a free spot. Setting the case containing his personal grav-pulser onto the deck and removing the weapon, he soon fell into the comforting rhythm of shooting, all other worries being drowned by the various whines and hums of other shooter’s weapons.

A while later, during a short break as Zeb recharged his weapon’s power cells, he noticed one of the human members of the crew check in with the range master. Dismissing it after a moment, he went back to shooting. As he drained one power cell and went to smack another home, he felt a tap on his lower right shoulder. Pausing and glancing down at the human, he tried to recall the name of the figure before him.

“Ah, Human-James, may I assist you with something?”

“Nah, just wanted to make sure it was alright if I set up here,” the brown head-furred human replied, gesturing to the shooting bay beside Zeb’s.

“Certainly. I thank you for asking.”

“Thanks, not a problem.”

For a moment, Zeb watched as the strange little human placed two cases on the floor, one of which was almost as long as Human-James was tall! The short human then extracted a wood and metal contraption in the vague shape of a beam-rifle from the smaller case. Taking obvious care with it, he started to go through a series of checks that honestly left Zeb quite bored. Turning back to his shooting, he thought nothing more of the human he was now sharing the shooting range with.

Moments later, Zeb nearly dropped his grav-pulser as the human bellowed.

“EYES AND EARS!!”

In a moment of utter confusion, every single Chlivloit in the range turned to look at the lone human. That human looked back at them with just as much confusion.

“Eyes and ears?” he repeated, befuddled by the lack of response.

“Yes, our visual and audial organs are functioning properly, why do you ask?”

“Look, just… put the blast shield down on your stations for a moment if you don’t have safety glasses, and cover your ears.”

“Why?”

“Please? Just do it?” Human-James seemed to be getting increasingly agitated, Zeb noted, as he quickly followed the instructions.

Nodding in satisfaction as the rest of occupants do the same, curious about what was about to happen, Human-James put a small box into the bottom of the rifle-like thing before moving a large lever of polished metal in what seemed to be a very specific motion. Bringing the stock of the weapon up to his shoulder, Human-James took aim down the primitive optic sights. With barely any warning, the human squeezed the trigger of his weapon.

BANG!

Ears ringing, Zeb thought his heart would leap out of his scaled chest both from fright and the invisible hammer that smashed into his body. Worse was when he saw Human-James’ upper body jolt from the apparent catastrophic failure of his weapon.

“WOOHOO!!” Human-James cried out, setting the thunderous weapon down and pumping both hands into the air. “Bullseye, baby! That’s what I like to see!”

“My… congratulations on your impressive marksmanship, Human-James. But why are you so happy, if I may ask? Your weapon failed, did it not?”

“Failed?” the human seemed genuinely confused. “Why would it have failed? This was my great-grandfather’s gun, and it’s been handed down ever since. My family has taken pride in keeping it in top shape.”

“Then why did it explode so violently, as it if it was a micro-nuke launcher, not some form of rifle?”

“Nah, it didn’t explode, it’s supposed to do that. This is a gun, not those fancy grav-thingies we tend to use now. Shoots a small piece of shaped copped-coated lead down a rifled barrel using the expanding gasses of a controlled explosion. It’s much more fun than those new ones. So much less… clinical.”

“Fun. You call nearly deafening yourself and removing your arm ‘fun’?”

“Oh, that was nothing. This is just a .30-06. You should see my .50 cal! Here, I’ll show you.”

And then Human-James pulls a “gun” almost as long as he is tall out of the other case before holding up two different size cylinder-shaped pieces of brass.

“This is a .30-06,” he said, pointing to the smaller of the two. It was about the size of Human-James’ second smallest finger. “This is a .50 cal,” he finished with a grin on his face. The larger of the two was bigger than the .30-06 by almost half in length, and more than twice as large in diameter.

“What is that?! A missile?!”

“Able to penetrate some forms of armor at decent range, or take out a target at the very edges of believability. Now people just use them for fun.”

“Fun.”

“Yup!”

“…I think I need to talk to the captain… The briefing on your species needs to be updated… again.”

okay, so get this. Humans have this insane thing about asking questions and the aliens just don’t get it. Like, alien over here - we’ll call him Al - is told this certain sent of directions for fixing a nav computer or smth and like the aliens always follow the rules and dont question it or anything just accepts things but when Al tries to teach the New Human Crewman - we’ll call it Steve - Steve goes, “but why not just connect the green wire to the blue port and completely bypass the four-way circuit?” and Al just stares at him in shock, like, dude, Steve, you don’t go around asking question, though that actually does make more sense. Or like, they’re supposed to go talk to Big Alien Leader - who we’ll name Tom - and Tom tells them the Big Rules of Planet XYZ and Steve goes, but why can’t we go into the anti-grav lake, i mean, come on that sounds amazing, and Tom stares at Steve like he’s crazy, and Al quickly tries to cover, but Tom is like, “no, no, Steve’s got a point.” idek that’s just smth ive been thinking about

Scrisoare pentru adolescente

Dragele mele purtătoare de vagin, permiteți-mi să vă impărtășesc o parte din înțelepciunea mea de copilă de 26 ani. Am văzut n postari în care vă intindeți bucăți de suflet sperând să le lipească cineva după ce a fost călcat în picioare de purtătorii de biluțe.
Există o explicație foarte simplă pentru care vi se întâmplă asta. Noi, femeile, avem scrisă în inteligența emoțională nevoia de a ne cupla cu bărbați virili, puternici pentru ca atunci când trăiam în peșteri aveam nevoie de protecție și siguranță împotriva fiarelor și a altor pericole. Cum s-ar zice că suntem leșinate după „bad boys”, indiferent de vârstă și de individualitatea fiecăreia.
Problema e că multe dintre voi nu înțelegeți diferența dintre „bad boy” și „bad toy”.
Să v-o zic mai simplu.
„bad boy” = creatură cerebrală, pompată cu testosteron de calitate superioară având margini dure de care vă puteți sprijini fără să vă fie teamă că se vor surpa.
„bad toy” = creatură bipedă/ tripedă la vederea unei țâțe, scuipător profesionist cu margini ascuțite menite doar să vă ințepe sau să vă penetreze.
Nu vă mai umeziți fizic și sufletește la orice individ care vă bombardează cu vorbe frumoase, aveți răbdare să le și concretizeze prin fapte și atitudine. „Bad toy” îți va spune că nu poate trăi fără tine și apoi va trăi bine mersi și o săptămână fără să te caute în timp ce tu faci ulcer de stres și frustrare. „Bad boy” te va pupa pe frunte și poate nici n-o să-ți spună că ii vei lipsi când va pleca, dar intr-o oră deja te va suna să vadă dacă nu ți-au înghețat buzele până ai ajuns acasă.
„Bad toy” îți va spune că ești cea mai frumoasă și mirobolantă monalisă,dar în prima conjunctură o să-l contrazică grav privirea umedă de vițel ce fuge după curul alteia. Tot el se va lăuda că te va face să urli la lună când îți va ajunge intre picioare, dar nu vei rămâne decât cu abisul dintre cuvinte și performanță, pentru că erecția vorbelor o va depăși cu mult pe cea a organului.
„Bad boy” veritabil își va ține gura închisă și ochii infipți în tine, te va respecta în tăcere pe stradă, în vizită la rude sau prieteni și va uita de tot respectul când te va vedea goală, pentru ca el nu suportă să te vadă goală, el vrea sa te umple. Trupește, sufletește, mental, spiritual.
Ăia care măsoară dragostea ce le-o porți în numărul de kile pierdute, în numărul de crize de plâns și de implorări sunt niște sugative complexate ce nu-și regasesc masculinitatea prin alte metode decâat făcându-te pe tine mai vulnerabilă.
Vă rog, aruncați un ochi la băieții/barbații din jurul vostru care poate tac mai mult sau vorbesc mai puțin, dar mai convingător. Care știu să și injure, dar să vorbească și corect gramatical. Care își respectă mamele sau alte femei. Nu mai alergați după copii deghizați în masculi și papagali fără pene.
Cu drag și simpatie, fostă colecționară de „bad toys”.

copyright: Gina Balineanu © Confesiuni Anonime