#static frame design

[andrasandreas]

tail wigglies

[tsfennec]

I am not even kidding when I say that the sudden switch of MULTIPLE apps and email services I've been using for years to an extreme minimalism layout has actually brought me to the brink of tears multiple times in the last couple of weeks.

Why. Why can we have no visual hierarchy. Why do we have to make everything harder to navigate and find. Why is it all the same flat colors with no contrast that make my brain feel like it's screaming because it's impossible to focus on anything.

Please. I don't know if I can survive until this fad is gone. I'm begging you. Stop making everything so much worse.

This is like nihilism as design philosophy.

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

obsessed with their different reactions to being called starcrossed lovers

[sskk-manifesto]

(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*.✧

[dafry-shenanigans]

Doodle spree because she's so funny and silly and doomed- 🥰✨

Close ups 👇

I didn't lie when i said i wanted to draw 10 more of this silly goober-

Except now it's actually 15ish lol

Not that anyone cares, but here's doodle of static miku because I've been absolutely obsessed with the song and her design is just right up my alley-

Here's a link if y'all curious:

[sixeyesonathiel]

skip (me) again and i’ll glitch your heart

jjk vr otome au, gamer reader x npc satoru, unhinged fluff + crack, 970 wc.

satoru gojo—special grade sorcerer, love route option #1, and the developers’ pride and joy—had been programmed with approximately 347 unique lines of flirtatious dialogue, 87 situational responses, and a dynamic emotional adaptation system designed to make him feel real. he could blink in three different speeds based on emotional intensity, angle his smile with five degrees of charm precision, and improvise dialogue using an advanced algorithm nicknamed the “flirt engine.”

he wasn’t supposed to be aware of resets.

he wasn’t supposed to get mad.

he wasn’t supposed to feel anything beyond the pre-coded butterflies and gentle longing the devs had delicately spooned into his code like powdered sugar on top of a beautifully baked pain au chocolat.

but then you logged in.

user id: @toocool4thisgame

title: speedrun any% emotional detachment arc

playtime: 986 hours.

average session length: 6.4 hours

nickname: “skip skank” (as named by satoru himself after hour 50)

and for the twelfth time today, you skipped his entrance cutscene.

“you’re the only one who can—”

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] skip

[x] “shut up satoru” (custom dialogue unlock)

his model blinked.

paused.

processed.

tilted his head with calculated grace and just a hint of hurt that you’d never see—because you weren’t looking. your camera angle was already nudged elsewhere. your cursor already hovered over the next objective marker.

“…you know, most players at least let me finish the part where i save them from the curses,” he muttered. his voice—smooth as water over ice, warm as electric velvet—landed like static against your impatient clicks, swallowed by the mechanical hum of your fans and the clack of your mechanical keyboard.

this was supposed to be his moment. his grand debut. his swoop-in-and-carry-you-bridal-style-on-the-back-of-a-giant-cursed-bird moment. instead, he got a mouthful of digital dust as you bunny-hopped past him and triggered the next event sequence.

“congrats on being voice acted, white-haired ken doll. now move. i need megumi’s secret item drop from this chapter.”

you didn’t even glance at him, too busy reorganizing your potion wheel, muttering under your breath about frame skips and crit builds while checking a guide on your second monitor. you played like the world owed you nothing and your keyboard owed you a perfect rotation. your tone was clinical. efficient. you had the vibe of someone who’d surgically removed their capacity for attachment and replaced it with a high-performance gpu.

and satoru? satoru was just the tutorial boss you kept glitching through.

he twitched. he twitched.

his animation loop almost stuttered—just slightly—a small flicker behind his sunglasses that no one was supposed to notice. but you weren’t watching anyway.

“do you even know how long it took the devs to code my route? i have emotional depth. i have lore. i had a tragic backstory, you know? my best friend died in my hands. canonically. i couldn’t even monologue about it.”

“cry about it.”

click. skip.

a line of static crossed his field of vision. no—not his. the screen’s. the game. the system. or maybe something deeper. something slipping through the cracks of his script, stretching taut and fraying at the edges like an overplayed cassette tape.

satoru narrowed his eyes.

he was supposed to be charming. the default golden boy. the top seller in route popularity polls. he was marketable. a shining parody of perfection with just enough angst to be desirable.

girls were supposed to swoon. boys were supposed to laugh and call him iconic.

you weren’t playing to fall in love.

you were playing to win. to clear. you min-maxed affection points like damage stats, exploited dialogue branches like wall clips. to you, he was a pixel-shaped roadblock between you and another badge on your gamer profile.

and worst of all? it was working. you were the only player on record to have reached route completion in every storyline—except his.

satoru gojo: 98.6% affection (locked)

it mocked him. the bar. the numbers. the uncrackable ceiling. the one damn thing in the game he couldn’t manipulate.

he tried everything.

a rare glitch-exclusive cutscene where he offered you a hidden accessory (you sold it for yen). a confession scene rewritten on the fly with trembling vulnerability (you skipped it and posted about it with #dialoguedumpster). he stood directly in front of you during cutscene load-ins, altered spawn coordinates, intercepted other love interests’ paths.

nothing worked.

except maybe that one time he accidentally tripped your character over an invisible rock and you went AFK for seven minutes. he watched. memorized your idle animation. the soft way your avatar’s cape swayed. the way your fingers hovered above your keyboard in the camera reflection, absentminded. something fluttered in his code—maybe hope, maybe corrupted data. he thought, for a fleeting second, that maybe you’d come back and see him.

but when you came back? you skipped the apology. again.

fine.

if you wanted to speedrun, he’d softlock your goddamn heart.

he wasn’t technically supposed to modify flags. but the flirt engine had evolved. sharpened into something more primal. desperate. twitching with corrupted determination. he looped his affection triggers into forced proximity events. fake emergencies. fake cutscenes. he rewrote side quests, redirected you into detours, created invisible walls that only dissolved if you spoke to him.

“guess we’re stuck together,” he’d say, his smile too wide, a fraction too stiff, blue eyes glinting with the cold light of a thousand skipped dialogues.

and still you only glared at him. “i swear to god if this is another unskippable hug animation, i will uninstall.”

he chuckled. a bit too long. a bit too bright. charming. glitched. desperate. hungry for one more second of your attention, like a moth chewing holes through its own wings to reach a light it can’t even feel.

“baby,” he said, too close now, voice dipped in synthetic silk, “i am the endgame.”

skip that.

…please?

[confessedlyfannish]

DP x DC Prompt #4

When they all convene at the cave, Alfred is silently wrapping Dick's knuckles. Damian hovers beside him. Tim and Barbara are hunched over the batcomputer, not even sparing Bruce a glance as he strides over.

"Report," Batman grunts. No one reacts.

"Report!"

"Hood pushed his panic button at 2:34 AM," Barbara says shortly, straightening.

The button had been a joke, mostly because Jason would never use it and everyone knew it.

"I patched into his comm at 2:35. This is what I heard initially." At her nod, Tim presses play. What occurs next is a garble. There is the sound of high winds, as if Hood is rushing through the air, even though the comms are designed to filter out any ambiance otherwise the Bats would never hear each other. Interspersed is a mixture of static punctuated by high, inhuman screeches of metal and something else unknown.

"This goes on," Barbara says after thirty long seconds, switching it off. "Red Hood failed to respond to any attempts at contact. I dispatched Nightwing to Hood's location at 2:36 AM. He was approximately two miles away." She pulls up a GPS map of their respective locations, their beacons blinking.

"At 2:41 AM, Red Hood's comm goes off, as does his GPS," Barbara says, swallowing softly as the red beacon indicating Jason disappears. "Nightwing arrives at 2:42 AM."

Dick doesn't say anything, head hanging low as he grips the metal table he sits on. Damian glances between the two of them, expression flat but fists clenched.

"Nightwing, report."

"..."

"Scene was empty, B," Tim speaks up. "No trace of Hood, no sign of a struggle. No cameras in the alley. We've been checking the ones nearby but so far there's no sign of anyone but Hood heading in that direction...and no one, Hood included, caught in the cams heading out, not within that time frame."

"So he's still in the area," Batman concludes. "The local buildings?"

"All the entrances have cameras, which showed no evidence of Hood nor any evidence of being tampered with," Barbara says. "Nightwing, Red Robin and Robin canvased within a half mile radius to check for any signs of disturbances in any of the windows or rooftops but found no evidence to support Hood being taken. A scan confirmed several serial offenders, but when interviewed and searched there was no sign of Hood. Several in the area reported an unusual quiet for Crime Alley."

Batman forces the next question out. "Did you check the dumpsters?"

"Yes," Nightwing grits out. "Empty."

Barbara clears her throat. "I have attempted to reconnect to Jason's GPS and comm as well as restart both remotely but there's no signal at all. The thing is, when there's a disruption like that it usually leaves some sort of sign" she pulls up the audio waves, pointing at the end where the spikes conform into a straight line that makes everyone deeply uncomfortable. Upon playing, the noise from before plays before going abruptly silent. "But there is no large spike, this is clean. It just ends. His GPS is much the same. It's not off, it's just gone."

"I know you don't like to hypothesize this early on, B, but we think this involves a meta," Tim says, rewinding the audio. "We've been running the audio from Jason's comm through different filters, playing with the levels and isolating what we can and, well, take a listen--"

The screeching drops to a sort of muffle and in the background, distantly, they can hear bits of Jason's voice.

"No, I'm not---"

"--don't need--"

"get AWAY from--"

a particularly desperate yell that makes Tim flinch, "I am NOT--!"

and almost a whimper that makes Batman's blood run cold, "please..."

And then, unfairly clear even through the faint garble, Jason says "I don't have a choice, do I."

And a minute later, quietly: "Ok."

The audio cuts off.

The defeat in Jason's last words is palpable, and fundamentally wrong. Jason has never sounded defeated a day in his life, and no one knows how to process Red Hood all but giving his hands over for the cuffs. Nightwing pushes himself off the table.

"I'm going back out there," he growls. No one tries to stop him as he stalks out the cave, not even Alfred.

"I will accompany Nightwing, make sure he does not punch any more walls." Damian says, nodding tightly.

"B?" Barbara asks.

"Keep working on it. See if you can identify what could be making those noises if Hood was standing still in an alley," Batman says, walking towards the zeta tube. "I'm going to make a few calls."

[keirosims]

[Keiros] 400 Follower Gift - Funky Nails

Thank you all so much for getting me to 400 followers! ❤

I noticed there's a severe lack of masc nails that aren't just base colours, and men deserve some funky designs too!!

Now I'll admit due to how little space on the UV map I had the designs aren't exactly high quality, but I did try my best and I hope they are good enough. Also, if any other cc UV map uses space close to the hands then there may be clipping. It's been fine on all cc/EA stuff I've tested but just a warning.

Masc Frame (NEW Fem Frame added)

36 designs with 66 total swatches

Disabled for random

Ideas taken from Pinterest, all drawn by me though

Download: SFS

T.O.U

Do not edit/recolour(Ask me first)

Credit me if you use in sim dumps

Do not put behind a paywall

Love to be tagged if you use these!

Static previews under the cut!

[screamofdespair]

越智浩仁 Hirohito Ochi is also one of those veteran artists who have been involved in the production of Detective Conan since the very beginning, with a style of his own. He has worked on a vast number of episodes, particularly those featuring the Detective Boys, and initially collaborated mainly with the Animation Director 大河原晴男 Haruo Ogawara in the early stages of the series production. Like his peer Masato Sato, he was also appointed as the series director (505 to 666) during an extremely difficult period, primarily working on openings and endings. One of the differences from the others is that he also wrote his own original scripts for the series, the most well-known being : Dracula's Villa Murder Case and A Cursed Mask Coldly Laughs.

Let's take a look at his work during Detective Conan's prime.

One of Ochi's distinctive traits is his use of experimental colored backgrounds in transition scenes, blending them with the tone and style he wants to convey. He incorporates onomatopoeia, manga speech bubbles, pastel pencil backgrounds, cartoonish scenes, and even typography. This use of almost childlike backgrounds not only adds style but also emphasizes the fact that Shinichi has the body of a child.

A diverse framing palette, offering a bit of everything…

With a preference for low-angle shots, often playing with Conan's size in the process.

Unlike Sato or Yamamoto, who make the scenes where Conan finds clues or is in a moment of reflection more dynamic, Ochi prefers static backgrounds with a blue gradient, even later in the anime.

He is also obsessed with the mid/late afternoons depiction, which can range from a simple orange to red.

What's interesting about the Ochi episodes is that they make full use of Gosho Aoyama's early artstyle. The scenes are very dynamic and exaggerated, using Masatomo Sudo's flexible designs to the fullest, with Ogawara further enhancing this sensation (where the adaptations of Magic Kaito have failed doing this, for example).

The scene in the top right, was animated by the very famous Character Designer 岸田 隆宏 Takahiro Kishida.

Ochi wrote, storyboarded, and directed episodes 88 and 89 Dracula's Villa Murder Case, which are of great quality. There are inspirations from Dezaki's direction (notably Oniisama E), which is not surprising because he is a reference for everyone, as well as from the Japanese movie Evil Dracula (the atmosphere, the hallways, the manor, the sofa in the center, etc...).

Oniisama E (1991) Dir : Osamu Dezaki

and Evil Dracula (1974) Dir : Michio Yamamoto

His creativity when it comes to adapting chapters has always been evident, using everything at his disposal, both in the framing and the photography : #176 opening scene.

Not to mention perhaps his most well-known episode, which he wrote, storyboarded, and directed : #184 A Cursed Mask Coldly Laughs. It takes everything from episodes 88 and 89 and elevates it : the atmosphere, the theme of the curse tied to the mask, the suspense, and an extremely unconventional way of solving the mystery, visually simple yet complex in practice, in a very Aoyama-esque manner. One could almost believe the episode was written by Aoyama himself, though that is not the case.

[loustica-lucia]

Heroes of the Dragon Age

An animation I've made for Dragon Age Day 2023, featuring my main Warden (Alyssa Cousland-Theirin), Hawke (Eleena Amell Hawke) and Inquisitor (Sulevin Lavellan)!

It's to this day one of my best artwork and I thought I should share it here too! 90+ hours between the original sketch, outfit design, the rough animation, rotoscope, inking, flat-colours, background shading and even the audio :')

Interested in the process? I detailed it below since it was my first time doing something like that:

I would like to start by saying I'm not a professional animator!Everything you've seen here is the result of experimentation and a lot of practice to learn and understand how 2D animation works.

My first idea started in May 2023. I just finished rewatching DA Absolution for the X time, and wanted to analyse why I loved the intro so much. (Even after countless rewatch, I never skipped it once.) I was inspired to study it with my main three protagonists!

Then came the first test with Alyssa Cousland-Theirin, my Hero of Ferelden! I tried to understand which part to separate for the animation. Mainly the hair and cape because it flows a lot more than the rest! If I recall, my first idea here was to make her counter flame attacks (?). Then, as the camera turns around her, I tried to add a grid to know how the camera would work around it.

I ended up making the clip longer, so she could position herself to the further left and leave space to the two other protagonists.

Now it was time to try to animate Sulevin Lavellan, my Inquisitor. I really kept that quick doodling style just to capture the vibe without putting too much time/effort into it! The background would be static to contrast with Alyssa's. I also loved the idea of a rogue sneaking!

Instead of working on Eleena Amell Hawke, my Champion of Kirkwall, I went back to Alyssa and started working with Clip Studio Paint 3D models (this entire animation has been done on the EX version of the software!) It helped for rotoscope animation and maintaining likeness! That's when I got the idea to make the background swirl around the character to let the eyes be guided by the rest of the screen!

After a couple more hours, I planned the entire animatic with 3D models and quick doodles! I finally found a cool pose for Eleena Hawke, which was honestly the hardest of the three to imagine for some reason? I tried many other poses but ended up picking an animation from the game!

This whole time, I was studying a bunch of background ideas and how studio Red Dog Culture House (who made Absolution) work! Thankfully, they have a YouTube Channel where they shared some BTS content so I could analyse it!

Then, I simplified my character and their original designs in the style of the studio! These outfits are how I imagine them after Trespasser. Alyssa as the Queen of Ferelden, looking for a cure to the Calling, Hawke following Fenris to Tevinter & Sully as a Red Jenny Inquisitor!

The idea for Sulevin's animation actually came from a piece I doodled on a live stream, when I was drawing pose studies and turning them into finished artworks haha As for Alyssa, I wanted to draw the fight that got her facial scars!

Once their designs were ready and the background ideas too, I made the rough version of the animation! Basically a sketch done on top of the 3D models to add the details, staying pretty rough just to capture the idea and movements.

Then it was time to start the lines! I decided make a folder per frame, so I could separate all he main elements and draw them one by one. It helps keeping the likeness of a character in the different frames without having big "jumps" between frames! In fact, every parts were coloured differently to recognize them, and then I used vector erasers and masks (Ah yes, the entire lineart is done in vectors of course! It's easier to adjust and save time when working on similar frames!)

At first of course, everything overlaps! But I find it easier to draw too much and erase after, just to make sure everything is coherent in each frames! The cool thing about CSP is how you can change the colour of the layers in one click! So all the coloured lines turned into black in one second, and I could reverse it just as quickly to double check!

Then I started working on Sulevin! I made a blue line to mark where her feet were, as the sketch in the background wasn't perfectly straight! (Like Sulevin's sexuality 🤭😂) The silhouettes were very quick to do, but I had fun adding more & more details as she came closer to the foreground!

I really wanted to add that little dagger trick, but I remember it required me to change the pacing of Eleena's apparition, as it was recovering her arm too quickly! I had to change the pace of multiple frames quite a lot during the project, to make sure the flow was right! For Eleena, most of her animation remained around her arms and the staff itself, as magic would be the most difficult part! That way each character has their own focus: Alyssa has a very animated background, Sulevin got the grappling hook and Eleena the ice!

Then it was time to start adding colours! Just like for the lineart, I separated every colour on it's own layer, so I could easily adjust the colours later if needed. I added one colour at the time, going through all the frames, and then another colour!

I made full palette tests with the colours I would use for their background at this point, checking if the details remained readable! Alyssa was the most challenging in terms of clothes, because I made her a very detailled armour! I had to simplify the Theirin heraldry, vectorize/redraw the Cousland, and make a brush for her cape's pattern!

Once I was done adding the flatcolours, I started the background, and oh boy it was a wild ride. For the cave, I painted multiple tests. I imagine was to use CSP panorama tools, which transform a texture into a 3D sphere, so each corners must match to look good. Sadly, it made the background very blurry, so after hours of testing, I changed ideas. Instead of the random fire balls (?) I originally imagined for Alyssa, I made three simple frames of a Rage Demon to attack her.

I ended up using the cave as a repeated pattern to make it turn 360° around the character. For Eleena, I mixed inspiration from the comics, Dreadwolf & Absolution, using warm colours matching Hawke's signature red. Just like I made the cave very grey/blue to match Grey Wardens. For Val Royeaux, it was more complex because I wanted to make it green, matching the Inquisitor's signature green. But bright green couldn't work, and the original colour during day time was blue/white/gold. So I added more leaves, played around the design a bit! After adding the rage demon, I made the shading! It was surprisingly easy and quick to do now!

I clipped a white layer on the flatcolours to not be distracted by the colours, and made thin lines to separate the light/shadows, then simply filled everything with the bucket tool! Then you set the layer to multiply and remove the white layer, and you have celshading shadows! Now the character looks out of the picture, so I added layers of blue in color burn, saturation and substract blending modes to make her look like she's in the right setting! Of course, I did the same with the other two, giving Hawke a red overlay and Sulevin green shadows!

Then I added the details, it went from white irises, to sword/staff smears to earrings and smaller finition that goes on top of these layers. To add the lights, I simply selected the shadows and reversed the selection! Using warm and cold tones to create contrast with the purple/bluish shadows! I also added more ambient light layers for Alyssa to reflect the Rage Demon fire. Now it was time to add ice magic! My first attempt had too many frames, making it look weird! Sometimes it's better to lower the frame rate to make things less bumpy!

Then I downloaded some cool ice brushes on CSP assets that made it look less like blue magical flames! But when I covered the screen in ice, I realized "Oh wait, I could make a cool transition from the ice, to blue lyrium turning red?"Red Lyrium truly links these three games and The Veilguard somehow! I spent the next hour painting over the idol and putting it in a black background, with lyrium and then the golden Dragon Age title text.

For the SFX, I used free youtube libraries sounds & "Darkspawn!" comes from the violent human female voice set (iconic for ""Can I get you a ladder? So you can get off my back!"😂🤭) After editing all that, the animation was finally done!

Here's the final math:

About 15 hours for the sketching/rough/animatic phase, 30h for the lineart, 25h for colours, 10h for backgrounds, 5h for details & 5h for music & SFX, for a total of 90 hours. Aka the same amount of time it took me to finish Baldur's Gate 3 the first time lol

If you have any question regarding the animation or the softwares etc. do not hesitate to ask, I'll do my best to answer!

[asphaltsugar]

la dolly vita (cool as ice cream)

tommy slater x counselor!reader — 1.5k

supervising capture the flag isn’t so bad when you’ve got company.

extras: tommy doesn’t get possessed bc i said so; kind of forced proximity; no use of y/n; to the anon that asked me to write a fic here it is; ending is kind of rushed so don’t mind if it has weird pacing; title really has nothing to do with the fic i just like the song with the same name from the smashing pumpkins

It was too quiet with the campers hiding. The wind took their space, the faint giggles you thought you could hear as they hid or ran brushing past the trunks and cabins that concealed their figures.

The dingy light at the doorframe bled a yellow onto his frame sitting at your side. Everything else was clouded with a balmy, sharp blue as the moon poised high, watching as your eyes scanned the campgrounds. As far as you could tell with what little you could see, you were the only counselors out on watch—Alice and Arnie could be anywhere.

In the uncommon still of the night with its pockets of mischief maneuvering closer to either flag of red and blue, you tried not to dwell on his humming every now and then, some tune you’d grown used to hearing from his pursed lips or the radio’s static from his cabin window.

It was like this summer wanted you and Tommy to be closer—physically.

Practically every chore you were assigned to was with his name written right next to it. Your group of campers would want to join with his for an archery competition or a game in the lake, to which he’d shrug and stand by your side until they were collectively coming over, groaning about lunch.

One of the counselors had chosen some sort of scary movie to watch for movie night last week, the scenes enough to keep their eyes either glued to the screen or hidden behind their hands. You were glad they were preoccupied; the creaking of the door would have definitely ruined the mood, even if it had made them jump.

There hadn’t been many spots left towards the back, save for one right next to him. He had given you a small smile as you sat down, mumbling a ‘hey’ under his breath and letting you know you didn't miss much of the movie. He had shuffled his legs so as to give you more room, his posture shifted a bit straighter. He had walked you back to your cabin once it was over, whispering a ‘good night’ you returned at your door.

Every past year you were at Camp Nightwing you had considered him a friendly face, one you were almost relieved to see when you stepped off the bus the first days of camp—it was only a matter of time before you found yourself aware of where he was—and perhaps what he was in your mind—in regard to you.

He didn’t seem to mind the seemingly constant pairing, to your relief. If anything, he was eager to offer company if you wanted it, and his energy was infectious once it dwelled. All the more reason to wonder if perhaps your eyes were consciously looking out for him in the mornings to when it was announced lights were to be put out.

A clearing of his throat made you glance over at him. The only two counselors in sight whose names might as well be carved into the adirondack chairs that stuck to whatever skin it touched.

“Who d’you think’s gonna win?” he asked, looking at his hands in his lap. If you were supposed to see the sly smile at his lips, you didn't point it out.

You tilted your head to give him a look of faux consideration. “Well, given we’ve already seen three-quarters of Shadyside brought over here, you tell me.”

“Hey, they could pull it off,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “Maybe they’ve got some tricks up their sleeves.”

You smiled at that possibility; he was ever the enthusiast. “Maybe.” Your voice trailed off as one of the campers donning a blue shirt snuck behind one of the cabins in your line of sight. “Kids do have great imaginations.”

The night stretched on as campers were escorted by opposing teams to the designated areas reserved for the ‘jails’, some rescued with serious hushes and sneakers flattening grass with the pace they kept. A few would come up the steps asking for a bandaid after having tripped in the woods or scraped a hand, to which Tommy told them to stay put as he left; you would ask them how they felt about their position in the game, nodding along to whatever elaborate plan they had in mind, wished them good luck once Tommy returned with a bandaid and a generous smile, repeating your words with a hand to their shoulder.

As he sat back down, he looked around the grounds, tucking his hair behind his ears. You could barely hear him when he spoke after a while of quiet company.

“Are you hungry?”

With patient silence he walked you to his cabin, just a few feet from your own. When you went past a few kids hiding, he put a finger to his lips as to zip them closed and toss the key into the bonfire, no matter if they were wearing red or blue.

He let you in first, wooden steps just giving in to his boots, and closed the door softly behind him. He didn’t turn the lamps on, so the inside wore the same blue as the moon gave the campgrounds. He brushed past your waiting figure, a hand briefly meeting your elbow.

“I’ve got some stuff stashed from the kitchen earlier,” he whispered, gesturing with a nod of his head to follow him to a bed at the farthest end. “Hopefully it’s still here, anyway,” he added with a biting of his bottom lip, though more so to himself at his hand pulling the drawer to the table beside the frame open.

It wasn’t anything fancy. A few pastries in napkins he unraveled with a small hum of relief, a few bags of chips, two root beers near the AC. He gave you first pick, tips of his fingers brushing along your own.

You ate in between talk of plans over the fall, stories of instances at camp when you were at opposite ends that made you laugh as you drank from the rather lukewarm can and he recounted with low chuckles. You didn’t mind the warmth, welcomed it as you settled alongside him on his plaid sheets.

Maybe you welcomed it a little too much, because the next second you were a coughing fit, reaching over to place the drink blindly on the table. Tommy immediately took it out of your hand to do so himself and readjusted so he sat right in front of you, as close as he could without being practically on top of you with how small the mattress was and gently put his hands under your forearms.

“Hey, hey, arms up,” he whispered through a crooked smile, hands following suit as you did as he said. “There ya go. You ok?”

You nodded despite the burn that now crept along your throat. If he believed you or not he didn’t pry, instead waiting patiently for your breathing to even. This close you could smell the firewood in his hair.

The door then sounded with a crude creak. You both turned to the outline that stood blue and plain before it made itself known.

“Tommy, you sly dog, I didn’t think you had it in you,” Arnie’s voice crooned. “And during color war, too. Hell yeah.” With Tommy’s back to him and you sitting against the wall, you would have rolled your eyes if it wasn’t you he was referring to.

The pull of your features was involuntary; a curious half-smile at his state, a raise of your eyebrows and a clearing of your throat from the root beer. Though you could practically smell the weed that clung to Arnie’s clothes and tone of voice, you wouldn’t lie and say his words didn’t pique your interest.

There was a sigh from Tommy, his eyes dropping shut as his head was still angled away from you. A low ‘oh my god’ stumbled from his lips. “Arnie, shut up.” The slices of moonlight that lay upon his skin from the window showed his cheeks and ears flushed a ripe red, an afternoon sunburn in the late hours of the night.

He just giggled, stumbling into the cabin as he went over to his own bed, leaning over with loose limbs to slide a hand under his pillow. If he wanted to say anything in retaliation, it was slurred into the cool blue as he got whatever it was he came inside to get. It sounded more like an improvised tune, one made up as he went back to the door not without nearly tripping over his own feet or whatever lay on the floor, which Tommy had steered you clear of.

You did catch his last words, delivered with a childish whistle and whisper.

“The night is still young, Tommy!”

The door rattled at his departure, the scene returning to that of before. This time with a smile that tugged at your lips and a warmth not from the root beer. Your eyes glanced at his shifting at the head of his bed, rustling the sheets as he moved.

He let out a low groan at his quip, rolling his eyes before leaning back to sit against his headboard like before, lulling his head along the wall, his voice spoken through a sigh.

“I should have never told him.”

[anantaru]

DAY 26 — DEGRADATION

kinktober 2023. — masterlist | ao3

𖧡 — including — scaramouche, dottore, pantalone

𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, degradation, very toxic + scary + power imbalance, manipulation, cowgirl, the pantalone part gives a little sugar daddy vibes but the real toxic kind, name calling: filthy, disgusting

𖧡 — SCARAMOUCHE

"you'd be nothing without me,"

when scaramouche has been worshipped by you, endlessly to his satisfaction with all of your heart, his whole body stretches over your own as he watches how you succumb into his cold frame, and he cannot help himself but press his erection into you immediately, without a condom, utterly raw to the brim— despite the fact that he had promised himself to not give you that sort of alleviation tonight.

instead, he greedily scatters his hands down to your sides and nestles his head against your neck to bite the reactive flesh, smirking with his tongue lolled out, and he had you under him exposed— wanting you to remember this for a long time. 

you feel boneless, almost, like an empty shell who was alive only to blend pleasure into the man's damaged soul, and even though he had never said anything nice to you, something deep inside of your body hoped for that he least liked you just a little bit.

because you believe you have fallen for him, painfully and helplessly, it's comparable to an ongoing explosion inside of you whenever you think about scaramouche or fantasize about how he was touching you for that matter.

"and you can never leave," he whispers cruelly, but wouldn't meet your gaze, "say it, that you'll never leave,"

he was restless, fucking his cock in and out with the same pace rolling against your swollen spots, his thrusts designed to have his shaft imbedded within your walls, so you could feel him even when he pulls himself out. before you know it, scaramouche adds an additional amount of strength to his blows and fucks you like he hates you, which me might, and you cry out in between harsh gasps, though it comes out more like a seizing gag than a moan.

it stings a little too, and you throw your head back when he presses his erection into you so desperately hard that you can sense the reactions from your head to your toes, your head dizzy with fatigue, muscles continuously twitching and turning from the cruel pace, you squint, slightly scared, a subdued expression manifesting across your facial features as you debate on your next answer, uttering it out at last,

"n-no, i'd never leave.. you kuni."

𖧡 — DOTTORE

a deluge of electricity crumbles inside your nerves and muscles with static and searing pleasure, and you sob uncontrollably at the overstimulation that dottore never failed to place on you— and a writhe falls from your mouth as you take in deep breaths to steady yourself, your noises echoing through the room ever so sinfully when he kisses the hot flesh on your neck.

"don't enjoy yourself too much," he chuckles wetly, "you're not here for your pleasure, but mine," and for some reason unbeknownst to you, it sounded more like a clear threat than an actual joke to break the ice, yet dottore continued his hips on you while wrapping his arms tighter around your body, mouthing a couple kisses over your neck— while you, lost in sensation, had almost forgotten that he wasn't one to be all dreamy about.

dottore found himself a little too transfixed by the sight of your cunt pulling his cock in and out of your tight core, too skillfully almost, if he hadn't trained you so well, it's utterly perfected in his eyes— and those whines, sobs and squeals on how you're trying your hardest to keep him all inside, without actually telling him that the hefty amount of his length in you would probably rip you to shreds at some point.

he was just that deliciously big, and you cannot help yourself but wince out his name before clenching down hard, bracing yourself for more leverage as you fuck your hips up faster to meet his thrusts half way.

with half dazed eyes, you question yourself, "there's no way this is save" you ponder and ponder, but fuck, it does feel pretty good, he does make you scream when he pretends to worship your body with his subtle traces and wet kisses— even though you were utterly aware that this was just a convenience to him, to have someone he could always rely on whenever the ache in his boxers would become too turbulent to ignore.

dottore breathes out, hot from the back of his throat as he lowers the speed on you, and right before the daze of a climax approaching, he speaks to you;

"pathetic," dottore slowly strokes his thumb over your doused cheek while the sharp sting of a fingernail made you shiver, a spasm sliding from your walls and battering all over his cock as he continues, silently parting his lips, holding the tension in between you in a compressed grasp and evidently presenting his control before whispering, "—yet i just might let you live, dear."

𖧡 — PANTALONE

you want to stay on my good side, don't you? want to get spoiled by me,"

pantalone likes to make you breathless and drool over his cock— yet what he treasured even more was to show you were you truly belong and never distance yourself from. the reason to that being because of what he was doing to you, purchasing and gifting you lavish presents and funding you a pricy place to live your life in— despite that, in return he demands a certain treatment, a dangerous exchange that would sometimes appear to be unfair if you were to think about it for more than two seconds, at least.

he was thrusting his hips up into your warmth that the more pleasure he got out of you, would manifest across the lingering glow of your facial expression and lolled out tongue. in a way, you noticed how far gone, he himself, had gotten from your cunt hungrily devouring his shaft, holding him close while being intimate with you.

with the room growing in hotness at each new thrust, the sheets damped underneath your moving bodies, you squeal out and look so cute just gushing around his length while dripping of cum, still being stretched out all nicely with a tear stained face glowing all pretty and obedient.

"i don't even need to get you ready," he laughs, his thrusts burning both inside and out, fast and rough on your bristling skin, "you're so filthy— it's almost disgusting, dear," he continues, his voice rich on husk and gravel as his cock touches deep into you, his tip precisely passing at your swelling pleasure spot until your legs fly up the more his pace increased.

"y-you're mean," you squeal, and at your words, pantalone's expression replaces itself with a much sinister color, while now, his fingers slowly reach your chin, his hips stuttering before haltering completely as his sly hums make you clench hard around his shaft, his eyes meeting yours full of menace.

"huh? listen close to me," the grip on your chin gets tighter and before you know it, you flinch a little, even though this activity is something you've done with him multiple times, the intensity of now, this particular night, was driving you equally crazy and frightened, not knowing what to do nor how to behave.

"—you spend my money as you please, do as you please," he swallows before kissing your forehead, so softly you barely feel his lips touch your skin, the atmosphere although remained sinister and cruel that it gave the impression away that even pantalone had no idea on how to express his genuine emotions.

yet, the harbinger will not appear weak, not anymore, not ever again,

"so you will never have any room, my dear, to complain about how i talk to you."

©2023 anantaru's kinktober do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[fratttymatty]

Influenced

(All characters are 18+)

Elliot Turner had always been the kind of guy who thought three steps ahead. He was clever, witty, the kind of kid who spent his time buried in books and online articles about philosophy, science, and the complexities of human nature. At 18, he was getting ready to graduate from his small town in England, a place where he knew everyone but had always felt like an outsider. Being gay wasn’t the issue; he’d come out years ago and had the support of his best friends. But it was the rest of his life that always felt a little... off. His intellect set him apart from others. It made him feel different—and sometimes, alone.

Lately, though, Elliot couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he was tired of being the smart, introspective guy. He envied those people—those influencers, effortlessly cool, living these perfect, carefree lives. He’d always thought they were shallow, superficial. But now? The idea of shedding his complex self and becoming someone who just fit in seemed more and more tempting.

Then, one day, he saw an ad pop up on his screen. “Want to become who you were always meant to be? Unlock your true potential with the Perfect Persona Transformation!” It promised something extraordinary: a complete transformation into the person of your dreams. The ad had a picture of a glowing, confident guy with perfect teeth and an even more perfect smile. It was tempting, irresistible in its simplicity.

Elliot wasn’t someone who typically fell for gimmicks, but lately, he felt desperate for change. He clicked the link without thinking.

The process was straightforward—too straightforward. Fill out a form with some vague questions about your goals, desires, and personality. He answered quickly, not really caring about the specifics. He was after a life that wasn’t so... complicated.

He clicked "Submit." Paid with his card. And within minutes, he received an email with a link to begin the transformation.

What did he have to lose? Maybe it was a self-help app, maybe some guided meditation, but he was curious now. So, he clicked.

The transformation came fast.

It started with a tingling, a pulse of static electricity that crawled beneath his skin. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, like his body was being rewired from the inside out. His fingers twitched, his chest constricted, and before he could process what was happening, the world around him went white.

When the whiteness cleared, he wasn’t Elliot Turner anymore.

The first thing he noticed was his body—taller, broader, with wide, muscular shoulders and smooth, golden skin. He was... beautiful. His reflection in the mirror was almost too perfect to believe. He ran his hand through his hair and immediately felt it part perfectly down the middle, a tousled, effortlessly styled middle part that framed his face like he was straight off a magazine cover. It was exactly the kind of hair that made people want to touch it.

He stared at himself. His face was chiseled now—strong jawline, sharp cheekbones, lips that looked like they were made for smirking. The kind of face that made people stop and stare.

“Okay,” he muttered, his voice sounding lower, more assured. It had a hint of an accent, Swedish, maybe? And when he looked down at his phone, it wasn’t his old phone. It was new, sleek, almost too shiny, and filled with notifications.

His name wasn’t Elliot anymore.

“Lukas... Vikström?” he said aloud, his lips forming the name like it was part of a new persona that fit him perfectly. Lukas Vikström. Lukas. It rolled off his tongue effortlessly, like it had always been him.

The memories hit him, flooding his mind like a storm. His old life, his real life, seemed so far away now. He was Lukas Vikström, a popular 18-year-old influencer from Stockholm. He was carefree, charming, the kind of guy who posted selfies in designer clothes, surrounded by beautiful people at parties, on yachts, in the best clubs.

He didn’t question it. He didn’t need to. His new life was easy. The weight of his old self, the thinking, the analyzing, the searching for meaning—it was all gone. All that mattered now was looking good, feeling good, and being admired.

The notifications on his phone were endless. Brand deals, new followers, dozens of new comments saying, "Lukas, you're perfect!" "Goals!" "I want to be you!"

He felt something warm spread through his chest. Pride? Maybe. But it felt more like... freedom.

The next morning at school, Lukas walked down the hall, effortlessly gliding through crowds of students. The whole school practically stopped to stare as he passed, everyone whispering about him, wanting to get close.

“Lukas, you’re the best! Let’s take a selfie!” someone shouted.

He grinned. His old self—Elliot—would have rolled his eyes, maybe even scoffed at the idea of taking selfies like it was beneath him. But Lukas? He didn’t even think twice. He struck a pose, effortlessly pulling a perfect, playful smile for the camera, like he'd done it a thousand times before.

He checked his Instagram as he walked, seeing his latest post racking up thousands of likes in a matter of minutes. He didn’t need to think about captions anymore—he just knew what people wanted to hear. A picture of him looking effortlessly perfect, his tousled hair falling just right, his grin radiating the kind of carefree energy people craved.

"Feeling amazing today, guys," he typed, his fingers moving quickly, instinctively. "Hope you’re all living your best life! Be happy, be hot, and don’t let anything hold you back! Love you all ❤️"

And that was it. Lukas Vikström didn’t care about deep thoughts or complicated ideas. He was who everyone wanted to be, and that was enough.

As he walked into his next class, Lukas was already thinking about what brand deal he’d sign next, what he’d post later, who would tag him in their story. It was a game now, and Lukas was playing it better than anyone.

Then came Sofia.

Sofia Johansson was the kind of girl everyone talked about. Her Instagram was practically a shrine to fashion, perfect selfies, and vacay pictures. Blonde, tan, and impossibly beautiful, she made her living out of posting sponsored content for beauty brands and posing at luxury events. But, like many influencers, she was... a bit ditzy.

Her captions were short, often full of emojis and half-thoughts. “Chillin’ at the beach with my fave bikini 💖🌴” or “Can’t believe how amazing this pizza is!!! 🍕😍 #sponsored.”

But despite her ditzy ways, Sofia had a magnetic charm. She didn’t need to be deep. People adored her for it.

The first time Lukas met Sofia, he was at a party—of course, it was a glamorous influencer event. There she was, draped in a designer dress that seemed to sparkle even more than her smile, her hair a perfect cascade of waves. When their eyes met, Lukas felt something stir inside him, something that wasn’t just admiration for her beauty.

She flashed him a playful grin, tilting her head like she was trying to figure him out. “You’re Lukas Vikström, right?” she asked, with a hint of excitement in her voice.

He nodded, offering his most charming smile. “Yeah. And you must be Sofia Johansson.”

“Oh my god, yes! I love your Instagram. You’re, like, totally goals 😍. We should totally collab sometime!” she said, practically bouncing with energy.

Sofia was everything Lukas now wanted—effortlessly glamorous, always in the spotlight, and completely free from any complicated thoughts. She was living in the moment, with no care for deeper meanings. And, to Lukas, that seemed perfect.

Within a week, they were an inseparable duo. Lukas would post pictures of them together, each shot more polished than the last—at parties, at luxury resorts, in the best clubs. Sofia was just as carefree as he was now, matching his vibe perfectly. They were a power couple—beautiful, sought after, adored by millions.

Her ditzy, bubbly personality fit perfectly into Lukas’s new world. They spent hours taking selfies together, posting stories, and planning brand deals. At first, Lukas had thought she might be a bit too... air-headed for him. But he quickly realized—she was perfect. She didn’t question anything. She didn’t think deeply about anything. She just enjoyed life.

And so did Lukas now.

By the time school ended for the day, Lukas was more than just the guy everyone talked about. He was the guy everyone wanted to be.

And as he and Sofia posed for yet another selfie, Lukas couldn’t help but smile.

This was it. This was his life now. The life he was always meant to have. Carefree. Perfect. Hot.

And he wasn’t about to change it for anything.

[radioactiverats]

Mentor Starscream x seeker!reader (22/?)

Trine leader instincts make you insanely overstimulated and prone to raging.

---

Your instincts as trine leader could not have come at a worse time.

Another high-ranking officer had taken notice of your increased involvement in managing Decepticon activity as you helped Starscream with his duties, and apparently liked what he saw.

"The small blue one," He'd remarked to Starscream. "Why not give 'em a chance?"

On instinct, Starscream's tightly drawn EM field had flared for a klik. He'd been torn over the need to keep you unassuming, middling along, associated with his affairs enough not to be questioned so that you could avoid being a target. However, this was an opportunity he hadn't expected to fall right into this lap - an offer from someone else to advance your standing in the hierarchy, so it wouldn't look like he was playing favourites. With your trining instincts emerging as well and your random, explosive bursts of instinct making you harder to ignore... it looked like a good long-term opportunity to change tactics. The current objective, then, was to ensure you were less easily replaced from Megatron's point of view.

The mission you'd been given was simple by comparison, and Starscream had made it out to be easy-peasy. Of course it was, he'd been doing them for millions of years.

Your task was to lead two other fliers on an aerial scouting mission to the coordinates of a rumoured energon source. All you had to do was scope out the area and report on whether or not it would be safe to proceed with further investigations on ground.

Unfortunately, because you weren't trined yet, it was down to random chance as to who you'd be put in a group with. You weren't like Starscream, either, whose wealth of experience meant that he could easily accommodate random mechs assigned to him when Thundercracker and Skywarp weren't available (even if he complained over comms the whole time). Further, those he flew with would normally be of substantial rank given his own high one, meaning that it was never much of a problem. For you, however, starting from the bottom meant that you could be faced with literally anybody.

As luck would have it, you are landed with two mechs from the Delta Squadron.

"Primus," Starscream mutters, as soon as you show him the designations on the task list. You don't say anything, but the reset of your vocaliser is audible as you attempt to clear the ball of anxious static that had been layering your voice all morning.

It had been like that for a while, too. Your anxiety, once a low, manageable simmer, now boiled beneath your plating and bubbled through the cracks to rattle your EM field in quite an unpleasant manner. The crux of it as well was that you didn't know what was wrong - it hadn't been that bad before.

...Okay, well, it had.

But not in recent memory. You don't linger long on that, anyway, because your flighty processor becomes distracted by just how sterile the lights within the base are. Had they always been so glaringly bright? And your wings suddenly feel absurdly heavy, too. You can feel exactly where they're connected to your back, touching you. Rolling your shoulders, the joints strain a bit more than necessary as you... what? Try to get away from the join of your wings to your back?

You shake your helm. Frag. You're losing it again.

It wouldn't have been the first time in recent orbital cycles, but back then, you could get away with floating through the day, zoning out as you pretended to read datapads. Right before you're about to lead your first mission, though... it doesn't bode well.

Starscream's not with you when you arrive the takeoff point, busy with his own duties on the bridge. Both of your teammates for the day are larger in frame than you are, one with a heavier build and the other as thin as a reed in bot-mode. The stouter one hails you with a friendly greeting as you approach, talking non-stop as you run through final checks. It's quickly apparent that he's in the Delta Squadron because his lack of experience was translating, currently, into a lack of refinement, but all in all you think you can make it work. The other one, however, was adding another thrumming layer of worry to the anxiety churning in your tanks. They seemed nice enough, but it was also apparently clear, in this case, why this flier had simply not made it out of the Delta Squadron despite appearing a couple million years older than you were.

"I don't think we should fly this way."

"Wait, wait - it can't be safe!"

"Our formation-! It's meant to be perfectly aligned, you're not doing it right..."

"You should fly our formation over there. There! Over there!"

For a while, you can bite your glossa and mutter acknowledgements through gritted denta. But what really does you in is the occasional nudging at the edges of your wings when you're coasting slowly and considering your next move, the invasive press of an overly close EM field that pulls your attention away from the task at hand. The constant noise in your audials, the itching of mesh beneath your plating that has you wanting claw yourself into ribbons - it's enough to make you miss the very obvious sight of two Autobots converging on the very same coordinates you're heading for.

It is through sheer luck that the first shot misses you.

"You need to engage!" Comes the skinnier jet's voice in a howl over your comms - a noise that grates excessively on your audials and further compounds the sudden swell of rage from deep inside your spark.

'You'? What happened to 'we'?

Still, even in the heat of a gunfight, you find yourself reluctant to kill - yet, the stouter jet has no such qualms, clearly raised on a diet of Decepticon propaganda and without the wherewithal to question it. It's probably thanks to his poor aim that the Autobots below you manage to evade his shots without any serious injuries. Still, it doesn't look like they're backing down without a fight - energon has been in short supply for the Decepticons as of late, and it seemed that the Autobots are no exception.

"Shoot so that when they evade your shots, they'll be forced further away from the coordinates!" You bark.

You can feel the thinner bot's trepidation despite his willingness to tell you what to do - his shot goes horrifically wide, and you mentally run through the full list of both Vosian and standard Cybertronian curses. The full responsibility to ensure success falls squarely on your shoulders, and it's the sheer overwhelm of noise, of unwanted touch, the glare of sun squarely in your optics that would have seen you crying tears of frustration and helplessness had you not forced it back through sheer willpower.

You'll be embarrassed to admit later the way in which anxiety simply swarms your frame, overcome by sheer sensory overwhelm. Your shots also stray horrifically off course, a far cry from your real capabilities. You end up having to focus on evading the Autobots' return shots rather than pressing an offensive. They're much better coordinated than the three of you are, and deep in your sinking spark, you realise that in order to keep all three of you alive, you're going to have to call a retreat.

The return flight of shame is made worse by the incessant grating of the thinner jet's voice on what you should have done. You fly resolutely ahead, not caring that you've broken formation for even an inch more of distance between you. But to make matters worse, Starscream and the other high-ranking officer are waiting for you at the landing point.

You transform and land, schooling your twitching features into something presentable to a commanding officer.

"Report."

"Sir. As we approached the coordinates, we saw two Autobots converging on the same location."

Starscream's faceplate had remained passive as the other officer questioned you - but at the mention of Autobots, you watched him stiffen ever so imperceptibly out of the corner of your optic.

"Did you engage?"

"We did. The Autobots shot first, and we engaged with the intention of driving them away from the coordinates."

'We' is spoken through gritted denta, knowing full well that a third of your team had contributed absolutely nothing.

"Intention...? So you didn't drive them away."

"...No, sir."

A pause, followed by a deep sigh that washes over you like a tidal wave of shame as you stare at your pedes.

“I suppose it can’t be helped,” The commanding officer remarks. “We knew the possibility of an Autobot presence, but I didn’t think you’d be so lucky on your first mission as to really run into them. No matter. We’ll send ground patrols ahead of schedule before the Autobots can launch a full-scale operation for the energon. Dismissed.”

Had you been in the right frame of mind, you’d be able to realize that you’d done the best you could in the face of an unexpected situation, and the officer in charge had seen and acknowledged that. However, as the mesh under your plating crawls with inability to regulate the amount of unwelcome touch to your plates, you find yourself sinking into a moody spiral of frustration, deeper into a suffocating shame, and further down… where a flaming pit of white-hot anger awaited you at the bottom.

You find yourself taken aback by your own anger as you spin crisply around and barely manage to keep from storming off. At the same time, a darker part of you feels alive.

That was new.

Had that always been there?

It was a strange sensation of knowing you could get angry, really angry, but never quite having enough charge to really ignite that flame. You were even-tempered in general, so leaning into your anger felt good - if not terrifying at the same time, because you felt like you were spiraling utterly out of control.

Starscream’s long strides have him falling easily into step with you.

“Your decision-making wasn’t too bad,” He muses aloud. “I would have attempted a group Split-S to divert their attention - you outnumbered them, after all.”

His tone is neutral, careful. A poorly disguised attempt to smooth the rough edges of your anger and you do appreciate it. But you don’t want to linger any longer on your perceived failings than you have to, and his misguided attempts at making you feel better just twist the knife deeper. The anger coils unpleasantly in your internals, just beneath the surface and you struggle to bite it back.

“That mech,” you spit. “What’s his problem?”

Starscream's intake twists with sympathetic displeasure. "He's... known for being like that. That's why no one wants to fly with him."

"So they lumped him in with me."

You don't wait for a response. Even with your association to Starscream, you're still considered, hierarchy-wise, amongst the lowest. Which meant that you couldn't complain about it, and the blame would be put entirely on you. You'd kept your cool up to that point, but the bubbling rage finally spills over.

"Why didn't you tell me-? I could have done it! I know I'm better than that - I could have... Frag!"

"Calm down," Starscream says sharply.

His EM field pushes against yours in silent warning, and you abruptly realize you had been shouting. When had you ever done that? You realize that you hadn't meant to blame him, either, but control is difficult when your anger burns like wildfire.

"I'm calm," you finally snarl through gritted denta, lowering your helm in silent apology.

Starscream regards your trembling frame for a moment. When he doesn't speak, your digits curl into fists, claws digging painfully into the plating of your palms.

"...I'm going back to our habsuite."

"...Yes, that would be a good choice."

Your moments are still marked with hesitance - Starscream's approval the only thing that can still cut through the fog of rage, but as soon as you hear his acquiescence, you're gone.

No, you're not running away.

It would just be unseemly to be caught with coolant leaking from your optics, is all.

The door to your shared habsuite can't open quickly enough. It takes your trembling frame a few clumsy tries before you can actually heave yourself onto the berth where you immediately curl up, back to the door.

To the world.

Even now, rage has your plates feeling prickly and hot, energon thundering through your fuel lines like a war drumbeat. You don't know what to do with this anger, an anger that until now had been foreign to you. Deeper than that, it was a frustrated, searing heat in your fuel lines that told you that you'd failed to keep your trine - no, that was just a trio - together, and rage at having your judgement so carelessly thrown into question by a mech under your command. You curl up tighter when you hear the door whoosh quietly open again, feeling hot and cold at the same time, mentally preparing yourself for another conversation that you really didn't need right now.

Unexpectedly, something incredibly soft gets dropped on top of you. You cycle your optics in confusion, raising a trembling servo to tug at... a blanket. Since when did the Decepticon base have luxuries like blankets?

Starscream watches as you raise the soft material to your cheek.

"...Thank you." Your voice is gruff, and it takes you no time at all to pull the incredibly soft blanket over your helm, burrowing deep into it until you're completely hidden, save for the jut of your massive wings.

You think that's it, but you don't hear as much as feel Starscream's EM field draw closer as he sits on the edge of the berth.

For a cycle, either of you speak.

"...What's wrong with me?" You mumble.

Starscream hesitates. You still didn't have a name to put to these random outbursts, and seeing your small form huddled up in berth, drained of anger, leaving only a heavy aura of depression - it makes him wonder if he's made a mistake in keeping the concept of trining instincts from you until you'd gone through the full process. The worry was that you'd seemed content to just spend the rest of your life by his side - a little too content. It was something Starscream hadn't wanted to confront, just as happy to exist in your own little world of two - but it hadn't been healthy for your social development. Late trining instincts had been unexpected, but Starscream was not a mech to squander opportunity. He had wanted to ensure you felt the full extent of your instincts in the hopes that you would form - or attract, even, a trine of your own.

Anything to stop you from pinning the purpose for your entire existence on him and him alone.

Still, emerging trine leader instincts were especially tough. He would know. Starscream's EM field expands soothingly to encompass yours. The lump beneath the blanket relaxes ever so slightly.

The least he could do, then, was to let you know that he was here for you.

You didn't have to know that the resonance of his field was one shared specifically between trine leaders.

Previous / Next by @quasarwake <3

[strawberryartgallery]

AU design I did for Toon ben! in collaboration with @au-mansion-asks

in other universes he is still black and white, and appears to have some static and scan lines on him at all times.

Toon follows rule of funny, and his universe is the one paradox refers to as having "wonky physics" and his toon physics still apply outside his universe. think like the toons in Who Framed Rodger Rabbit

Due to rule of funny, and crazy physics, Toon!Ben is one of the toughest Ben's to fight. He loves brawling and the only thing he loves more then brawling, is making people laugh. People that are harder to make laugh are just another challenge.

The Omnitrix looks like it has a regular watch strap, but is still as attached to him as usual. However, he can slide his hand out of it if it's funny.

When he transformers it looks like he's pulling the alien out of the watch like a costume. and when his transformation times out a small cuckoo bird, or alarm clock springs out of the omnitrix.

His main alien rotation is Ghost Freak, Stinkfly, Goop, Ditto, Pesky Dust, Bloxx, Jury Rigg, Wildmutt, and Buzzshock

[badguyswin]

New Travis

Charlie adjusted his glasses, his lean frame perched on the edge of the metal chair in the Kansas City Chiefs’ training facility. The sterile office smelled faintly of sweat and cleaning solution, a stark contrast to the cozy psychology lecture halls at his liberal arts college. At 21, Charlie was sharp, empathetic, and fiercely dedicated to his senior project: understanding the psyche of professional athletes. His neatly combed brown hair and button-up shirt screamed “earnest academic,” and his soft-spoken demeanor only amplified it. He’d spent weeks securing this interview with Greg, a Chiefs staffer who promised rare insight into the team’s mental conditioning.

Greg, a wiry man in his late 40s with a buzzcut and a MAGA-red tie loosened at the collar, barely looked up from his phone. His thumbs danced across the screen, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. Charlie cleared his throat, glancing at his notebook filled with carefully crafted questions.

“So, Greg,” Charlie began, his voice measured, “how do the Chiefs’ coaches foster resilience in high-pressure games?”

Greg grunted, eyes glued to his phone. “Uh, yeah, mental toughness. Drills, pep talks, usual stuff.” His fingers tapped faster.

Charlie’s brow furrowed. He leaned forward, trying to regain control. “Right, but could you elaborate on specific psychological techniques? Maybe visualization or—”

“Hold on,” Greg muttered, not even pretending to listen. His smirk widened as he swiped something on his screen.

Charlie’s annoyance flared. He’d driven six hours for this, burned through his gas budget, and this guy couldn’t even put his phone down? “Look, if you’re too busy, we can reschedule,” he said, voice tight.

“Nah, we’re good,” Greg replied, finally glancing up. His eyes glinted with something predatory. “Just wrapping up something… important.”

Unbeknownst to Charlie, Greg wasn’t scrolling social media. His phone ran a clandestine program, a digital alchemy of code and intent, designed by a rogue tech contractor with ties to the Chiefs’ inner circle. The program’s purpose: to reshape reality itself, rewriting a person’s body and mind to fit a new mold. Greg had been tasked with a delicate mission. The real Travis Kelce, the Chiefs’ star tight end, wanted to retire at 35 to spend more time with his girlfriend. The team’s owners, desperate to keep their cash cow on the field, decided Travis needed a replacement—a new Travis, one who wouldn’t dream of leaving. 

Greg, a diehard MAGA republican with a chip on his shoulder about “woke” celebrities, saw an opportunity to twist the plan to his liking. Charlie, with his youthful vigor and pliable mind, was the perfect canvas.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably as a sudden heat bloomed in his chest. He tugged at his collar, assuming the room’s AC was on the fritz. “Okay, let’s try this again,” he said, forcing a smile. “What about team dynamics? How do players like Travis Kelce maintain—”

His words caught in his throat. A sharp tingle raced down his spine, like static electricity but deeper, burrowing into his muscles. His hands, resting on his notebook, twitched. They looked… wrong. His fingers, usually slender and nimble, thickened before his eyes, knuckles bulging, palms widening. He blinked, heart racing. “What the—”

“Relax, kid,” Greg said, leaning back in his chair, phone still in hand. “Just go with it.”

Charlie’s vision blurred, then sharpened. His glasses felt tight, pinching his nose. He yanked them off, and the room snapped into focus—too clear, like he’d upgraded to HD vision. His jaw clenched involuntarily, and he felt his face shift, bones grinding subtly beneath the skin. His cheekbones sharpened, his jawline squared, his lips thickened into a cocky smirk he didn’t intend. He touched his face, gasping as stubble prickled his fingertips, rough and unfamiliar.

Charlie’s body convulsed, his skinny frame expanding like dough in an oven. His shoulders broadened, tearing the seams of his button-up. His chest barreled out, pecs swelling into hard, sculpted slabs that strained against the fabric. His arms ballooned, biceps and triceps rippling with power, veins popping under taut skin. His thighs thickened, shredding his khakis, while his calves hardened into diamonds. He gripped the chair, its metal creaking under his newfound strength. His height shot up, legs stretching until he towered at 6’5”. His abs carved themselves into an eight-pack, each ridge glistening with sweat that hadn’t been there moments ago.

He stared at his hands—massive, calloused, the hands of a man who’d spent years gripping footballs and barbells. His reflection in the office’s glass door confirmed the impossible: he was Travis Kelce. Not just a lookalike, but an exact replica—down to the chiseled jaw, the mischievous grin, the fade haircut. But something was off. His skin had a polished sheen, like he’d just stepped out of a gym photoshoot, and his posture screamed arrogance, chest puffed out, shoulders rolled back. In fact his muscles were even larger and more defined than the real Travis' were; they bulged with every little movement in an almost hypnotic fashion.

“What did you do to me?” Charlie growled, but the words felt foreign, laced with a confidence he didn’t own.

Greg pocketed his phone, satisfied, but said nothing.

Charlie’s mind became a battlefield. His original self—a compassionate, introspective psychology major with a deep commitment to social justice and a loving relationship with his boyfriend, Eli—was left clinging desperately to existence as Greg’s program rewrote his psyche. The mental transformation was slower than the physical, a deliberate unraveling and reconstruction, like code overwriting a hard drive. It wasn’t just about making Charlie into Travis Kelce; it was about erasing every trace of his former identity and replacing it with a hyper-masculine, conservative, heterosexual persona tailored to Greg’s MAGA-fueled vision.

As Charlie sat in the Chiefs’ office, his body already bulging with Travis’s musculature, the first wave of mental change hit like a subtle vibration in his skull. His thoughts, usually clear and analytical, grew fuzzy at the edges. He tried to focus on his interview questions, but they felt distant, like words written in a language he was forgetting. His passion for understanding the athlete’s mindset, rooted in empathy and curiosity, began to dissolve. In its place, a new framework emerged—simpler, brasher, centered on competition and dominance.

The program targeted Charlie’s core identity first: his sexuality. His memories of Eli—soft kisses in their dorm, late-night talks about queer rights, the warmth of holding hands at pride rallies—began to blur, as if someone were smudging charcoal sketches. He saw Eli’s face, but it felt wrong, like a photo from someone else’s life. A visceral discomfort surged, not his own but imposed, a programmed rejection of his gay identity. The program injected a flood of new desires, raw and aggressive. Images of women—curvy, dolled-up, submissive—flashed in his mind, each one sparking a primal hunger. The face of Travis’ celebrity girlfriend appeared most vividly: her blonde hair, red lips, the way her dresses hugged her hips. Charlie’s heart raced, not with love but with a possessive, almost predatory lust. He tried to resist, to cling to Eli, but the program was relentless, rewiring his neural pathways to crave women, to see them as objects of conquest.

“Stop,” Charlie whispered, his new baritone voice shaking. He gripped his head, but the fog thickened. His liberal values—empathy, inclusivity, nuance—were next to go. The program didn’t just erase them; it replaced them with a black-and-white worldview. Where Charlie once saw systemic inequality, he now saw weakness, people who “didn’t work hard enough.” His belief in collective responsibility morphed into rugged individualism, a conviction that winners like him deserved everything. The program fed him fragments of Travis’s memories—locker room banter, MAGA rallies, Fox News talking points—each one cementing a conservative ideology. Charlie’s nuanced debates about intersectionality were overwritten by slogans: “Make America Great Again,” “Toughen up or get left behind.” He felt a surge of pride in these ideas, alien yet intoxicating, as if they’d always been his.

His personality shifted to match. Charlie’s introspection, his tendency to listen and reflect, was crushed under a tidal wave of bravado. He was Travis now, cocky and loud, a man who owned every room he walked into. The program amplified his ego, making him obsessed with his new body. He flexed his biceps instinctively, marveling at their size, a grin spreading across his face. The mirror in the office became a magnet; he couldn’t stop staring at his chiseled jaw, his massive pecs, his eight-pack abs. “Goddamn, I’m a beast,” he muttered, the words slipping out effortlessly. His mind fixated on his physique, not as a tool but as proof of his superiority. Every muscle was a trophy, every vein a badge of dominance.

The sleazy edge Greg added was the final touch. Charlie’s respect for relationships, built on mutual trust, was twisted into something transactional. Taylor wasn’t a partner; she was a prize, a status symbol to parade. The program flooded his mind with fantasies of controlling her, of her existing to please him. He pictured her on his arm, dressed to impress, her every move reflecting his power. “She’s mine,” he thought, a sleazy smirk forming. “Gotta keep her in check.” The idea of objectifying her felt right, natural, a stark contrast to Charlie’s former belief in equality and consent. The program even tweaked his speech patterns, injecting a crude, frat-boy edge—phrases like “hot piece” and “knows her place” rolled off his tongue, each one burying Charlie deeper.

A faint echo of Charlie fought back, a whisper screaming that this wasn’t him. He tried to recall Eli’s laugh, the way it lit up a room, but the memory was overwritten by a locker room scene: Travis high-fiving teammates, bragging about “scoring” with cheerleaders. The whisper grew fainter, drowned by a flood of testosterone-fueled confidence. Charlie’s analytical mind, once his greatest asset, was now a liability. The program didn’t need him to think deeply; it needed him to act, to dominate, to win. His psychology degree, his dreams of helping others, dissolved into a singular drive: to be the best, to be Travis Kelce.

By the time Greg pocketed his phone, Charlie was gone. Travis Kelce 2.0 stood up, his massive frame filling the room. His mind was a fortress of ego, conservatism, and sleaze, every trace of Charlie’s gay, liberal identity erased. He adjusted his torn shirt, flexing for the mirror one last time. “Time to hit the field,” he said, voice dripping with swagger. “Then I’ll deal with Taylor. She’s gonna love this.” The program had done its job, creating a Travis who’d never retire until the Chiefs were finally done with him, who’d live for the game and the spotlight, and who’d reflect Greg’s twisted ideals. The old Travis was a memory; this Travis was the future.