#semiporous

[whataboutfractions]

evidently the broader bomberman community is posting their anatomy and physiology headcanons. were i to do this no one would survive

[favoritemaggot]

A baby is wailing outside my apartment. Something solid continues to fill the empty chamber within myself where feelings are meant to flow. There is no room for them. I only feel whatever persists enough to penetrate the semiporous blockage where my soul used to be. The structure is stained with the color of grief from losing my humanity. I should be happy. I wonder if it's possible anymore.

[viralpearl-blog]

Researchers use mechano-chemical process to make strong, lightweight material -- ScienceDaily

Researchers use mechano-chemical process to make strong, lightweight material — ScienceDaily

It’s easy and economical to make shiny pellets of graphite from functionalized graphene, according to scientists at Rice University.

A report in Carbonshows how chemically altered graphene powder can be pressed into a lightweight, semiporous solid that retains many of the strong and conductive qualities of graphite, the form of carbon found in pencils, lubricants and many other products that…

[whataboutfractions]

So interesting ^^ most definitely not something I would’ve come up with. Please write more biology things cause they’re fun lol. I also liked that one time you mentioned bombers having tadpole tails when they’re young

hey, gladly! i do think that they have tadpole-esque tails when very young as a result of evolutionary atavism - they're not structurally developed to the extent that the rest of the individual's body is, even at that young and quite literally tender an age, and are either absorbed back into the body for nutrients or shrink until fallen off during the formation of the protective epidermis

which probably requires some explanation in itself, because i've been thinking that the various colored parts we see on jetters bombermen are different layers of skin development on their body, with the three primary layers being hypodermal (visible only on the face, where much of it is adapted to become spongy and semiporous in order to imbibe food and drink), dermal (seen on the limbs and antenna, often either white or a similar color to the hypodermis), and epidermal (frequently brightly-colored, covers the torso and resembles a jumpsuit)

the hypodermal layer is by far the most sensitive and malleable, allowing for emotive facial expression but a liability to have exposed on parts of the body less necessary for social communication, while the dermal layer is an in-between mainly just doing the everyday work of keeping an individual safe from infection and minor, mundane physical harm. the epidermal layer is specially adapted to withstand heavy damage like could be sustained through bombs - typically explosive or incendiary - and is much less sensitive than the layers underneath, with enough effectively dead tissue at the surface (think like human nails or hair) that it can be used to attach things like pins or brooches

[whataboutfractions]

first of all, oh my god i did not think people still cared about bmj in the year 2022. second, thank you for your service. anyway, how do you think mighty and birdy would kiss considering one has a beak and the other has no mouth?

given that it's stuck with me for over a decade at this point, i will likely care about bomberman jetters until the day i die, and i wouldn't have it any other way

but also i've asked myself that same question many times and come to the conclusion that for the most part their species prioritize other gestures of intimacy, though bird-type preening behavior lends itself well to nuzzling

[whataboutfractions]

sometimes a bitch just plays ROM 2064 and gets inspiration for tonally bizarre second-person writing. anyway here’s a mighty/birdy snippet where neither of them are having a good time

Without his visor and cape, he looks like he did when the two of you met. When he was sixteen and you were seventeen and looking at him, you felt things you'd never felt before for a boy you could meet face-to-face—the shape of him is small and soft and rounded but if you ever cared how far he is from your own species' conventionality, you don't anymore.

For once, you're not driving your car. Light slices through the windows at odd, flashing intervals under seldom-maintained streetlamps. He's laid pillowed in your lap with his visor and cape in the trunk and the Doctor said he might be dying.

It's a 50-50 chance, the Doctor said. Chemically susceptible as his species is, they have a rapid and amplified metabolism. His body might be able to purge the toxins. It might not.

You hold him. His eyes are closed, and he's breathing raggedly from some semiporous part of his face. Where a nose would be, where a mouth would be. Fuck, does it matter? You can feel the fever-sick heat of his breath against your thumb where it strokes over the side of his soft face again and again. Back-forth, back-forth. You press the breath out of him when it catches too long.

Tears have been rolling down your face for a while, you guess, though it doesn't mean much beyond the scalding blur you have to keep blinking away. Even though you weren't in the room for nearly as long as he was, you feel sick too.

You wish you'd noticed the trap. You wish you'd found a quicker route to him. You wish you'd said something, anything, to him beforehand besides the usual joking insults you've never meant. You wish you'd told him even once how ever since you were seventeen years old lying awake in your room to text him at two in the morning he's been your definition of home.

But you hadn't, and now you have a 50-50 chance of him living to see the morning.