#ATS Infrastructure

[ats-greens]

Golf View Apartments in ATS Kingston Heath: Redefining Luxurious Living in Noida

Nestled in the heart of Greater Noida, Golf View Apartments in ATS Kingston Heath offer a perfect blend of opulence and tranquility. Developed by the renowned ATS Greens, this premium residential project sets a benchmark for luxurious living in a serene and green environment.

Prime Location

Located in Sector 150, Noida, ATS Kingston Heath enjoys excellent connectivity to major hubs like Delhi, Gurgaon, and other parts of NCR. Proximity to the Noida-Greater Noida Expressway and upcoming metro stations makes it a preferred choice for modern families seeking convenience and accessibility.

World-Class Amenities

ATS Kingston Heath is designed to provide a holistic lifestyle with its world-class amenities, including:

Golf Course Views: The apartments offer stunning views of a beautifully manicured golf course, ensuring a serene living experience.

Clubhouse: A state-of-the-art clubhouse equipped with fitness centers, swimming pools, and recreational zones.

Sports Facilities: From tennis courts to jogging tracks, there’s something for every fitness enthusiast.

Green Spaces: The project boasts lush green landscapes and eco-friendly infrastructure for a sustainable lifestyle.

Spacious and Elegant Apartments

The Golf View Apartments in ATS Kingston Heath are meticulously designed to cater to modern living standards. With spacious layouts, premium fittings, and large balconies overlooking the golf course, these apartments redefine luxury. The project offers configurations of 3 and 4 BHK apartments, ideal for families of all sizes.

Sustainability and Wellness

ATS Kingston Heath focuses on sustainable living by integrating eco-friendly practices such as rainwater harvesting, solar power, and efficient waste management. The wellness-focused design ensures ample ventilation, natural light, and noise-free surroundings.

Investment Opportunity

Investing in Golf View Apartments in ATS Kingston Heath is a lucrative option due to its strategic location, premium features, and high potential for appreciation. Whether for end-use or as an asset, these apartments promise excellent returns in the long run.

Why Choose ATS Greens?

ATS Greens is synonymous with trust and quality in the real estate industry. With a proven track record of delivering exceptional residential projects, ATS Kingston Heath is another feather in their cap. The developer’s commitment to timely delivery, innovative designs, and customer satisfaction ensures a seamless living experience.

Conclusion

If you’re looking for a luxurious and peaceful abode in Noida, Golf View Apartments in ATS Kingston Heath by ATS Greens is the perfect choice. Combining premium amenities, green living, and excellent connectivity, this project is a haven for those seeking an upscale lifestyle.

Invest in ATS Kingston Heath today and experience the true essence of luxury living amidst nature!

[atsgroupownergetamberanand]

What Makes ATS Infrastructure Stand Apart as a Real Estate Developer

Fostering a unique construction approach, ATS Infrastructure has emerged as one of the most successful realtors in the modern era, hailed for its sound building designs, architectural styles, and faultless project delivery record

[navree]

"this means rhaenyra was searching for luke's body for ten days" damn so boring it takes over a week to try and find for his munched bits

[gophergal]

Used to have chickens, so I know a thing or two about fresh eggs. They're no more likely to crack when boiling than store bought. Only issue I've ever had with eggs cracking during boiling is if I drop them in the water instead of being gentle, which is a me problem and not an egg problem

[sirfrogsworth]

Canada: The Crudest Crude Oil

So, Canada has some shitty oil.

I don't know what Canada oil ate, but it might need a juice cleanse or something.

Trump is putting a 10% tariff on this shit.

This is called heavy sour crude oil. Because not all crude oil is the same. It can be light. It can be sweet. It can be heavy. It can be sour. Light and sweet is the easiest to refine. Heavy and sour (the Canada poop) is the most difficult.

But the US specializes in refining the shittiest crude. That's why we import so much from Canada. We have developed the best technologies to turn this shitty tar sand oil into something useful. We buy it cheap from Canada, make it useful (gas, kerosene, plastics, asphalt, etc), and then resell it.

This ends up being about a $700 billion business that generates about $175 billion in tax revenue.

To make things more interesting, the US has a lot of its own oil. Which is why Trump loves to say "drill, baby, drill." But our oil is light and sweet. It's the good stuff. Easy to refine.

That's good... right?

Not so fast!

Since no other countries are very good at processing the shit oil, we send our good stuff to Europe. They can easily refine it and we make a lot of money selling it to them.

Here's the rub...

The US isn't really set up to refine the good shit. Most of our refinery infrastructure is meant to process the Canada poop. So even though we technically have plenty of our own oil, we don't really have a lot of places to process it.

So I guess we would have to send it to Europe and buy it back.

Or we would have to build new refineries.

Or we would have to get shit oil from other places.

And those places?

Russia and Venezuela.

I have no idea if Trump understands any of this. Or if he thinks all oil is the same. But I feel like fucking with a $700 billion industry is bad for the economy.

I really don't understand why this is happening. I don't know if Trump is going rogue and doing this on his own. Or if Putin set this up so we will buy oil from Russia. Or if there is some other special interest group that wants to torpedo our refinery economy.

None of this makes a lot of sense to me and I don't see many people talking about this aspect of the tariff problem. I don't think oil quality is well known to the general public and maybe Trump's puppeteers are counting on that ignorance to do some sinister shit.

In any case, I imagine gas prices are going up. I'm sure the MAGA crowd, famous for being angry at gas prices, will finally see the light and turn on Trump.

I'm just kidding.

They will find some way to say it is a good thing and keep kicking themselves in the nuts.

[hotchscoffeecup]

don’t punch beskar, you’ll break your hand

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!reader

Rating: M (18+ MDNI)

Word Count: 6.8k

Tags: Hand to hand fighting, Injury, Burns, Blindfolds, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Mild Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mando Takes Off His Helmet

Summary: You’re the Marshall of your small remote town. When you’re injured in a fight with pirates, Mando tends to your injuries. Time spent together in close quarters leads to even closer relations and when Mando suddenly disappears, you can’t help but feel used. (Happy Ending)

A/N: I wrote this back in Summer of May 2023 and am working on bringing my works over to Tumblr from AO3. I’m not super well versed in Star Wars lore outside of Mandalorian, so some details seems a little vague or inaccurate, that’s probably why! Hope you enjoy!

You nod your thanks as the bartender replaces your empty drink with a full one, flipping a few credits toward him from the dwindling tower you’d stacked in front of you earlier. A tentacle shoots out from the barkeep’s octopus-like face and snaps them out of the air. He grunts his assent and disappears into the back room.

You sip the bitter alcohol and revel in the burn as it slides down your throat to settle in your stomach and fuel the delightful buzz trilling through your body. It’s not enough to disorient you, but enough to ease the dull ache in your temples as you pour over the journal you’ve logged each and every one of your arrests in since the day you became Marshall of this godforsaken town. It’s not what you wanted to do with your life, but what else was there to do in the wake of pirates setting up shop on the outskirts of your city. There was no one in charge, never had been, and no one willing to take up the mantle. They were lost, leaderless.

And now here you are, feeling more lost than you ever had before.

You shake off the thought and return to your logs, tracking crime rates and making note of the areas with increasing levels of violence, piracy, and spice usage. Every time you thought you’d rid an area of criminal activity, it seemed as if double the illicit operations popped up in their place. So was the cost of being an independent planet. It made it all the more appealing to set up shop where there was no threat of the Republic stopping you. In a more developed part of the planet, they would’ve had the means to install better infrastructure or hire more of a guard to dissuade this sort of thing. Not here though. Not on your small blip on the map.

Crime rates had increased hard and fast, with pirates demanding protection payment from the shops and people that lived there. They were armed to teeth and operating a small black market, selling and trading spice and weapons to any and all willing to buy. And every day the market grew, attracting more criminals and making it that much harder to corral the growing threat.

You just didn’t have the manpower to take them on, so all you could do was sit and watch as they overtook the city, your city. It may be a godforsaken town, but it was yours damnit and you would die to protect it.

It had been nice once, beautiful even. The buildings sleek and well lit, laughter pouring out of open doors into the street as people and aliens alike drank, ate, and celebrated a life not run by any government or order.

The peace was short lived as pirates moved in, taking advantage of the wayward town often missed on maps by travelers and government officials alike. They were a town off grid, perfect for a crime syndicate to set up shop in. By the time you’d discerned the severity of what was happening, it was too late and it wasn’t long before they’d overtaken the city and turned it into an industrial hellhole; scrap yards piling higher than buildings destroying the views of what were once lush forests, now mines. Pirate lackies stood guard atop high metal walls that overlooked the town, ready to gun down anyone that might step too close until one day they attempted to lay the town bare; collateral damage in pursuit of establishing a central hub so they could expand their operation and make the entire city some sort of a base; the people living within the walls of the city be damned in pursuit of their own twisted little empire.

They’d have been successful if he hadn’t arrived, the Mandalorian. You’d heard rumors of one traveling the galaxy with a small green creature in tow, though the nature of the creature varied widely. When he’d arrived, there was no creature, and you didn’t feel as though it was your place to ask about it. He’d then helped without even having to be asked. No bargains. No payment. He just wanted to help.

Together, you devised a plan, and with a few of his allies in tow, you destroyed the base from the inside out; something you still can’t believe you’d managed to accomplish with so few individuals. But for the Mandalorian, he himself might as well have been the equivalent to an entire fleet of troopers and his allies the same.

You’d suffered some major burns to the right side of your body in the explosion that leveled the base, but it had been worth it to see that pirate filth laid to waste. Everything had still gone according to plan.

In the weeks that followed, the Mandalorian had tended to your injuries and saw to the restoration of the city. Your memory was hazy after the explosion, but you remembered the pain of it all; the gnawing, biting pain that cut down to your bones as he cradled you into his arms and jettisoned you back to the Razor Crest. Your vision had been hazy. blurred by the severity of the injuries and the toll they’d taken on your body. You’d barely clung to consciousness as the Mandalorian worked on the burns, the debrieding sprays and burn gels doing their job, but feeling as though your skin had caught light once more. Strained “I’m sorry’s” and “I know it hurts” had echoed through the Mandalorian’s modulator until you’d finally passed out from the pain.

It was three days until you’d opened your eyes again. And when you did, you were still in and out of consciousness, unable to keep them open for more than a few seconds at a time.

Once though, when you could manage the strength to blink through the haze, you could have sworn you’d caught a glimpse of dark hair and tan skin passing through the corridor. Your vision had been hazy with sleep and the lights dimmed. You still don’t know if that had been a dream.

On day eight you’d regained full consciousness, You awoke to find bandages soaked in some stinking salve coating the right side of your chest and shoulder, winding across your torso and down your arms. A loose sheet covered the rest of your exposed body, though someone had put a pair of loose linen trousers on you. You attempted to clench your right fist and hissed as the charred skin beneath the bandages immediately protested the movement.

You attempted to sit up and very quickly realized that was an equally stupid thing to try to do.

“Woah, stop!” instructed a modulated voice.

Your eyes flicked up toward the door, where the Mandalorian rushed in. “Take it easy,” he said, calmer this time. “Your body has been through a lot.”

“How long has it been?” You asked, disregarding the concern in his voice.

“Listen, you need to stay down and—“

“How long has it been?”

A mumbled curse hissed through the modulator before he spoke up. “Eight days.”

Your eyes flew open, “Eight?” You cried. Using your left hand to hold the sheet over your exposed chest, you forced yourself into a sitting position despite the stiff flesh under the bandages begging you to stop. “That’s unacceptable. I need to leave. I have to help my people. I need—“

“To heal,” the Mandalorian stated, a command. He took the two pillows that you’d disregarded and propped them up against the metal wall at the back of the cot and gently lowered you back onto them. “My people are on it. The black market has been eradicated. Things are being rebuilt as we speak.”

“I,” you started, but weren’t sure what to say. “I don’t understand. Why are you doing all of this? You have no allegiance to us.”

“My allegiance is to doing the right thing.”

“I don’t often find people care about what’s right or wrong,” you said bitterly, “just what will serve their own selfish agenda.” Your eyes found what you were imaging to be his behind the black T of his helmet.

He tilted his head, regarding you. After two minutes of insufferable silence, his Beskar rattled as he bent at the knees to sit on a flipped over crate near the bedside. You’d not even noticed it before he sat down. Had he sat there before during these last eight days? Watching you?

“Listen,” he began. “I’ve learned a thing or two about being selfish and constantly seeking that which would reap the greatest reward. Recently, I’ve found there are things far, far greater than just going through the motions of what you’ve been told is right and what is wrong because someone says so. I want to see the things that I do in this world actually make a difference, not just for me, but for everyone; and to do that I have to do it on my own terms. So, when I tell you I’m just trying to help,” he sighed through the modulator and leaned back against the wall, his armor clanging against it with a dull thud, “I mean it.”

His words sounded genuine enough, but you weren’t altogether sold. Though, he didn’t have to agree to help take down the pirates nor take you in. He could’ve dumped you at the local med bay and been off planet doing gods know what by now, but he stayed. Not only did he stay for you, but for your people.

“Why did you help me?” The words left your mouth before you could think them through.

His answer came fast. “You’re alone here.” He stood and reached for an overhead shelf where he withdrew a med pack. He knelt at your side and released the locks, the pack snapping open with a satisfactory click.

You watched his leather clad fingers withdraw equipment and arrange them neatly along the edge of the bed.

He snapped the med pack shut and turned his masked face in your direction. “I know what it’s like to be in pain alone, to suffer alone. I did not want that for you.”

“Begging your pardon, Mando, but why would you care what I want?”

Your eyes flickered back and forth in the dim light, searching for him behind the mask. You wished you could read his expression.

He picked up a pair of scissors, though his gloved fingers quickly posed a problem as their thick padding didn’t allow him to hold them properly.

“This was a lot easier when you were knocked out,” he muttered through the modulator. He cursed and dropped the scissors, snapping his hand free from the glove. “And my name’s not Mando,” he added, now able to comfortably pick up the scissors with his long pointer finger and thumb. “It’s Din. Din Djarin.”

You're surprised when your breath catches in your throat; not at how he’d revealed his name, but that he’d revealed any amount of skin to you; deep tan skin pebbled with scars and calluses.

“Are you allowed to do that?” You asked, voice incredulous.

The scissors slid under the bandages, stinging the burnt skin as they gently glided across. You hissed and he apologized, making sure to lift them higher as he cut away the bandages.

After a long moment, he answered. “I don’t know.” He snapped out of the other glove and made deft work of the bandages, apologizing as they stuck to your mottled flesh. “I don’t know a lot of things anymore.” This he’d spoken more so to himself.

Once the sullied bandages had been pulled away and discarded, you glanced down at your flesh, and sucked a sharp breary in through your teeth at the sight of it. No wonder you’d been out cold for over a week. The entire right side of your upper body was unrecognizable to you the way that the flames had licked and curled around your limbs. Tears stung at your eyes and you forced yourself to look away

“I know it looks bad now,” he said calmly, placing a comforting hand over your uninjured one. You're surprised by how soft it is despite its rough appearance. The gesture placated you and you find your body relaxing. “Over time it will fade and eventually look like nothing happened at all. Trust me.”

“Do what you have to do then,” you consented, knowing the treatment was probably less than pleasant.

He squeezed your hand and when he withdrew it you found yourself longing for its warmth. You brushed the thought aside as quickly as it came and braced yourself for pain as Din coated your wounds in a numbing spray; the effects of which caused your eyes to well with tears.

Flesh numbed, he spent the next hour debriding the wounds of dead flesh and applying a gel that encouraged skin cell regeneration. He then applied bandages that were soaked in a stronger version of the gel in thick layers against and around the burns.

By the time he finished you were barely able to keep your eyes open. This was the longest you’d been awake since the date of the explosion and the treatment had exhausted what little energy you had to give.

“You should sleep,” he recommended as he pulled his gloves back on, and a part of you is sad to see his hands hidden away once more. “When you next wake, we’ll try to get some solid food and water in you.”

He pulled the sheet up higher over your body, his gloved fingers lingering against your neck. Your eyes trailed up the length of his arm before reaching what you were sure to be his gaze behind the mask. He held your stare, only for a moment before he quickly withdrew his hand and stepped away toward the door.

“Get some rest.”

“Thank you,” you said softly. And as he stepped through the door you added, “Din.”

Your eyes fell shut, but not before you noticed how he paused in his tracks to take one last look at you over his shoulder before continuing on his way.

•

“Dank farrick!” Din cursed and threw his hand of cards down on your dining room table as you laughed and pulled in the ever growing pile of credits toward yourself, now easier with the improvement in mobility in your arm over the last few weeks as the burns continued to heal thanks to the Mandalorian.

“Come on, Mando!” You laughed, still not completely comfortable using his given name freely. “You wanna make it triple or nothing?”

He pointed a gloved finger directly at your face, “No.”

“Oh come on,” you begged. “I didn’t peg the Mandlorians as sore losers.”

“We should turn in,” he said, gathering the cards together. “I’ve got a run scheduled with Greef Carga and I’d like to take off before sunrise.” Greef Carga had been one of the Mandalorian’s allies who had helped them level the base. What weapons and spice caches hadn’t been destroyed, Mando had been delivering to Carga’s city where they had the proper means of destroying it. His was a city far more well equipped than yours.

“It should take two trips, right?” you asked, already concerned with the amount loaded onto the Razor Crest. If word had gotten out about the market’s destruction here, roving sects of the cartel or other pirates could be out for blood; especially if they knew the Mandalorian had been responsible. If they caught the Razor Crest with that many illegal arms and substances loaded inside of it, they would do their damndest to get it back.

He nodded. “I should be back by nightfall.”

He gathered all the cards together into a neat pile and held them out for you to take. As your fingers slid over them, the leather of his gloves glided over your skin eliciting goosebumps across your flesh that you wished you could hide better from him.

He dropped his hand. “I should get back to the ship.”

He turned to leave and before you could process what you were doing, you lunged forward and wrapped your fingers around his wrist.

“Or you could stay.”

A long breath escaped the modulator as your name fell from his lips, and you immediately wanted to kick yourself for acting this way. Did you sound as needy as you felt? Weeks now, you’d spent in such close quarters with Mando, working side by side to draw up plans to rebuild the city and renew that which has been lost alongside the very close contact shared with him with the daily burn treatments. With each passing day, you’d found yourself watching the curve of his hips as he sauntered around so confidently with each step; the way his muscles flexed beneath his armor as he hammered reinforced steel into the damaged buildings around town.

Beyond the physical, his gentle demeanor behind the rough and tumble exterior pulled you in with its own gravitational force. Each day, he’d opened up a little more to you, sharing more and more about his life as a bounty hunter and his journey with the Child. You laughed harder than you had in years over the ways in which he recounted the mischievous and naughty behavior of the little green guy. And though you couldn’t see his face, even through the modulator, you could hear the longing in his voice for the Child. Despite having done the right thing in reuniting him with his own kind, you knew that that had torn away a piece of Din’s heart, even if he didn’t say it out right.

“Don’t read too deeply into it,” you chastised before the silence could become even more deafening in the moments since he’d whispered your name. “I’ve got a spare bedroom. You don’t need to sleep cramped up on that cot in the Razor Crest. Gods knows it’s not comfortable.”

He chuckled in response. “Sorry if it didn’t meet your standards, princess. I think it served you just fine, did it not?”

You waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. I’m still working the kinks out of my back from that whole experience. Come on,” you said and inclined your chin down the hall. “Stay, Get a good night’s rest, With the way you’ll be traveling tomorrow, you’ll need it.”

Ultimately, he relented and followed you down the hall.

“My room is the last door on the right at the opposite end of the hallway if you need anything. Fresher is the door on the left. Goodnight, Mando.”

“Din,” he reminded you.

You turn toward your room and walk down the hall, calling over your shoulder. “Goodnight Din.”

•

There was no sleep to be found tonight. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears as you wondered what Din was doing just down the short length of hallway from you.

Was he asleep? Behind the safety of a locked bedroom door, did he remove his helmet and armor and actually let himself rest his body? Or did he still sleep in the same armored, crunched up position, arms folded over chest, masked chin tucked in on itself?

Your eyes burned from lack of sleep and you cursed yourself for letting these thoughts drive you mad. Using your good arm to push yourself into a sitting position, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and pulled a satin robe over your shoulders. Tying it loosely around your waist, you silently opened the door and padded across the stone floor to the kitchen intent on making tea. Maybe after a hot cup, sleep would finally find you. You filled the kettle at the small durasteel sink and before you placed it on the stove, the sound of a faucet turning off set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

“Mando?” you whisper shouted.

No response.

You took a few steps toward the fresher door and tried again. The floor to ceiling metal doors in your home betrayed no light to escape so there was no way of telling if he was in there.

You hesitantly reached forward to press the button to open the door. You tried one more time. “Din?”

No answer. You cursed yourself for being so stupid. He was probably fast asleep and here you were, shouting at your empty fresher in the middle of the night. For peace of mind, you decide to slap the open button before returning to finish making your tea.

You immediately regretted your decision to do so as the door cracked open and a shaft of light filled the hall.

Your eyes fell to the floor, landing on a pair of tan, bare feet. Feet that move faster than lighting as a pair of strong arms wheeled you around and pressed your face into the wall.

“Close your eyes.” His voice was dark and you felt as though you had no choice but to oblige.

“I’m sorry,” your chest heaved, though constricted against the wall slick with steam from the shower. “I’m sorry, Din. I didn’t see your face. I didn’t—“

His grip relaxed suddenly, his touch becoming gentle; more responsive and less reactive. The rough palms of his hands flattened against where he grabbed you and rubbed the skin beneath, easing the sting of his tight grip from moments earlier. “No,” he breathed and for the first time you felt his breath against your skin. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to react like that, you just—I thought you were asleep.”

“I couldn’t,” you stated.

A few moments of silence and then he answered, “Neither could I.”

His hands slowly slid down the length of your arms, the one on your right much softer than the left, minding the still healing burns. You couldn’t help your body’s natural response to arch into his touch.

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” you asked, breath bated already.

You felt his presence draw nearer to your ear before the air reverberated around the sound of his voice. “I couldn’t stop thinking of what you might be wearing to bed”

His hands slipped off of your elbows and onto your waist. He stepped forward so that his body was flush against you and a small gasp escaped your lips as you felt his erection pressed up against the curve of your ass through the towel around his waist. He reached one arm around you and easily pulled the tie securing the robe around your waist loose, exposing your naked body. He tugged at one end until he’d pulled it free from its loops.

Your breath hitched in your throat as the satin material covered your eyes and he secured a knot tightly, but not uncomfortably, behind your head.

“There,” he said softly, turning you around and holding your face in his wide hands.

Hesitantly, you raised your hands to wrap around both of his wrists, leaning into his touch.

After a moment you reached out in front of you, hand landing on his chest. He was soft beneath your fingertips; muscular, but soft.

He dropped his hands from either side of your face as your other hand found his chest and you began to slowly explore the planes of his body.

Your heartbeat hammered in your chest as your hands traveled up the length of his torso, to the wide V of his shoulders. He was tense beneath your touch and you hesitantly withdrew your fingers to hover above his skin. “I can stop,” you said gently.

His hands wrapped around yours, placing them back on his chest. “No,” he said. “It’s ok. I want you to touch me.” As your hands found his neck, you cautiously continued to his jawline, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your fingers splayed against the sharp lines there.

Your thumb brushed lightly against his lips and he shuddered beneath your touch. You’re shocked to find he’s got facial hair lining the top of his lip and a gentle laugh tumbled out of your lips.

And as your fingers came to hold his face in your hands, you drew him down to you so that his forehead was touching yours.

“Mando,” you breathed.

“Call me by my name,” he said, his words gentle, yet firm.

You didn’t hesitate. “Din.”

His lips rained down on yours with an energy so blindingly hot that stars dotted the corners of your limited vision.

You parted your lips to grant him greater access to your mouth and his tongue slid over yours as his hands fisted into your hair.

Your arm snaked around his neck and when his hands cupped your ass beneath the satin of your robe, you pushed off your feet to jump and latch your legs around his waist.

He bore your weight easily, as if you weighed no more than an infant, and pushed you back into the wall. You hissed into his mouth as pain stung your shoulder blades but your whole body was a live wire at the moment and you didn’t care.

He started to walk, carrying you still, as your lips crashed together over and over; devouring one another as if this was the only taste you might ever get.

The hiss of a metal door opening sent a blast of cool air over the two of you, causing your taut nipples to harden even more against the skin of his chest.

He lowered you onto the mattress and the springs creaked under your combined weight. As he crawled over you and straddled your waist, you could feel his erection firm against your thigh.

Blindly, you reached for it with your good arm and as your fingers barely skim the smooth skin of his cock, your hand is pinned above your hand.

“Not yet,” he growled into your ear and your middle turned to liquid.

He released your hand and began trailing his over your body; the tips of his fingers tracing the outline of your calves, then your hips, your stomach, until he’s got both of your nipples pinched between his fingertips.

A cry slipped past your lips as he rolled the peaks of your breasts between his fingers. When he took one into his mouth and began to tease you, flicking the sensitive skin with his tongue and toying at it with his teeth, you bucked your hips up into his erection.

You could feel the slickness between your thighs spreading with each kiss and pass over your body, though you craved more of him. Your pussy throbbed with a need to be touched by him, filled by him.

“Din,” you whimpered. “Please.” And you swore you heard him chuckle deeply in his throat.

He took his hands and placed them on the insides of your knees. Slowly, he pushed them apart and you knew he was gazing into your core.

“Fuck,” he groaned and murmured your name. Your thighs quivered as his fingers slowly dragged up your thighs. Using his thumb, he ran it up the slick length of your folds, pausing at your clit to rub painfully slow circles and you squirmed beneath his touch. “So wet,” he murmured, “so wet for me.”

He adjusted the position of his thumb so that he could continue his torturously slow massage. His name tumbled from your lips as he, at an equally slow pace, thrust his pointer and middle fingers into your center; in and out, in and out, toying with the spongey soft cleft within you that caused your belly to clench in response.

You writhed beneath his touch, needing more, begging for more.

“Are you ready for me?” he purred, and you nodded vigorously.

“You feel ready,” he said, and you could sense the smile on his lips. He dragged his fingers, slick with you, up the length of your folds once more before pulling them away completely and touching them to your lips. He traced the outline of your mouth before gently pushing them in between your lips, “Taste how ready you are for me.”

You sucked and swiveled your tongue around the length of his two long fingers, tasting the tang of yourself on them and wanting more.

He withdrew his fingers and cupped your chin in his large hand, “Good girl.”

You bucked and cried out as he thrust his fingers back into you; once, two more times, and on the third, withdrew his fingers and slammed into you with his cock.

You cried out from the shock and pleasure of it all, gasping for air as his width stretched and filled you. He’d hit hard and fast only to slow down to a torturous rhythm. He slipped a hand under your right leg and lifted it onto his shoulder, holding you there as an anchor point as he continued to plunge himself in and out of you. His name spilled from your lips as with this new leverage, his cock struck your g-spot with every thrust.

“Yes,” his voice was low in his throat. “Say my name, darling. Say my name.”

He increased his speed and returned his thumb to your throbbing clit where he teased circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves there in a tortuously sweet rhythm with the speed of his thrusts.

Stars dotted your limited vision. Your chest rose and fell heavily as you tried to meet him thrust for thrust, but you lost track of the rhythm as you felt everything inside your lower abdomen start to collapse in on itself until the pleasure was blinding and you exploded around him.

He continued to thrust into you as your orgasm drove through your body in waves. After a few more thrusts his own release spilled out into you and he cried out your name; collapsing on top of you and wrapping his arms around your body, both of you slick with sweat and panting.

You stayed there for a minute, joined together physically, chests heaving against one another.

You both groaned as he slid out of you. Slowly, he maneuvered your arms out of the satin robe that you’d both forgotten about. Gently, he used it to clean you up, before discarding it onto the ground where it fell with a soft whoosh of fabric.

He then collapsed onto the bed next to you and minding the burns to your right side, pulled you nearer to him.

He kissed you softly on the lips and then your temple before stretching an arm behind his head.

Your head rested upon his chest and you could feel his heart beating steadily beneath his skin, the dull thump-thump enough of a rhythm to sing you to sleep, but you didn’t want to. Not now. Not after everything with him had just changed.

His hand lazily dragged through your hair, smoothing it back over your shoulders.

“Sleep,” he murmured against your ear. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

The Mandalorian was nowhere to be found come dawn; he’d disappeared without a trace and you were left behind feeling like an absolute idiot for ever having opened yourself up to him.

In the weeks that followed, stray pirates that had barely escaped with their lives began to trickle back in when they’d learned the Mandalorian had disappeared and rumors of the spice and weapons supply you’d still had confiscated reached those still alive and hoping to rebuild the black market.

You’d been able to hold them back, killing them in a shootout in front of your offices.

There was nowhere to safely hide or destroy the spice or weapons. Burying it wouldn’t destroy them, so those hoping to retrieve it could still attain it. Burning them would release a smoke so toxic, it would kill anyone within five clicks of the pyre with the amount they had in tow.

So, there was no choice but to stand and fight. Stand and fight until your deputy was dead and you’d suffered a blast to the shoulder.

With no one left to defend the supply, they’d moved in quickly, raiding your office and burning it down in the aftermath as a warning to leave the market alone. You still don’t know why they didn’t kill you.

Weeks turned to months and they were right back where they’d started; black market and all successfully up and running as your people suffered for it. Heads turned away as you passed through town. You’d let your people down.

And that was why you sat in a bar, alone at two in the morning, going over crime logs and wondering how things had fallen apart so quickly.

So, when that distinct tinkle of metal armor echoed in your ears, the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

You froze, heart hammering in your chest so hard you swore it would shatter your rib cage. As each heavy, booted footfall drew nearer, your fingers inched toward the blaster holstered at your side.

When you were confident he’d drawn near enough, you leapt from your seat, kicking it out and whirling around as it knocked his legs out from under him.

The Mandalorian hit the floor with a loud metallic thud and something tumbled from his hands across the floor.

He rolled out of the way as you aimed your blaster at him; knocking it from your hands in the process.

No matter; you slipped the knife from your waistband out and slashed at him. He expertly dodged each swing, but when you raised your leg and kicked him square in the stomach; he flew backwards over a table, shattering it on impact.

You leapt upon him, knife raised, and he knocked it from your hand.

Immediately, you raised your opposite fist and when you moved to bring it down, he caught your hand in his gloved one.

“Don’t punch Beskar,” his modulated voice advised. “You’ll break your hand.”

You sat there, frozen, as he held your fist in his hand. You stared at the black T of his visor, knowing he was staring right back at you. Tears burned your vision, but you would not let them fall for him.

Grunting and cursing, you kicked off of him; dusting off your pants and moving toward the bar.

“Get the hell out of here, Mandalorian.” You spat before returning to your seat at the bar. not minding the destruction you’d just left in your wake.

Tears burned your vision as you tossed back the second shot of liquor you’d left behind. The burn offered no relief from the pain of his return.

Your body stiffened as you heard his armor clanging as he stood and collected himself; but as you braced yourself to hear his steps withdraw, they only drew nearer to you.

He slammed a bag down on the table next to you.

You scoffed, ignoring it. “We don’t want your money, Mandalorian.” As if that could undo the damage he’d caused in his absence.

“Open it,” was all he said.

You swiveled in your seat, eyeing him dangerously before pulling the bag to you. You pulled the strings holding it shut and gasped upon finding the severed head.

Your eyes snapped toward his, or at least where you imagined they were behind his visor. “What is this supposed to—“

He tossed a puck on the table. Your mouth fell shut as a hologram appeared; stunned to see your face in the hazy blue light emanating from it.

You turned back to the Mandalorian, “I don’t understand.”

“He put this hit out on you,” he gestured toward the head. “On the day I left to dispose of the spice and arms with Greef Karga, I was attacked by spice runners. Spice runners who had your face in their hands. I couldn’t let them get to you.”

Blood pounded in your ears. He’d not come back to protect you, to keep you safe. It didn’t stop the damage done in his absence.

“You could’ve made contact,” you bit, venom sharp on your tongue.

Mando used his forearm to push the bag aside and lowered himself down into the seat beside you.

“If I’d pinged you, they could’ve pulled your location. There were already enough trickling back into the city and the hit wasn’t widespread news amongst local crime networks. Gods knows I did my best to hunt down anyone with this puck in hand; and in doing so, it lead me to the leader.”

Your mind whirled; both from the sudden realization of what had actually transpired and the liquor burning a hole in your empty stomach. The fight with Mando had stirred up things both physically and mentally and you suddenly felt sick.

Leather clad fingers brushed your shoulder and you hated how it both set your flesh alight with desire and caused your body to relax. The anger you felt was so raw and biting, but the way your body remembered his gentle touch had your tight shoulders sagging beneath it.

The pad of his thumb circled the thick pink scar tissue from the blaster strike; the shoulder still ached from time to time but overall had healed well.

As his thumb gently probed the tissue, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky breath you’d not realized you’d been holding in.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said after a long while.

You swallowed the growing lump in your throat. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” You turned your body to look at him straight on. “You lied to me.” Thick, hot tears welled along your lower eyelids. Your voice wavered as you continued, “I felt like a whore, Din. Like a plaything that you used once and got bored of.” Tears leaked over your lashes and you cursed yourself for being so vulnerable in front of him. “Damnit!” you slammed your first down on the table and raked a hand through your hair.

“You could’ve left me at the med bay. You barely knew me. You had no obligation to stay. But you, Din, you took me back to your ship and literally nursed me back to health.” You stood to leave then, not bothering to look at him as you did so as the tears flowed freely down your cheeks. “You were the one to stay behind long after you were clear to leave, yet you stayed. You treated me like I was a fucking royal and then left me like a womp rat stuck in a trap that you couldn’t bare to put out if it’s misery.”

As you reached the exit door, a leather clad hand wrapped around your wrist and an unfamiliar hiss caused the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up. You stood there for a moment, frozen, unsure of what to do.

“What are you doing?” you choked out, refusing to turn around.

“I don’t know what I could say,” his voice was smooth, unmodulated. “That this gesture can’t prove.”

His grip tightend around your wrist, not painfully, desperately.

You closed your eyes and bit your quivering lip. He said your name and it came out of his lips a plea.

Turning around, you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you loosed yourself from his grip and felt for his other hand which clutched his helmet.

You circled your fingers around the lip of the opening and took it from him, surprised he allowed you to take it from his hand. With your other one, you felt up the breast plate of his armor until you reached the sharp line of his jaw, rough with a few days worth of stubble.

Raising the helmet, you used both hands to lower it down over his face until it hissed and clicked back into place. Only then did you open your eyes, finding them reflected back at you in the inky black of his visor.

“I would never ask you to forsake your Creed, Mando, surely you must understand that.”

He took a daring step toward you, inclining his head as he did so. “That’s not my name,”

“Din,” you breathed, sighing his name out. “Surely you know I’d never ask you to do that.”

His leather clad fingers slipped between yours. “I couldn’t risk them hurting you, I’ve only just found you.”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips for the first time since he’d stepped foot inside the tavern. “That’s a bit romantic for a Mandalorian, don’t you think?”

You felt the cool steel of his Beskar vambrace through the fabric of his shirt as he drew you near to his body for an embrace.

“I keep finding ways in which I’m not a normal Mandalorian.”

“Good,” you responded as you wrapped your arms around his pauldrons. squeezing and hoping he felt the warmth in your embrace. “I’ve never liked normal.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Potato planting season is pretty fraught around my part of the world. Historically, the township was formed around a bunch of soldiers who decided they were sick of oppressing the locals, and instead started planting the easiest crop they could think of. Then they ate nothing but potatoes for like two hundred years. We even have a potato parade; the Mayor dresses up like a hashbrown and kids throw ketchup on him.

Right. Potato planting season. See, the thing about harvesting potatoes to eat is that you have to plant them first. While every moron has a bunch of semi-festering potato vines curling around their basement from long-ago grocery store visits they forgot about, it is actually surprisingly hard to grow potatoes. Everyone plants them at the same time, basically. Like many other poorly-planned demand surges, this annual burst of activity causes many strains on the local infrastructure.

As a result, most of the spring is spent with me waiting in traffic behind various farm conveyances. It wouldn't be so much of a problem, except that my cars love to overheat unless they're going at above-highway speeds basically all the time. Probably need to check out the fan clutch or whatever. Don't have time to do that, though, since I'm spending half my day behind a zoom-boom heading to a barn. Sorry, a telehandler. I'm not allowed to call them those anymore.

Last week, I was once again stuck in stop-and-go, watching the contents of my radiator be ejected into the stratosphere, when I thought: wait a minute. Potatoes are a fantastic heatsink. Have you ever touched the ground? It's cold. That's probably the potatoes doing that. I crammed my engine bay full of seedlings, and suddenly the temperature gauge wouldn't move off stone cold (probably because I broke the wire shoving all those potatoes in there.) The best part is, if there's an oil leak, I end up smelling like French fries instead of a tire fire. I still wouldn't eat what's falling behind this glorious shitbox, though. Better to throw it at the Mayor.

[pokemonshelterstories]

Hey! Greetings from Floaroma, Sinnoh! Kinda need some advice.

I found a really large Aron in my garage, eating my partner's motorcycle and some ewaste we had lying around. When I say large, I mean, huge. Larger than any Aron I've seen in my life. Yamaha(the Aron) now refuses to leave. My partner got mad at me for naming him, and wants him out, pronto. Yamaha's taken a liking to not just me, but my Umbreon Nightlight and my Sylveon Monster Truck. I've put Yamaha out of the garage, even took him in my pickup to set him free a ways out of town, but he keeps coming back. I adore him, and he very clearly enjoys the presence of me and my current Pokémon, but I just can't keep him because of my partner. It's caused a rift between me and my partner, who already wasn't pleased when I said I had two Eevee. (He'd even previously asked me to give one up- Nightlight has been with me since I was 12 and Truckie was a transition gift from my brother, who bred me a shiny male Eevee. Obviously, both are still with me, but my partner was very hard pressed to accept that, even after 3 years!)

How do I get Yamaha to stop coming without breaking his little heart? I feel like he's telling me he's chosen me, and I've always wanted to train an Aggron, but my partner can't forgive him for eating his motorcycle. Yamaha gets so sad when I leave him or kick him off our property and it makes me feel evil, honestly. He's not anyone's Poké, I avoid actively feeding him so he's not encouraged to stay, I drive him farther and farther away every time but he keeps finding his way back to my house. He's such a goofy, loving Pokémon and I feel bad I can't take him in. I'm a little afraid to take him to a shelter, mostly due to his size and the fact that he's very much a wild Poké, I don't want to take him and then he ends up hurting the staff or they don't have the resources for him. What do I do? Do I hand Yamaha over to the Rangers?

-a very sad Eevee dad

hm. sounds like yamaha is probably a human-bred and released pokemon. aron usually live out in mountains with rich ore deposits and aren't particularly inclined to approach humans when they're wild-born. sounds like he's having a hard time finding proper food sources if he's been rooting around in your garage. to be honest, i don't think you're going to prevent him from coming back without sending him very far away. they're not easy pokemon to deter, which is why they're considered pests in a lot of regions with metal infrastructure. i think your best bet is to get him to someplace that takes problem wild pokemon.

a shelter may or may not take a wild aron depending on their resources, but if you talk to the rangers, they can find somewhere that's equipped to handle him. i really do think he's either a released pokemon or at the very least highly human-habituated; if you were to bring him to the artazon station, for example, we would place try to place him with a home rather than have him released back into the wild. if you decide not to keep him, the rangers are the best place to take him.

that being said...i mean, i'm not a relationship counselor, but is everything good between you and your partner? i can get not wanting to keep a random aron, especially one that ate something important to him. the fact that you named him after a motor company when he ate your partner's motorcycle is honestly kind...mean-spirited, i guess? at the same time, him wanting you to rehome a beloved pokemon is also kind of a red flag. ultimately it's not my business, but if i was having that kind of conflict with paulo, i'd want to go to relationship counseling. might not be a bad idea for you two?

[eqt-95]

day 2 | courage / trust issues

supercorptober / whumptober the master list

There were clues. Hints and moments. Together it made the end more inevitable, but like time, those hints and moments often just seemed like life until cast under hindsight’s guise.

“Are we going to talk about this?” Kara asked, following closely through the apartment door. She tossed her jacket onto the back of the stool-back and watched Lena’s focused expression fixed on the glow of her cell phone’s dim light.

Her thumbs tapped without interruption.

“Lena?”

tap tap tap tap

“Lena.”

Lena dropped her phone onto the kitchen island and reached for her laptop. Kara watched, perplexed, dumbfounded, and with an unhinged jaw as Lena’s attention turned to the brighter, larger screen. It made the apartment seem darker.

“Is this because I ate that tray of potstickers?” Kara continued. Her hands found confidence poised on her hips. “Because I asked the caterers before and they-”

“What?” Lena asked, her focus broken to interrogate Kara standing across from her. “You what?”

Kara rolled her eyes and flipped the lightswitch, earning a small squint of adjustment and nothing more.

“Did I do something wrong?” Kara prompted, the whine barely concealed under the question.

“Are you really-”

The forgotten phone buzzed, lighting up with an incoming call. Lena reached for it, confused expression never leaving Kara as she answered.

“Jess, hi… Yes, yes, please… No, only once we have NCFD’s approval. I don’t want to activate the nanobots until then… Before midnight if possible. Reconstruction will take at least…” tap tap tap “four hours; maybe five. Any wiggle room before rush hour is a luxury we need… Thank you; keep me posted.”

Kara balked. “This is about the overpass accident?”

“Can we do this later?” Lena asked, though it wasn’t a question. Her attention had already returned to the computer. “I’ve never simulated this kind of infrastructural engagement-”

“You’re really picking a freeway over our relationship?”

“A two hour pause in an argument will have far less implications on the trajectory of our lives together when stacked against the risk of a failed structural intervention, so if that’s how you want to frame it, then yes: I’m picking the freeway.”

“So we are fighting,” Kara huffed.

“We are doing nothing until I get these things programmed-”

“It’s a block of concrete, Lena. It can wait.”

Lena hunched forward against the counter. There was exhaustion in the tired way her jaw worked and reworked until the words felt right. “It is not just a block of concrete.”

“Then what is it? Why are we fighting?”

A tired thumb and forefinger squeezed the bridge of Lena’s nose. “You can’t keep choosing me. You can’t…” a slow breath, “eleven people died tonight. Three are in critical condition. Another four dozen sustained injuries-”

“And that’s my fault?” Kara asked instinctively, defensively; with shoulders straightening and eyes narrowing.

“No, Kara, of course it isn’t your fault, but,” Lena sighed. She sighed because this wasn’t the first time; she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She hated that but didn’t know any other way than to persevere; to echo the words of Rita Mae Brown like a broken record. “Countless others were trapped. J’onn and Nia were there, but first responders were overwhelmed.”

“I wasn’t on duty-”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is it?” Kara asked, a familiar impatience rising in her voice.

“You could have helped.”

Kara flushed and clenched her jaw. “I was celebrating my wife’s big night; her accomplishments-”

“I don’t need to be celebrated, Kara,” Lena said with familiar exasperation. “Especially not when it means ignoring people who could be saved.”

“So I’m supposed to put every part of my life on hold and just courageously carry the banner of a tireless hero?” Kara growled. “There will always be people who need saving. There will be people tomorrow and next week and next decade and next century.”

“And that’s what, an excuse for inaction?”

“I can’t be everywhere-”

“That’s not even what I’m asking for.”

“Then what? What do you want from me? You want me to promise I’ll choose nameless strangers over you? That I should stand with one foot out the door, perpetually waiting for something to interrupt a dinner or a movie or a holiday?”

“Kara-”

“Or better yet: should I promise that, given the choice between a bullet barreling toward you and Mrs. Fischer, I’ll pick Mrs. Fischer? Because I’m not doing that.”

“Even if you promised it, I wouldn’t trust it,” Lena shot back.

The moment of honesty slipped free, and Kara pressed her mouth into a tight line to conceal the tremble in her lip.

“I’ve got forever, Lena,” Kara replied, voice gravely with emotion. “So if it’ll make you happy, you can rest assured that the day after you're gone, I'll go back to saving all of those other people first.”

“That’s a heavy burden for a person to carry.”

“I guess it helps that I'm an alien then.”

“Except I'm not.”

- - - - day 3 | dress / set up for failure

[syluses]

Hey, so i want to ask about the ending of robot caleb x reader (big girls dont cry). First of all, it's an amazing story, a bit disturbing with its dark tones and yn's inner moral conflict (it's disturbing in a good way like the movie "Companion"). Through yn's pov, you managed to deliver that unsettling feeling, like this is wrong, fckd up even, but she keeps indulging herself in it. Like ok pop off literature queen.

Anyways, i wanna know what's your interpretation of the ending is?

Thats all, thank you for writing this fic, u ate 💅

Nonnie i am so so sorry for the late reply… 🥲 i was hesitating at first to answer cuz i wasnt sure whether or not i wanted to ‘undo’ the ambiguous ending if u will,.. but then i just kept on forgetting afterward lol 🥲 I still wanna maintain the ambivalence of the ending just bc i think its fun for yall to imagine how it goes in ur own ways— the opportunities are infinite. but i’ll tell u a VERY general rundown of how i picture bgdc carries on after the last scene:

Mc is unable to leave; not-Caleb keeps her tied down to him in her home- where she’s safe (at least for the moment)- while the real caleb slowly works to reintroduce himself into her life. Not-Caleb, while more morally “safe”, lets say, than his counterpart, becomes growingly worse with mc— more protective, possessive, and flat out frightening— as he realizes his time with y/n could possibly be drawing to a close- what with that psychopath hot on their tail. He does what he can to cut out the cameras and location-tracking devices in him- attempting to shut real-Caleb out as best as he possibly can without damaging his infrastructure. I even can see robo-caleb, after ‘cleaning’ his system, making the effort to relocate with mc to someplace safer before real-caleb comes, someplace hidden, someplace that doesnt exist, but that’s really not a clever or feasible idea all things considered— it’s a poor, last ditch effort made in sheer desperation to protect mc and keep her to himself.

In the end, what i see is ultimately the two calebs beefing it out in a physical confrontation. Not-caleb will do all he can to shield mc (while actively also trying to replace his original 👀), while real-caleb will do all he can to take mc. However that may look. However ugly.

They are mirrors of each other after all C:

Anyways thats my somewhat vague canon description of what happens after :] but again i encourage yall to come up with ur own ideas too hehe the possibilities for the maniacs are endless 👀

[cleoselene]

Sharing this on behalf of a Marine Biologist friend, not my words.

Tumblr loves sea creatures, and this is important. Have a cool pic of an octopus before digging into this big post from someone who is in the trenches (but not the really deep ones like the Mariana):

"Hi all! I have a personal request for everyone!

I need you to write a letter/email. Please write your congressional representative in support of the value that your state (or state(s) you love) Sea Grant Program means to you personally. Please send a copy of your email/letter to your state Sea Grant director as well. I can tell you for a fact that these messages are critically important and do in fact make a difference.

If you do not want to write your representatives, please still write your Sea Grant directors.

Unsure about what/who the Sea Grant Programs are? The Sea Grant Programs were created specifically to connect science between local, state, and national needs. Sea Grants make sure up-to-date science is informing decisions made in our home states and regions. Each of the State programs conducts marine and coastal research, education, and outreach tailored to their regional needs. If you’ve ever been to the beach and seen rip current education signs, seen disaster readiness material, enjoyed a coastal natural area, enjoyed fishing, ate local seafood, have a military installation near you, and much more, you’ve been positively impacted by your state’s Sea Grant Program.

Economic Benefits: Sea Grant programs provide direct economic benefits contributing to job creation, industry resilience, and sustainable economic growth.

• Works with local businesses, tourism operators, and maritime industries to enhance profitability and ensure longevity of businesses.

• Supports jobs in fisheries, marine engineering, coastal construction, and tourism through workforce development, training programs, and fellowships.

• Provides technical assistance to commercial fishers, shipbuilders, and port workers, including development of new and innovative technology that improves entire industries.

Fisheries & Aquaculture: Sea Grant programs support seafood production and sustainable fisheries management to ensure the health of marine ecosystems and economies.

• Offers training on best practices for commercial and recreational fishers.

• Helps reduce bycatch and overfishing through gear modifications and conservation efforts.

• Advances shellfish farming techniques (e.g., oysters, mussels, clams) to boost seafood production while improving water quality.

• Provides resources to help small-scale aquaculture businesses thrive.

• Monitors seafood safety and waterborne diseases to protect public health.

• Conducts research on invasive species like zebra mussels, lionfish, and green crabs; and, develops early detection and removal strategies to prevent ecological and economic harm.

Public Safety & Community Resilience: Coastal communities face unique challenges, from hurricanes and flooding to rising sea levels and water pollution. Sea Grant programs work to keep people safe through risk mitigation, education, and emergency preparedness.

• Helps communities create hurricane evacuation plans and build disaster-resilient infrastructure.

• Provides flood mapping and modeling to predict storm surges and coastal erosion.

• Develops tools like real-time weather alerts and emergency response strategies.

• Monitors pollution levels in oceans, rivers, and lakes to ensure safe drinking water.

• Identifies and mitigates harmful algal blooms (like red tide) that threaten human and marine life.

• Leads efforts to reduce plastic pollution in oceans, including microplastics research.

• Runs community beach cleanups and educational programs on waste reduction.

• Helps coastal communities upgrade ports, harbors, and public infrastructure to withstand extreme weather.

• Promotes nature-based solutions (e.g., living shorelines) to prevent coastal erosion and property damage.

• Partners with local governments to design smarter zoning laws for flood-prone areas.

Military Readiness & National Security: Sea Grant programs help ensure the safety and effectiveness of naval operations, coastal military installations, and maritime security.

Protecting Naval Bases & Infrastructure

• Assists military installations in climate resilience planning to prepare for sea-level rise and extreme weather.

• Works on coastal erosion control to protect bases and training grounds.

• Supports advancements in sonar, remote sensing, and underwater drones for naval and marine research.

• Provides oceanographic data crucial for submarine navigation and surveillance.

Education & Workforce Development: Sea Grant invests in the next generation of scientists, engineers, and marine professionals.

• Supports STEM (Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math) education focused on marine science.

• Provides internships and fellowships for students pursuing marine research careers.

• Runs public engagement programs to promote environmental stewardship.

• Helps local governments understand disaster preparedness, flood management, and coastal zoning laws.

State & Regional Sea Grant Programs

East Coast and Caribbean

• Connecticut Sea Grant – University of Connecticut, Director: Sylvain De Guise (sylvain.deguise@uconn.edu)

• Delaware Sea Grant – University of Delaware Director: Joanna York (jyork@udel.edu)

• Georgia Sea Grant Director: Mark Risse (mrisse@uga.edu)

• Maine Sea Grant – University of Maine, Director: Gayle Zydlewski (gayle.zydlewski@maine.edu)

• Maryland Sea Grant – University of Maryland Director: Fredrika Moser (moser@mdsg.umd.edu)

• Massachusetts Institute of Technology Sea Grant – Director: Michael Triantafyllou (mt@mit.edu)

• (Massachusetts) Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute Sea Grant – Director: Matthew Charette (mcharette@whoi.edu)

• New Hampshire Sea Grant – University of New Hampshire Director: Erik Chapman (erik.chapman@unh.edu)

• New Jersey Sea Grant Consortium

• New York Sea Grant – Cornell University & SUNY Director: Rebecca Shuford (rebecca.shuford@stonybrook.edu)

• North Carolina Sea Grant – NC State University Director: Susan White (snwhite3@ncsu.edu)

• Pennsylvania Sea Grant – Director: Sarah Whitney (swhitney@psu.edu)

• Puerto Rico Sea Grant – Director: Ruperto Chaparro Serrano (ruperto.chaparro@upr.edu)

• Rhode Island Sea Grant – University of Rhode Island Director: Tracey Dalton (dalton@uri.edu)

• South Carolina Sea Grant Consortium Director: Susan Lovelace (Susan.Lovelace@scseagrant.org)

• Virginia Sea Grant – Virginia Institute of Marine Science Director: Troy Hartley (thartley@vims.edu)

Great Lakes Region

• Illinois-Indiana Sea Grant – University of Illinois & Purdue University Director: Tomas Höök (thook@purdue.edu)

• Michigan Sea Grant – University of Michigan & Michigan State University Director: Silvia Newell (senewell@umich.edu)

• Minnesota Sea Grant – University of Minnesota Director: John Downing (downing@d.umn.edu)

• New York Sea Grant – Cornell University & SUNY Director: Rebecca Shuford (rebecca.shuford@stonybrook.edu)

• Ohio Sea Grant – Ohio State University Director: Christopher Winslow (winslow.33@osu.edu)

• Pennsylvania Sea Grant – Director: Sarah Whitney (swhitney@psu.edu)

• Wisconsin Sea Grant – University of Wisconsin Director: Christy Remucal (Interim Director) (remucal@wisc.edu)

Gulf of Mexico

• Florida Sea Grant – University of Florida Director: Sherry Larkin (slarkin@ufl.edu)

• Louisiana Sea Grant – Louisiana State University Director: Julie Lively (julieann@lsu.edu)

• Mississippi-Alabama Sea Grant Consortium Director: LaDon Swann (ladon.swann@usm.edu)

• Texas Sea Grant – Texas A&M University Interim Director: Laura Picariello (lpicariello@tamu.edu)

West Coast and Pacific

• California Sea Grant – Scripps Institution of Oceanography, UC San Diego Director: Shauna Oh (caseagrant@ucsd.edu)

• University of Southern California Sea Grant – Director: Karla Heidelberg (kheidelb@usc.edu)

• Oregon Sea Grant – Oregon State University Director: Karina Nielsen (karina.nielsen@oregonstate.edu)

• Washington Sea Grant – University of Washington Director: Kate Litle (Interim Director) (kalitle@uw.edu)

• Alaska Sea Grant – University of Alaska Fairbanks Director: Ginny Eckert (ginny.eckert@alaska.edu)

• Hawai‘i Sea Grant – University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa Director: Darren Lerner (lerner@hawaii.edu)

• Guam Sea Grant – University of Guam Director: Austin Shelton (shelton@uog.edu)

Please, if you love the sea critters, do this!! You know this website owes so much to the crabs.

[airas-story]

Yay, you have prompts open! But also boo to tumblr, it ate mine from last time. I offer this prompt again if you like - refusing or picking just one small detail is also okay!

AU where magic is the norm and almost everyone has some. The minority doesn't have it, or not enough to use magical objects, medicine or even magical infrastructure in the cities. Tony is one of the minority, putting out inventions to help the magicless. But it's very difficult to accomplish any change for the better when decision-makers look down on you. Stephen always had magic, but after an accident he focused on it and is now in the highest echelons of magic. He takes up Tony's cause.

Ah, Tumblr. Can't even send a proper ask!

Stark scoffed. “Right,” he said. “You want to help? Because the current status quo doesn’t serve you just fine.”

Stephen resisted the urge to snap at the assumption. “I’m not unaware I benefit from the status quo,” he said calmly. “I always have, in one way or another.” The world had worked just fine for him, none of the inconvenience that plagued those who had no to little magic.

Stark made a ‘there you go’ gesture. “Sure. Help. I’m not going to stop you,” Stark said. “I’d be dumb to not take advantage of your publicity stunt.”

“It’s not a publicity stunt,” Stephen gritted. “I want to help.”

“Right. Sure.” The disbelief was obvious.

Stephen took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t know this,” he said. “But I was a doctor before I turned my focus to magic.” Stark just arched an eyebrow, clearly indicating Stephen should get to the point. “I proposed several times that research be done to determine how to breach the gap between current healing practices and the needs of those who have no magic.”

“And when the decision makers dismissed you?” No question in his voice that it had been dismissed, because of course it had been.

Stephen flushed, a twist of shame in his chest. “I didn’t fight it. I chose another research avenue,” he admitted.

Stark didn’t look surprised. “Most do.”

“But they can’t dismiss me anymore,” Stephen rallied. “I am one of the decision makers, now.”

“Good for you.” The sarcasm was obvious and Stephen wanted to snap, point out that he was trying to help. Stark’s dismissal wasn’t doing his cause any favors. But decades fighting this fight and Stark had clearly hit the point of bitter exhaustion. Stephen bit back his frustration.

“I can help,” Stephen repeated. “But you’re right, the status quo has always worked in my favor. I don’t know what you and others like you need.”

Something flickered in Stark’s eyes, the first hint of actual consideration. “Not going to tell me you know exactly what I need?”

“No,” Stephen said. “I won’t.”

Stark leaned back in his chair. “All right,” he said. “Like I said. I’d be an idiot not to use your publicity stunt for as much as it’s worth.”

It wasn’t a publicity stunt, Stephen meant that. Stephen would just have to prove it to Stark.

[tibby-art]

erm. another hitman au ask i'm wondering how much power the NHO has? over Hermit City n stuff. are there like- different quadrants of their organisation? like for tech, historical research, surveillance, hitmen etc ? also sry i know nothing abt NHO convex watchers n stuff. very interested tho.

also do bdubs beef etho n doc have like. matching suits. are they best friends. do they hang out near the water cooler and braid eachothers hair. do they have matching Business Bracelets? with letter cubes and pretty beads. stars gummybears dolphins heart shaped ones. i think that's a sign of true best friendship in the workplace <3 anywho

so basically the NHO is an early season 5 thing, they’re the New Hermit Order and they clashed heads with the ConVex a bit (they made it canon that they ate the nho to explain the nho becoming inactive towards the end of season 5. because why not)

“Running with the name, i think the NHO in this au is focused on maintaining order in the city, so taking down criminals as well as taking care of any weird anomaly that may threaten the city (anything from an outbreak of mobs to someone gaining weird powers overnight). Before they were hitmen, the ConVex were the most wanted criminals in Hermit City, and it took the NHO a very long time to finally catch them and make a deal with them. The NHO is Beef, Doc, Etho and Bdubs, so I think they’re the four heads of the organization, each with their own areas of expertise that they manage. (I think Bdubs and Beef are more focused on infrastructure, Bdubs being the builder that he is and Beef being an expert mapmaker/planner, while Doc and Etho are more focused on redstone machinery and technology. Doc is a bit more into insane experiments about it while Etho is more just like, helping implement solar-powered crosswalk signs or something dope and chill like that)

also that last bit is 100% true they deny everything though

[carolinawrenn]

Okay. I know I said no more political posts for a while, but I need to get this off my chest. I have loathed JD Vance to an unhealthy degree since he published “Hillbilly Elegy” and well-meaning liberals across the US ate it up with a spoon.

Vance isn’t wrong about certain things. Appalachia does have problems with addiction, domestic abuse, poverty, and “deaths of despair.” But in his book, Vance attributes these problems largely to individual moral failings and “our Scots-Irish heritage” (let’s leave aside that Appalachia has been a multi-racial, multi-ethnic society since the 1700s).  

The pharmaceutical industry and its knowing role in the opioid crisis? Generations of conservative state politicians underfunding rural schools and infrastructure? The deliberate crushing of organized labor nationwide and the vicious and often violent union-busting that still happens in the 21st century South? A patriarchal worldview that often results in teenagers and very young women becoming mothers (“Good girls get pregnant. Bad girls know how not to.”) combined with an economy that then often traps them and their children in violent families? Nah.

And having experienced these things personally, did Vance then do anything meaningful to help his community? Nope. He became a venture capitalist and put his family and community on display in a Cletus safari for NPR listeners to lap up. To quote Neema Avashia, who unlike Vance, actually grew up in Appalachia, "A person who truly represented Appalachian people wouldn’t take money from the same big pharma lobby that left West Virginia with the highest opioid overdose rate in the country. They wouldn’t deny climate change in the face of catastrophic flooding that eastern Kentucky still hasn’t recovered from two years out. They wouldn’t stoke fear of immigrants, who provide essential labor in Appalachia in healthcare, agriculture and service industries. They wouldn’t sow division through culture wars in a region where solidarity is desperately needed."

[posttexasstressdisorder]

Yellowstone bear flipping 800-pound dumpsters meets grim end

How trash ultimately killed a Yellowstone grizzly

By Kylie Mohr, Big Sky Country Contributing Parks EditorMay 21, 2025

Overturned bear-resistant recycling containers are seen in the Nez Perce Picnic Area in Yellowstone National Park on May 9, 2025.NPS / Allan Barker

A grizzly bear’s claws usually come in handy for digging up roots, squirrels and insects for a tasty meal. But after getting a taste of human trash earlier this spring, one Yellowstone bear decided to use its brute strength for another purpose: digging up trash cans mounted in cement, then uprooting and turning them over for the food inside.

“They’re incredibly powerful animals,” said Evan Stout, owner and operator of Yellowstone Wildlife Guide Company and the program coordinator for Bear Awareness Gardiner, a local nonprofit. “That’s the equivalent of you and I putting our fingernails under something and flipping it.”

FILE: Visitors walk along a boardwalk in Yellowstone National Park’s Midway Geyser Basin on Sept. 18, 2022, in Yellowstone National Park, Wyo. A grizzly frequented a parking lot nearby in search of trash.George Rose/Getty Images

The bear “posed a risk to public safety in one of the busiest areas of the park,” according to a Yellowstone news release. “The decision to kill the bear was made to ensure public safety and reduce the chances of other bears becoming habituated to human food.” 

Between April 3 and May 13, the 11-year-old bear tore into 800-pound dumpsters that were supposed to be bear-resistant in the Nez Perce Picnic Area and the Midway Geyser Basin parking lot, something Stout attributed to “motivation and persistence.”  

“It’s unfortunate that this bear began regularly seeking out garbage and was able to defeat the park’s bear-resistant infrastructure,” said Kerry Gunther, Yellowstone’s bear management biologist, in a news release. “We go to great lengths to protect bears and prevent them from becoming conditioned to human food. But occasionally, a bear outsmarts us or overcomes our defenses.”

FILE: A grizzly bear turned over trash cans in the crowded Midway Geyser Basin parking lot, pictured here, in Yellowstone National Park.George Frey/Getty Images

According to the park, relocating adult bears like this one to a zoo isn’t an option. Relocating them to another part of the park typically doesn’t work. According to a Yellowstone website, about half of bears that were involved in conflicts caused more conflicts after they were moved. The park isn’t big enough to move them far enough away, and transferring a bear with a history of conflict to other jurisdictions, like state land or another national park, is usually a non-starter. 

A grizzly overturned this and other “bear-resistant” recycling container in Yellowstone National before being euthanized by park staff on May 14, 2025.NPS / Allan Barker

“The biggest bear attractants we see in towns across Montana are garbage, chickens and bird feeders,” Danielle Oyler, wildlife stewardship outreach specialist for Montana Fish, Wildlife and Parks, told SFGATE earlier this spring. “Garbage is No. 1.” 

Between 150 and 200 grizzly bears’ home ranges wholly or partially overlap with park boundaries. The last time Yellowstone officials killed a grizzly was 2017, after the bear got into tents and ate human food at backcountry campsites at Heart Lake. 

Stout thinks the eight years between the events shows that the park is doing a good job, as grizzly populations have increased in recent decades in the Greater Yellowstone Ecosystem and visitation numbers have boomed since the pandemic. “The park is doing everything right,” he said. “They’re doing an amazing job with their bear-proofing.” 

Modern day bear management in Yellowstone is a far cry from the park of yesteryear. Bears were fed by park staff and visitors as a roadside attraction until 1970. Today, park staff try to keep human food sources unavailable to bears by installing bear-resistant food storage in campgrounds (almost 80% of the park’s roughly 1,900 campsites has a food storage box), monitoring busy areas for litter, avoiding trash can overflow and even using bear-resistant fencing around sewage lagoons.