#cargo pallet

[swiftplasticpallets-blog]

The Role of Plastic Pallets in Reducing Product Damage During Transport

The key in today’s fast-moving supply chain and logistics ecosystem is to ensure products aren’t damaged in transit. Damages can lead to financial losses, customer dissatisfaction, and supply chain inefficiencies. One effective approach is using plastic pallets, which offer clear advantages over other pallet types.

1. Consistent and Durable Structure

Plastic pallets have a uniform or smooth manufacture with a regular structure without naked lumber as compared to other pallets which may have irregularities or tendency to warp. Having consistent shapes helps to equalize the load in a product, improving the stability of the load during transport and reducing the odds of shuffling and tumbling.

2. Better Resistance to Impact and Environmental Factors

Transportation can be exposed to diverse environmental conditions such as humidity, rain, and temperature. These pallets are also moisture and damp-resistant, suitable for shipments that may be exposed to humid environments. They also do not soak up water, which can cause swelling and weakness that could threaten stability.

3. Design Options to Fit Specific Product Needs

There are different designs of plastic pallets depending on the use or the industry. Some pallets can be reinforced to support heavier loads and others are designed to stack, allowing for better organization of shipments preventing tipping or falling over during transit.

4. Smooth Surface for Gentle Product Support

The polished and splinter-free finish of plastic pallets makes them perfect, for transporting goods such as electronics and pharmaceutical or food items, without the risk of scratches or damages commonly seen with types of pallet materials. They effectively protect goods during transport.

5. Hygienic and Easy to Clean

Product damage can occur due, to contamination in industries such as food production and healthcare settings where maintaining cleanliness is crucial for product safety and quality assurance purposes Plastics pallets offer a nonporous surface that can be easily sanitized making them a preferred choice for handling sensitive products.

A clean plastic pallet plays a significant role, in reducing the likelihood of contamination impacting the integrity and safety of products during transportation.

6. Lightweight for Easier Handling and Reduced Strain

7. Long-Lasting Durability Means Fewer Replacements and Fewer Risks

Plastic pallets are known for their longevity. They don’t wear down easily, even with frequent use and movement. A pallet that can withstand repeated transit without degrading helps ensure consistent product protection. With fewer replacements needed, the likelihood of using old, damaged, or weakened pallets is reduced, further safeguarding the goods being transported.

Conclusion

These pallets reduce product damage in transit thanks to their robust design, durability, and versatile construction. Even in adverse logistics conditions, they protect goods effectively. For companies aiming to cut costs and enhance customer satisfaction, plastic pallets are a cost-effective, eco-friendly supply chain solution.

By ensuring product safety, minimizing losses, and streamlining logistics, plastic pallets from Swift Technoplast make a smart investment for businesses focused on safe, damage-free transport.

[xpakglobalau]

[sohologistics]

[palletscenter]

PALLETS LIQUIDATION CENTER

Dewalt tool pallets available

$750 a pallet

Email : nshttanisha@gmail.com

☎️ tel : (413) 247-4270

[ceilidho]

fear of god

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew. Part 9 masterlist

-

Knock until something answers or until your knuckles pass straight through. 

After Gaz leaves your lab, you spend the rest of the afternoon working on your research, doing your level best to ignore the blood samples sitting in the refrigeration unit on the other side of the room. You normally wouldn’t have to wait very long before running your tests, but you do because you can’t shake the feeling that you are on the threshold of some atrocious becoming, the bloodletting preceding destruction. 

You hadn’t thought of your life up to this point as some prelapsarian time, but the fall seems imminent. 

The tedium of day gives way to the disquietude of night, when all else settles down and the ship hums itself to sleep. You skip supper and head back to your room instead, whittling away the hours with a word search book that ends with you circling the same word over and over again like you can’t find another one. You find yourself writing it even in the margins of the book. 

Alien. 

And it is a whisper quiet thought because you know that if you look at it too hard, you’ll only end up doubting yourself. Write off all of the strange occurrences happening around you as coincidence or all in your head when you know that they are not.

There’s no chance you’ll sleep with the worries weighing on your mind, so instead of trying, you slip out of your room when the ship slips into the deepest part of its night cycle.

The door to your room slides shut softly behind you. It is quiet in the hallway. 

For as many times as you’ve been in space, it’s never felt as alien as now. Perhaps because you’ve always regarded the inky darkness surrounding the ship with a careful, neutral ambivalence. Also perhaps because, consciously or not, you’ve always assumed that there was nothing else out there.

But in the days since Gaz first knocked on the porthole and asked to come inside, your perspective has shifted. 

One of the lights flickers on your wall down the main corridor and you pause for a moment to watch it flicker. It goes out entirely for a handful of seconds before coming back on.

Down the hall you go, the long isthmus between bow and stern, stopping every once in a while to examine the walls and metal flooring. You even sit on the staircase leading down from the orlop deck to the cargo hold to stare at the rusted metal grates. When you test it with your finger, the rust feels real enough. It has that rough, grainy texture, and when you pull your finger away, a faint residue transfers to the pad of your finger. 

Strange. All this time you’ve lived on the ship and yet not once have you noticed anything like this. 

The stairs aren’t rusted enough to warrant reporting it this very second, but you make a mental note to mention it to someone in the morning. 

In the cargo hold, you crouch behind a pallet stacked with crates of supplies on the far end of the hold and stare at a corner of the wall. The interior panelling has started to chip away at the bottom of the corner, chunks of it flaking off when you dig your fingers into the hole. You find more as you scan the hold, even the fire baffles on the ceiling looking a bit rusted when you squint your eyes. 

You wrack your brain for some memory of ever noticing these defects before but nothing comes to mind. 

It’s almost as if, in small, nearly imperceptible ways, the ship has been slowly starting to corrode. The materials themselves seem to be breaking down at an exponentially increasing rate, as if something were sucking the vitality from them. While you can’t deny that the ship is still as functional as the day it left Earth, the longer you stare at some of the finer details, the more things that you remember previously looking adequate enough now seem to be on the verge of decay.  

Can you trust what’s in front of you though? You press harder into the gouge in the wall with your finger, wincing when it slices through the skin and a bead of blood wells up. Can you trust what you’re looking at? 

And what does it mean if you’re right? 

The longer you stare, the more your head hurts. The bubble of blood on your fingertip swells when you press your nail into the skin beside it. 

It would be better for your sanity if you could stop questioning everything, but you can’t change what you are. You exist in accordance with your nature like all things do. 

Another time around the cargo hold before exhaustion starts getting the better of you. You won’t find anything that you haven’t already found.

The walk back to your quarters feels twice as long, winding through dimly lit corridors that echo with the sound of your footsteps. 

Your footsteps echo behind you for a beat too long, as if the ship were bigger than its true size, or as if there were someone following behind you, beat for beat except for the occasional slip.

When one rings a bit too loud, you stop and turn on your heel, staring into the darkness, waiting for something to emerge or the footsteps to keep following you down the hall. 

Apart from the ever present hum rumbling through the ship, the corridor stays quiet. You let out a breath. Everything seems menacing at this time of night. Just the mind playing tricks on itself. 

You keep walking towards your room, ignoring the way your footsteps echo behind you again, just a beat off.

In the morning, you run Gaz’s blood through the centrifuge and wait for the solid and liquid components to separate while you putter around on the other side of the room. Your coffee is cold before you manage to take your first sip. 

Nauseous from skipping breakfast, your empty stomach grumbles, hunger pangs shooting through you. Better that you don’t eat though, for fear of losing the contents of your stomach at a moment’s notice. That’s the overwhelming feeling that you’ve been carrying with you since sneaking back to your quarters early in the morning—that anything might make it all come up. 

The coffee goes down bitter and ice cold. It makes your mouth taste somewhat stale, thick on the back of your tongue no matter how many times you clear your throat and swallow. It might’ve tasted better had you lingered a bit longer in the galley to find the milk capsules, but you’d been in a hurry to rush back to the medbay, not interested in running across Gaz or anyone else.

Then the centrifuge beeps, and you realize that you can’t get up from your chair. 

It’s not that you can’t physically get up, it’s just that every molecule in your being is fighting the urge to do so. All of your anxiety is pressed right up against your sternum, gathered tight beneath your bones; a terrible sense of foreboding that accompanies everything you do these days. 

Eventually, you summon the nerve to rise to your feet and cross the room, hesitating in front of the centrifuge for only a moment before opening the lid. 

It looks normal from the outset, the liquid and solid components separated in the tube with the platelets forming a layer between the red blood cells and plasma. You carry on with removing the supernatant fluid with a pipette and transferring the liquid component into a new test tube, getting everything ready for your tests. 

Under the microscope, you look at what seem to be normal, human blood cells.  Biconcave discs; mostly red blood cells, with a stray neutrophil floating around under the topmost slide. They behave and move so normally that at first you just observe them as you might anyone else’s blood sample, checking for any abnormalities or deficiencies. 

And then, you find them. 

It isn’t easy to make sense of what you’re seeing at first, and the longer you look at it, the less sense it makes. A neutrophil with a fat nucleus swims leisurely around until it encounters a group of red blood cells. The blood cells, stained in order to make them visible, swarm and then part, behaving perfectly normal until the second they don’t. 

You can’t make sense of what you’re looking at because what you’re looking at defies sense. It almost looks like cells cannibalizing other cells, but not quite, the cells not quite consuming one another so much as amalgamating and disappearing entirely. Warping into increasingly strange shapes. 

Cells merge with other cells and then split again, trapped in an endless cycle of death and rebirth, and the only thing you can think of is a tesseract folding in on itself. You’re losing something crucial, something invisible to you—invisible because it transcends your ability to perceive it. A shape turning in a higher dimension. 

The dread builds the longer you look. Your excuses keep piling up—bad samples and lack of sleep—but they feel flimsy, even paltry in comparison to the larger suspicion that has been hounding you these past few days. 

You push your chair away from the table and back up as far as you can until it hits something behind you. Short of breath. Heart pounding in your chest, but this time it’s almost painful. You’re not strong enough to stand at first, at least not without holding onto the back of your chair. 

The medbay door glides shut behind you as you leave, slowly breaking into a run as you head down the main hall, looking for someone else to verify what you saw under the microscope. The mess and galley are empty when you check them, much to your consternation, but you find Hadir in the tiny fitness area a few minutes later, sweating through a round of overhead presses. 

“Morning,” he greets when he spots you from out of the corner of his eye. “You’re not working out in that are you?”

He’s referring, of course, to your lab coat and uniform pants, which are hardly appropriate gym wear. Your ability to joke around is nonexistent though. Hadir must register that from the look on your face though because his arms slowly come down to his sides, a sweat-drenched brow arching in question. 

“Hadir, you went to med school, right?” you ask him.

“I was in nursing school before I dropped out, but—” he corrects, only for you to cut him off before he’s able to add anything else. 

“That’s fine—I need you to look at something for me. Do you have a sec?” 

He goes quiet for a moment and then nods, racking the weights before following you out of the gym. 

The walk back to the medical unit feels like a death march, with you leading the way. Your steps echo through the hall, each one louder somehow. Deafening. The pit in your stomach is bottomless—no matter how far down you go, you keep falling. You’ve done this with Hadir before, leading him towards something that you know in your gut is wrong without the confidence to call it what it is.

The microscope is still there on the table when you walk back into the medbay. The hair on the back of your neck lifts when you lay eyes on it. 

“There.” You point towards the microscope, not taking a step towards it. 

Hadir’s eyebrows furrow. He looks over at it and then back at you. “Okay.”

He crosses the room silently and pulls up a stool, settling in before adjusting the chair and microscope for his height. A tense few seconds pass while you wait for him to adjust everything to his measurements before he leans in to look through the eyepiece.

Then all is quiet.

You don’t know how long it’ll take for him to notice what you noticed, so all you can do is wait anxiously until he does. Or until he doesn’t—another possibility that hangs over you like a guillotine’s blade. 

Hadir looks through the eyepiece for what feels like an hour, so focused on the slide in front of him that you can hardly even hear him breathe. 

“What are these?” he asks when he finally pulls away from the eyepiece, looking at you from over his shoulder. 

“Blood cells.”

“You’re sure these are only blood cells?”

“Yes.” You don’t make mistakes, especially not with a simple procedure like this. 

“These…these don’t look like blood cells.” He bends his head to look again, staring more intently this time. “I mean they do, but… Where did you get these, doc?”

“I pulled those from Gaz yesterday during his physical,” you admit quietly. 

Again Hadir pulls away from the eyepiece to look over his shoulder at you. The look on his face is inscrutable, much like his sister. You wish you could see behind it and read his thoughts somehow. If only you didn’t have to guess every time. If only his gaze didn’t make you feel so raw and vulnerable, exposed belly ripe for vivisection.

“This is Gaz’s blood?” 

“Yes.”

Another prolonged moment of silence. 

“Doc, I don’t know what this is, but this can’t be someone’s blood. I may not actually be a nurse, but I’ve seen enough blood to know what it should look like.”

“I promise you it is. I drew those yesterday and no one’s been in here since.”

Hadir rolls away from the table, turning to face you fully. “What’s your opinion then? Why’d you ask me to come look at this?”

Here’s where it gets tricky. Because coming to the conclusion that you have internally already come to is one thing, but actually putting it to words is a much more laborious task, one requiring a kind of delicacy and cunning that you have never exactly possessed. 

“I think—” you start, struggling to get the words out. “That if…that if that is inside of Gaz…we need to start having a different conversation.”

“Doc, if anything, I think maybe he’s just sick.” There it is again. That whisper of condemnation. A glimmer of suspicion so faint that you would almost doubt yourself if your mind wouldn’t stop screaming why can’t you open your eyes? Why won’t you just believe me?

“You know that’s not true,” you snap, too severe. “He’s not sick—I’m not even sure he’s a person. This is—this is beyond fucked up. Those cells aren't human.”

He just stares at you, deeply unnerved by your outburst, like his fear is stretched so thin that he can’t see it for what it is. 

“At least let me—can you at least just—” The right words keep slipping from your grasp, too slippery to catch them. “Can you—…just…I need you to just believe me this time…” You trail off completely as it gets harder and harder to breathe. 

“Hey, hey, okay, take it easy,” Hadir says soothingly, getting to his feet, his hands outstretched like he means you no harm.

He moves until he’s right in front of you, hands braced on your shoulders to centre you. Whatever his intention, it doesn’t help. 

“He’s doing something to us,” you breathe, throat so tight that your voice breaks on multiple words. 

“Doctor, he’s not doing anything to us—he just looks sick. Or there’s just something wrong with the blood sample.”

You shake your head. “No. No. Hadir, it’s not just this, it’s—it’s everything.”

“What do you mean ‘everything’?” He sounds almost baffled.

“How he got here—the tests—his smell—the way everything’s like…fucking falling apart. Even Farah promised to keep an eye on him.”

He blinks. “Farah said she’d keep an eye on Gaz?”

You know you promised to keep it between the two of you, but you can’t help blurting it out when there’s a chance it might make Hadir take you seriously. “Yes! Because she knows there’s something wrong with this. We shouldn’t have found a man out in the middle of space when there’s no one else around for millions of miles!”

And you can’t understand how no one else seems at all suspicious when every single thing about Gaz’s sudden appearance on the ship is making alarms go off in your head. It’s like you’re inhabiting a separate reality from everyone else and perceiving things that aren’t really there. Like you are being pried away from their world. 

Hadir’s hands tighten around your shoulders. “Let’s just—let’s take a breath, okay?” 

You’re reluctant to acquiesce, but the look in his eyes tells you that it’s not up for negotiation. He leads you through a simple breathing exercise. Four seconds in, hold for seven, and then exhale for eight. You repeat it until the room stops swimming. 

“We both agree that there’s something wrong with those samples,” Hadir finally says, trying to reassure you. “I’m on your side, okay, doc?” You nod, swallowing. “Why don’t you just redo the test then?”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong,” you whisper. 

“I know, but things happen, right? Maybe the lid wasn’t sealed properly or you didn’t swab Gaz’s arm before taking his blood—”

“I did swab his arm,” you object, but your throat is too tight and the words come out too soft to make an impact. Hadir breezes past like you didn’t say anything. 

“The point is—it’s not your fault. It’s completely normal to make mistakes. Just destroy these samples and ask him to come back so you can take new ones. I can even help if you want—I’ll be your second pair of eyes.”

You want to protest. You want to take Hadir by the shoulders and shake him until he admits that what’s in front of his eyes is actually there—that you can’t keep pretending like everything’s normal. It would be a pointless battle though. He simply doesn’t believe you. 

The worst part is that you’re grateful that at least your eyes haven’t failed you. At least Hadir saw what you saw, his own conclusions aside. At least you have that reassurance, despite how hopeless everything else feels. 

You take a step back, his hands falling from your shoulders. “Fine. I’ll get a new blood sample and run the tests again.”

“Doc—”

“No,” you cut him off, forcing a tight smile. “It’s fine. You’re right. I’ll let you know when I have Gaz come in again and we can look at the new sample together. Sorry to pull you from your workout.”

Hadir’s lips flatten as he stares at you, searching for something to say that never materializes. Maybe he sees the pointless battle in your eyes as well. 

“Okay…ping me when you do,” he says, letting it go. “Remember, I’m on your side.”

There’s a fine tremor in your hands when he leaves. And though embarrassment keeps you from meeting his eyes on his way out, you tell yourself again that he’s done you a service in confirming what you saw, that at least this has given you new footing to stand on. 

You remind yourself of that as you feel your feet begin to slip from under you.

[squibsformers]

Feral Fears, Ch. 1

Human x Transformers fic

MTMTE/Lost Light, First Contact AU

Rating: M

Word Count: 1,004

Desc: After needing to stop off for more supplies, the Lost Light gets a strange, displeased, new passenger.

AN: Hi hi hello I hope you like this! This was the poll winner, maybe I'll do another chapter soon. If you like it let me know! I enjoy reading tags and comments on my things a lot. This one's short to kinda get me back into the swing of writing.

[Next]

“How in the pit have we gone through this much energon so quickly…?” Yellow servos tapped rapidly against the owner's desk, glaring at the report from Ultra Magnus. 

“If you bothered to pay attention, you would have heard me when I said the breach in the ship had us LOSE much of our stock, as well as how quick we went through our repair supplies... We can refuel and pick up more once we hit the next stop off, but we may be stationed at the outpost longer than you'd like.”

The prime sighed. “Longer as in a few vorns or-”

“Cycles. We have to wait for them to get us what we want if they don't have it.”

“Slag. Well… Damn. Okay, I guess we don't really have a choice- Set a course for the nearest outpost, tell the crew they're getting a… surprise few days of tourism to go run around and do whatever it is they please.”

“...That's not-” Ultra Magnus sighed. “That's bound to lead to trouble.”

“You wanna explain to everyone they're grounded to their rooms while we're parked and picking up supplies?”

Ultra Magnus sighed. “No…”

“That's what I thought. Plot a course! Let's get moving, the ship isn't gonna fuel itself!”

–---

Legs carried them desperately, ducking and weaving along unshipped cargo and barrels of fuel.

They had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep quiet, keep running. Your lungs burned, feeling like hot embers were popping in your bronchial tubes, making them hiss and whine quietly as they flex, their feet thumping quietly, trying to run on the balls of their feet as they scurried through the shipping bay.

They had to keep moving. Keep moving, keep running, keep pushing and going, it can't stop, if they stop they're FUCKED so utterly fucked-

“♠︎£°▪︎¤#%¡¡¿ ~×&%ꕥ˚꒦꒷꒷﹆¡¡”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck-

They ducked down between two shipping containers that barely had enough space that they could squeeze between, cutting down the row and looking around.

Where to go. They had to hide, running wasn't going to work, they were so much bigger, so much stronger and faster and smarter- but they could be crafty. Ohoho and could be sneaky.

….I mean they couldn't see shit but. Well. That would just be an obstacle to work past.

The organic looked around, squinting while leaning back against a crate… and stumbled some, feeling the massive box's frame was warped. Frowning, it looked up, and noticed a small, dark spot waaay up at the lid.

….Hole. That had a hole.

Hopefully, a hole the human could wedge itself into.

To the right, they spotted some metal pallets…and started climbing, grunting and huffing with effort. The makeshift knapsack weighed them down some, but they kept moving, desperate for an escape, for freedom. The fleshy's hands slip at one point and they drop, letting out a pain-filled wheeze and hearing a nasty, wet crack.

Don't think about it. Don't think about it, don't do it. Barely even slowing down, the human heaves themself up, panting. Their free hand reaches over…and they whine as they clench the break, sliding the bone into…relative place. It looked…okay. Perfectly fine. Yes.

Absolutely. Couldn't even tell it had a staircase break.

….Time to climb again.

The human sighed and began scrabbling up, wincing and trying to ignore the obvious injury it had. They didn't have time to worry about that, and they needed to get to safety-

“^^□●₩◆°°°▪︎°%”

Fuck. Those fucking robots were close.

One pallet, two, three, four, six, eight-

When the organic reached the top of the pallets stack, they looked over to that crate, judged the little distance you could out…

And leapt across the gap, purposefully overshooting the edge so it wouldn't miss but stumbled and landed hard, cracking their already damaged arm, letting out a yelp of pain.

“!#$♤♤□♡°•°¡¡”

Time to hurry. That sounded very aggressive.

Feeling along the edge of the crate, they finally found the hole… and blindly smushed themselves inside, falling a small distance onto a pile of…something.

Cabling? It felt like cables, it had the outer layer of rubbery plastic…

Geez it was dark.

……Geez it was really dark.

They heard metallic footsteps storm closer, and the little organic being covered their mouth, taking slow breaths to try and stifle the sounds of being… well, alive.

They stayed that way for what felt like hours, the dark slowly pressing more and more in on you, stifling and terrifying but at the same time a sanctuary, a safety net. They listened as those pedes paced about, searching, scouring, seeking them out. They heard the strange “Vrr wrr chtcht chitter krr bzrtkr krrrzst” that was their strange natural language. Aggressive tones. Still mad. They heard…

….

They heard beeping. Something is getting closer, beeping is getting louder. Heard new footsteps, old ones fleeing once the shouting began. Heard the beep directly outside their cable sanctuary.

And then… felt movement. The crate jostled and shook, and you held your breath, waiting for the lid to be ripped off and you to be found….

But…that didn't happen. Instead…. the crate moved. And you were moving along with it, whether you wanted to or not.

There was chatter, again. Lots of chatter. Then there was an obnoxiously loud beep near one side of the crate, another more.. blippy-beep next to that spot…And the crate moved once more, rattling a bit, before there was a hiss, a soft thud and the sound of pedes leaving.

The little human stayed in that crate. Stayed in it for hours. 

And then there was a new noise. A louder noise. A deep, thrumming, hum, that evolved into a bone and brain rattling roar, of impossible machinery kicking in, engines revving, turbines whirling, and a feeling like, for a brief moment, their soul was pulled from their body.

When they felt relatively normal again, the human slowly peeked out from the hole in the crate, and squinted.

They had a feeling they were on another stupid ship.

[planesawesome]

Lockheed C-141B Starlifter, the original C-141A model Starlifter proved to have more lifting capacity than it had space for cargo thus the natural remedy for this was stretching the cargo bay by 23 feet 4 inches (7.11 m) and allowing the carriage of 103 litters for wounded, 13 standard pallets, 205 troops, 168 paratroopers, or an equivalent increase in other loads. 270 in service A Models were stretched and it is estimated that the increase in cargo capacity for MAC (Military Airlift Command) was the equivalent of purchasing 90 new aircraft. In addition to the lengthening they were also equipped with an in-flight refueling receptacle greatly enhancing the Starlifter's capabilities.

The first of these modified Starlifter's arrived at Travis Air Force Base in California on April 11th, 1980. The Starlifter would serve until what many would say was a premature retirement in May of 2006.

[swiftplasticpallets-blog]

Export Pallet Requirement Guide for International Shipments

Export Pallet Requirement Guide for International Shipments

The role of the Export Pallet in the export process is pivotal, yet it often goes unnoticed in the ever-expanding landscape of international trade. Its significance is integral to the smooth functioning of export operations. Pallets are the unsung heroes of the supply chain, providing the foundation for secure and efficient transport.

In this blog post, we will delve into the essential export pallet requirements that can make or break your international export shipments.

1. Standardization Matters

When goods are being exported through export pallets, adhering to standardized pallet sizes is paramount. The most widely accepted dimensions are those defined by the International Organization for Standardization (ISO) and the International Plant Protection Convention (IPPC). Ensuring your pallets comply with these standards eliminates unnecessary complications during shipping and facilitates smooth transitions through customs.

The dimensions for standard export pallets is 1200mm×800mm (31.50”×47.24”) and is one of the six approved ISO Pallet sizes. The two most popular pallet sizes used in Asia are the square 1100mm x 1100mm (43.30″ × 43.30″) pallet and the 1200mm x 1000mm (39.37″ × 47.24″) pallet.

2. Labeling and Documentation 

Clear and accurate labeling of export pallets is a fundamental aspect of international shipping. Each pallet has marking of essential information such as the product description, weight, dimensions, and origin. This not only aids in the efficient handling of goods but also ensures compliance with customs regulations. Thorough documentation, including a detailed packing list, further streamlines the customs clearance process.

3. Material Selection

The selection of export pallet material plays a pivotal role in determining the success of your exports. Although materials such as plastic wood and metal pallets are commonly chosen due to their distinct advantages, plastic stands out for its superior durability and resistance to pests. Recognizing the unique requirements of your products and considering the environmental conditions they might face during transit will help you make an informed decision, with plastic pallets often proving to be a more advantageous choice compared to other materials.

4. Weight Distribution for Stability

Achieving optimal weight distribution on export pallets is crucial for maintaining stability during transportation. Understanding the weight-bearing capacity of your pallets is crucial. Distributing the load evenly prevents imbalances that could lead to damage or accidents. This becomes especially important when dealing with fragile or high-value goods, where a stable foundation is paramount. 

5. Compliance with ISPM 15

What ISPM 15 Norms?

Crafting export pallets in adherence to ISPM-15 standards requires utilizing debarked wood and undergoing a treatment process involving either heat or methyl bromide. The process ensures compliance with international regulations for the prevention of the spread of pests through wooden packaging materials. This stringent protocol serves the dual purpose of preventing reinfestation and maintaining a pest-free environment. ISPM-15 compliance confirms the treatment process visually, eliminating the reliance on paperwork. The pallet bears a stamped certification directly indicating the confirmation.

Who is exempted from ISPM 15 Norms?

Pallets constructed from materials other than wood, such as steel, aluminum, or plastic, enjoy an exemption from ISPM requirements. These alternative materials eliminate the need for the stringent measures imposed by ISPM regulations by not attracting or harboring wood-boring insects. Non-wood pallets offer a practical and compliance-free solution, allowing businesses the flexibility to choose materials while maintaining efficiency in global trade. This approach eliminates the burden of additional pest control protocols.

What Can Happen if Your Export Pallets Don’t Fit ISPM 15 Regulations?

If your Export Pallets do not comply in accordance with ISPM-15 international standards, it poses a serious risk to your shipment. In the event of non-compliance, your cargo may face quarantine, necessitating costly re-fumigation procedures. In a less favorable scenario, the carrier may send back your shipment to its country of origin. This not only incurs expenses for acquiring new pallets that meet international standards but also adds the financial burden of covering the re-shipment costs. Ensuring adherence to ISPM-15 guidelines is not just a regulatory requirement; it’s a crucial step in safeguarding your shipments from potential setbacks and unforeseen expenses.

Conclusion

Mastering the art of exporting requires meticulous attention to detail, and pallet requirements are a key component of this intricate puzzle. By prioritizing standardization, selecting the right materials, complying with international regulations, and ensuring proper weight distribution and documentation, businesses can navigate the complexities of global trade with confidence.

Swift Technoplast is your trusted partner in Export Pallet. With our extensive experience and high-quality products, we can help you find the perfect solution tailored to your specific needs. Export Pallets handled with precision, they become the cornerstone of successful exports in the competitive world of international commerce. Visit our website now and get your export pallet at market prices.

[marlynnofmany]

Not A Pest

I kept a hand on the pallet of boxes on the hoversled, making sure it didn't wobble while Blip and Blop pushed it up the ramp. It was all held in place solidly enough by high-tech netting much fancier than the kind we used, and I didn't need to worry much. So when we reached the cargo bay and Zhee called for my assistance back on the ground, I didn't feel bad about leaving the Frillians to finish loading it. They were strong enough to muscle anything into place if needed anyway. 

“What's up?” I asked as I trotted back down the ramp.

“Thought you might weigh in on their pest problem before we go,” Zhee said with a twitch of his antennae towards the clients whose stuff we were delivering. More Frillians today: not as beefy as Blip and Blop, but with waving frills everywhere that just made Zhee look like a praying mantis among flowers. He also looked smug, but that was nothing new. “I mentioned an animal expert, and they mentioned payment,” he told me.

I came to a stop beside him. “You know I don't know everything, right? Just putting that out there. My vet training was on Earth.” 

“Yes yes, I gave them the disclaimers,” Zhee said. 

The client in front, a tall female with colors like a Siamese Fighting Fish, said, “That’s better than anyone on our ship has. Something's getting into boxes in our cargo hold, and we can't find it. Tore into some food and made a mess of the animal fibers.” 

The shorter male behind her in salmon-peach tones held out a lumpy handful of what looked like brown wool. "My guess is it's making a nest somewhere, but it's being wasteful with the stuff too. Tangled it up something fierce."

My response died on my lips as I got a good look at it. Among the stray fibers was the exact shape of a teddy bear. 

“Can I see that?” I asked. 

He handed it over. I plucked off the extra bits and yes, it was definitely meant to be a teddy bear, made by hand from the wool in the cargo hold. There were even little twists for eyes.

I looked up at them. “You don’t have a pest. You have a stowaway.”

They blustered and pooh-poohed the idea: nonsense, how could there possibly be an intelligent creature onboard without their knowledge?

“We’ve been in space a long time,” said the tall one. “Only stopping at uninhabited locations for resources.”

“And at the—” put in the pink one, then stopped at a sharp look from his teammate.

I wasn’t about to let that go. “The what?” I asked.

The tall one sighed. “We salvaged some fuel from a wreck,” she admitted. “But there was no one on it. We checked. And with the tow ship we saw in the distance, it seemed likely enough that the owner had jetted away in a life preserver rather than sticking around. It was a single-person ship.”

Somebody else piped up from between the many crates in their cargo hold. “It couldn’t be a person! There’s nowhere big enough to hide!”

I held up the teddy bear. “This is a child’s toy from my planet.” I looked up at the maze of pipes on the ceiling. “And my people like to climb.”

Zhee was being smug behind me while I made a quick circuit of the room, looking for likely spots. One corner was particularly dark, and it had a series of crates below the pipes, stacked into a perfect ramp. I flashed back to the time a litter of kittens had found a similar hidey-hole on my own ship. This spaceship was made by a different group of aliens altogether, but they never seemed to expect anyone to pay attention to nooks and crannies in the ceiling.

“Hello?” I called, climbing onto the first crate with the wool bear in hand. “Anybody up there?” I continued in every language I knew greetings in, which included the galaxy’s favorite trade language (which I knew well), several minor trade languages (which I did not), and a smattering of languages from Earth (which I knew not at all), plus English. Despite my efforts, I didn’t hear a thing until I got all the way to the top.

“Jambo?” I tried, peering into the dark crevice. “Uh, sprechen sie deutsch?” I held out the wool bear. “Is this yours?”

A quiet gasp echoed off the pipes, then two small arms reached out to grab the bear. With further coaxing, the girl clambered forward to where I could see her: dark skin, wide eyes, artfully braided hair, and clothes that looked fancy, if very dusty. I’m not great at kid ages, but she was young. Old enough to push buttons on her parents’ spaceship maybe, not old enough to steer.

I still didn’t know what language she spoke, but it was hard to go wrong with body language. I held out my arms for a hug. “Want to go home?”

She sniffled and climbed forward into the embrace, clinging tight. That made it a bit of a challenge to get back down to floor level, but I managed. A crowd of Frillians and one smug Mesmer waited there.

“See?” Zhee said to the tall Frillian. “Exactly the animal expert you needed.”

I shook my head in amusement. “For all the wrong reasons, you’re exactly right.” The girl didn’t want to be put down, so I hoisted her onto one hip and stood carefully. “How far away was that crash site? Can you send a message to the planet or station the tow ship came from?”

“Yeah, we’re on it,” the tall Frillian said, her frills flattened in what might have been shame. She directed a couple of the others to do that, and also to gather the fuel they’d scavenged.

Zhee cheered her up with talk of a probable finder’s fee. “Humans get very attached to their offspring,” he said. “There is a strong chance this one’s parents are already advertising a reward.”

While they talked money (and Zhee got our ship that promised fee for pest control), someone with sense arrived with a bottle of water and questions about what food would be suitable.

The girl drank the water eagerly, not letting go of her bear, and didn’t answer any of my questions about food allergies. She accepted some protein cubes and chewed them with determination.

By then, a reply had already come from the nearest space station, and a ship was on the way. Full of authority figures and very anxious parents, by the sounds of it.

While the Frillians discussed that and the little kid quietly refused to be put down, Zhee held up his communicator so I could talk to Captain Sunlight back on our ship. Zhee had already explained the situation.

The captain asked me, “How long do they expect until arrival?”

“I think they said about half an hour,” I said. “Hopefully that won’t put us behind schedule.”

“No, we’ll be fine,” she said. “Given that the young one is so taken with you, we might as well stay to make sure everything gets resolved. Does she need to visit the medical bay?”

“I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything yet, but she doesn’t look injured. Couldn’t hurt to give her a once-over with the hand scanner just in case. We’ve got time.” I looked down at her thoughtfully, then had a bright idea. “And I bet she’d love to meet Telly. After we check her for allergies, of course.”

The captain agreed that was a fine idea. Zhee took over the conversation while I asked the girl, in a mix of Earth languages and pantomime, if she wanted to see my cat.

Her eyes lit up and she started talking in a spill of words that I didn’t catch in the slightest. Spanish, maybe French? Portuguese? Ah, it didn’t matter. The language of kitty ears and “meow meow” is almost as universally recognized as hugs. We walked from one ship to another, and waited for her parents in the company of a medical scanner, human food, and a very friendly cat.

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

[steadyposttrash]

FORCEMASC ARCHETYPES: A AESTHETIC GUIDE.

If you want to look BADASS, try:

- 60s Bikers/Greasers.

Look/Clothing: Leather jackets, ripped denim, motorcycles boots, bandanas, tattoos, aviator sunglasses.

Personality: Rough-around-the-edges, self-sufficient, rebellious.

Signature Details: Leather patches, distressed patches, studs; motorcycle accessories (gloves, belts, chains); slicked-back hair.

- SHARP (Skinhead Against Racial Prejudice)

Look/Clothing: Shaved head, combat boots, bomber jackets, suspenders, high-waisted pants, minimalist tattoos (e.g., skulls, symbols of working-class pride).

Personality: Confident, defiant, unapologetically independent. Skinhead culture (non-political) often represents solidarity, strength, and working-class roots.

Signature Details: A minimalist yet powerful look. Solid color palettes (black, navy, red). A focused, no-nonsense attitude and silent confidence.

- Street Fighter/Boxer

Look/Clothing: Tight tank tops, sweatpants or cargo shorts, athletic sneakers, gloves, a hoodie or jacket tied around the waist.

Personality: Disciplined, focused, powerful, not looking for trouble but ready for it. This archetype is all about building physical strength, resilience, and most importantly: always be emotionally controlled and mature. Fighters aren't bratty children.

Signature Details: Boxing wraps or wrist tape. A fighter’s stance (shoulders back, fists clenched). Scarred hands or knuckles as evidence of past battles.

- Viking/Axe-Wielder

Look/Clothing: For a more acceptable and modern look, opt for clothes made of thick, durable fabrics — wool, twill, etc; long/bushy beards, with accessories accordingly, or stubble; long, styled hair, and if you don't want hair, opt for a shaved head with scalp tattoos.

Personality: Calm, controlled, protective. A real Viking knows when to use his strength properly, without unnecessary waste. Abandon the primal and raw side of things.

Signature Details: Warrior tattoos or Nordic symbols, broad (talk or not) physiques, prioritizing strength and functionality over aesthetics; scars that speak of experience.

- Military/Spec Ops

Look/Clothing: Camouflage, tactical gear (vests, gloves), combat boots, and military-style jackets with patches. For a more casual, everyday look, try military pallete (khaki, sand, brown, green, gray, blue;) compression shirt, henleys, polo shirts, bomber jackets, camouflage pants, cargo pants, chinos, bermuda shorts, belts with large plaques, massive watches, aviator glasses, decorative shoulder straps and themed decor. Keep everything simple, stylish and practical.

Personality: Calculated, disciplined, no time for fluff. Military style is about precision, strength, and resilience, with a quiet but dangerous aura.

Signature Details:A straight posture, calm yet alert demeanor. Efficiency in movement, no wasted gestures. Quiet confidence and assertiviness.

If you want to be the LIFE OF THE PARTY, try:

- Jock

Look/Clothing: Athletic wear, varsity jackets, fitted t-shirts, sports caps, sneakers, and sometimes a wristband or watch with a sleek design.

Personality: Confident, fun-loving, competitive, and outgoing. It's all about being the natural leader, constantly encouraging everyone around them to have fun, compete, and win; and have communication skills to de-escalate if things get out of hand, without running away.

Signature Details: A wide smile, always ready to throw out a friendly joke or challenge. A swagger or fluid movement that shows confidence and ease. Engaging others through playful teasing or inviting participation in games. Party-ready, always including everyone, no matter what those people are like.

- Don Juan

Look/Clothing:Tailored suits or casual high-end clothing (think button-ups, polished shoes, perfectly groomed hair).

Personality: Charismatic, charming, with a magnetic presence. This person draws people in with a mix of humor, flirtation, and smooth conversation, always making others feel seen and important.

Signature Details: Constant eye contact and subtle, suggestive smiles. Perfectly timed compliments or witty remarks. A confident walk that seems to say, “Everyone's attention is mine when I want it.” Always making others feel like they're the most important person in the room.

- Party Animal

Look/Clothing: Bright colors, funky patterns, oversized shirts, chunky accessories, bold sunglasses, and a messy but controlled look (think party-ready outfits with a carefree vibe).

Personality: Outgoing, fearless, always the one to spark up a conversation or start a dance. He knows how to have fun and make sure everyone else is having the time of their lives, too.

Signature Details: Bouncing from group to group, always with a drink in hand and a big laugh. Dominates the dance floor or any party game, never backing down from a challenge. Non-stop energy, never letting the vibe die down. Always finds a way to get people involved, creating a contagious atmosphere of joy.

- Class Clown

Look/Clothing: Casual streetwear or something comfortable (like graphic tees, hoodies, and sneakers) with a mischievous sparkle in the eyes.

Personality: Funny, light-hearted, always cracking jokes. He's the one who lightens the mood with humor and antics, knowing how to make people laugh even in serious situations.

Signature Details: Always has a sarcastic or playful remark ready. Body language that’s exaggerated for comic effect—big gestures, playful mockery. A laugh that's infectious and makes everyone else around them want to laugh. Constantly making people feel like they’re in on the joke.

- Social Butterfly

Look/Clothing: Fashion-forward, tailored for attention but not too flashy—polished casuals like well-fitted jackets, jeans, stylish boots, and accessories.

Personality: Outgoing, diplomatic, and masterful in managing social dynamics. He's never alone for long, always weaving between groups and making connections wherever they go.

Signature Details: Always has a kind word for everyone, making them feel like they belong. Keeps the energy flowing by introducing people to each other, facilitating conversations. A genuine interest in others, always making people feel like they’re the center of attention. Constantly surrounded by people, with a natural ability to keep things light and engaging.

If you want to look HELPFUL/DEPENDABLE, try:

- Caregiver

Look/Clothing: Comfortable, functional clothing—practical jeans, shirts, and sturdy shoes. They might wear a simple, clean jacket or vest, with a few practical accessories (e.g., a utility belt or a watch).

Personality: Compassionate, nurturing, and always ready to lend a hand. The Caregiver is the archetype that people depend on for support, whether it’s emotional, physical, or practical. They are the ones you turn to when you're in need of reassurance or help with a task.

Signature Details: Always the first to offer help, whether it’s with a personal issue or a task that needs doing. Active listening, making others feel heard and supported. Steady and calm in stressful situations, able to offer practical solutions and advice. Displays an innate desire to care for others, often putting others' needs before their own.

- Protector

Look/Clothing: Functional and tactical—often dressed in simple yet sturdy clothing, like cargo pants, boots, and a jacket or vest with multiple pockets. Practical, easy-to-move-in clothing that suggests readiness.

Personality: Loyal, strong, and reliable. He's the one who stands by their friends and loved ones, offering support and taking action when others need it most. They are dependable, steady, and often the go-to person in crisis. Basically, a White Knight.

Signature Details: Always looking out for others, constantly aware of the well-being of those around them. Willing to step up to ensure safety, security, and comfort. Consistently reliable, rarely backing down or abandoning someone who needs them. Offers protection—whether physical, emotional, or mental—in a way that makes others feel secure and valued. A little more blatant than the Caregiver.

- Mentor

Look/Clothing: Professional, often dressed in smart casual clothing—clean-cut shirts, blazers, or simple sweaters paired with jeans or trousers. Looks polished, but not flashy.

Personality: Wise, experienced, and patient. He helps others grow by sharing their knowledge and skills, offering support, and always being there to guide when needed. They are the steady hand that helps others navigate challenges.

Signature Details: Offers advice and wisdom without imposing it on others, always leading by example. Patient and calm, with a deep understanding of people’s needs and goals. Takes time to explain and break down concepts to others, ensuring they fully understand. Empathetic and consistently available to offer encouragement and practical guidance.

- Fixer

Look/Clothing: Practical and no-nonsense clothing—often in work-ready clothes like jeans, flannel shirts, or basic t-shirts. They may carry tools or gadgets to assist in solving problems on the fly.

Personality: Problem-solver, pragmatic, and reliable. He's always there when something needs to be fixed, whether it’s a broken system, a personal issue, or a practical problem. They have the ability to think on their feet and find solutions.

Signature Details: Quick to assess problems and offer tangible solutions, even in stressful situations. The “go-to” person for solving practical issues—whether it’s fixing something around the house or solving a work-related challenge. Steady and dependable under pressure, offering calm and composed help when things break down. Willing to dive into a problem and fix it without hesitation, often working behind the scenes to keep things running smoothly.

- Listener

Look/Clothing: Casual yet intentional clothing—comfortable, low-maintenance outfits like hoodies, jeans, and sneakers, with an approachable, warm appearance.

Personality: Compassionate, understanding, and always present. He's dependable in an emotional sense—they’re the person people turn to when they need someone to talk to, without judgment or interruption.

Signature Details: Always present when someone needs to talk, offering an empathetic ear. Non-judgmental and patient, creating a safe space for others to share their thoughts and feelings. Extremely reliable in emotional support, providing comfort and understanding without pushing advice. Often a trusted confidant who knows how to offer exactly the kind of support someone needs.

All of these archetypes, regardless of what their personalities are like, provide in their own ways. Be it security, self-improvement, or entertainment. And that's where you need to get to: provide. Bring to the table. Create.

So, always take the initiative when you want something. Don't wait for someone else to do it for you.

[oneofstarkskids]

saturn

pairings: bucky barnes x reader

summary: bucky just likes to spoil his doll. you shouldn't expect any less on date night

genre: do you even have to ask anymore? ofc it's fluff

*not my gif*

it was your favorite night of the week. date night. you and bucky promised to spend one night a week just for yourselves. no missions, no avengers, just the two of you.

you would switch off planning every other week. today it was bucky's turn, and he always had the most romantic ideas.

you always loved spending time with bucky, but you especially needed it today. you felt inexplicably exhausted and wanted nothing more than sweet kisses and soft whispers from your blue eyed soldier.

his hands were resting on your hips and he had this teasing grin that told you he was up to something. "sam's letting us borrow his truck and it's already packed up."

you arched a brow, "how long are we going to be gone?" he kisses your forehead, "just for the night. don't worry, doll. i've got everything under control."

his words melted your heart and a smile spread across your lips instantly. "you can't tell me anything? not even an itty bitty clue?" you asked with a pout.

he gave you a stern look, "no, because that would ruin the surprise."

you groaned, but bucky just wrapped you in his arms and kissed all over your face, "you can wait a couple hours. trust me, it'll be worth it."

you grinned and shook your head, but you believed him.

he set you down carefully, "now go pack an overnight, so we can get out of here." you laughed and started walking away, but jumped as you felt bucky slap your ass. you turned around and shot him a glare.

the drive down was long and unfamiliar. you practically sighed in relief when bucky finally stopped the vehicle and turned off the engine.

you stepped out to stretch your legs and look around, but there was nothing to see. nothing but miles of fields and distant trees.

"hey, bucky?" you shouted to him as he got out too.

"yeah?" he shouted back, digging in the cargo bed for something.

"did you drag me out here to murder me?" you joke bluntly.

you turn to meet his disappointed scowl. "really?" he asks as you walk towards him.

you laugh, "i'm kidding! but seriously, what are we doing all the way out here?

bucky starts unfolding blankets and making a pallet in the back of the truck, "well, ever since we watched the one movie about the girl who falls in love with the boy but doesn't tell him she's dying, you haven't stopped talking about how romantic star-gazing is. so..."

he pulls out a large telescope and has the cutest grin on his face. you can hardly contain your excitement, "bucky! that's so sweet!" he gently sets the device down before you run into his arms.

"anything for you, doll face," he chuckles and places a kiss on your temple.

you help him finish setting the scene before laying in his arms and talking for a couple of hours. and of course, he brought snacks. could he be anymore perfect?

once it finally gets dark enough for you to see the stars, you look up in awe. you'd lost complete track of time with bucky. he stands up in the bed of the truck and reaches for your hand to lift you to your feet.

bucky brings you close and positions the telescope just right for you. he stands right up against you as you gaze at the sparkling sky. every now and then you'll ask him about a constellation and he'll look at this book that he brought along to give you the answers.

one could say it was the perfect date, but what really made it perfect was him.

a/n: i low key rushed the ending but its fiiiine. it's 4 am, give me a break.

[fearfulfertility]

CLASSIFIED OPERATION SUMMARY

DRC, Planning & Evaluation Office, Logistics & Infrastructure Division

Date Initiated: [REDACTED]

From: Assistant Director [REDACTED], Logistics & Infrastructure Division

To: Director [REDACTED]

Subject: Operation Overdue

Background

Paternity Compound 110 exceeded maximum capacity due to an influx of high-multiparity surrogates and operational delays due to the ongoing [REDACTED] in the Philadelphia metropolitan area. Overcrowding led to strained medical staff and diminished care standards.

Operation Overdue was launched to mitigate these risks. It was a cross-country air transport initiative intended to distribute surrogates to Paternity Compound 133 in Portland, far below occupancy capacity. This initiative required covert execution to avoid public attention and ensure all surrogates reached their destination intact.

Paternity Compound 110 (Philadelphia)

Paternity Compound 110 is an aging and overcrowded facility located in a repurposed commercial structure in Philadelphia. Designed to house a maximum of [REDACTED] surrogates, it currently holds over [REDACTED] (20% over capacity), leading to severe resource strain and cramped conditions. Despite its deteriorating infrastructure, the compound remains operational due to its proximity to a high-fertility urban population, ensuring a steady influx of conscripts.

Paternity Compound 133 (Portland)

Paternity Compound 133 is a modern, state-of-the-art facility in a remote area outside Portland. It is designed to accommodate up to 1,000 surrogates and boasts cutting-edge medical technology and advanced monitoring systems. However, its location in a region with a lower urban population has led to concerns about underutilization, with only a sporadic influx of conscripts to fill its capacity. 

Transport Details

Stage 1: Ground Transfer 

Surrogates were loaded into climate-controlled transport vehicles with hydraulic lifts to accommodate limited mobility.

Vehicles were disguised as commercial cargo containers to minimize civilian interference.

Stage 2: Cross-Country Airlift

[REDACTED] cargo planes were requisitioned from [REDACTED] for the operation. Each aircraft was retrofitted with cushioned flat beds, oxygen units, and onboard medical stations.

Medical personnel monitored surrogates for complications, administering sedatives to those exhibiting distress or restlessness.

“Flying cargo is one thing. Flying this cargo? Another beast entirely. I could hear the medical staff scrambling in the back every time we hit turbulence. It wasn’t until we touched down that I realized how close we came to disaster.” - [REDACTED], Pilot

Stage 3: Arrival & Integration at Compound 133

Surrogates were offloaded and delivered to their assigned wards, where medical personnel assessed their condition.

Immediate hormonal stabilizers were administered to counteract the physical strain caused by altitude changes and prolonged immobility.

Mobility & Transport Constraints

Issue

Many surrogates, especially those late term (+25 days), were unable to walk or sit upright due to the size and weight of their pregnancies. The average weight of surrogates and supporting equipment was over [REDACTED] lbs, +300 lbs average surrogate weight, 489 lbs max weight transported.

Solution

Specialized equipment, such as reinforced stretchers, forklifts for heavier surrogates, and bariatric wheelchairs, was employed to move surrogates from Compound 110 onto the planes. Stretchers were secured in a palletized format inside the aircraft to maximize space.

“The forklift crew had a hell of a time loading the bigger ones. You’d think they were moving industrial machinery, not people. One was so massive they had to be rolled onto the stretcher like a beached whale. It wasn’t pretty.” - Anonymous Ground Technician

Issue

While the standard [REDACTED]-type plane has a cargo capacity of approximately [REDACTED] lbs and an internal volume of [REDACTED] cubic feet, the vehicles needed retrofitting to accommodate the unique needs of heavily pregnant surrogates. This included safety measures for turbulence and environmental controls to maintain appropriate temperature and pressure levels.

Solution

The [REDACTED]-class plane could transport [REDACTED] surrogates per flight with DRC modifications. 

Planes were equipped with mobile dividers so that if surrogates suffered complications, they could be rapidly isolated from view for treatment or birth. Climate control systems were enhanced to maintain a stable environment and portable restroom facilities were added for staff use (surrogates were catheterized to avoid the need for movement).

“They told me this was for my own good, but I can barely breathe in here. Every bump in the air made it feel like my belly was going to burst. I just want this to end—I don’t care where we’re going.” - Surrogate S110-523-Q

Key Incidents

Mid-Transport Medical Emergency

During the flight, Surrogate S110-399-Q, pregnant with septendecuplets (17), began exhibiting severe respiratory distress. Initial symptoms included difficulty breathing, chest tightness, and visible [REDACTED]. Onboard medical personnel swiftly administered oxygen and sedatives to stabilize, but within minutes, signs of early labor emerged, prompting the emergency medical team to prepare for an in-flight delivery.

The medical team worked tirelessly to assist the surrogate as he delivered all 17 fetuses before arrival in Portland. Each newborn was immediately evaluated for viability and determined to be stable. As expected, the surrogate's vital signs rapidly declined following the final birth, and he succumbed to [REDACTED] failure. 

"I’ve never seen anyone that big in my life. I couldn’t stop staring. His belly was so massive it looked like it was about to split open. When he started struggling to breathe, the medical staff was all over him, but the sounds he made… it was like he was suffocating under his own weight..." - Surrogate S110-403-I, Observed Situation

Public Visibility Concerns

Several bystanders filmed the convoy and uploaded clips online during the ground transfer stage. DRC Cyber Security immediately intervened, scrubbing social media platforms and issuing cease-and-desist orders to content creators.

Surrogate Stuck in Chair

One surrogate, pregnant with octodecuplets (18), experienced significant growth during the flight, reportedly due to hormonal surges and fluid retention. Upon landing, the crew discovered that the surrogate had become physically wedged in his reinforced seat due to his expanded abdomen and swollen extremities. Extraction required the partial disassembly of the seat and the use of specialized equipment to free him. 

“I wasn’t even surprised anymore. His belly was literally spilling over the armrests. That’s when you realize these missions aren’t just logistical—they’re borderline impossible.” - Anonymous Transport Specialist

Behavioral Issues

Three surrogates attempted to resist boarding at Paternity Compound 110, citing fears about the unknown destination and poor treatment. They were sedated on-site and securely transported.

Post-Operation Notes

Total Surrogates Transported: [REDACTED]

Surrogates Expired En Route: [REDACTED]

Fetuses Delivered During Operation: [REDACTED]

While operational challenges were anticipated, the results align with DRC efficiency standards. The use of modified cargo planes and specialized medical protocols ensured the safe delivery of most surrogates despite several complications during transit.

Additional safeguards are required to manage the physical strain of long-term pregnancy during extended transport. Enhancing hormonal regulation pre-flight may mitigate extreme growth events.

Stronger sedation measures, particularly during boarding, will reduce incidents of resistance and streamline pre-departure logistics.

Transport plans must minimize exposure to the public. Future operations should prioritize routes and timing to limit interaction with civilian populations.

Conclusion

Operation Overdue underscores the complexities of large-scale surrogate relocation efforts and demonstrates the DRC’s capacity to execute such operations precisely and adaptively. Lessons learned during this mission will inform future strategies, ensuring the continued success of critical population sustainability initiatives.

----------------

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

[vodika-vibes]

Hello Vod'ika, congrats for your followers!!

If possible (in advance sorry for my English) I wanted to ask you a Crosshair x Jedi!Reader (angst with happy ending from Cross view?) in a soulmate au (you can't hurt your soulmate kind of au) where chipped!Crosshair supposelly killed reader (then much much later he founds her again, maybe fallen-scarred or something but not heartshoted dead) (they where crushing each other but tightliped/proud/nothing officially stated)

Noble Maiden Fair

Summary: She was his. And He was hers. They were both just too proud to admit it, even to each other. When the order came out, Crosshair shot her. A blaster blot between her eyes. She fell. She died. Crosshair handled the guilt by staying on the move, by not thinking about it, about her. And then he murders an Imperial Officer and his only option is to run, not to his brothers, who abandoned him, but somewhere else.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x Reader

Word Count: 1849

Prompt: Soulmate AU - Soulmates can't hurt each other

Warnings: Some angst

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: Thanks! And thank you for your request! I've been bouncing between ideas on this one, and I finally had one that I liked, so I hope you like it too!

“Welcome!” Crosshair frowns at the large Trandoshan man standing just off the landing bay, “It’s been quite some time since we’ve gotten a visitor! Are you the person bringing the seed delivery?”

“Aa, that’s me,” Crosshair replies as he straightens from where he’s checking that his cargo is still in one piece. Honestly, the demotion from soldier to delivery boy annoys him to no end, but it’s better than the alternative. “You’d be the mayor then?”

“Oh, no. Not me.” The Trandoshan says with a laugh, “We’re a bit too small of a community for someone like that. I’m Grrog.”

“I…see.” He doesn’t, not really. But NatBorns have always been weird, “Anyway, where do you want the stuff?”

Grrog gestures to a flat cart near the door, “We’re going to have to make a couple of trips! I hope you’re not on a time crunch.”

Crosshair sighs, “You don’t have any droids?”

“Oh no! Awful things, droids.”

“Of course.” He rips off his work gloves and throws them inside the ship, “I guess we’d better get to work then.”

The Trandoshan looks thrilled and almost bounces over one of the massive pallets of seeds. “Look at it all! Ooh, the farmers will be thrilled!”

“I don’t just have crop seeds. There are also some seedlings for fruit trees. They’re still inside since they’re a bit more delicate.” Crosshair replies as he walks over to the cart and moves it closer to the pallet.

“Perfect! There’s always room for more seedlings!”

“You really are all about this life, aren’t you?” He asks. 

“Oh, yeah. Most of my people are hunters, but, well,” Grrog gestures to himself, and his wide girth, “I’m not made for hunting.” He jokes, “Fruits and Veggies don’t run away at least.”

“Well, there is that.”

“We have a population of a couple hundred people, from all walks of life. We don’t get many new people, though.” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. People don’t want to be farmers, y’know.” Grrog hoists a couple of bags over to the cart, and then straightens with a groan, “The AgriCorps used to run everything here, but they were wiped out to the last.”

“That right?”

“They were Jedi, you know.” He shakes his head, “Could work miracles with dying planets. Such a shame.”

Crosshair doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. 

But, for half a second, he sees her. He sees her smile and the way her eyes crinkle when she’s happy. He hears her laugh; loud and bright and unashamed. 

His jaw clenches, and he roughly shoves the memory of her away. He doesn’t want to remember her…or the look of confused disbelief when he shot her. Or the way his name fell from her lips as she fell into the ravine.

Still, even though he doesn’t want to remember, it doesn’t make the ache in his chest go away. Or the guilt that threatens to strangle him. 

“You alright?”

Crosshair is ripped from his guilt at the concern in Grrog’s voice, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

He nods, “Sometimes when I think about the Jedi, the grief threatens to overwhelm me too.” He confides, “You’re not alone there, friend.”

“I’m fine.” Crosshair repeats, “Where am I taking this cart?”

Grrog gazes at him thoughtfully, “It took me a long time to come to terms with the fact that it’s okay to not be okay, friend.”

Crosshair sighs, “You are incredibly nosy.”

“My wife says that it’s my best feature.”

“I don’t like talking about it. Where am I bringing the cart?” Crosshair bites out.

“Alright, alright. There’s a general store. It’s called General Store.” Grrog says, “The employees there know what to do when you deliver it.”

Crosshair stares at him blankly.

“Ah, right! You’ll go through the spaceport, follow the road until you reach the fountain, and then turn left. The General Store is the first shop on the right. If you see the greenhouses, you’ve gone too far.”

“Alright.” Crosshair pushes the cart through the spaceport, easily side-stepping people. Not that there are many people for him to side-step. Honestly, he’s surprised that this place is big enough to have a spaceport. 

But, then again, they probably sell the excess fruit and vegetables to other planets. 

He pushes the carts through the open doors and stops.

The planet is very green. He should have expected it, it is a farming planet after all. But, for some reason, he wasn’t expecting it to be this green.

For a moment, time slips, and he can hear his kitten’s voice.

“I think, after the war, I’d like to retire.” His kitten says as she absently braids a strand of her hair, her voice soft and thoughtful, little more than a murmur to not wake his brothers.

“Retire?” Crosshair asks, his voice just as quiet, “And what does a Jedi do when they retire?”

She laughs, dropping her braid and resting her chin on the palm of her hand, her eyes glitter with an emotion that Crosshair doesn’t dare name, because naming it would mean that he has to acknowledge it.

“Maybe I’ll become a farmer, move someplace green and alive.”

“You’ll be bored in a week.”

“I think we deserve a little boredom, don’t you?” Her smile is warm and soft, and Crosshair thinks, for a moment, that he would burn the galaxy if it meant that she’d never stop looking at him like that.

With great difficulty, he pushes the memory away.

As much as he’d give anything to go back to that night, with her smiling at him like he hung the stars in the sky for her and her alone. He can’t. 

His kitten is dead.

He killed her.

And the Galaxy is a much darker, and lonelier, place for her absence. 

Crosshair heaves out a sigh and grabs the cart again. He’s not going to stay here. He can’t stay here. All he has to do is deliver the seeds and seedlings, and then he can go somewhere else.

Maybe he’ll move to a desert planet. No green at all.

Not that it’ll help. After all, it won’t change anything. 

He still killed his soulmate.

There’s no coming back from that.

Several hours later, all of the seeds and seedlings are off of his ship, and Crosshair is filling out the last of the paperwork with Grrog. Not to mention, adding some additional fees since he had to unload the ship on his own.

“You sure you don’t want to stay? This place is a lot more welcoming than the rest of the Galaxy.” Grrog offers with a grin.

“I’m sure.”

“You might like farming.”

“I can just about promise you that I won’t.” Crosshair fills the last bit of information on the datapad and then hands it to Grrog, “This looks right?”

“Hm…yep. All of the information is here.” Grrog replies as he scrolls down the information, “Though some of the counts are off, I think. Let me get a count.”

Crosshair rolls his eyes and leans back in the chair, “As you like.”

There’s the sound of a bell behind him as the door to the General Store opens. Grrog beams at the person who just entered, “There you are! We go the seedling shipment in!”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

A voice, soft and female, and so achingly familiar that Crosshair drops the toothpick he’s about to put in his mouth. His head snaps around and he stares, stunned, at the woman standing in the door.

It’s her.

Her hair is longer, braided over her shoulder, and she’s wearing more casual clothes than he’s ever seen her wearing before. 

But it’s still her, his Kitten.

She turns her head slightly and catches sight of him. Her eyes widen, likely just as surprised as he is. Though she doesn’t look afraid, she mostly just looks confused to see him there.

With seeds.

Which, okay, that’s valid.

Grrog vanishes into the back of the shop, and she hesitates, before she turns and walks over to him. 

“Crosshair,” Her voice is soft, and her eyes scan his face. “This is new,” Her fingers, still slightly calloused from years of lightsaber use, brush against the scar on his temple.

He stands and he lightly grips her chin to tilt her head back, “I shot you.” He breathes out.

She meets his gaze evenly, “Yes.”

“You don’t even have a scar.”

She hesitates for a moment, “I figured out what our soul bond is.” She finally says.

Crosshair is silent for a moment, “We can’t hurt each other.”

“No, we can’t.”

He releases her chin, “That’s convenient for us, I suppose.”

“I…” She pauses and then reaches up and presses both of her hands against his cheeks, “We didn’t talk about it. About us. And I know it’s because you were ashamed or—”

“Proud. Not ashamed.” Crosshair corrects, “I was too proud to admit what everyone else already knew. Proud and…a little afraid.”

“Why would you be afraid, Cross?”

“Because. You were so good, Kitten.” He brings his hands to cup her face, “You’re so good and I know you deserve better than me. You always have. Someone as good as you are.”

“I don’t think that’s your choice to make.” She says slowly, thoughtfully. “Not when I’ve been choosing you since the first time we met.”

Crosshair sighs, “You should hate me. I tried to kill you.”

“You didn’t, though.”

Slowly he leans in and bumps his forehead against hers. Crosshair can feel her breath against his face, warm and alive in a way that he never thought that he would feel again.

“I’m sorry.” He says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please—”

“There is nothing to forgive.” Her voice is soft, yet there’s steel underlying her words, “You did nothing wrong. You and your brothers are as much victims of this war as we were.”

“They made us as weapons,” Crosshair says, his voice thick with grief that he’s never had the chance to put into words, “They made us to be weapons against the Jedi.”

“That’s not your fault.” She whispers, “It’s not your fault, and I can’t think of a single Jedi who would blame you for it. Not when they learned the truth.”

Crosshair shudders, and his forehead falls to her shoulder. 

Gentle arms slide around him and brush through his hair. “Come home with me, Crosshair.” Her offer is soft and warm and so, very, tempting. 

Nothing would make him happier than following her home and making her home. But he can’t put her in danger. He can’t.

“The Empire—”

“—will hunt me whether you’re here or not.” She interrupts, “Don’t leave me again, Crosshair. Please?”

Crosshair melts on the spot, “You don’t play fair, Kitten.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t reply. There’s nothing for him to say. So, instead, he pulls her into a kiss. A kiss that’s been a long time coming. It feels like a missing piece of his soul snaps into place, and his arms slide protectively around her.

He’s never going to let her go again. Ever.

[rikustarlight]

I started fully re-designing the Nejiten kids. YEARS ago (like 10 years ago) I made designs that didn’t make much sense. Even the names were a bit out there. But, I wanted to try again and this time take more effort into pulling character traits from both Neji and Tenten into their kids; appearance and behavior wise.

So, the twins are a modernized alternative to Neji’s design. I swapped the over pulled jacket for a side zipper and a cowl neck. Under the jacket, there is a black spandex tech top to give a nod to the green pander tech suit Lee wears. Their hair is also tied back in the low pony tail, however with their bangs out. In order to tell the twins apart (more for myself LOL) I changed the location of the bandages, just as Neji would wrap on side of his body as a gennin.

Meiten’s outfit is a modern crop and high waisted cargo pants in brown. I think I will change the coloring to the top to red and white to match Tenten and give a nod to her current/Shippuuden look. She wears pink elbow pads as well and sandals instead of shinobi gear. These designs would be about two or three years before the Boruto gang became gennin. Meiten is the same year as her cousin Boruto, and her brothers have been active gennin already.

These are sketches of fully flushed out designs for Boruto Next gen. If you read my head cannons for Neji and Tenten’s kids, you’d see that the twins would be chunnin around this time as their cousin Boruto started running a muck. Their styles are heavily inspired by Chinese street fashion and mixed with some Neji and Tenten touches. I wanted their color palletes to be simple and opposite. The idea of these two wearing white didn’t fit well in my mind so I let it as red and black. I also changed the narrative to where Nozomi is on Team Lee and Hizashi is on Team Inuzuka. Both Lee and Kiba had to deal with Hyuga’s on their team growing up, might as well keep it pushing lol

I also loved the idea of Meiten and Metal being super close friends/ “cousins” (since they address Lee as “Uncle”). If it were up to me, they would’ve made the next gen Team Gai. Keeping with Tenten’s gennin color combo, I also modernized Meiten’s outfit to high waisted shorts. I was debating on giving her weights as well for her wrists, but I’ll keep thinking about it.

For present time Naruto/ Boruto Next gen, Tenten’s design does not change she’s perfect in my eyes, however, I did think of a design for Neji;

[crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf]

"That's nice, but I think I need more muscle,"

Wrecker x F!Reader One Shot

Summary:

Its a late night and lonely shift at the loading hanger, just you and your oversized help for the evening. Upon finding out the boys might be breaking contact with Cid, it only takes a flash of puppy dog eyes to convince you to blow off some steam.

WC: 3831 - Read on Ao3

*this is just my general "mature rating" specifics:

Content Warning:

Smut. Brief Angst. Wrecker is loaded. Oral (f receiving), fingering, Mirror sex, Thigh use, Cum cover, brief alcohol, casual sex, Mando'a, Ice Cream. Wrecker's name is actually Wreck-her.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

“Oh, what the varp…”

You eyed the sparking frigate that chugged into your docking bay. 

“They're late.”

You spun at the gruff voice, weathered from an age of death sticks and drink, to look down at the scaly woman that sauntered in. 

Cid stood arms folded following where your eyes had been as the wrecked ship came to a stop with a shriek and a rush of steam. 

“If they weren't so cute-”

You didn't catch the rest of it, but you smirked amused as you watched her wander over to the men hopping out of the cargo doors. It didn't linger on you though, as you glanced back at the clock over the cluttered switchboard in the office. 

Late is karken right…

There was no way you were gonna offload this ship on your own and get to go home tonight. Your fingers found their way to your temples and gave them a soothing rub before you followed Cid to address the vagabonds cluttering your dock. 

They were laughing jovially as you approached, recounting their recent escapade to an amused set of claws and scales. The little girl, Omega, hopped down after them and you bristled. They brought the child with them again. You tried to smother the indignant feeling as she waved at you with her usual exuberance. 

Hunter caught your expression and raised his eyebrows. You glared back and he clapped his hand to his chest, exaggerating like he’d been struck. It was stupid and you chuckled while the one called Tech rolled his eyes. 

“Don't encourage him, he's been unhealthily drawn to dramatic antics lately and I fear he’ll start trying to make me laugh,”

Cid turned back to address you,

“My usual hangar, the account should be up to date.”

She turned to go and the boys turned to follow.

“Um, excuse me!”

They turned back. 

“Do you know what time it is? Everyone else has gone home for the day.”

Cid made a face like it wasn't her problem, that wasn't gonna fly with you though. 

“If you want this done tonight, someones gonna have to stay and help,”

Omega piped up,

“I can help,”

“That's nice, but I think I need more muscle, sweetie…”

There was silence, the boys looking between themselves, obviously wanting to touch base with Cid to get going again. 

“I'll stay behind.”

You jumped at the deep, gravelly voice behind you,

“Maker! Wrecker, don't sneak up on me like that!”

“I wasn't sneakin’,”

You weren't sure why he looked so hurt, but he disappeared back into the shadows of the cargo hold and the rest of the squad shrugged and continued on their way. 

“Great… the two of us then,”

You stomped up the ramp, ready to get to work and maybe steal an hour nap before the morning crew got here. 

At least they had the sense to leave me the strong one…

Wrecker was already working as you entered the hold, casually throwing crates ten times your weight onto a hover pallet. You walked over to the load and started checking the box numbers against a dossier Cid had forwarded to your datapad. 

The two of you worked like that quietly for about an hour; You giving directions and him following obediently. 

“Take a break and get some water big guy,”

You casually swatted his hip and he jumped, hesitating but eventually going to the dispenser to fetch a cup. Leaning against a box you checked the crates that had been registered versus what was left and sighed. There was a sharp snap followed by a large clunk and you looked up to catch Wrecker tossing his gauntlets onto the discarded breast plate on the floor. He caught you staring as he unzipped the thick tan under coat to dab at the beaded sweat on his neck.

“It's hot,”

“Yeah… uh, do what you have to,”

But you were distracted, light glinting off the exposed muscle of his neck. He splashed water on his face and it dropped into the v of his chest, catching in the wispy hair that covered it. You felt your face flush and your eyes shot back to the data pad on your lap. 

I need to get out more…

You stiffened as he came up beside you, bending to lift the crate you were standing by… but he stopped, a look of irritation on his usually bright features as he took in your tense posture. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable or somethin’?”

“What? No!... No, I'm just tired… sorry, Wrecker,”

He moved the crate, stacking it onto the hover pad; stopping to roll his sleeves over his elbows. 

“It's not just tonight.”

“Hmm,”

He turned, 

“You're always like this. Quiet, but just around me… did I do something?”

“That's not true…”

“It is,”

You sank your weight back on your heel and thought about it… 

…

“Shyte… I'm sorry, Wrecker… no, you didn't do anything.”

He shifted uncomfortably.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure,”

…

“What is it then?”

You looked at him more directly, his brow was pinched and his jaw flexed subtly causing his temple to bulge in an anxious rhythm. He was tense, but still had that air of lost puppy that always made your heart pinch. 

Shyte. 

“No… Wrecker, it's not you… it's me. Sometimes I see those bright smiles on that handsome face and… I dunno, feel kind of… bad.”

You finished lamely, realizing you'd have to do better as his face slacked in confusion. 

“Bad about being such a bitter asshole all the time?... Omega talks a lot, about what you boys deal with…”

You weren't sure if any of this was helping but he wasn't stopping you. Without realizing your palms had started to sweat and you tucked them into your pants pockets. 

“Just, if you can go through what you guys do and still be so nice and sweet, well… whats that say about the rest of us… about me… and then yeah, I guess I get uncomfortable…”

“You're not an asshole.” 

You snorted,

“Thanks.”

But you had said too much and turned back to your data pad, flushing and a little grumpy. 

A shadow fell over you and you looked up to find Wrecker leaning over you.

“Uh… what's up, big guy?”

“You really think I'm handsome?”

Huh… I guess I did say that…

“Well… sure, you're a looker, Wrecker,’

You patted the chest boxing you in against the stack of crates. 

“I like big guys with scars and goofy smiles though, so consider that a biased review.”

You pushed out from under him pacing back to scan the warehouse and formulate a plan of attack. You were overshadowed again and you turned back to the tall clone looming over you raising your eyebrows in question. 

“Go out with me,”

“What?”

“Go out with me. You and me, on a date.”

You stepped back, considering his eager expression and softened. 

“Sure, why not… next time you boys are free?”

His brow pinched, confusing you,

“What about tonight?”

He countered, looking hopeful. 

“Ah…”

You glanced about the hold still mostly full of crates. 

“I’d love too, Wrecker, but we're less than halfway through and by the time we're done-”

“What about now then?”

“...now?”

“Just a quick break for a twisty treat, I'm buying… I know a stand nearby,”

You hesitated, glancing about the rig again but he persisted. 

“It'll take all night anyways… what would a little snack break cost us?”

He was leaning over you again, hitting you with sad puppy looks. 

“Besides, I'm starving’,”

You closed your eyes, exhaling sharply in amusement before meeting his gaze. Without much thought you reached up to cup his cheek, stroking his pouty lip lightly with your thumb. 

“Sure, what the varp…”

~~~

You perched on the back of a stone bench watching the tall clone navigate his way back to you from a crowded stall. It sat in the middle of an alcove of one of the many slums adjacent to the shipping district. It was a nice corner of the community; the laundry hanging from lines all the way up the circular thoroughfare added a colorful motif against the bare bulb strands haphazardly hanging about. 

“Hope you like berries,”

A cold cone was popped into your hand, white whipped treat piled high and topped with a syrupy reduction of local berries. It looked wonderful, and far too fancy for this corner of the world. You darted your tongue out to catch a drip from the already melting desert while Wrecker dropped onto the bench seat by your legs, bouncing you slightly. 

“Mm, it's good!”

“I know, it's the best I've found down here…”

“How'd you find it?”

You had started to work at the cone with more enthusiasm. It had been forever since you treated yourself and you made a resolution to get out more often again. 

“Omega found it actually… kids seem to have a nose for this kind of thing, it's been awesome!”

You made a note to thank Omega, taking another lick of the sweet berry syrup. 

“I won't lie, I worry about that girl, Wrecker…”

His face fell for a second, and he focused on his own desert before finally,

“It's not lost on us… that this isn't the kind of life she should have,”

You nodded solemnly, regretting bringing the mood down.

“We're not gonna bring her here anymore.”

“You found somewhere for her to stay while you work?”

That uncharacteristic pinch to his brow again.

Oh,

“None of you are coming back, huh?”

“Not if we can help it…”

You remembered the antsy way Hunter and Tech were hurrying to wrap up with Cid. It must be true… and you sighed. You were gonna miss the odd band of clones. Especially- now that you thought about it,

“Is that why you stayed behind tonight? Clearing things up with me?”

…

“Yeah… I don't know, I thought I might've upset you and I… It didn't feel right, leaving for good without setting it straight,”

“So tonight's it then?”

“...yeah,”

You sighed, then swore as you noticed the melting creme drip down the back of your hand. You let out a small whine as it got between your fingers, already making you feel sticky. You reached for a napkin, noticing Wrecker had already finished his cone and was eyeing your movements as you made to wipe the syrupy mess away. 

You struggled, licking the melting side as you switched the cone to your other hand… but now that was the one holding the napkin and-

Without much warning Wrecker snatched your wrist. 

“It's best not to waste it!”

He licked your hand and your breath caught in your throat, eyes snapping to the peevish expression coloring his scarred features. His wide tongue slid between your fingers to get at the sweet creme and he pulled your hand closer, finishing by sucking at the soft, webbed flesh between your pointer and middle digits; he flicked his eyes to yours with a wink as he did so and your thighs clamped shut with a sudden rush of heat.  

It's best not to waste it…

You felt flames crawl over your face as you became suddenly aware of how crowded and public the little plaza was. By Kark, there were younglings present…

“I think…”

He planted little kisses to the back of your hand, up your forearm.

“... We should get back to the hangar… fast.”

You felt him smile against your skin before you were forcefully pulled up from the bench. 

~~~

Your back hit your office door with another hard thump and you pulled your already swollen lips away from his hungry kissing,

“Wait, I need to unlock it…”

It had taken longer to get back from the snack stand than to get there and you weren't sure you hadn't left a few you-sized dents in the side streets on the way. Your jumpsuit was already unbuttoned down to the waist and you're sure the buttons were left with the dents. Even with his obvious exercise of control the man was strong and your legs wobbled as he set you down by the keypad. 

You impatiently punched the code in and the door swished open. 

His hands found your hips again, dragging you into the small office and lifting you to sit on the desk. Flimsi crinkled under your ass as you rocked from the force of his lips finding yours, pulling your thighs to grind against you. You gasped as the bulge you felt fighting the fabric of his trousers. 

“Holy Maker…”

He chuckled at your muttered oath,

“How'd you think I got the name?”

You squinted quizzically up at his sloppy grin,

“That can't be why…”

“Nah… but that's what I told the GAR”

You snickered, gasping when he brought your attention back to the sizable challenge pressing between your legs with a quick hump, shaking the desk and your resolve. He leaned in kissing you, softer than before, mouth moving more carefully to feel the shape of yours sucking slowly on your bottom lip. 

“We don' have'ta go that far… but I could make it good for you…”

You tilted your head to look down again, tentatively reaching to feel the taught fabric, trying to gauge the actual size of him. The small groan that rumbled through him as you stroked his hardened cock settled things. 

“Do what you have to, Wrecker.”

He grinned, shoving his thumbs into the open neckline of your jumper to slip it from your shoulders. An arm wrapped around your waist and he gave your body a little hop as he tugged the gathered fabric past your ass. He assessed the boots and the loose legs of the jumper and decided to pull the clothes over your shoes, leaving you in your scruffy work boots and practical underthings. 

He kissed back up your thigh, tugging at the waist band of your panties with his teeth before those too were yanked down with a cascade of flimsi. 

You pulled the bra off as he looked between your legs, his tongue darted over his lips and he hesitated, coming back up to kiss you more; hands roaming up your hips to grab at your exposed breasts. 

You were tugging at the zipper of his top, the sound satisfying as the coat fell open exposing his chest to you. You ran your fingers over the map of muscle, tight abs and bulging pectorals littered with healed burns and cuts. He sighed at your touch, leaning into you so you could feel his skin pressed to yours. 

You kissed him again, slipping your tongue between his lips to deepen the need growing between you. Your fingers scratched into chest hair, a gentle, circular motion that brushed the soft strands and sent a wave of ease through him as the coat slipped off his arms. Then you were held to him, thick arms pressing you into his broad chest. 

You felt his hands wandering, strong fingers finding their way between your legs. He groaned against your lips as he felt how slick you were for him, a small wet spot forming on the desk from the heat of your arousal. 

He wasn't quite satisfied apparently, breaking the kiss to gently lay you back over the desk. His mass leaning over you made you feel helpless as he pressed more kisses against your neck,

“I need you more relaxed,”

It was mumbled low against your skin and you took a deep breath, catching the tension that tried to coil from where his lips pressed against you; first your collar bone, then exploratively down forming a cool trail across your breasts and down to your navel. 

His hands followed, pressing your breasts, rolling your nipples with his palms, thumbs pressing the skin of your stomach, following the path of your belly button as he sank between your legs. 

You gasped as you felt his tongue against your folds, a long, firm lap over the spread petals. He continued at that pace, slow, even licks; pressing into your clit but not focusing on it. Wide, rough hands were slowly rubbing your thighs, massaging the muscle with his thumbs, up your belly, then back down again. He wanted you to uncoil, coaxing you into a hazy, limp state. 

Eventually a thick finger probed your entrance, carefully penetrating into you, gently pulling at the ring of muscle as he withdrew. You mewled at the ministrations, feeling him stretch you gradually, gasping as a second finger joined the first. 

He started licking harder, moving his fingers in and out of you. Ragged pants started to pour from your throat. You were getting tense despite your attempts to stay calm and relaxed. His fingers would dip into you, then spread as he withdrew them, working the muscle looser while rubbing across the nerve endings to light sparks through you. You felt warmth wash over your senses, melting into your muscles with a breathy sigh as he gently brought you to climax. 

He made a pleased noise as you grew wetter around his fingers, his deep voice rumbling through your bones. His hand left you, fingers disappearing between his lips as he sucked them clean. Then his firm grip was around your hips, rolling you carefully to lay flat on your stomach. 

Your breath caught at his palms squeezing your ass, spreading you, taking you in from this angle. You looked over your shoulder, catching his eye as he looked over you and the corner of his mouth twitched. He stood, hands making for the clasps of his pants. The breath you were holding came out in a small whine as you felt the weight of his cock fall across your rump. It was large enough to feel twitching against the small of your back and a shudder went through you. 

He moved his hips, a few test thrusts between the round cheeks of your ass before handling himself to angle to your opening. You bit your lip as you felt him pressing against your folds. Still staring over your own back you watched as he spit on his own length, smoothing the saliva over his head before adding pressure to your entrance, coaxing your lips around him. 

“You sure you want this, mesh’la?”

Good question…

You reached over the desk to yank a drawer open, pulling out a hidden bottle and taking a swig. You felt the ease seep into you and you braced yourself. 

“I'm ready Wrecker…”

He pushed, pressure increasing to something almost white hot and painful, but never going over that edge as he eased back, then pressure again. You felt yourself stretch and let out a whimper as his head finally popped past the tight muscle of your opening. More spit landed where his flesh met yours, feeling almost cold on your heated skin. Slowly, he inched inside of you; taking his time and crooning soft little praises at the gasps you made. 

You took what you could, gripping the edge of the desk, feeling full as he ground against your limit. You both groaned as he withdrew, pressing back again to pin you to the desktop. Ecstasy ripped through you as he stroked against the nerves pressed so tightly to his girth. You cried out, eyes rolling back slightly at the overwhelming sensation. The desk shook with his next thrust and he grabbed your hips as you went limp, surrendering to the current that was setting your synapses ablaze. The rattle of the desk was loud as he worked himself in and out of you leaving you dazed and dancing on a pleasurable edge. 

The room pitched and you felt yourself lifted, strong arms wrapping under your thighs to lean you back against his chest. You lifted your arms back around his neck, cradling his head behind yours. He carried you perched on his shaft to the fresher, hitting the light and door switches with his elbow. Positioning you in front of the sink he spread your legs in front of the mirror. 

“Look how good you take me,”

He was nuzzling into your neck, forearms taught as iron bars lifted you then slid you back down. You watched your stomach ripple as he pushed against your insides. He wasn't even fully sheathed and you moaned pathetically at the sight of him inside you. 

Swinging his hips and arms in unison he brought you down on him. Fast, controlled, thumping into you with rough groans against your neck. 

You let yourself get lost in the crashing sensations; his chest flexing against your back, breath hot against your nape, his voice a persistent rumble through your core. There was no room for thoughts, your brain filled with nothing but whirring electricity that became louder, more frantic with every thrust. 

“Wrecker, I- I can’t-”

Before you could finish the thought, orgasm tore through your senses. Strong hands held you tight as you writhed in his grasp, shuddering around the cock snugged firmly inside of you. 

He kissed the back of your shoulder as you came down before he withdrew from you, turning you to sit on the counter. He tugged your hips to the edge, laying his cock on your belly and closing your thighs around his shaft. Hugging your knees tight he thrust against your legs, massaging his length against your clit and inner thighs.

You limply watched him hammer against you, harder than he would've dared inside. He grunted in satisfaction as your hands found his head against your belly, teasing the ridge as it moved back and forth over you. The friction of his cock against your folds was forcing ragged gasps from your throat and you moved with him, chasing one last high. 

Your thighs flexed, clamping over him as you came again and Wrecker let out a low moan, thrusting till his hips were against your thighs. Cum shot from him in ropes to splatter against your breasts and belly. 

He leaned more into the counter, bracing himself over your glazed torso to kiss your forehead, then nose, then lips. 

“Thank you, mesh’la,”

You were trying to catch your breath,

“No problem, big guy,”

“Can I call you?”

“My coms are always open,”

…

“Where is everyone?”

A small voice drifted in through the hanger,

“Maybe they took a break,”

Hunter and Omega had come back looking for their squad mate.

“I'll check the office!”

No! Omega,

The door to the office swished open and you both tensed. 

“Ah-uh, maybe they went to get something to eat… you know how Wrecker is.”

The door swished shut, and you breathed again, silently thanking Hunter for the save. Omega prattled on unawares,

“You're probably right! There's a twisty treat stand we found near here, I bet he went there!”

“Yeah, uh, let's go check,”

The voices drifted away and warm soft kisses found your lips again. 

“Let's get you cleaned up,”

“Please.”

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Tag List: @rinksu-no-joo

[justgarb]

It is 4 days until War of the Rams and I am having a panic attack while getting ready

But I did finish this super sketchy cargo rack expansion so I can haul my tent and poles up top along with the cart to carry our stuff in. I was also able to haul Doctor Frankensinger out to the barn to sew up the hole I cut in the tent at last Faire of Champions. I made some experimental tent hardware upgrades from scrapwood and ashwood from a pallet (center shelf and rope tensioners). The eldest is fully packed, and I havent even started packing my own clothing yet