#war criminal names

[skele-ghost]

Fuck in the Graveyard (not really)

Summary: (Graves/Reader) You’ve been taking illegal suppressants for wayyy too long, and when you miss a dose, it all comes crashing down.

Content Warning: A/B/O Omegaverse dynamics, reader is afab, female pronouns?, substance abuse, technically is a fuck or die situation, p in v, knotting, brief fingering

Graves is kinda sweet in this one. I’ve never posted my stuff anywhere before and this is the first fic I’ve written in second person. Let me know what y’all think. I do not take requests.

(*˘︶˘*).｡.:*♡

The thing about taking illegal suppressants is that you have to time them perfectly. You’d better have your cycle down to a science, and you’d better take them three days before your heat, during, and three days after—and don’t you dare take them any more than 24 hours apart.

That’s how you wound up completely fucked: you took one dose two hours too late, and now the suppressants were completely ineffective. Was it really your fault? No, you’d been in the middle of a firefight, for fucks sake! But by some sick case of luck and science that made next to no sense, your heat started to build.

You hid being an Omega as much as you could. It wasn’t exactly a secret—it was there in your file for anyone to see. But so long as your heats were taken care of and you weren’t sending every Alpha within a mile radius into a rut, the military was happy.

And you were happy to let them believe that you were taking the regular course of suppressants that they prescribed you, and not the dangerous, high-dose, illegal ones that you preferred. They made your scent next to undetectable and made sure you could actually think straight when you were suppressing your heat, unlike the regular ones.

You were a specialist, an asset of high importance, and you’d be damned if you’d let your own biology stand in the way of that.

That’s why you liked the Shadows. Graves sent you a job offer after working with you on a mission gone sour in Urzikstan. He admired the way you kept your head cool when the world was falling apart around you. Even when you disclosed your designation, he shrugged it off.

“As long as you can keep your head cool like you did out there, we won’t have any problems,” he’d said.

And you’d kept your promise for nearly two years, now. But that was a long time to go without a heat, and a long time to be surrounded by the heady scent of Alpha unclaimed.

You were ashamed of the way you had to take off earlier. Once everyone was back from the mission, in one piece, settled in, you bolted, feeling the heat and sweat cling to you like a second skin.

It was sheer resolve that allowed you to keep the scent patches on for so long, little bandages clamped over your glands with a strong deodorizer, not letting anything out. You nearly passed out from the intense pain of prying them off your neck and wrists, the scent glands over-sensitive to even a breeze.

You blink away the tears quickly; you have to stay focused. You’ll drive to the safe house and crash there, get something planned. You knew the consequences of completely suppressing your heat for so long with such toxic drugs. Now you had to live with the consequences.

The little white farmhouse is remote, nestled deep in an old growth wood. It was beautiful, living up to the pictures you’d seen when Graves had shown it to you as a precaution. It had been in his family for generations before he fixed it up and decided to turn it into a safe house.

You pant as you put the car in park, staring at the building for a moment, your thoughts jumbled and disconjointed. As much as you want to melt into the seat, you have to get inside. A cold shower—that’s what you promise yourself, meek little motivation.

It manages to pull you out of the truck, onto shaky legs that want to collapse underneath you, but you push on.

They key is behind a brick on the foundation beneath the porch. It takes you a moment to remember which one—Graves had only shown you once.

Since you are the only unclaimed omega in the Shadows, he told you where the house was and how to access it. Just in case you had, in his words, “omega-related problems.” It isn’t too far from base. You’d have to figure out some way to show your eternal gratitude for the man…if you ever saw him again.

You retrieve the key and turn to make your way up the stairs, and that’s when things go sideways. You trip on the last step, crashing onto the porch with a force that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.

The key falling out of your hand is the last coherent thought that you have before the pain takes over. Your sensitive skin and muscles cry out and it feels like hitting a sore bruise, everywhere.

You whimper, tears rolling down your cheeks as you stare up at the watery image of the porch’s ceiling. There’s a wasp’s nest, gross, but it’s November. They’re either sleeping or dead from the cold.

And thank god it’s cold, because at least your skin doesn’t feel like it’s completely on fire.

You know this is bad. You’ve deteriorated too quickly, the heat sneaking up and hitting you like a blitz attack from the dark.

As much as you hate to admit it, heats are necessary. It gets rid of built-up chemicals in the brain, provides a release to make new ones. Not quite like sleep was necessary, but in a similar fashion.

You’re worried that this one might kill you. You’re worried that if this one isn’t quelled and satisfied, you might end up brain-dead or in an eternal coma like the people in those stories your middle school health class scared you with.

But in the face of death? All that you wish is that you could apologize for the inconvenience. What kind of paperwork would Graves have to fill out for your corpse? Would he get in trouble for not monitoring you, for not knowing about your use of the illegal suppressants?

You slip into unconsciousness, the word ‘sorry’ on the tip of your tongue.

-

A whimper is all you manage as you stir awake, the first thing you notice being the thick, heavy, intoxicating scent of an Alpha, and one you know.

Graves smells like bonfires and bourbon, or maybe it’s whiskey? You make a breathy moan at the smell, brows furrowing as you feel yourself being carried.

“I know, baby, I know,” he says, his voice making a nice rumble trail down your spine.

He’s holding you bridal style and then holds you close to him as he sits down, tucking your head into his neck so that you can scent him.

It cools the flames slightly, letting your mind clear itself of the fog as you finally stir, opening your eyes.

“Com-mander?” You ask, voice not much louder than a whisper.

He pulls you back, glancing down at you, his blue eyes filled with concern. “(Y/N), what’s going on? You don’t smell right, sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Suppressants…not working,” you grit out, whimpering as an uncomfortable cramp begins in your gut.

“The ones you’ve been taking? Why, what’s wrong with them?” He lays you down on the bed he’d been sitting on and you whine at the loss of contact, squinting your eyes shut at the cramping.

You can hear him search through your bag, the one that had been digging painfully into your back a few minutes ago, and you hear the rattle of a pill bottle.

“Oh, (Y/N), you didn’t…” he says, and you can only imagine what his expression is as he looks at the bottle. It’s pretty damning—the prescription bottle with someone else’s name blacked out on it, half empty, label reading exactly what’s inside.

Graves returns to your side, his cool hand on your cheek turning you to look up at him. He looks…betrayed? Crestfallen? Worried, above all else, as he holds the bottle up with one hand.

“(Y/N), tell me you didn’t take these—tell me this isn’t what I think it is,” he demands, the command in his tone making a gush of slick escape you, adding to your already soaked panties.

“M’ sorry,” you whisper, tears blurring up along your waterline.

“Shit, (Y/N),” he growls, tossing the pills onto the bed, running his hands through his hair. “What do I do? You need to go to a hospital, is that it?”

You shake your head, “no, they can’t do anything. And I’d get arrested—ah!” You cry out, curling inwards as a sharp, painful cramp rolls through. Slick gushes out of you again, your organs overproducing as if they need to make up for all the missed heats. After a few agonizing moments it calms down and leaves you gasping, tears rolling down your cheeks.

You know what your options are, you know how fucked up this is, and you know that Graves is probably going to fire you after this—but you also know that you’re not ready for the final alternative.

“Please, it hurts!” You beg, pleading up at the sight of your commander above you, “please, Alpha.”

He closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, pursing his lips in that way you’ve always found so hot, “are you sure? You’re not thinking clearly, (Y/N).”

You nod frantically, grabbing his arm and scenting his wrist, keening at the smell, “please, please, Graves.”

His restraint snaps and he climbs ontop of you, pinning your wrists to the bed and placing his mouth on yours. You moan into it, trying to lift you hips up to get some kind of friction to no avail.

He pulls away and you tilt you head aside to give him better access to your neck as he scents you, breathing in deeply and growling. You cry out as he runs his tongue and teeth along the glands.

“I never got a good smell of you, (Y/N), you always wear those damn patches and I always want to rip them off,” he nibbles along your jaw, your whines and whimpers filling the small bedroom.

“Alpha, please,” you beg, desperate, clenching around nothing when you want to be clenching around him. “Inside, please put it inside.”

“I know, baby,” he says, pecking your lips again before he pulls back, hands gliding along your sides as he pulls your shirt off. “You’re burning up.”

Tears prick in the corners of your eyes and you squirm, whining and babbling as he pulls your bra off, too. The cooler air feels nice on your sweat-sheen skin, and you buck your hips as Graves gets off of you, hooking his fingers to pull your pants and panties down in one fell swoop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he curses, then groans at the sight of your slick, how it clings to your parties in wet strings before he pulls them away.

Your boots are still on and he didn’t get your pants all the way off, but maybe seeing how soaked you are makes Graves hasty.

The most pornographic moan escapes you as he sinks two fingers in your hole, your sweet little cunt sucking them in and clenching down.

“Fuck, good Omega,” Graves groans, slipping in a third finger that has you moaning even louder.

Every spot he hits is the right one, every move pure ecstasy. Your voice is a broken babble of pleads and curses and moans, begging for your commander to fuck you, to take you, to make you his.

You almost sob when he retracts his fingers, not even caring to wipe them as he rolls you onto your stomach, grabbing your hips and pulling them up into the air, right against his own.

Feeling his erection against your ass, you turn downright frantic, “please please please, please fuck me, Alpha, please I need your knot so bad!”

He hisses as you rub against him and he begins unbuckling his belt, which only spurs you on more. He manages to still your hips and get his pants down, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick.

You keen embarrassingly loud as he enters you, slowly letting every inch of himself be swallowed up by your greedy cunt.

When he bottoms out, pressing against your cervix, it’s like a switch flips. You cum, whining as your legs shake, as Graves gasps behind you.

“Goddamn, baby,” he drawls, squeezing into the meat of your hips. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?”

Your brain is too melted with lust to be able to form any coherent sentence. When he pulls out and slowly thrusts back into you, testing the waters, you all but go limp, eyes rolling into the back of your head as you moan.

“Goooood girl,” he praises, speeding up his thrusts and finding a steady rhythm, your skin slapping together. “So slick and tight for me, omega, good god—“

All you can do is moan and take it. There’s no more painful cramping, and though your skin is still hot it’s not as bad. Your body is getting exactly what it needs: a good, hard fucking by a big, strong Alpha.

“(Y/N),” Graves moans, his voice sounding so sweet to your ears, “so good, baby. Better than I ever imagined.”

You keen at that, at your alpha wanting you—well, he isn’t yours, is he? It makes your heart sting slightly but that’s quickly forgotten with a slap to your ass, sending shockwaves of excitement through you.

You can feel yourself getting tighter, getting ready to be thrown over the edge again, and you can feel Graves speed up his thrusts, his knot slowly beginning to swell inside you.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, “gonna give you my knot, gonna fill you up good—“

His thrusts get even harder, even rougher, and you cry out, feeling yourself come tumbling violently over the edge as his knot catches on you, cumming in waves like the sea crashes onto shore.

Graves stills inside you, making good on his promise, shooting ropes and ropes of hot seed. You can feel his swollen knot inside you, just past your entrance, making your pussy full in the most delicious way. You hear him catch his breath before he carefully rolls you both over onto your sides, laying down with you on the bed.

You hum happily as he wraps his arms around you, placing a chaste kiss on your shoulder as both of your ragged breathing calms.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he says, his voice husky in a way that makes you wish you were his.

“Yeah,” you manage to reply, running your hands along the arms that hold you.

“I don’t want you taking those damn pills ever again,” he growls, making you shiver. “Understand?”

You open your eyes and turn to look at him, confused at the soft expression on his face. It’s almost…vulnerable? Wasn’t he going to fire you?

“Commander?”

“This isn’t up for debate,” he says. Behind his blue eyes is a fire you know well, akin to the one that dances in his eyes on the battlefield. “I’ll drug test you if I have to, but I’m not going to lose you to some stupid suppressants.”

You blink. “You’re not going to fire me?”

“What? No,” he says like you’re crazy for thinking so. “But if you want to stay, darlin,’ we’re going to need to set some ground rules.”

“Okay,” you agree, relieved. You didn’t want to lose your job, it’s a good gig. The employee benefits are killer…and you’d miss your commander.

“It’s simple, (Y/N), no more illegal suppressants, and you come to me for your heats,” that bastard smirk of his returns and you giggle.

“Are you propositioning me, Commander?”

“Hell, yes I am,” he says proudly, reaching up to caress your cheek. “Probably should’ve done it sooner.”

You lean in and kiss him, enjoying how it sweetens his scent. Your heart flutters in place, content, elated; you had only ever dreamed of this. You finally have him.

“Oh, and no more scent patches. You smell too damn good to be covered up.”

You roll your eyes at him, still grinning. “You sure about that? I don’t think you’ll like every other alpha sniffing after me.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll keep you safe,” he says confidently, placing a lingering kiss to your cheek. His eyes hint at something darker, “besides… they’ll catch on.”

[ashpkat]

can’t believe octavian was the secondary villain in HoO and he didn’t even get a last name

[femboy-expert]

The name Pinkerton would go so hard if you remove any and all historical context

It’s like the gayest name ever and they gave it to union busters

[wisteriagoesvroom]

Not the airport purgatory again!! So here's a prompt for you:

Carcar + the word "camera"

~Lo

Oscar’s never loved the cameras. They’ve taken some getting used to. The clicks now remind him of beetles rather than a forensic crime scene, but he’s never made peace with them. Not in the way the rest of the grid has.

And why he’s been shoved together with Carlos, two seats down from him in the press conference, he doesn’t really know.

Well. He does know. He’s not stupid, and the internet tells him, when Oscar is in fact stupid enough to go check, that people enjoy the on track argument radios between him and Sainz.

Oscar is frankly loathe to call it an argument. An argument would imply two people on an even keel having some kind of logical discussion. With Carlos, there is no debate. Just noise.

(And Oscar’s got to give it to the FIA. They’re well aware what they’re doing. So he and the FIA apparently have this in common, then.)

To his left, George is droning on, probably an extremely PR-approved response about Merc’s latest ailing results. Oscar has heard this about half a dozen times in just as many iterations, and Oscar is getting bored. But, necessary evils. For necessary ends.

“Question for Carlos and Oscar,” comes a voice from the back of the darkened room. And now, maybe things can get more interesting.

“Your radios have been making the rounds.” The journalist says. “Carlos, you seem very adamant that Oscar still acts like, and I quote, such a massive rookie. Did you mean what you said, or did you want to offer more commentary?”

Oscar glances at Carlos. Guan Yu, sandwiched between them, stares at both of them like this is a riveting tennis match.

Carlos makes a noncommittal noise into his mic. Oscar resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I don’t listen much to the radios after the race is done. It is all in the moment. Oscar drives well, but occasionally we are coming up against each other on the track.”

Oscar turns the sentences in his head as he considers his words. What was it that Mark said? It’s important to show your racecraft. Your commitment.

But what the public loves, more than anything, was a storyline.

Carlos has put his mic down. His gaze is admirably neutral.

Oscar scans the crowd for the journalist. Moustached guy, laptop open, waiting expectantly.

It’s Oscar’s cue. Step on the stage. Spotlight’s on.

“I mean. Nice for some people, isn’t it?” Oscar says.

He can picture the tweets already.

Across the couch, Carlos crosses his arms, brows slanting downwards.

Every hero’s journey needs an antihero, after all.

“What is?” Carlos asks.

Oscar shrugs. “Being able to switch your brain off. When you drive.”

[hyponautica]

my first clownpierce design (left) and my current design (right)

ramble about design ahead (sory :c)

i think i like the current one better. it looks like it would actually exist. to be fair while designing my brain was scrolling through every victorian outfit aesthetic whatever image i have ever seen... so thats probably why it turned out the way it did.

also the horns being there make his face a big triangle, and if you know anything about character design then thank you because im not explaining shapes in design. unless someone asks. then i probably would--

i know the checker patterns on him make him look really confusing, but i think itd be better to look like an abstract blur when youre fighting someone. just to confuse them yk. clownconfuse. but thats also why i used the white frills. it seperates those confusing parts a lil bit, just easier on the eyes that way.

and yeag the satyr thing never really went away. i just later on decided to show the hooves beacuse its fun drawing them. i do like the bells on shoes idea but now he has them all over his cape so, extra clownjingle

final thing, mean smile on his mask. would definitely say ''tee hee'' after ''accidentally'' committing 4 war crimes in a day

[mofftarkinandglossurabbansquares]

MOFF TARKIN AND GLOSSU RABBAN SQUARES

🟨🟦🟥🟥◼️🟥🟦🟦🟥🟥

◼️🟦🟥🟦◼️◼️🟦🟦◼️◼️

SQUARE MILITARY RANK INSIGNIA MILITARY SALESMEN FROM OUTSIDE THIS CLUSTER OF GALAXIES

NO I DON'T WANT TO BUY ANY MORE STORMTROOPER ARMOR. I HAVE ENOUGH, THANK YOU.

[librosamarillos]

love the idea that Maegor is this creepy and unsettling kid ♥️

[strangerathecinema]

yes your honor i actually will judge this piece of media by how well it coincides with the lyrics from i know the end by phoebe bringers

[lewis-winters]

I still remember that poll I did where I was like "who's the bigger war criminal speirs or snafu?" and then speirs won.

[snipsnipsnippy]

Alright I’ve been pushed. Now I’m in a Satine Kryze mood. And BOY do I wanna have a chat some of y’all are not ready for.

Satine and the New Mandalorians are the true Mandalorians. Or at least, they were the popular representation of Mandalorians. First things first, I want to remind everyone that the Mandalorian history we have post Clone Wars-era is entirely told by the surviving Mandalorians, who are.. a fringe cult and a terrorist group (ie The Children of the Watch and Death Watch) and any other surviving exiles or enemies (eg Boba and you know, the Jedi). None of these people lived in mainstream Mandalorian society so how are we to believe them on what “true” mandalorian culture is when their beliefs or actions were deemed so radical they were exiled (or in the case of COTW, left on their own accord).

Now, yes, Satine’s position of pacifism is very extreme. No fighting at all ever is a pretty questionable long term survival strategy and an incredibly divisive one, but it’s literally one the mandalorian people defended and accepted and even tried to bring to the Republic. Because considering the historical and political position Mandalore has been in, it was only this extreme strategy that could save it. It literally ended generations of civil wars. It united the remaining mandalorians and built survivable, architecture for the barren world (which probably saved the planet, but that’s a different theory). But Death Watch, you know the party that meant to overthrow and kill her, will tell you that this was an erasure of mandalorian culture and ignorance of their warrior history, but that’s not the kind of warrior we ever see outside of Death Watch.

Everything in mandalorian culture points us to this much more protective survivor, rather than this vindictive sort of conqueror. Foundling culture in the Mandalorians is so profound because it’s something that is so unique to them. Other cultures do adopt nonfamilial members, yes, but Mandalorians do it so wholeheartedly and without question. There’s a baby alone in the woods? I don’t care if it’s 4,000 years old or its a race that hasn’t been discovered yet, that’s your child now. The way mandalorian clans are structured such that a foundling is immediately no different than a blood relative, whether they come from the same species or star system. Nephews or daughters or neighbors are all the same to a mandalorian (and a hot mention to mando’a for throwing out gender biases too). They are fiercely protected and fiercely loved too. Every excess that exists in mandalorian society goes to their children. To their education, their protection, the survival of the next generation was most important to a mandalorian society.

Even something like beskar, their very armor, was prized for protection, not for offensives. There’s a whole lecture on how beskar came to be metal of choice, but it boils down to being, guess what?, the best defense against lightsabers. And we see Mandalorians come out with the best armor design in like literally all of Star Wars armors ever. I’m not joking. It’s made for visibility, for protection, for comfort, and for not dying. Their identity is their armor. Its value and its design is sacred to each clan because it is forged from their history and painted with its battles.

So working back to Satine, who was raised learning all of this history, learning the ways of her warrior people and seeing the culture stray from what was once a people built for surviving and then watching it kill them, watching it tear apart her family and her home, and for a year, it even tore her away from her identity. She stands up to this massive swath of the deadliest fuckers in the galaxy, and she says “no.” She doesn’t raise a sword. She doesn’t point a blaster. She knows how. She was the fucking mandalorian princess. Clan Kryze was deeply respected. Her father died a hero to these people, and for her to stand up without using force or weapons takes a shit load of courage and some uniquely mandalorian stupidity. All to save their future, their culture, and their children. She said “kill me if you wish but spare the kids” and at the time, she can’t be any more than 20 because timelines are rough. She’s probably still just an orphaned teenager herself. This is the wake up call that broke the Mandalorian Civil Wars.

This is the Most Mandalorian stunt a mandalorian has ever mandalorian-ed since Tarre Vizsla himself told off the fucking Jedi.

She’s the savior of her culture, and Death Watch burned it all down because they wanted to kill, not protect. Satine was more a mandalorian than most of the Mandalorians we see. More mandalorian than her sister will ever be, and Bo won’t even speak her name.

[bruciemilf]

Incredibly funny to me that Reiko attracts two kinds of people only:

A) Badass sunshines that can, have, and should kick his ass (Raiden, Mei Li, Kuai Liang)

B) Chaotic punks that want to breed, kill, and marry him, sometimes in surprise order (Nitara, Havik)

This man walks around in leather daddy get up, has incredibly high loser vibes, AND he wears emo eyeliner. He should have more hoes

[news4dzhozhar]

[jekyllnahyena]

what do you mean jorge is going to aprilla, where is my marc ducati announcement, why does this keep happening, what the fuck is in the air this year that the motorsport world collectively decided to throw the biggest curveballs when it comes to their seats, am I in an induced coma, somebody hold my hand please-

[redbean-nom]

quite poetically ironic for demagol to do all those jedi torture-experiments in the name of "finding out how the force works" only to turn out to be force-sensitive himself

[the-blaze-empress]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandoms: QSMP | Quackity SMP, Dream SMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ángel Missael Castañeda Vega | MissaSinfonia/Technoblade, Ángel Missael Castañeda Vega | MissaSinfonia/Phil Watson | Philza, Technoblade/Phil Watson | Philza, Ángel Missael Castañeda Vega | MissaSinfonia/Technoblade/Phil Watson | Philza Characters: Ángel Missael Castañeda Vega | MissaSinfonia, Technoblade, Phil Watson | Philza Additional Tags: Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Polyamory, Piglin Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Reaper Ángel Missael Castañeda Vega | MissaSinfonia, Avian Phil Watson | Philza, there is So Much lore here that i will Not explain, Sleepy Kisses, no beta we die! Summary:

“May I?”

Missa’s question is soft, gentle, just like he is. The fire crackles away, and Phil is fast asleep at Technoblade’s side, meaning it’s just the two of them right now. Just the two of them, and… whatever they are.

–––

hi have a rarepair that im Really Incredibly Normal about! <3 its me its like the only guy ever interested in missa/techno i just think that them, okay?

[maulfucker]

Star Wars oc time !!!! Crew of guys who don't need air to breathe

Boss Wulli (Helon Dop, she/he) - Big fucking gungan. ~2,20 m (~7'3") and really strong - Former Gungan Army soldier and engineer, still holds a heavy preference for gungan technology - Knows how to make boomas, and had Booma install a booma cannon in the ship - Lost an arm and part of an ear at some point but that only made her more powerful

Booma (Lei Leiru Been, he/they) - A genius gungan engineer and Boss Wulli's long time friend - They suggested becoming space pirates as a joke, Wulli decided to take it seriously and dragged him along - Engineered a lot of modifications to the ship, to suit their needs and tastes

Nass (Ahak Keer, she/her) - The crew's big money maker - Used to be a spy, but got tired of risking her life and settled for a slightly less risky career - Has had that harpoon gun since forever. it can pierce ship hulls. she loves it - Secretly gay for Boss Wulli (it's only a secret to the two of them)

Bullet (he/him) - Entirely unrelated to those two weirdos, met them on the job - Kind of a jack-of-all-trades by necessity, he used to be a solo bounty hunter - Knows a lot about guns. like A Lot.

Bone (it/its) & Rust (it/its) - Eggmates who work as cyberneticists together - They each know how to deal with one half of the process, so for your own good Do Not Separate Them - Didn't know about anesthesia until they started working off-world - Easiest way to tell them apart is to see which one is wearing a silly scarf (that would be Rust)

Knives (KN1-V35, she/any) & Dollie (D0L1-33, it/any) - Reprogrammed pit droids - All-purpose assistants - Dollie is usually helping Bone and Rust - Knives is usually either with Dollie or stalking Bullet - Knives realy really reallly likes Bullet. because he lets her shoot guns

I have not designed their ship because well. I am no good at drawing spaceships. but it's a pretty spacious repurposed freighter ship. the interior looks very gungan - every room is sealed off from the other so the ship only has atmosphere where they want atmosphere - Boss Wulli's, Booma's and Nass's rooms are submersible - Bullet's room is connected to Bone and Rust's, and they are usually full-time no atmosphere areas since the three of them are always wearing breathing tanks. (they activate the atmosphere sometimes, but their atmosphere setting is only breathable for them)