bweep bwoop

IS ORISA BILIGNUAL? CAN SHE TALK IN BEEP BOOPS? CAN SHE TALK TO BASTION? CAN SHE TRANSLATE FOR BASTION????

“Beep bwoop boop bweep!”
“Bastion! That’s not nice!”

OR

TORBJORN SAYS HI, BASTION GIVES THIS LONG STRING OF NOISES, AND THEN SUDDENLY THERE IS THIS LOUD LAUGHTER FROM HALFWAY ACROSS THE MAP FROM ORISA

BLIZZARD PLEASE

anonymous asked:

Bastion and a pal just planting some flowers and hanging out with Ganymede?

You hummed a tune as you traversed the halls of the Watchpoint, a small bag of birdseed fastened to one hip and a small bag of sunflower seeds fastened to the other. As you stepped out into the sunlight, you caught sight of Bastion and Genymede already waiting for you in the garden. You grinned wide and waved, joining them quickly.

“Sorry I’m late,” you stated, shrugging a bag off your shoulders and beginning to remove the gardening tools from it. You set a spade in Bastion’s hand and opened the birdseed, cooing to Ganymede. “I had to stop and talk to Genji; he wanted to borrow a book from my room, so I had to double back and grab it for him.”

You knew neither the omnic nor canary could properly respond to you, but it felt nice to fill the silence with harmless chatter, anyway. If Bastion minded, it wouldn’t let you keep going, so you continued. 

“Anyway, today we’re going to plant some sunflowers!” you proclaimed, grinning widely. “They’re my favorite, because you can eat the seeds if you don’t feel like planting them. My mom liked ‘em a lot, too, because they’re bright - Ganymede, don’t eat the birdseed that fast - so we’re going to put them near the tulips. C’mere, Bastion, and watch so you don’t trample on another group of orchids again, okay?”

A soft “bweep beep bwoop” answered you, to which you simply nodded at, and guided your robotic friend over to a fresh patch of soil. 

“You can dig this time, and I’ll pop the seeds in,” you declared, then knelt down. Bastion watched you for a moment, then crouched itself down to your level, holding the spade and awaiting further instruction. Popping one of the seeds in your mouth, you munched on it with a grin, then pointed to the first spot.

“Kay, start here!”


-mod Viena

Bweep Bwoop, here’s a simple old-school/sweet coord I wore the other day to go out w friends sorry for potato lighting 🌸

Headdress: Elegy
JSK: BABY
Bag: Angelic Pretty
Blouse, tights: Offbrand
Shoes: Bodyline
Cameo: Vintage

It’s been so long, so fucking long, since anyone’s touched him. He aches for it; his skin feels tight, stretched over his body like he’s bound to burst through it at any moment, like everything inside is reaching out, pushing at all of his seams and threatening to tear him open. He just wants someone to touch him, really touch him.

He’s been at the tower for months now, and they still look at him the way they did those first tenuous weeks; wary, glancing at him from the corners of their eyes, staring when they think he won’t notice. They still give him as wide a berth as ever. 

When he passes Clint in the halls, their shoulders never brush. When Nat (-tasha? -talia? It’s hard to remember some days, when the fog creeps in and he’s head feels so full it too might burst)  leans past him to snag a beer from the fridge, she does so at such an unnatural angle it looks uncharacteristically gawky and painfully, painfully obvious. When Bruce comes into town, he embraces Steve and Nat and Clint and Tony and even Sam, patting their backs and keeping them close for a moment; he shakes Bucky’s hand, lays a gentle hand on his elbow and smiles, you look good, Jimmy. It’s not the same.

It’s not the same, not at all, as what he wants, what he knows he needs —Handshakes, gentle hands on shoulders, it’s not enough and he knows it. His memories aren’t sharp or crisp or clear, but they’re there as bright as day and they sting like salt in a wound. The press of bodies in the dance hall; the waxy taste of girl’s lipstick; waking up hot and sweaty and stuck together in the shared bed of a rat hole apartment; the dry warmth of a hand held in his own at the back of a dark movie theater. He knows these feelings bone deep, and knows their absence just as intimately, now.

He doesn’t ask them why, sees it written all over their faces when they think he isn’t looking. Fear, anxiety, pity; the knowledge of what he’s done, what has been done to him, what he has allowed to have been done to him. He doesn’t blame them — he wouldn’t be overeager to get near to someone like himself, either.

And he tells himself that, a million times over, but it does nothing to dull the ache that lingers just beneath the surface of his skin, that squeezes at his heart. It’s been so long since anyone’s touched him, really touched him. He’s not sure whether he’s soothing or punishing himself when he pinches at the skin of his thighs, leaving angry red welts; when he wraps a hand around his wrist until bruises blossom blue and purple; when he pulls at his hair until his eyes sting with tears. It eases the ache, a little, to do these things, but it’s not enough. 

Little by little, his resolve weakens. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he is stronger than this, that he has withstood greater torture than this, but he wants it so bad and it’s just so easy. Sitting in the back of one of Tony’s fancy limousines, he can press his shoulder against Clint’s to crack a joke in his ear. Nat flops down beside him on the couch, beer in hand, and he lays his head on her shoulder. When Bruce goes to leave, he puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, squeezes, smiles, you take care of yourself out there, Doc. It’s weak and it’s mean and it’s not enough, not nearly enough, but it’s something. 

When he breaks, he is standing in the kitchen, still in his pajamas. He can’t bring himself to open his arms, just offers his hands. C’mere —  quiet, so Steve can pretend he didn’t hear, can turn back to the pancakes sizzling on the stove  — then, please? and Steve’s face does that thing it does, where it seems to crumple even as he’s smiling, and he’s got a spatula in one hand and his arms wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders and Bucky isn’t crying, but something gives way in his chest and his breath hitches and his hands make fists in Steve’s shirt and he buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and just breathes. He can’t let go, he can’t, he’s need this for so long, wanted this, it’s been so long since anyone’s touched him, really touched him, and Steve doesn’t struggle, just stands there and holds him as the pancakes burn. 

Rocket Angel Week - Day 3: Broken Wings
AO3/Fanfiction

“Angie! Angie, Angie!”

Lena’s frantic calls could be heard through her office door. Angela sprang up from her chair, hand already halfway to the case containing her staff, when the Londoner burst into the room.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, noting the lack of desperation in Lena’s anxiety. She was panting a little, only the faintest flush sat on her cheeks. Angela dropped her hand from the case; she had a feeling she would not need the staff.

“We need medical attention!” Lena jabbed her fingers towards the door, which Fareeha just jogged through. The Egyptian wore a look of urgency as well, though distinctly calmer than the younger woman’s. Angela’s gaze fell to her cupped hands, where a small bird lay chirping pitifully.

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I drew some aliens.

A Quiosiloi using several holographic screens at once. All six eyes are capable of focusing independantly or working in multiple combinations (quiosiloi have incredibly complex perceptions regarding eyesight) so they’re probably multitasking, and the two unused arms fold up casually. 

A Kuequa comforts his gravid mate. Kuequa are sequential hermaphrodites who exhibit protogyny- changing from “female” to “male” over the course of their life (although, being a monogendered species, the human terms don’t really fit?) as well as changing from their initial nonsapient form (a first-stage Kuequa is approximately as intelligent as certain species of birds or smart dogs) into fully sapient second-stage adults. They have really complex social structures built around this transition, and make very close bonds over the course of their lives as a result.

S H R U G

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