#manual transplanter

[authenticaussie]

Started critiquing shows under the umbrella of "would this constitute a declined insurance claim" and it has been VERY fun so far.

[krishitoolindia]

Book Now: https://www.krishitool.in/product_list/AGRICULTURE_GARDEN/Transplanter/Rice_Transplanter

[teapartyprincess4two]

I need a jealous matt fic from you. like actuallyyyy

Urban Cowboy- M. Sturniolo

pairing: Cowgirl!reader x CityBoy!Matt

classification: fluff, angst

warnings: use of y/n, mentions of jealousy, slight cursing, mentions of alcohol and alcohol use, set in the county/ a ranch

inspiration: request^^, Urban Cowboy (the movie) but with a twist & none of the abuse. Also, we’re taking a different route with jealousy hehehe

summary: Matt, a city boy, tries one upping you, the best bull rider in town, only to be met with a painful outcome.

—

Every summer the triplets were shipped away to their grandparents ranch out in the country. For a couple of months, they left their busy city life behind in favor of days plowing the field, tending to livestock, and helping their grandparents out.

Since they were kids, Matt and his brothers have always loved summers out in the country. They spent their days swimming in the river, attending the state fair, running across acres of land, and riding their bikes down dirt roads. So many of their core memories were made during these summer trips, the change of pace allowing them to unwind and relax.

But, as the boys grew older, they began practicing less innocent hobbies. Days playing in the sun were replaced with long, drunk nights at local bars. They danced with attractive people, got into bar fights, and most importantly, they traded in their bikes for mechanical bulls.

Nick and Chris were experts on the mechanical bull, easily outlasting everyone else, but everyone knew that they were just the warmup. The real show started once Matt mounted that bull, his firm grip on the leather rope enough to hold him for longer than anyone else. He had an unmatched strength that helped him too, and he quickly became cocky about it.

Crowds of drunk people would gather just to watch Matt, cheering him on with each passing minute. They would bet on how long he’d last, each time surprised that he was able to hang on for so long. The mechanical bull thrashed and bucked, but Matt’s firm grip held him steadily in place.

No one could ever outlast Matt, until you came along at least. Unlike Matt, you weren’t a city transplant. No, you were born and raised in the country, spending more than just summers doing manual labor. So, where he had natural strength, you had muscles built from years of hard work. There was also another distinguishable difference; he was bull riding as a serious hobby, but you were only doing it for fun.

Bull riding is a past time you’ve practiced your whole life, you didn’t see the point in showing off, but the second you mounted that bull and beat Matt’s time, he couldn’t help but feel like you were. It felt like you were kicking dirt in his face.

Matt, Nick, and Chris watch from the bar. They’re sitting on the stools, facing the crowd that has piled up around you. The conductor, who sits just behind the bull setup, is jolting the remote aggressively from side to side, but no matter how hard he tries he can’t knock you off. Matt feels the jealousy stir in his stomach as the crowd cheers for you, they were only supposed to cheer for him!

“Who the fuck is that?” Matt grumbles mostly to his brothers, but loud enough for the bartender to hear.

Nick and Chris shrug, how were they supposed to know who you were? Chris calls the bartender over with a tilt of his head, silently ordering three beers with his hands.

The bartender immediately fills up three glasses, the alcohol fizzing and frothing at the top. “That’s Y/n… Her dad owns the mill on the outskirts of town, biggest flour company in the west. I heard they made enough money to buy another ranch last year… Shit, they own just about every business this side of town. Pretty sure they own this damn bar,” the bartender chimes in his deep country accent catching the boys off guard as he slides the glasses to them.

Matt, who’s leaning against the bar counter, crooks his neck to look at the bartender, looking him up and down before quickly averting his gaze back to you.

Matt can’t believe anyone could ever outlast his record time of 10 minutes, but as he watches the clock he notices that you were nearing 15. “She’s fucking beating you, dude,” Chris laughs, taking a sip of his beer before slapping Matt’s chest enthusiastically. The neon clock numbers are taunting Matt, causing him to clench his jaw as his pride gets the best of him.

His whole shtick was that he was the city boy who easily outlasted all these country kids, what good did that do if he was beat by a girl?

The mechanical bull thrashes violently as the conductor tries knocking you off, but you’re using your momentum to push you past the 15 minute mark. You don’t even look like you’re struggling either, a big smile plastered on your face as you grip onto the leather rope with one hand and your hat with the other. Everyone is watching excitedly, suddenly erupting into a loud cheer as you create a new record.

“I’ve never seen anyone last that long,” Nick comments, a look of awe and shock on his face. “Then you must not be from ‘round here. That girl is a natural on that thing, she wins the bull riding contest at the state fair every year,” the bartender replies, butting into the conversation once again before shaking his head and walking away.

Matt waits until he’s out of earshot to say, “What the fuck does that mean? ‘You must not be from ‘round here?’” He puts on a dramatic, exaggerated country accent as he says the last part, an annoyed look written all over his face.

You’re standing on the bull now, riding it like a surfer rides a wave. The crowd is going crazy, cheering you on as you continue putting on a show. A smile is spread across your face as you gently sit back down, laying on your back and propping your feet on the horns, your hands weaved between your thighs as you hold onto the leather rope. Everything about your performance was effortless, and it angered Matt.

Matt decides he’s seen enough when you throw both legs to one side, casually holding yourself up with your hands on either side of your hips. He snatches his beer from the bar violently, practically chugging it before throwing it back in the counter. He sucks in through his teeth shortly after at the strong sensation, following it with a burp before throwing his hat back on and stomping over to the crowd.

“I’ll show you who ain’t from ‘round here,” Matt mutters, pushing his way through the crowd until he’s directly in front of the inflatable foundation of the bull machine. You walk right past him as you dismount, making brief eye contact as you drunkenly giggle and laugh your way to your friends. He watches as you stumble, dizzy steps guiding you through the crowd. For some reason this only further upsets Matt, causing him to mount the bull haphazardly.

He sends the conductor a look, signifying that he’s ready to start, before gripping the leather rope so tightly that his knuckles turn white. The machine starts off slowly, rocking back and forth at a pace that gives Matt enough time to properly adjust himself.

But, before he knows it, the bull is gyrating, twisting, and turning so aggressively that he’s struggling to hold on. Matt’s mind is racing with thoughts, the fear of embarrassment causing the anxiety to build up. It feels like the conductor is purposefully trying to knock him off with enough force to hurt him, and it doesn’t help that no one in the crowd is cheering.

After the show you just gave, Matt’s performance was sub par in comparison. He was stiff as a board from the nerves, making it harder to keep his balance. By this point his his hat flew off, bouncing on the inflatable floor beneath him, and he was holding onto the rope for dear life.

“Look at this guy, showing off because he got beat by a girl,” someone snickers from the crowd, the comment being followed by a roar of laughter. That’s when the conductor bucks the machine forward, quickly knocking Matt onto his stomach before pulling the remote and forcing Matt to straighten his back to stay mounted.

Just as he’s gaining confidence in himself, the bull tilts to the right sharply enough to send Matt flying. The inflatable cushion beneath him does nothing to break his fall, the sheer force at which he was thrown being enough to break his arm. The crowd immediately groans as they watch Matt’s body ricochet when it comes in contact with the edge of the ring.

You were facing away from the crowd, engaged in a conversation with your friends, but as soon as you hear the crowd groaning and yelling you turn towards the scene. Matt is laying on the ground, clutching his arm as he tries to breathe through the pain. Everyone watches, but nobody helps, they just stand there either laughing or wincing at the idea of being in that much pain.

“Move!” you exclaim, pushing your way through the crowd and immediately walking into the ring. The spongy ground makes it harder to walk to Matt, who’s looking at you with wide eyes. This was the most embarrassing moment of his life.

You crouch in front of him, using all your force to pull him up from the ground while still being careful not to hurt him.

He lets you pick him up and guide him to a secluded area. His cheeks are burning hot with embarrassment and his eyes sting, the tears threatening to spill from the build up of anxiety and pain.

But he sucks it up and follows you, avoiding everyone’s wandering eyes.

—

“It don’t look broken, just sprained,” you comment, wrapping a bandage around Matt’s limp wrist. He hums in response, avoiding eye contact with you and you can’t figure out why.

“Sorry if I’m oversteppin’. just thought you could use some help,” your country accent is thick, and for the first time since the night started Matt isn’t completely jealous of you. He’s silently grateful that you evacuated him from the embarrassing situation, immediately feeling guilt for trying to one up you and show off.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, wincing as you accidentally pull his wrist. Once the pain subsides he continues, “you were pretty great out there.” The compliment hurts his ego, but you’re being so kind to him that he puts his own jealousies to the side. Matt’s sitting on a bar stool, the both of you in a secluded corner of the bar as you continue tending to his injury.

“Thanks, weren’t too bad yourself,” you offer him a genuine smile, gently placing his arm onto his lap. It was evident, just by looking at him, that Matt wasn’t from here and that made him more alluring. You stand in between his legs, the close proximity building a tension that neither of you know what to do with.

“Can I be honest?” he asks, once again avoiding eye contact and looking into the distance. His eyes train on the mechanical bull, watching as someone else takes a turn on it. You hum in response, trying to move in front of his line of vision to catch his attention.

“I only got on that bull because I was jealous.”

“Jealous?” His statement caught you off guard, what did he have to be jealous of?

“Yeah, jealous. It sounds childish, but I really wanted to beat your time… all I ended up with was a sprained wrist,” he chuckles, fiddling with his fingers. If he wasn’t being so vulnerable, and if he wasn’t injured, you might’ve gotten upset.

“Well, I’ve seen you ride before. You’re better than everyone here,” you reply, trying to keep the conversation uplifting.

“Not better than you.”

“Yeah, not better than me,” you reply seriously, waiting for him to face you before smiling. “I’m kidding,” you laugh, punching his shoulder slightly. He winces before joining you with a chuckle.

“Don’t worry. I can teach you a few moves,” you continue, your eyes wrinkling from how hard you were smiling. Matt’s smiling too, he felt silly for feeling jealous earlier.

“I’d like that,” he chuckles, opening his legs wider for you to scoot in closer. You take the invitation, your hats bumping together slightly. The smile on your face is engulfed by Matt’s lips as he moves in for a kiss, his uninjured wrist resting on your waist.

“Easy there, cowboy,” you murmur as you feel his hands inch down towards your ass. He laughs in response, going in for another kiss.

—

MASTERLIST

a/n:

Cowboy Matt is my favorite. I might make a part two that’s much more angsty bc we need that full Urban Cowboy moment, but for now enjoy this 😋

-L.A.M.B👼🏻💗

—

taglist: @nicksmainbitch @sturniololovers @mayhem-72 @worldlxvlys @gnxosblog @meg-sturniolo @creamoncreamoncream2 @mattnchrisworld @sanyi5 @lustfulslxt @whicked-hazlatwhore @tworosesblackthorn @mxqdii @fawned01

note: if you want to be tagged in my fanfic related posts, you can access my TAGLIST and comment 💐

[orionremastered]

Heyyy!

I just wanted to put in a request for part 2 of your Damian x surgical intern reader? (If that’s not too much to ask - I loved it so much!!)

~🌼

PLEASE SEND ME MORE ASKS THEY MAKE ME HAPPY

Masterlist

Surgeon!Damian Wayne x Surgical Resident!reader

Part One, Part Two

You were, decidedly, over it. After a ten hour long heart transplant- unusually long- you could feel your every breath, every blink, and every move you made was slow and manual. Dr. Wayne- no, Damian- was more exhausted than you could imagine.

When he stumbles, you grab his shoulders quickly to stop him falling. It takes him a second to stand upright again and thank you with a set of lethargic nods.

“You don’t look like you can drive home,” you tell him as you follow him out the OR, close behind in the event that he stumbles again.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles, and you can only sigh at the stubborn man’s words.

“At least let me drive you home so you don’t cause an accident,” you insist, moving in front of him to ‘block’ his path.

Narrowed eyes and a grunt are all that follow for a few seconds after, regarding you with tired confusion. Did he seriously expect you to just let him drive home and cause an accident? To end up like the heart donor who was driving too fast and couldn’t be saved?

“Alright, fine.” He gives in, letting you lead him to the car park begrudgingly.

He unlocks his car, an expensive car by the looks of it, though you don’t know what kind- and gets into the passenger seat as you get behind the wheel.

“Wait.” his words are drawls now. “What about your-”

“I take the metro,” you reply, starting the car and driving out into the dark streets of Gotham.

Damian frowns, but in a few seconds, his head rests against the window and his eyes are closed, face relaxed for the first time that day.

It puts a soft smile onto your face when you see it, but then you realized you don’t know where he lives. And you can’t bring yourself to wake him up and ask.

You arrive at your building, gently coaxing Damian’s half-awake self, barely coherent when he mumbles something about his head. It’s certainly a challenge to get the man up the stairs since the elevator’s out of service as someone was murdered inside, but once you get him inside your (in all honesty, not even average sized) apartment, you have an odd choice to make.

He won’t fit on the couch- you have to crane your neck up to look at him, for crying out loud- but it’s awkward having a stranger in your bed, no?

Give the man a break, your mind chides. He’s worked too hard to be squished on the cheapest couch you could find.

Giving in, you let him drape across your bed, covering him with the blanket after taking off his shoes. You eat a pre-prepared meal, have a long and hot shower before finally being able to fall asleep.

You’re trying to get a blanket from the top of the closet, standing on your tiptoes as you attempt to wrestle the darn thing out when Damian drowsily speaks up from behind you.

“What’s the fuss? Just sleep here,” and now you’re uncertain if you’ve really got the world’s scariest attending surgeon in you apartment or not.

“No-no, it’s okay, just go back to sleep, you must be exhausted,” you reply, returning to the blanket that refuses to cooperate.

Damian huffs, and that was the end of that.

Until he gets up and drags you into your bed, arms wrapped tightly around you waist as he settles once more.

“You shouldn’t sleep on the couch,” he murmurs into your shoulder, lips brushing your skin gently when he talks. “It’ll hurt your neck.”

Damian had a point, but this wasn’t an option you were going to consider, but now that it was happening, you weren’t exactly opposed to it. It’s been a while since you’d been held like this, and it was... nice. Nice enough to make you drift off into sleep.

BONUS

You’d never know that at four in the morning, Damian awoke. Still tired, admittedly, but instantly aware of you in his arms.

A smile crossed is face as he watched you sleep, admiring your features as well as he could in the dark; your lashes, hair, nose, and (most importantly) your lips.

He admired them as long as he could before his eyes grew too heavy and he fell asleep for much needed rest.

[chlorinatedpopsicle]

Are there really people out there who are so stupid poorly educated about female anatomy that they genuinely believe a vagina can be surgically created out of a man’s penis? They’re just playing dumb, right?

First of all, I think it should be established that female and male pelvises are quite different:

The female pelvis is wide and shallow with a pubic arch / subpubic angle usually ranging from 80 to 90+ degrees, while the male pelvis is taller and narrower with a pubic arch / subpubic angle usually ranging from 60 to 70 degrees. This obviously results in women having wider hips and a wider Q angle (Quadriceps angle):

Women’s pelvic structure allows for a greater range of motion in the hips (hence why women do better in gymnastics).

Because the female pelvis is designed to allow for childbirth, the pelvic cavity is significantly wider and rounder than that of the male. Also, in the male pelvis, the sacrum + coccyx (tail bone) projects further into the pelvic cavity.

A man’s 1) narrower pubic arch and 2) significantly less spacious pelvic cavity mean that a “vagina” would sit on his pelvis very differently than it would on a woman’s. (It also makes the idea of a TIM getting a uterus transplant and successfully giving birth absolutely ridiculous, but that's besides the point.)

Even if male and female pelvises were the same, a surgically-created “vagina” still would not be able to function anything like an actual vagina.

The vagina / vaginal canal is an organ lined with powerful muscles, and it is those muscles which give it the ability to expand and contract. A “neovagina” is not an organ, but an inverted pocket of penis skin (and sometimes, if there is not enough penis skin available, colon tissue). It is not lined with muscles, and thus does not have the ability to expand and contract. It’s just a stationary hole—which brings me to the next point:

The vagina is a self-cleaning organ. It naturally flushes out vaginal discharge (dead vaginal/cervical skin cells, vaginal/cervical mucus, and bacteria) on a regular basis to keep itself clean and healthy. No douching or dilating necessary. A surgically-created “vagina” obviously does not have that ability. When bacteria, fungus, pus, blood, and/or dead cells inevitably build up inside the wound, it needs to be manually dilated and cleaned out; a neovagina needs to be dilated (and possibly douched) every single day in order to prevent it from closing up (since it is literally a wound trying to heal itself) and to prevent bacteria buildup / the formation of fungus. Many men who have undergone vaginoplasties describe the daily dilation process as painful and tiresome, and many have also shared horror stories of disgusting smells, various types of fungus growing inside, and even hair growing inside. (Oh, and I'm sure it doesn't help that they also pee out of it. This probably doesn't need to be said, but women don't pee out of their vaginas.)

In the grand majority of cases, getting a vaginoplasty means permanently losing one’s ability to orgasm. It doesn’t take a genius to understand why. It isn’t naturally lubricating like an actual vagina. It doesn’t expand when aroused like an actual vagina. If just dilating the neovagina is painful, how do you think having someone thrust their dick into it would feel? Sometimes, the skin of the inside of the neovagina hardens in an effort to heal itself. When that happens, intercourse is largely sensationless.

Then there’s the fact that, in a neovagina, the “clitoris” is just a nub with none of the abilities of an actual clitoris.

Contrary to popular belief, the clitoris is not just a nub, it’s an entire organ. Most of it is just hidden under the surface:

The role that the clitoris plays in female pleasure is immense; most women can only orgasm if they receive clitoral simulation.

The clitoris has at least 8000 nerve endings. The “wings” of the clitoris also hug and squeeze the labia minora. A neovagina’s pseudo-clitoris isn’t even comparable.

One last thing: The fact that fat works differently in women and men is also an important factor, I think. Women’s bodies require more essential fat, and fat accumulates in different areas on women and men: In women, fat accumulates in the upper arms, the tummy, and, most importantly, the hips, thighs, and buttocks. Women’s much higher level of fat in this area is the reason why women have cellulite and (most) men do not. TIMs can get injections in their hips/thighs/buttocks to try to mimic women's natural fat distribution, but they can never achieve women's natural softness and squishiness.

[batterymaster01]

The Astutocentaurini & Death Part 2: Utility Vessels

As discussed before, the Astutocentaurini believe in the idea of two deaths: death of the self (the head) and death of the vessel (the body). But how are headless citizens dealt with while still alive? Following self-death, the vessel of an Athyrmatherian has the potential to live for a long time under controlled conditions, anywhere from a year to nearly a century, depending on the creature's species and age. The feudal societies of the world have thus converged on a similar solution: At some point in their adult life, a person will usually be required to sign a will in which they can either decline or agree to posthumously donate their vessels to society. These repurposed vessels are known as "utility vessels."

A utility vessel can be considered an archaic sort of biotechnology, an organic automaton that can be sold and used for various purposes. When awaiting ownership or rental by an employer, they are typically housed and maintained in storage facilities called "body shops," eerily reminiscent of auto shops in their presentation and purpose. They can even be modified surgically and "mechanically" to certain degrees if permitted by a will, although more extensive cases of body modification can be rather controversial. Despite this apparent commoditization, utility vessels are treated with an odd yet palpable sense of respect and reverence, which is culturally analogous to our respect for the dead. Indeed, the very shops they are sold by tend to be subsidiaries of the same funeral homes that house their deceased selves, and employers are legally obligated to return dead vessels so they can be buried in the same graves. With each use, utility vessels are paid in money for their services, and some laws and regulations advise against any particular uses that may be deemed indignant to the former persons. It is also common for utility vessels to be dressed in lavish and beautiful garbs or intricately carved bioplastic shells that match their cultural backgrounds. The centerpiece of these decorations is a custom-carved "persona," a fake head that, in addition to functioning as a feeding tube, serves as a symbolic reminder of the person the vessel used to be attached to.

Under native legal definitions, utility vessels are usually classified into three types based on their composition and functionality. Type "A" utility vessels consist of the thoracic, upper, and lower abdominal zooids, with the thoracic zooid housing a ganglion that makes them autonomous enough to perform specific tasks in response to certain stimuli. This allows them to haul or carry loads similar to pack animals, with the behaviors being conditioned through rhythmic ground vibrations and rewards of liquid food. Type "B" utility vessels consist of only the upper and lower abdominal zooids, and they lack autonomy outside metabolic regulation and basic righting and balancing. Due to this, they have to be pulled or pushed manually like living carts, and they are mostly used to carry lighter loads or to act as portable bases for more stationary equipment. Type "C" utility vessels are essentially any singular zooid that is separated from a composite, and they are typically relegated to use as a surgery stock for organ transplants, zooid replacements, and sometimes to "construct" more complete utility vessels.

[wazzappp]

Considering that Khaji Da chose Jaime A, quickly, B, instead of his murder-happy family, I don’t think that it’s a matter of personal preference who Khaji Da picks. Khaji Da didn’t eavesdrop for days to decide if it liked him, it activated pretty much the second it made physical contact with him. So what if it’s genetic? Like with blood types, or organ transplants. What if the scarab can mimic the markers on the outside of cells that tell the immune system that they’re not foreign and shouldn’t be destroyed, but only some of them, or some not as well as others? On contact with Jaime, then, it knew that he had genetic markers it could mimic to avoid having to suppress the immune system. (It could, of course, and use its own robotic antibodies to keep him healthy, but that takes power, so better to not have to do that.)

Also, considering that, the scarab would have to have very very good chemical sensors. If I was a Reach scientist, I’d put them in two lines down the body of the scarab on the top (to read the dna of the host-to-be if the scarab is being grabbed), and on the tips of all limbs + the mandibles (to read the dna if the scarab is doing the grabbing).

Sorry for the spam, lol. I’m a bit obsessed.

Ohhhhhhh FANTASTIC reasoning dude!!

Yeah yeah that would TOTALLY make sense. If Jaimes immune system recognized Khaji as a threat while they were trying to assimilate, he would manifest symptoms (chills, fever, sniffles, cough etc) and that would be. Far less. Than optimal in a situation where he is literally being hunted lmao.

That's interesting because it would also imply that Khaji has their own DNA containing genetic markers that would generally need to be adapted to suit a host. What percentage of Khajis DNA would need to change in order to not trigger an immune response, I wonder?

Also this is interesting because it would mean that there are genetic mutations happening that (at least initially) Khaji would have absolutely NO CONTROL over. A certain percent of Khajis DNA would need to stay the same for it to still be, you know, Khaji. So as much as Khaji Da's DNA is changing, jaimes DNA would ALSO still need to change in order for them to be compatible (referring to assimilated cells).

Hmmmmm. Maybe when they finally 'Sync Up' in the finale of the movie, that's Jaime's brain cells finally relenting to assimilation with Khajis DNA. I'm fairly sure that up until that point we've only seen Khaji speak with Jaime while their helmet on. That could imply that Khaji is just pumping their voice through speakers in the helmet rather than directly through Jaimes auditory nerves. They haven't gotten that far yet.

Oh fuck. But that would mean that all the way throughout the movie Khai is almost just. MANUALLY YOINK-ING Jaimes limbs around cause they haven't fully integrated into his central nervous system. I mean, maybe they could just artificially send electrical stimuli into whatever nerve affects the area they want to move but JEEZ.

Oh god that could also allow for jaimes brain to send its own instructions to stop that limb from moving. His body could like. LITERALLY tear itself apart. Jesus christ.

[shadykazama]

Genji Shimada

So I asked my friend which Overwatch character I should do my next alphabet headcanons about and they said Genji! So I'll be doing Genji next, probably later today.

However while I was thinking about him the thought of his cybernetics came to mind and I went off on a full blown tangent about it so I figured I'd post my thoughts on how much of Genji is a cyborg before I do his relationship stuff.

This is blackwatch, Genji, I don't know if this is canon or not but for the sake of this I'm saying it is. So as far as body parts go he's definitely missing his legs knee and under. I think he's wearing armor over his thighs though, he has intact femurs. He's missing his right arm and there's some kind of internal damage in his upper chest.

His eye piece comes off seperate to his mouth piece but that doesn't mean his mouth is robotic, I just think he takes the mask part off less often. His head and heart are all intact according to voice lines and evidence from skins.

Now might I direct your attention to his canon skins. We know from the short "Dragons" that those green circles on his upper body have a release mechanism meaning they manage pressure of some kind within his body.

(We can also see there's less of them in his OW2 design so it's a possibility they got upgraded to be more efficient.)

Now I'm about to lay down my biggest actual headcanon without much evidence besides speculation and "it'd be cool" to back it up.

I think Genji has robotic lungs.

WILD TAKE I KNOW BUT HEAR ME OUT.

He can eat, heard in the voice line about him being able to handle mercy's coffee, so we know his mouth is intact, along with the rest of his digestive system. I think the mouth part of his mask is to help him breathe. I think there was major damage to his respiratory system to the point where they had to make the choice to give him mechanical replacements, hence the need to release pressure when he exerts a LOT of energy (like after his fight with hanzo in the cinematic).

He breathes in game, so we know he needs lungs. Which makes sense if most of his main organs are intact. If the main damage was to his lungs, they could give him robotic ones. And my claim of them not giving him a lung transplant is supported by the fact that Mauga was given a second CYBERNETIC heart instead of a replacement when he was critically injured.

Also in the Doomfist origin cinematic when he threw Genji into a car he started sparking and held his chest, which I know may just be "oh he's a robot of course" written off, but it'd make sense if it was his lungs!! It would put him out of a fight if he can't supply oxygen to the rest of his body. Plus it would hurt him in his chest!

Going off of this, he can definitely breathe without the mask and obviously would need to take it off to eat (he has a lot of scarring on his throat I think, and maybe his jaw) but the mask hides the scar tissue and helps regulate his breathing more naturally. Now I'm not a doctor so this next part may make no sense, and let me know if it does but maybe the mask is connected to his lungs in like a nervous system kind of way? Since they wouldn't be connected to his nervous system entirely? So when he takes the mask off he has to manually breathe. Like the mask regulates it for him so he can do it subconsciously but without the mask it's a conscious manual breathing situation.

And my only real arguments for him not having a robotic heart instead of lungs is his voice line that says "The heart of a man still beats inside of me." Which of course could be metaphorical, "I'm still the same man, just with a different body." Kind of thing, but also he just never takes off that freaking mouth piece so I was thinking it had to serve a purpose!

Lol I'll get to work on my headcanons now but let me know what y'all think of this 🙏

[oddman-the-oldman]

Blame it on the Moon.

This is the Drosera binata I've been caring for since +/- 1990 one of the most difficult plants to take a good, in focus picture of that I grow. I had to get out of "Auto Focus" and learn to do it manually. The moon photos I've been taking is where I've been getting my practice. Auto focus always wants to focus on the dirt.

I showed you the bare root dormant transplant of this little pot full last spring. I expected it to just go at the time but it got cranky and slow instead. It should be back to abnormal by next year. My friends use to call it the "Dr. Seuss Plant" because of the way the leaves branch like the antlers on some of the creatures he drew.

[inversionimpulse]

I firmly believe that Patchouli Knowledge is not a librarian. She's a research scientist that happens to live in her best friend's private library. She couldn't organise or navigate a library with her life on the line. I think that Koakuma... or if you, as I do, like the idea that there's multiple of them, the Koakumas are librarians. Whether they were librarians to begin with and that's why Patchouli summoned them up or if they were random demons Patchouli told to figure it out or else, I have no thoughts on, but I do think that if you somehow banned her from having familiars, the entire contents of the library would be slowly transplanted to a giant pile beside her desk that she spends 16 hours a day sifting through because not only does she not know where anything is, she's not entirely sure off the top of her head which books are likely to have what she's looking for.

Nonetheless she holds Marisa in contempt for that mess of a house, because at least she recognised that it was a problem and got help.

(Alice, painstakingly righting every inch of her demesne with manually controlled dolls, thinks they're both barely better than braindead. They both, not spending hours of every day dividing their attention to perform tens of man-hours of work singlehandedly out of sheer OCD, think she's barely better than braindead)

[b-blushes]

Surprise project reveal: POND!!!

Since the start of the year I’ve been working on turning one third of this flowerbed into a pond, hopefully for wildlife! I’ve done all the research, planning, and buying, and my dad has pretty much done all the manual labour due I’m disabled, ginormous shoutout to my dad! And to my friend for coming over to help me start digging out dead plants which needed to go before we could get started! <3 As you may know, I have been wanting to see tadpoles soooooo badly, and also have a patch of garden that is too large for me to manageably maintain, so I decided to try and create a new habitat for a plethora of creatures! I researched native plants and what they add to the environment (hiding places for tadpoles, baby newts and any other critters that end up in there, attracting pollinators (good for pollinators and also good for creatures that eat them!), plants that newts like to lay spawn in, what kind of plant will provide year-round shelter and cover, etc) and designed the pond according to which I liked. On two sides of the pond we made a ‘bog garden’ lined with pond liner with a couple of holes poked in it so there was a liiiiiitle drainage, and then filled with aquatic soil.

I also added a shallow area for bees and other creatures to drink (I will add some more rocks to this though as the water level is high at the moment!), as well as making sure that anyone gets into the pond can also get out of it. I filled it with rainwater, so hopefully it will establish soon and I will start to see pond beasts in my garden!!!

The brooklime planted inside a container within the pond, and surrounded by gravel and shallow water, will grow across the pond to provide cover. Unfortunately I picked up a non-native horsetail instead of our native one by accident, but nonetheless it will be perfect for dragonfly nymphs to crawl out of the water and moult to become dragonflies!

I placed one water forget-me-not in the water itself, and another in the bog garden to see which they prefer. The one in the photo on the left went in to the bog garden first, and is flowering! Followed by the one in the centre photo in the water which is a couple of weeks behind. In the section of the bog garden pictured in the middle, is a native iris and a native marsh marigold (closeup on the right) which will both flower yellow - behind these I'm going to build a log pile as additional habitat and a place for any creatures to take shelter in a cool, damp, protected place.

Also in the bog garden (along the long side of the pond) is native water mint which will flower pink, and a corkscrew rush which appeared in one of my mums flowerpots so needed to be transplanted somewhere else. (It's being shadowed by another self-set teasel, that one should flower next year!)

Water crowfoot inside the pond! These will grow much bigger and have white flowers too! The pond is very fresh (the water has only just cleared enough from planting to be able to see to the bottom properly in the last couple of days), so I’m looking forward to all the plants getting huge and seeing flowers too. It’s also within an existing flowerbed, so this year it looks as if at least one self-set teasel will flower next to the pond (they flower in their second year), and I also planted an ornamental sage to provide shade to one end, as it’s in quite a bright spot and I have another of these growing elsewhere which overwintered really well and is so bushy! It was also buzzing with bees and other guys last year, and flowers for a really long time.

I think that's everything! I'm so excited to have gotten to this point, I've been dreaming of my own pond for years, and I'm hoping I designed one that will end up being home to lots of creatures that I can watch! :') I can't wait for it all to establish and hopefully becoming a bustling ecosystem.

[vaelastormreaver]

Whispers of the Heart

Pairing: Halsin x Vaela (my tiefling barbarian Tav)

Summary: Halsin and Vaela reflect on the life they’ve built together as they settle down for the night

CW: mostly fluff, implications of spice

Author’s note: I wrote this a while back when I was being plagued with glitches and bugs while romancing Halsin. Once such bug had my Tav arriving to the reunion alone even though she was with Halsin. These devastating (and numerous) set backs were only slightly remedied through fanfics. You’ll notice I took some lines directly from the epilogue and transplanted them here. Again, this was to console myself while I was mentally preparing myself to replay all of Act 3 in the hopes I would finally get my ideal ending. Hope you all enjoy.

Another Summer day had come and gone and Vaela longed for nothing more than to be with her love, Halsin…

Vaela’s gaze drifted toward the open window of their shared treehouse, where the last traces of a soft pink and orange sunset melted into that of a twilight blue. Beyond the windowpane, the melodic trill of nightingales serenaded the land, weaving a tranquil melody that whispered of slumber. The bedroom, adorned with furnishings crafted by Halsin's skilled hands and embellished with Vaela's meticulous touch, exuded warmth and rustic charm. Intricately carved wooden furniture, lovingly crafted by Halsin, stood as a testament to his craftsmanship, while Vaela's additions lent a personal flair to the space. Delicate tapestries, embroidered with scenes of nature's beauty, adorned the walls, infusing the room with color and life. A scattering of fragrant wildflowers, lovingly gathered by Vaela during her travels, graced the bedside table, their sweet scent filling the air with a sense of tranquility. Yet, despite the comfort of her surroundings, an undeniable emptiness lingered in the air, a palpable reminder of Halsin's absence.

Halsin's absence weighed heavily on Vaela's heart as she waited for his return from his tireless endeavors in the community they had built together. His unwavering dedication to their shared dream of harmony between nature and civilization was something Vaela deeply admired about Halsin, but it often left her longing for his presence. Tonight was no exception, and as the minutes stretched into hours, Vaela found herself yearning for the reassuring touch of his hand and the sound of his voice filling the silence of their sanctuary.

Vaela had already immersed herself in the ritual of preparation, relishing in the simple yet comforting routine that marked the transition from day to night. Her slender fingers deftly braided her auburn locks to one side, securing them with a delicate tie as she cast a glance towards the open window, where the moon cast its gentle glow upon their burgeoning community. Her attire, a flowing white nightgown that cascaded to her knees, offered a stark contrast to the fatigue that settled upon her muscled frame after a day of toiling in the fields and aiding in the construction of new homes for the refugees.

Physical exertion had always been Vaela's forte, a testament to the strength honed through years of barbarian upbringing. While she thrived in the throes of manual labor, she gladly left the intricacies of diplomacy and negotiation to Halsin, who navigated the complexities of leadership with a grace and finesse that never failed to impress her.

As she reminisced on their journey together, her thoughts drifted back to their initial encounter in the depths of the goblin camp near the Emerald Grove. It was there that she had first laid eyes on Halsin, captured and condemned to a horrible fate at the hands of Absolute cultists. What had begun as a mission borne out of duty soon blossomed into a partnership forged in the crucible of adversity. With each passing day, Vaela found herself drawn to the arch druid's unwavering dedication to his cause, his loyalty to helping her find a cure to her affliction implanted in her brain by mindflayers, and his overall commitment to protecting those under his care — a stark contrast to the chaos and violence that had defined her own upbringing.

It was during their time in Baldur's Gate that the undercurrent of their bond shifted, as Halsin finally confessed his feelings for her beneath the veil of the moonlit sky. His words, laden with sincerity and emotion, had stirred something within Vaela's heart, a realization of the depth of her own affection for him. From that moment on, their paths had intertwined, their destinies irrevocably linked by the unspoken promise of a shared future.

Her reverie was interrupted by the soft sound of Halsin's footsteps as he entered the room, his weary countenance a witness to the trials of the day. Vaela's smile widened as he approached, his large arms enveloping her in a tender embrace that spoke volumes of the solace they found in each other's presence. As they held each other close, Vaela's gaze met Halsin's, finding within them a reflection of her own emotions, a silent reassurance of their unspoken bond.

"Welcome home," she murmured, her voice a soft melody that echoed in the quiet of the room.

Halsin managed a tired smile, his hazel eyes reflecting the fatigue that weighed upon him. "Thank you, my heart. It is good to be home, to be with you," Halsin replied, his voice tinged with gratitude as he crossed the room to join her.

"You look exhausted," she observed, her gaze softening with empathy as she reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from his brow.

Halsin offered a weary nod. "It has been a… challenging day," he admitted, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his responsibilities. "But seeing you here makes it all worth it."

Vaela's heart swelled with affection at his words, her fingers trailing lightly along his arm in a gesture of comfort. "You work too hard, my love," she murmured, her voice filled with gentle concern. "You need to take better care of yourself."

Halsin offered her a sheepish smile, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in the warmth of her presence. "I will try," he promised, his voice tinged with determination as he leaned into her touch. "But for now, all I need is to be here with you."

In that fleeting moment, as their eyes met in silent understanding, desire stirred between them, an unspoken longing that begged to be sated. Without a word, they leaned into each other, their lips meeting in a fervent kiss that ignited a blaze of passion between them. Vaela's hand instinctively found its place at the nape of Halsin's neck, drawing him closer as his arms enveloped her in an ardent embrace.

For a timeless moment, they lost themselves in each other, their bodies pressed together in an embrace that spoke of a love that transcended words. It was only when the need for air became too pressing that they reluctantly pulled away, their breaths mingling in the space between them.

"Go, my love, and prepare for bed. I'll be waiting for you, here," Vaela whispered, her voice a soft murmur that hung in the air.

With a nod and a kiss to Vaela’s cheek, Halsin withdrew into the bath room.

—-

The relief that flooded Halsin's chest at the sight of the stone bathtub was ineffable.

Amidst the countless moments of progress and hope borne from Halsin and Vaela’s shared endeavor to aid the less fortunate, there existed a yearning for respite alongside the woman who held his heart.

Dealing with the myriad of conflicting personalities within their ever-growing community was a familiar challenge for Halsin, yet the magnitude of it had grown exponentially since his days at the grove. Some days proved to be more taxing than others, and today had been particularly arduous.

The day commenced as it often did: a tender kiss and sweet-nothings shared with Vaela before he left her in the comfort of their treehouse for an early morning patrol of the surrounding areas in the guise of his formidable, ursine form. Along the trail, he sought solace in moments of quiet contemplation, though, on this morning, a dark cloud of unease lingered in his mind. Whispers of unseen threats and trials to overcome plagued his thoughts, a stark reminder of the lingering anxieties born from past traumas. Despite the idyllic nature of his current existence, the specter of past hardships loomed large, threatening to extinguish the fragile peace he had fought so hard to attain.

As the day unfolded, it seemed as though the fates conspired to test his patience and resolve. An onslaught of disputes among the residents, the ongoing restoration of infrastructure (thankfully tended to by Vaela), the influx of new refugees, and the needs of orphaned children clamoring for his attention left him feeling stretched thin. Amidst the chaos, he couldn't shake the regret that the one person who deserved his undivided attention often found herself overlooked in his pursuit of balance.

Exiting the hot water, Halsin caught his reflection in the mirror and couldn't help but feel disheartened by the sight. The lines etched around his eyes bore witness to the weight of his years, while slight streaks of gray infiltrated his once-vibrant chestnut locks. The burden of his responsibilities weighed heavily upon him, casting doubt upon his worthiness of the love that Vaela so freely bestowed upon him.

He couldn't fathom what Vaela saw in him, why she chose to remain by his side despite the allure of a life of adventure that lay behind her. If she were to express a desire to depart, he would understand, though the mere thought left him reeling with the anguish of potential loss. For he had never loved another as he loved Vaela, and the notion of her absence was a prospect too painful to contemplate.

With a heavy heart and weary limbs, Halsin donned his night attire and made his way back to Vaela, yearning for the solace of her presence amidst the tumult of their world.

—-

And there she was… Already awaiting his return — seated upright in their bed, her eyes alight despite the day's toils, and a warm smile gracing her lips as she extended her arms in welcome. Overwhelmed with emotion and gratitude, Halsin wasted no time in closing the distance between them. With two long strides, he descended upon their ample bed, collapsing heavily into her awaiting embrace. Vaela's laughter filled the air as she tightened her hold on her druid lover, her strength a reminder of her warrior roots.

Nestling his head in the crook of her shoulder, Halsin found himself enveloped in the love emanating from his Tiefling partner. A sense of profound comfort washed over him like a soothing tide, allowing his weary body to surrender to the warmth of her embrace.

With gentle fingers, Vaela began to weave through Halsin's beautiful chestnut locks that were now tinged with a few gray strands, the rhythmic motion coaxing him further into a state of relaxation. She delighted in the sight of his hair cascading freely, unfettered from its usual knot and braids. A soft chuckle escaped her lips as his eyelids drooped with the onset of sleep. Cradling him against her, she reveled in the opportunity to admire his rugged features.

Her touch traced the scarred path etched across his brow, a testament to the trials he had endured in his youth. The deep marks, inflicted by a vengeful she-bear, held a captivating allure, serving as a symbol of his resilience and connection to the natural world. Moving her hand to caress his cheek, Vaela savored the sensation of his textured copper-toned skin beneath her fingertips, eliciting a soft sigh from Halsin.

Her gaze drifted lower, lingering on the powerful muscles that adorned his broad back. In the Summer heat, Halsin forwent a night shirt, allowing Vaela an unobstructed view of his imposing form. Grateful for the opportunity to behold him in all his splendor, she traced the contours of his physique with a reverent touch.

Against the sensitive skin of her neck, Vaela felt the mischievous grin spread across Halsin's lips, accompanied by a low growl rumbling in his throat. Without hesitation, his lips descended upon her hungrily, trailing kisses along her neck with fervent passion. Sometimes his kisses were so passionate that they threatened to leave bruises, while other times they danced playfully, eliciting laughter from Vaela.

As Halsin rose to his knees on the bed, he grasped Vaela by the hips, drawing her closer to his own body to the point that her night dress had slid above her waist. A blush painted her cheeks as he closed the gap between them, covering her body with his massive form once more. A sharp intake of breath escaped her lips as their eyes locked in a moment of intense connection. Halsin's gaze, transitioning quickly from a soft gold to its usual hazel, reflected a mixture of emotions — from simmering lust to deep-seated love and appreciation. Taking in Vaela's captivating features — her auburn hair now loosely braided, the elegant horns adorning her head, the scar that traced across her cheek and nose — Halsin found himself momentarily lost in admiration and then, regrettably, plagued by his own insecurities. Vaela, attuned to his emotions, met his gaze with unwavering affection, silently urging him to voice his thoughts.

"Are you happy with the life we tread together?" Halsin's voice carried a note of uncertainty, tinged with a hint of longing.

Vaela's heart twinged with sadness at his doubt, wishing she could dispel his insecurities with a single word. Yet she knew Halsin's humility ran deep, a trait she both cherished and yearned to alleviate. "Incandescently happy," she responded with conviction, offering him a reassuring smile.

A sigh escaped Halsin's lips as he momentarily averted her gaze, his cheeks tinged with embarrassment. “I am glad to hear it… Forgive an old fool in need of reassurance," he murmured softly. "I still expect to stir from the dream.”

"Never doubt my love for you, Halsin," Vaela's voice was tender, her words laced with unwavering devotion as she caressed his cheek. "I chose you for a reason, and have never looked back,” she murmured, her eyes meeting his with earnest sincerity. "Amidst the chaos and uncertainty of this world, you are my anchor, my guiding light," she confessed, her voice soft but resolute. "You possess a strength and kindness unlike any I have ever known, and it is that very essence that drew me to you, and keeps me by your side."

Halsin nodded shyly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips and a glimmer of tears shining in his eyes.

“Now… come here to me,” Vaela whispered, echoing words spoken between them countless times before.

Their lips melded then, sparking a fiery desire that surged between them. Halsin's hands moved with practiced skill beneath Vaela's night dress, seeking the warmth of her skin with eager anticipation. Vaela, equally enthralled, welcomed his advances with a delighted sigh, reveling in the intimacy they shared. In these fleeting moments, they were reminded of the victories they had won together, the struggles they had overcome. Bathed in the soft moonlight filtering through the window, they sought refuge in each other's arms, their passion reignited with each gentle touch. As night descended, they surrendered to the intoxicating rhythm of their love, their whispered pledges blending with the soothing rustle of leaves outside, a testament to the sanctuary they had built and the bond they shared.

[in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather]

[Starship Icarus] V

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 , Part 4

Summary: space hysteria, fashion shows, tragic backstories, self-administered manual pleasure, and two idiots in love. It’s a shitshow and you’re cordially invited <3

WC: ~7.8k

*

She was true to her word. When she said she didn’t want to think about this mess they were in, she stopped picking at the wound. Whether it ever closed up and when it might begin to heal was impossible to know, but to look at her, at either of them, you would not think these were two hopelessly doomed people waiting out the spilling stardust as it cruelly poured out of their overturned hourglass.

They had developed routines, learned each other’s rhythms. She liked hot early morning showers and she timed them with his morning cigarette. They had breakfast together as her hair dried and dripped on the table between them, sneaking forks and fingers across to the other one’s plate and grinning as the popped their loot into their mouths.

Mills preferred weigh training while she did yoga. Mercifully, and frustratingly, she tended to do this in the nature room, surrounded by flora transplanted from Earth, under a small man-made waterfall, while he sweated and grunted under a crushingly heavy bar, trying and failing not to imagine her body in all sorts of provocative poses.

They both appreciated alone time and spent it in various ways – reading, tinkering, decompressing.  At night, they either took turns messing with Clyde, making a competition out of getting him to glitch or bug out. Or they retired to one of their cabins and tentatively reached out in the dark, trying to divine and understand the other through a series of innocuous activities.

*

Mills was a livewire. Two years without true human contact left him horrifically sensitized to every little thing she did – from the flutter of her eyes, to the sound of her small gasps, or the inherently attractive, feminine way she went about performing the smallest tasks. Not to mention touch.

Every casual, accidental brush of her hand across any part of his body short circuited him. He caught himself more than once flinching away from her when he realized they walked in step and were about to walk through a door, narrow enough that they would have to squeeze together, or when he felt the presence and heat of her body, leaning over his shoulder as he sat and tinkered with some junk, eyes glued with fascination to his hands, deft and coated with slick, black oil.

To preserve some semblance of sanity, Mills tended to choose safe activities, ones that kept some measure of distance between them.

One evening after dinner, they played cards.

She sat on the plain white, nondescript coffee table in his small cabin. Hygge, she explained the style when he called it mass produced junk - the lazy, safe Nordic style people who were too afraid to make a real choice liked to use in decorating. Inoffensive to the point of barely existing. Anodyne enough to sedate the viewer, much like its denizens.

His smile grew wider to the point of bursting off his face as she rained disdain on the many ways in which people expressed cowardice in their daily lives and choices.

She sat on it demonstratively as she took the deck and shuffled, wiggling her ass across its face as if to insult the object. Mills bit down on the comment that he now found himself desiring some offense from her. Her legs folded under her as he sat on his prison cot of a bed, they played Crazy 8s for what felt like hours. When she won, she bounced up and down in place on her ass and threw her head back in laughter. Mills watched with amazement whenever she did something new, something he hadn’t seen before.

She was good about it when she caught him staring. All seven or eight times that night. He assumed she chalked it up to him being so isolated and starved for company for so long - and there was an element of that - but he knew it wouldn’t be long before she figured out he was looking at her not just because she was there, but because she was the only thing he wanted to see. That was under the generous and somewhat naïve presumption she didn’t know already.

*

As if to savor him and unravel him slowly, she did interviews with him piecemeal and sporadically. A few questions here, a debate here and there over his reluctance to completely throw Homestead under the bus, but Mills had a distinct feeling she wanted to go slowly and draw out their acquaintance and the discovery of him as a person over the many years ahead of them.

*

They talked about Homestead’s takeover of his old company and how he ended up joining Homestead II.

“Another in the string of terrible decisions,” he made a funny grimace and rubbed his eyes, to banish the memories brought on by looking back on that time.

“Oh?” she tried retain a professional mien and avoid laughing as the recordings she was making may one day be part of a searing indictment of Homestead’s shady practices.

“Yup. I should have known by then not to try my luck, awful as it’s always been.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Oh, yes. If I bought a cemetery, people would stop dying.”

She cracked then and shook her head. Mills watched the recoding spike high and erratic as it picked up her silvery laughter.

“I think Clyde would beg to differ—”

“He routinely does,” Mills interrupted and rolled his eyes. She rested her chin in her hand and just watched him and listened, caring less and less about keeping the interview formal.

“So terrible luck aside, what made you do it?”

Mills skipped over a few key details he was not yet willing to divulge and offered some well-documented tidbits about Homestead’s meteoric rise to become a space exploration giant.

“Originally, I was slated to be part of the crew. When that went to shit,” he paused and made a circling motion with his fingers, indicating a roll of film rewinding. “Let me give you a cleaner version of that. When that went awry,” he said with a serious affectation and she bit on her lips to keep her smile in, “I could either be some flyboy, jetting tourists from one place to another, or settle for being a glorified mechanic on board the Icarus.” He didn’t need to say how much the irony of not having crew access on the Icarus was plaguing him, since under different circumstances, he easily could have been the captain on board.

“Do you think you can fix any of this?” she asked right as he was pondering the same thing. It was skirting dangerously close to opening that wound he hoped would scab over.

“I could fix your garbage disposal or the old dodge sitting in your uncle’s yard for a solid few decades, but this ship…” he shrugged. “I got nothing but time to keep trying,” he infused his tone with reassurance. “I’ll try for you,” he added and felt his pulse start to gallop, expecting her reaction.

She smiled fondly and did nothing to accept or rebuff that thing he wasn’t quite saying yet.

It was early to belabor the point. Mills had spent months looking at her, listening to her words over and over, like his life depended on it. He was convinced that, at several points, it did. He was ready to go down on one knee as soon as she climbed out of her pod and she still had everything to learn about him.

*

Julian took to showing you the things he discovered about the ship in his wanderings. He was particularly amusing as a curator and guide to the most interesting and unusual cabins on board. You passed the time roasting people’s décor and choice of environment, until you realized there was a whole unexplored cache of fodder to make fun of – their wardrobes.

As Julian perused the trinkets lined along the shelves of a particularly gaudy cabin, you slipped into the wardrobe and snooped around. By that time, you had shed any sort of guilt about invading people’s privacy. You’d never live to meet them anyway.

The unhelpful thought was hastily shoved aside and you refused to allow your mood to dampen. Rather, you picked up and examined some outrageous pieces that hung before you, to make sure you weren’t imagining them.

What use might this person have for... a mink coat? Thigh-high boots that looked shellacked? A wide-brimmed floppy hat in a hideous shade of purple?

“Ever raided any of these closets?” you called out and popped your head to look at Julian, finding his broad back facing you.

He turned slowly, with impeccable comedic timing, and quirked a brow. “What are you suggesting?”

“Fashion show. Fall/Winter 2100, or whatever year it currently is.”

He pondered, giving you an exaggerated pensive expression. “We oughtta keep up with the times,” he conceded with a comical shrug.

“Especially the middle–aged amongst us.”

Julian let out a wounded sound and clutched over his heart at the comment.

“Ticky ticker?” you questioned the gesture, wrestling to keep a shit-eating grin off your face.

“No, I think it‘s a knife in my back, trying to poke out through my chest,” he responded haughtily and turned his face away from you.

You giggled and assumed your fashionista persona again. “Describe your personal style to me.”

“Sophisticated,” Julian narrowed his eyes and hollowed out his cheeks like an arrogant model.

“No.”

“Elevated,” he went on, heedless of your words.

“Stop,” you rolled your eyes.

“Full of panache and finesse,” he over-enunciated the words and struck a pose to illustrate his point.

“Yeah, not at all,” you muttered to yourself and faced the closet again.

“Casual/athletic,” he started, finally sounding serious.

“Okay, there we go.”

“Hold on,” he held up a finger to shush you, “athletic, but with a business-chic slant that’s very postmodern and avant-garde,” he tossed the word salad around with gusto.

“Yeah?” you crossed your arms and listened, wondering when he’ll tire of being a smartass. Smart money said it would be a while.

“Yeah, I can rock my ‘fits at the gym and at the Oval Office.”

“The Oval Office? You’re the president now?”

“I’m the de facto president of this ship, miss ma’am. And you better start showing me some respect.”

“Is that so?”

Julian took a step closer, crowding you against the closet and stopping just short of pushing his chest all the way into you. You felt your expression grow stupid, gaping like a fish as your knees informed you they were about to buckle and it was every man for himself. Julian drank in your reaction for a long, tense moment before releasing a valve and breaking into a grin.

“You?” he asked, checking you out from head to toe, ostensibly taking in your outfit.

“Cheap nasty low down trailer park burger slut.”

“That checks out,” he agreed a bit too eagerly and you smacked his shoulder.

“Oh, my god, I would kill for a burger,” you whined and felt your mouth salivate.

“Same,” Julian groaned in agreement and took a step back, relinquishing your personal space back to you.

You cleared your throat and gave silent thanks that female bodies showed arousal less conspicuously than male ones as you registered how much Julian’s proximity affected you. “Before my tummy starts singing us a mournful burger tune, why don’t you put together some - what did you call them, ‘fits? - and let’s meet up at the Grand Concourse in an hour. For the unveiling of the collection.”

“Be there or be square,” he pointed a finger gun at you and disappeared to find the best and worst things he could, vaguely, fit into.

*

Clyde pumped music into the cavernous halls of the Grand Concourse. It was a bass-heavy, bombastic tune with vaguely sexual moans and an indecipherable chorus – the sort that often accompanied edgy fashion shows where models walked around on horse hoof shoes, wearing trash bags and steampunk helmets.  You sat cross-legged in a chair at the end of the improvised runway and waited on pins and needles.

Finally, Julian emerged and strutted down the corridor in long strides. His face was impassive and his gaze stared off contemptuously into some middle distance. Had you not known better, you might have assumed he had done this kind of modeling before.

His outfit consisted of camo pants and, horrifically, a camo shirt. Both in slightly different hues, with swirling patterns and splotches that looked awfully mismatched stacked one on top of the other. He tied it all together with combat boots, which you recognized as his own pair.

“I give you,” he announced, coming to a stop and spinning to offer you a cheeky look at the back, “the army surplus store outfit.”

You were valiantly holding in both laughter and disgust, but your eyes betrayed you, watering as you did your best to keep your quivering lips from splitting into a grin.

“I can only presume the owner of this delectable outfit intended the two pieces of couture to be worn together.”

“Naturally,” you nodded with an air of wisdom.

“Only thing is,” he cringed and bit his lip, “it’s a little off on the sizing,” he admitted and twisted around to show off what he meant. “Could be smaller,” he said and flexed his powerful thighs, the ripples going up until they reached the flat plains of his ass. The tight pants barely rode up over his hips and exposed a delicious iliac crest, the V of sculpted flesh that disappeared into the unintendedly low-rise pants, so tight and small that a coin slot threatened to peek out in the back.

“Stop,” you put up a scandalized hand in the air to cover the sight.

“Oh, we’re just getting started. This was a little amuse-bouche to whet your appetite,” he dashed back towards the large fountain that decorated the Grand Concourse, shooting up a perpetual sheet of water that he used as a blurry changing screen. You heard the rustling of clothing as he changed and spied his tall frame, broad and pallid in his nakedness as he shamelessly stripped and redressed. If he meant to titillate you, that was such a cheap, juvenile way to do it. And it was working exactly to plan.

*

When he emerged next, Julian was in a black tank top and leather jacket, with a douchey bedazzled pair of sunglasses and a thick, iced out chain around his neck that supported a dinner plate-sized pendant. He walked in deliberate slow motion, taking off his glasses in a mock-seductive way and shook out his long hair like in a shampoo commercial.

“Let me guess – this outfit says all the world’s preeminent douchebags gathered together for a Mortal Kombat-style tournament, and you emerged victorious?”

“Where do you think I got the medal?” he tapped the large adornment that hung on the chain, right on his breastbone and winked with an accompanying mouth click.

Deliberately, taking his time, he shucked off the jacket, flexing every bit of his hulking, rippling anatomy, from the broad expanse of his chest that made the gaudy medallion twitch, to his bulging biceps and lean, defined triceps. The jacket slid down his long, sinewy forearms and he caught it in one hand, giving it an elegant spin and tossed it at you like a stripper.

You made no attempt to catch it and it fell over your head and shoulders like a blanket over a cage. “Ju-li-an-uh!” you scolded, tacking an extra, whiny syllable to the end of his name and you could feel him grin, as he always did when you said his name like that.

By the time you peeled the discarded garment off, he was halfway up his runway again, walking away in the same slow motion as he came in. He did the famous model midway turn, sending a suitably douchey air kiss flying towards you before running a hand through his lustrous hair, and completing the turn.

*

If his last ridiculous outfit inadvertently made you hot and bothered, the PTA dad getup he came out in next took care of that awkward predicament. In khakis, a pastel polo and, mother of god, her majesty the fanny pack hugging around his hips, he was the picture of a frumpy suburban dad who had simply given up. With his hair parted hideously down the middle and tucked behind his prominent ears, you could scarcely believe it was the same person as the smokeshow from a few minutes ago.

“Hm,” you frowned and inspected him as he gave you a view from every angle.

“What?” he planted his hands on his hips and tapped one mock-irritated foot on the ground.

“Nothing, it’s just… The juxtaposition of your boulder thighs bunching up the fabric in the legs, but then it’s all loose in the caboose.”

“Yeah, I never boasted much of an ass,” he conceded without any fight.

“I like it,” you assured. “It’s mysterious.”

Julian knew a trap when he saw one, but he was too tickled not to step into it. “Mysterious?” he echoed and let you drive your blow home.

“Yeah, like - where did it go? What is it doing right now? Did it find some other backside to form a symbiotic relationship with?”

He shook his head confidently. “I think it actually burned up during launch, and it’s highly insensitive of you to bring up.” You engaged in a staredown with him, trying to keep a straight face, but laughter bubbled up inside you and you doubled over with it.

“Anyway, you keep distracting me, we’re gonna be late for the parent-teacher conference,” he chided.

“We?” you managed to choke out, stomach cramping with too much laughter.

“Yes, we,” he pointed to one of the roombas milling around. “Typical of you to forget all about little Buzz.”

“I’m sorry, Buzz,” you said contritely.

“And I will not have it,” he straightened to his full height and adjusted the fanny pack snootily. “Come on, son, let’s go,” he ordered the roomba and the little critter zoomed after him.

*

Over time, the recording sessions became a document of you falling in love, slowly and gently, like flecks of stardust suspended in zero gravity. Most days, you were fairly sure Julian was feeling the same. He drank you in with his eyes whenever you were together, especially when he thought you didn’t realize. And you worked hard not to realize, to give him those small pleasures. The fact remained, though, that you were in an unprecedented situation – brought together by total accident and effectively doomed to each other. One couldn’t help but wonder how much of your attraction and blossoming friendship was a coping mechanism. No one could blame you for it, really, one way or the other.

Still, you had a cache of nagging, burning questions and you kept chomping at the bit to fire off a few. Most urgently, the fiancée he once hinted at briefly. Was she in one of the pods, slumbering peacefully and dreaming of reuniting with him many years and many more miles on? Or was she back on Earth, unable to give it all up for him, by now wrinkled and gray, looking up at the sky where his trail had long evaporated?

“You, uh,” you tried for a casual tone, but couldn’t meet his eyes, “mentioned, I think, a fiancée or something. Once. Before.” Well, that was the least casual thing you’d ever said. Talking about the sacrifice of leaving Earth behind to go on an exploratory mission seemed like the best segue you were going to get, so you had to go for it.

Julian was quiet. He nodded once, patient and knowing. Perhaps he wanted you to squirm a little – after all, men tend to get fewer opportunities to enjoy this kind of attention and pursuit. Or he had real trouble talking about her.

“Did she…come with you?” your voice was perceptibly shrunken, growing more timid and unsure with every word. When he understood just how much it was costing you to broach the topic, he was quick to respond.

“No. No,” he shook his head to punctuate and put you out of your misery. Then he took in a deeper breath and started. “We were together…for years,” he frowned like he was recalling a hazy memory from a life lived long ago. “And I fell profoundly out of love with her over time.”

You hoped you kept your face trained from glowing with triumph as you nodded sympathetically.

“Then she got sick. Very…seriously so.” He was being extremely tactful and you knew he had to be reading you like a book. You wouldn’t want to gloat over someone’s misfortune like that even if you were undeniably pleased that Julian was not taken. “The treatment she required was so arduous,” he shook his head, exhausted all over again just from remembering. You wanted to slap yourself for even asking. No wonder he had been so taciturn about it in the past. “And it was insanely expensive. I, uh… felt so guilty over the fact I was about to end things before it all happened, and…over the fact I resented her so much for getting sick in the first place and trapping me somewhere I didn’t want to be,” he hung his head and closed his eyes as he spoke. You were amazed he was man enough to admit something like that to you. “So I eventually accepted I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I left her alone to deal with it, and changed my focus. It was around the time the company was getting taken over. I was so absorbed in hospital appointments and bills and so out of it from lack of sleep, I missed all the warning signs at work that it was all going to hell. To cut a long, grueling story short - in the end, I lost her and every chance to do what I had dreamed of my whole life in one fell swoop. At least that’s how it felt at the time,” he gave a weary shrug and attempted a smile. It only made his cheek twitch and then it dissolved.

He could have paused for an entire year, you still wouldn’t have found any words to say.

“Told you I had the worst luck. Even spreads to those around me,” he rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking tired and decades older.

“I’m so sorry, Julian,” you finally breathed some feeble words out.

“It was a while ago,” he assured, “we all knew it was coming.”

Mortification made seconds feel like centuries. There was nothing to say, but you still felt like you ought to comfort him somehow. With your jaw set in determination, you decided to make an overture. Hand sliding over the table between you, you reached out for him and he turned his hand over, palm up to receive your touch. You touched the tips of his fingers gently with yours, and moved over his palm, smooth and tough all at once, like the choicest leather. Your fingers traced the ridges of his palm and you rested your hand in his, enjoying the warmth you shared in that quiet, intimate moment. Then you slid further up, snaking your fingers to his wrist, feeling his pulse point throb under your skin and gripped his wrist like you were locking your hands together to pull the other one up over a ledge. He wrapped his large, thick hand around your wrist, eclipsing it, and squeezed.

Gradually, the mood changed and you felt the ghosts of his past dissipate around you. He became his usual devilish self again and you felt his grip around your wrist slacken, but grow more tender as he stroked his thumb over the thin, sensitive skin of your forearm.

“What about you?” he asked quietly and the low volume masked some of the tremulous quality of his voice.

It was easy to answer. “I’ve never had anyone I was considering spending the rest of my life with,” you shrugged. “It was always too abstract of an idea for me, too daunting to make one choice with no take-backsies, so I never really seriously considered it.”

Julian rested his face in his hand and looked at you with a mix of adoration and puzzlement, the way people stare in awe and disbelief at stunning works of art in museums. Unfortunately, you were both too clever to woo peaceably, as the Bard once wrote. Nothing that was left unsaid escaped either of your attention and you could read it clearly in the other’s eyes.

“Until now,” you put the unspoken into words. Leave too much of this tension crackling in the air and you could lose your mind from it. Better to acknowledge the obvious since no escape from it was possible anyway. “Now it’s you, whether you like it or not,” you kicked the ball into his court and forced him to respond.

“I think I like it way too much,” he drawled lazily out and stilled his caressing fingers, making you even more starkly aware of your skin touching.

*

Mills retired early after dinner. She had apologized again for bringing up his onetime fiancée, still worried she had upset him and that was the reason he was seeking some solitude. He reassured her it was fine and he just needed some shuteye. Not a lie in itself – Mills hadn’t been sleeping too well the last couple of weeks. But it had more to do with the things that were tormenting him currently rather than the things he left in the past.

He tossed and turned for hours nearly every night, replaying the events of the day that included her, analyzing conversations and chastising himself for not being quippier or more gallant or clever. If he wasn’t working himself up into an owlishly-awake, anxious frenzy, then he drifted off into fitful bursts of sleep, in which she either murdered him in inventive ways as revenge for what he had done, or he had her under him for a few blissful, fulfilling moments until he jerked awake to find himself bucking and grinding against his mattress.

He smoothed his hands down his long face and sighed, feeling his skin burn and chafe, too small for the desire it was straining to hold in. Siding his hands and roving down his body, he found the waistband of his pajamas and he groped inside, exhausted in advance by the repetitive actions he was forced to take daily and nightly.

Mills hissed lowly as he gripped himself at the base, feeling an insistent knot buried just under the spot where he palmed himself, coiling and tugging, making him grow impossibly harder.

He was punishingly erect, stiff as a board even though he was a cool 40. When he was younger, his older friends had started relying on various pharmaceutical aides to satisfy the jailbait little kittens who had a thing for gnarled pilots even before they hit that milestone. And here he was, tucking throbbing erections into the waistband of his underwear and hoping they were inconspicuous and taking cold showers to achieve the opposite effect. Technically, he was over 70, he rolled his eyes as he remembered, stroking one languid pump all the way up and down, making his thighs shudder in anticipation - so it was even more impressive.

The skin of his straining shaft was silky soft, ridged with veins, and an unforgivable, stubborn hardness inside stretched him to a painful length and thickness, demanding release. With a stifled moan, he licked his full lips and shut his eyes tighter, letting images wash over him.

He always started slowly, perusing his own fantasies like a smorgasbord, clicking his tongs in anticipation, picking out favorite reels and dropping them on his plate.

That she walks into his cabin, quiet and as needy as him, stopping in his doorway as the door slides shut behind her with a muted shuffle across the floor. Her hips sway as she bunches up a satin nightgown into her hands, pulling it higher and higher over her thighs as she approaches him. Without preamble or their usual politeness, she straddles him possessively and grabs two demanding fistfuls of his hair at the base of his skull. He feels the heat of her when she sits on him and she clamps her open mouth over his, hot and sweet, and breathes hard into their hungry kiss.

His hands slip up her body – she’s not going anywhere once he has her – and he brushes her thighs as they hug around him only to wrap his powerful arms around her waist and crush her closer. Her eyes go wide with alarm when she feels how strong he can so effortlessly be, and then she melts into him, kissing him even more fervently when she feels how much he wants her.

She slips her underwear to the side, and they’re both clumsy with eagerness as they line themselves up, panting and moaning even before he’s inside. When she sinks down on him, it’s gradual, but she has no intention of taking it slowly. His heart stops for a moment like it does when he jumps into freezing water. Then he can breathe again and he shudders in his whole body as he feels her rhythm rocking through him as she rides him.

He grips her hips and tosses his head back, feeling the fullness of her body between his hands. She bites on the long curved column of his neck as she undulates up and down, slicking him up and clenching wildly. As her orgasm builds, she grips his back for support, and her soft tits rest against his chest. All he can feel in the world is her, soft and hot and delicious, and none of the tragedies that weave around and through them matter in that moment.

He pumps himself, hard and ruthless, arm cramping with the effort, as he imagines her come undone for him. It’s over too fast because he wants it too much and he falls back onto his bed in a boneless, heaving heap.

Mills’ ear rang like a shot was fired right by his head. He was exhausted, on the cusp of giving himself carpal tunnel, but he was pretty sure he would be able to sleep tonight and function for at least a few hours before the red fog came over him again.

*

He was right. He did manage to fall asleep. He knew he did, and that it was a deep bout of restful sleep because the goddamn fucking groans of metal, sounding like ancient monsters from the pits of hell, made him start awake.

Mills groaned and kicked the blanket off his body, begrudgingly awake. Through his irritation, though, he recognized the noise he was hearing heralded no good news.

He padded barefoot down the vacant corridors, snapping his head in odd directions when he heard particularly ominous creaks. The moans of bending, vibrating metal echoed from the deep bowels and far flung wings of the ship, reverberating and crying mournfully by the time they reached Icarus’ heart. Cutting through the wailing symphony were sharp whipcracks and the pounding of thick sheets of metal comprising Icarus’ exoskeleton, beating like a metallic heart and sending shockwaves through the entire ship.

“Establishing new shield alignment to celestial body Amun-2257B,” a holo device announced, eerily calm in the cacophony of screeching metal and infernal groans. Mills felt the ground vibrate under him, nearly making him lose his footing as the floor jumped back and forth under his feet. He half-expected for the whole ship to snap in two like the Titanic, with sheets of metal shrieking as they peeled and flew off into the freezing, silent void of the cosmos.

The holo repeated its message and Mills regained his balance. If they bothered to give it a semblance of a name, it was a major body. Judging by the allusion to the sun god, this was a star they were passing, likely far more massive and powerful than their own tiny Sun. And Icarus seemed to have strayed right into the radius of its heat and radiation with poorly adjusted protective shields. Mills felt a chill as he considered what damage the ship could sustain from mere seconds of exposure, let alone minutes or hours. It was worrying that the correct parameters were not set well in advance given how carefully their route was planned. Before he had time to consider more in depth how such a catastrophic oversight could have happened, Mills heard his name.

*

“Julian,” she whimpered in the drowning sounds of the maelstrom exploding around them.

He wished she would call out louder so he could run in the direction of her voice, but as he bellowed out her name, powerful and reassuring, he spied her emerging from the corridor that led towards her cabin.

Another rumble shook the ship and it sent her staggering backwards. She fell back against the wall and let herself slide down it, relieved now that she had seen him, striding purposely, furiously towards her. As he approached, she extended her arms towards him in a childlike gesture, and he grabbed her roughly, pulling her up and into his embrace. She was shaking like a leaf as he held her. The spaghetti strap top she slept in left much of her skin exposed, and he felt it smooth and warm under his hands, where he held her close, and on his cheek, where he rested it on her shoulder, breathing in the feminine scent of her skin and hair.

Gradually, the rumbles and moans abated, and the ship seemed to twist and snap itself into the proper configuration, leaving a few echoes reverberating in odd intervals and a few residual aftershocks shuddering softly under their feet. Mills peeled the protective layer of his body away from hers, revealing her eyes to be trained on him, wide and teary, asking for some explanation.

“A little rattling and groaning is to be expected now and again,” he croaked in a voice still gravelly from sleep. “The temperatures here, the environment, the pressure  - it’s so unlike Earth. This was just metal contracting and expanding. Taking a few breaths,” he winked reassuringly. But this is a lot, he knew. He just hoped she didn’t. No need for both of them to get stress ulcers.

*

You were still counting your breaths and trying to accept the fact that the hideous, Lovecraftian roars of galactic demons that ripped you out of sleep and practically shook you of bed could be explained with a simple reaction to heat and cold and pressure. Rationally, you accepted it to be true, but your heart still raced like a frightened rabbit’s inside your chest.

“Everything will be alright,” Julian promised in a low, gentle voice. “Breathe,” he commanded softly, splaying a hand on your chest, “breathe right into this spot.”

From your breastbone to your throat, you felt his massive paw of a hand that stretched hot and tender across your heart and warmed a soothing spot into which to focus your breaths. It started to work almost instantaneously, allowing your chest to grow less constricted, admitting more air and deeper breaths. You closed both your hands over his when you felt steady and thanked him for calming you.

“You’re not gonna fall asleep easily after this?” he asked with a jocular sort of tone

“Not fucking likely,” you suddenly remembered yourself and crossed your arms self-consciously over your chest, hidden behind only a thin tank top.

“Would you let me show you something?” Julian extended a hand and waited unobtrusively for you to decide whether you wanted to take it.

*

“Welcome to the observation deck,” the holo greeted as you entered a large room that resembled an empty gallery. A long viewing pane ran alongside its edge and there were rails to hold onto close to the glass, as well as seats a bit further in back.

The room was bathed in a muted orange light as screens and multiple filters protected the inhabitants of the observation deck from the intense glare of the star the Icarus was passing. You felt a crackling energy inside the room that made all the small hairs on your body stand.

Julian kept one hand on the small of your back, sensing your unease, and pressed a spot in the wall. A compartment opened dutifully and he pulled out two sets of protective goggles. They resembled shooting glasses in design and were made to protect the eyes of the wearer from various types of radiation and damage that could be caused if they chose to view some of the bodies and phenomena along the way.

“Amun-2257B is in view and will remain visible for three minutes and fourteen seconds,” the holo announced. “Safe aperture is 1% to 7%. Please be advised that setting the aperture higher and allowing more brightness into the viewing room will result in irreversible damage to you retinas.”

Julian offered a set of goggles to you questioningly, having already donned his. You took yours with a dose of trepidation.

“Icarus, set aperture to 4%,” he commanded and slid his hand to your waist, giving your side a supportive squeeze.

As the screen before you came to life and started to admit light from the outside, you checked your goggles were securely on your face and felt Julian gently nudge you towards the railing. You frowned, thinking that it was an unnecessary feature for a room designed purely for people to essentially gaze out of a window.

“1%,” the holo informed.

With a loose grip, you placed your hands on the railing and Julian came up behind you, securing his chest behind yours and grabbing the railing firmly with his massive hands.

More light came pouring in and you squinted, as the color changed from orange to a yellow, then golden, seeming to grow hotter by the instant and approach a white hue.

“2%,” you heard the holo again, but it sounded more distant somehow.

More light poured in, and more, until it seemed impossible for the room to get any brighter. The intensity of it seemed to blow you back and you found yourself pushing into Julian’s broad, immovable chest. The punishing, devouring light seemed to go through you, stabbing pathways between the atoms in your body to rush through, disintegrating you in the process.

“3%,” the voice said after what seemed like an eternity, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once. You felt your hands ache from how hard you were gripping the railing now and you tried to scream, but no sound appeared to come out.

Watering, and seemingly burning up, your eyes adjusted the smallest bit and you spied the outline of the infernal star in front of you. Gaseous explosions danced in a foggy miasma around it, giving it the appearance of a watery haze, like air trembling above a hot flame.  Black mushroom clouds bloomed and died on its face, and fiery whips cracked in its halo as the star mercilessly burned in its seemingly eternal flame.

“4%,” at last you heard the words you had come to dread, expecting that you would scatter like so much dust once the full aperture hit. Instead, the light made you feel incorporeal. As if the flames split your body open and let your soul out, you felt a euphoric freedom, an intoxicating oneness with the unknowable universe around you. Without blinking, you held the star in your eyes and felt something that didn’t have a name vibrate in a place inside you that was too vast to conceptualize.

It felt like a lifetime later, but you gradually returned to your body, feeling not yourself first, but Julian’s warmth where you rested against him. His arms closed around you and you saw the viewing window disappear from you and the room spin. You realized he was carrying you to one of the seats. You were already sitting down and he was holding you by the wrists to keep you from tipping backwards before bodily sensation started to return and you registered the hardness of the chair under you and his skin touching yours.

Then you felt your eyes stinging and the familiar feeling of salt crusted on your cheeks, drying out the skin underneath. Your mouth was stretched in a delirious smile and you realized you were feeling just about every emotion heretofore known to you, and a plethora of new ones.

As light drained from the room, you felt the contrast of darkness to the light. While light slashed through you and tore apart, one spec at a time, darkness held you softly, like a black cloud, shrouding you safely in its gentle cloak and it soothed.

*

She shook again, more aggressively than before, but this time, Mills wasn’t too concerned about it. The first time he saw a star, it was much farther away than this one and he came to sprawled on his back, feeling as deranged as he imagined Moses must have after having a fun little chat with a burning bush.

He held her hands gently, patient as if with a child. Her eyes were wild with that same indescribable revelation that he had felt before and he relished seeing her luminous body absorb it.

She suddenly focused her eyes on his, half-lidded with a desire to do anything but sleep.

A tingle at the base of his spine warned he was about to break out into a sweat. His cock again twitched to life and it brought irritation more than anything; if he kept it up, he would flay the skin right off of it.

Ju-li-an-uh, he heard her inner monologue, just fucking kiss me already. There may be many ways to interpret a lot of different things in life, but not that. She was fixing him with a stare like a ravenous lioness does to a hobbling zebra.

He feigned obliviousness and tested to see if she was stable enough to sit up on her own, Mills would never accuse himself of being overly gentlemanly. In any other circumstance, he would not let the fact that they had been through a distressing situation stop him from stealing a kiss. In fact, the vigorous, affirming sessions of fucking that occasionally followed such events were among some of his favorite experiences. Nor would he shy away from pouncing on her when she was touched by some gesture of his or an experience, like seeing a star up close. Penguins didn’t go combing miles of beach for the perfect pebble just to then turn around and let the female consider if she liked him for his personality or for the shiny, smooth pebble he waddled over to her.

What made him turn away was the guilty knowledge that some day, probably a very distant one, she would know the terrible truth. And he knew a mind as incisive as hers would go through every key moment and event of their lives together, and examine with a newfound harshness how he chose to behave while she was in the dark. He decided, long ago, that he would give her no further reasons to hate him for any transgression, no matter how small. So he tore himself away, stood and offered to get her a glass of water.

She visibly deflated when he pulled away, though she still appeared to feel as electrified as before.

He returned promptly, walking there and back with a brisk pace, and offered her a tall glass of water from the bar. She didn’t look up to his eyes, or even his face as she took it, and slowly drained half of it. Mills narrowed his eyes as he sensed her pull away, and he was quite sure she was feeling embarrassed.

She got up and walked around him in a purposely long arch, staying out of the intimate zone where they could extend their arms and touch,

You fucking idiot, he cursed at himself. She was an irresistible blend of proud and sensitive, and his apparent hesitation or lack of interest sent her retreating from him in a furious hurry. There was no convenient way to explain himself without explaining everything, and his teeth gnashed in frustration.

“You should finish that,” he tossed casually over his shoulder before she could leave. “These viewings leave you really dehydrated. I’ll take the glass back with me,” he turned and extended a hand expectantly.

She only briefly glanced up at him and started to approach with affected reluctance. Mills waited until she had drunk enough to tip the bottom of the glass up. “And I’d like to take you out on a real date tomorrow night,” he added matter-of-factly.

He heard the gurgle of water as it stuck in her throat and she coughed, lurching forward, sending water splashing back into the glass, mostly, save for what came out of her nose.

Mills took the one and then one more step left between them to close the distance and took the glass out of her hand, landing a few vigorous pats on her back, just on the other side of gentle. “Is that a yes, then?” he asked through his grin and she glared, still clearing her throat and catching her breath. An elbow he narrowly missed sinking into his side told him all he needed to know.

She gave a melodious girlish giggle and attempted another playful smack, this time with her small fist on his shoulder. He let her land that one, but then caught her by the arm and held her tightly to him, just fast enough that she couldn’t squirm away and close enough to let her feel some of his large body, taut with desire for her, impose on her. Better to give her a small preview of what to expect the following evening than to take her completely by surprise the first time he towers over her, looming and starving for her. “Now straight to bed with you,” he commanded in a flat, husky voice, “we have a long day and a long night ahead of us.” Mills’ face remained inscrutable while his hand came whizzing in an arch to land a smack on her ass, right on the spot he was eyeing all day.

*

@thegrislady @safarigirlsp​  @queeniebee​ @lumberjack00fantasies​ @vedavan​ @house-of-cadwyn​

[freerangeranger]

you ever think about how fucked up that one movie - i think it was called Passengers - was? i saw it when it came out and it haunts me.

like. if the guy had just waited or done some proper digging through the ship's computer (instead of - idk - transplanting a tree on a space ship. which is gonna be a technological nightmare later) he would have found the 'go back to sleep' mode on that fancy medic bay.

and before you yell at me that hes a mechanic not a software engineer - HE HAD LITERLY THE REST OF HIS LIFE TO FIGURE IT OUT BUT INSTEAD CHOSE TO FUCK OVER A POOR GIRL THAT HE FELL IN LOVE WITH AS SHE SLEPT

mf really took the nuclear option of reading someones personal records instead of teaching himself how to idk - get into the control room! or check any emergency manuals for the ship itself! HE HAS ENOUGH SUPPLIES TO MAKE A WEDDING RING AND A WHOLE ASS HOUSE LATER BUT NOOOOO

or just die idk i was dissapointed when he didnt.

i have never seen such bullshit in my life.

[bigskydreaming]

The Guardians of the Universe are firmly anti-therapy. They're like, we have no use for well-balanced, emotionally secure individuals. We want the peaks! The valleys! Get back out there and fail to save a planet from annihilation which is definitely all your fault, you failure. Go rescue wandering space nomads and transplant them to a planet they're ill-suited for because you forgot to ask what kind of help they actually needed when really they just wanted a lift to the nearest space gas station, and bask in the messianic highs of saving a day that didn't actually need to be saved! Ignore whoever's been filling your head with nonsense about meditation and making peace with your past, who're you going to listen to? Some rando who seems like they've got their shit together and actually likes themselves, or us, the cryptic cabal of be-smocked authoritarian Smurfs who pulled your drunk ass out of that alley behind the nightclub you partied at five nights a week before handing you the most powerful weapon in the universe and saying go get 'em, Tiger, the power is yours, with nary an instruction manual in sight?! Now enough talking! Get out there and show some hustle. Lets. Get. EXTREME!

Kyle: WHY did I give up literal godhood to resurrect you guys again?

Jade: This is exactly what I have been asking you every day for the past ten years. Please explain it to me like I'm five. I Do Not Understand.

[voidendron]

Varkhal's Droids

Var has decided he loves droids and tinkering on/building them. In another life, he probably would have been a droid engineer, or at least repaired them for a living...

Most of his droids, he builds himself. Only exception is its service droids.

When he was a kid, he'd name his attempts at droids after various type of flora. Now as an adult, he names them after flowers, and has the flower of their namesake engraved somewhere on them to combine his two interests.

Koboh (no serial number, experimental model)

she/it

I...don't think I need to say much about Koboh at this point lol. She's his primary service droid, modeled after a varactyl. She has multiple functions and alerts that focus around Var's breathing issues and need for immunosuppressants.

there's more detailed info on her here

She's very aloof and ignores other people when working (though will start hissing and pushing people if they're in her way or getting in her face while it's performing its job). However, Var can "dismiss" her, essentially putting her into an "off-duty" mode. In this mode, programming intended to somewhat mirror an actual varactyl activates; it becomes curious, and may attempt to climb things that it deems sturdy enough to support its weight.

Not built by Var, but the research and construction was funded by him. A Koboh spiker is engraved on top of her head.

TZ-9947 - "Bluebell"

it/its

Above link gives more detailed info. In short: Intended for use when Koboh can't follow Var somewhere. It carries immunosuppressants, and monitors things like his blood oxygen levels via the implant in his skull.

It's a very basic drone, with little room in its processors for personality outside of its primary function.

Not built by Var, was made at the same time as Koboh to go with her. A bluebell squish is engraved on its storage compartment.

R0-O0 - "Roo"

(R-zero - oh-zero)

they/it

Modeled after a basic Huttese protocol droid. They're programmed as a pilot, as Var has no idea how to fly a ship or shuttle and probably shouldn't be allowed to drive a speeder, either.

Roo is very polite and proper, though sarcastic quips have been known to sneak from them on occasion, usually in response to someone saying/doing something foolish. It was the first droid Var built after recovering from his injuries.

There's a rurylis flower engraved on their chest, in the place a brooch might be were they to wear a suit. Roo is the only Hutt-related droid in his collection, he didn't leave Nar Shaddaa much for quite a while after recovering, so it was easier to get those parts.

D9-T3 - "Zeilla"

it/its

Astromech with water sprinkler and hose upgrades, and a built-in scanner. Var loves live plants - and frankly has far too many to take care of by himself. So he built a droid to help him with watering them; its scanner also allows it to track the plants' health so it can inform Var if anything is wrong with any of them.

It has a zeilla flower engraved on its topper. Like many astromechs, it can be a sarcastic little shit. If it's feeling particularly mischievous, it's been known to use its sprinkler to spray water at someone (usually Var).

6V-A4 - "Van"

they/it

Modeled after an Imperial protocol droid. They keep Var's home tidied up. He's not a particularly messy person, but Van makes sure things are dusted, informs him if any repairs are needed etc. They also keep track of the other household droids, functioning as "in command" of them when Var is gone.

They have a vanserv flower engraved on their chest, in the place a brooch would be. They're very polite, if often seeming stressed, mostly about what the other droids are doing.

CV-4 - "Wick"

she/it

Wick is a medical droid, and one of the few that Var carefully followed a manual for the construction of. He has a hard time trusting anything other than a droid with his medical care for a long time due to body image issues and not wanting anyone to see his face or transplant scars. So, he built Wick so that he wouldn't have to deal with it.

There's a candlewick flower engraved in the middle of her chest. She's somewhat grouchy, constantly sounding tired and Done With Shit.

She's somewhat retired after Var begins trusting Res and Asamta with his medical-related things. But she still keeps his medbay tidy, and both Res and Asa are noted as able to give her orders, so they can request her help with something if they need it.

Zinny (no serial number)

he/it

Based off an explorer droid model, Zinny was the first (functioning) droid Var ever built. He's clunky and slow compared to other explorers, with a limp that Var has never been able to figure out how to correct without completely rebuilding part of him.

He doesn't have a proper function, having been intended as a way for Var to attempt building a functioning droid instead of a lifeless chassis that wouldn't turn on. Instead he serves more as a companion, as Var's home was incredibly lonely.

A zinthorn is very crudely carved into the top of his head. Zinny is very cheerful and curious, though shy of strangers. When Var stayed with his mother while recovering, he found Zinny shut down in a box in his old room, and took the little droid with him when he got his own place.