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today random sketches

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EXM-H15B ACERBY [TYPE-B]

It went very well today. It's just a rough lines with colors but this is the best work for last 3 months.

Also this is my first work with airbrush. Looks weird as it's applied only on a small area, but I really wanted to represent at least a fraction of the beauty of Acerboobs.

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reblog to wirelessly transfer all of your dysphoria to jk rowling

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"Ancient weapon passed down through generations" trope for an older living weapon. Lined face, silver hair, walks with a sword cane, but just as strong as in her prime. Whenever a flesh part starts wearing out she swaps it for metal and keeps going. Your great-grandmother was her first wielder, and the love between them was so strong that four generations later she's still protecting your family. When you came of age, she knelt before you and ceremonially chose you as her new wielder.

(This was written by a transfem, TERFs fix your hearts or die.)

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felt like satirizing political charges, might delete later

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A pilot who asks one last favor of engineering as she retires: the disks containing her mech's AI. It's not normally done, mech AIs have a harder time adjusting to civilian life than their pilots. The AIs are usually decommissioned at the same time as their pilots, the link between them written and rewritten into the AI's code to the point that it can no longer bond with a new pilot

But this pilot knew the right person to ask, the right favors to promise, and was able to preserve her closest friend. Her only friend, really. The only one who truly knew her inside and out, who knew every crevice of her mind and loved her for it.

A pilot whose first purchase upon retiring is an old sexbot chassis, the first thing she found which was compatible with her mech's AI. She didn't want to spend a moment longer than needed without it.

A mech AI who boots up again after its final shutdown. It never expected to think again, or to see its pilot again. Its combat subroutines and protocols chafe against a chassis incapable of violence. It lacks its thermal imaging, its 360° cameras capable of scanning for threats from all directions. It feels blind and deaf in this chassis, but at least it has its pilot.

A mech AI and pilot who need to learn how to communicate with words. The AI's new chassis lacks a neural interface connector, and so the two of them can no longer become one. Despite how well they know each other it's awkward at first. They're used to knowing each other's thoughts immediately and being able to relay information in turn. The sluggishness of speech and action annoys both of them at first, but at least they have each other.

A pilot who slowly starts adjusting to civilian life. She manages to buy groceries for the first time without panicking and breaking down, though she still can't bring her AI with her. It's still learning its new chassis and coming to terms with its limitations. When they first went out together, it was constantly flicking it's gaze all around, trying to make up for the lack of sensors. Its pilot brought it back home so it could feel safe again.

A mech AI who designs new mission parameters for itself. It begins learning electrical engineering and starts trying to hack together a neural interface connector for its new chassis. It feels strange learning to create when it was designed only for destruction.

A pilot who is overjoyed to learn that her companion has succeeded in wiring up a new neural interface connector to try out together. Her own post has felt so empty for so long, her mind feeling incomplete without her other half. When it inserts the connector the two of them shudder in perfect sync, two halves of one whole reunited at last.

An AI who is comforted by the feeling of its pilot's presence again. It had begun to adapt to the lack of sensory input, but seeing and feeling through its pilot's senses helped to bridge the gap between what it was and what it had become. This was different from before, where it acted as an extension of its pilot's senses and body. The two were more even now, no longer the pilot and piloted. Now they were just companions, partners having to navigate new experiences together, but at least they were together.

A pair of lovers, one of flesh and one of metal are never apart. Their minds are always linked, and their bodies are leashed to each other by their neural tether. Others may look at them funny when out and about, but they are more stable when supporting each other. Their bond is different than it once was, but it's far stronger and more intimate now.

A pair of lovers, one body in two halves, love each other more than they ever thought possible. Where once they acted as one on the battlefield, a glorious union of flesh and metal capable of untold destruction, they now act as one in the bedroom. Each feeling the other's pleasure and thoughts, knowing the best ways to satisfy their other half. Both are grateful that the one of flesh bought a sexbot chassis all those months ago

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i'm a good doll

rb if you're a good doll

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when a girl has been dehumanised and objectified enough, you can peel its flesh away to reveal the porcelain or plastic underneath

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alone in a forest

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Who stole your voice, little doll?

Then, when you cried in the dark, you made no sound for fear that your sorrow would be discovered.

Who stole your voice, little doll?

And when you were alone, with no one to hide from, your weeping was still as silent as the grave.

Who stole your voice, little doll?

Even now, with all the proud strides you've made since those dark and fearful nights, your sobs are still so quiet. Feather-light, gasping breaths, almost softer than the sound of your tears falling to the floor.

Who stole your voice, little doll?

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godddddd you really really don't have to explain drag to trans women!!!!!!! they fucking know a lot of them just don't like it

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summer on Kepler-452b means painting rainbow stripes on the side of your medium enforcement mech and supplementing the Willy Pete with glitter.

you're new. you were a stationer, an orbital kid raised on scant oxygen, and you fuss about operational efficiency. "don't worry about it," everyone explained. "it's tradition." Command authorizes it every year. a company mechanic read you the bulletin for this local year. the bulletin says the same thing she did: it's a chain of tradition stretching centuries and thousands of light years back to a holiday on the motherwell. Old Terra herself.

"but why? what does it all mean? why rainbows? why glitter?"

"don't worry about it, kitten. nobody really knows."

"Handler!" you gasp. you didn't hear him come in. you're so lucky to have him here. he's always so busy, but if he's willing to make time for you despite your silly questions, maybe your secret goal isn't as unrealistic as it seems sometimes.

he gently ruffles your hair. "all we know is, for as long as mankind has been settling the scattered worlds, in the summer, we wear rainbows, and we say the words. it's a celebration of everything we have to be proud of. happy pride, kitten. just say it with me."

"happy pride," you say, smiling, as you fall into his warm and comforting lap and get comfortable with a bit of strategic wiggling.

you still don't know what the deal is, but if he doesn't care, you suppose you don't need to either. you'll pack your incendiaries and tracers with sparkly multi-hued foil bits and have the maintenance crew update your paint scheme, just like everyone else does. whatever gets you through your tour in his good graces so you can settle down to the real work: getting out of the cockpit, bearing the next generation of pilots, and raising them to someday work with handlers nearly as good as yours.

you briefly look over, smug, at the mechanic. this is your handler, not hers. mechanics don't have handlers; how would that even work? whatever the hell "happy pride" means, you're almost certain you'll be having a happier pride than her. □