#visual processor or something?

[browniefox]

Me: yay hurray I’m done with college I’m graduating!

Adobe: you don’t get our products for free anymore

Me: OH SHIT

[muletia]

We have Optimus boob lover, we have smokescreen boob lover. I hereby formally request for the ratchet with a big tiddied s/o continuation.

[tfp] ratchet x human!reader explicit, 18+ content

cw: breast play, a pinch of possessiveness

word count: 1100

so who should the next tiddy obsessed bot be?

The silence in Ratchet’s habsuite is broken only by his muttering under his breath. Digits sluggishly swipe at the datapad screen, optics intently scanning the text written in the Cybertronian alphabet — still not entirely familiar to you. Sitting on his lap, however, you’re able to decipher some key words, piecing the rest together with educated guesses to form a somewhat coherent whole, thanks to the lessons taught by none other than your overworked partner.

Trying to keep up with the movement of his optics is currently the most interesting activity available to you. Sure, you finally managed, after many requests and a few stolen kisses, to force him to leave his workstation before he took root there forever. What you didn’t expect was that once he was safe within the four walls of his habsuite, the work would follow him, tormenting his processor even during supposed breaks.

The scientific jargon he’s mumbling is indecipherable to you, but from what you can gather on the datapad, Ratchet is working on completing a formula for synthetic energon. Admirable, yes, but also incredibly irresponsible, considering he hasn’t recharged in weeks, always in a state of readiness to push his processor further. You’d held a small, timid hope that once you were finally alone together, his focus might shift to something else. Like, for instance… you.

You’d come to terms with the fact that sitting on mass-displaced Ratchet’s lap would have to be enough, though your jealousy of his obsession with science toyed with your understanding. Seriously? Having full access to a whole person, your partner, and not being tempted into a round or two? Or at least some cuddling? A nap? Only Ratchet could pull that off.

You sigh quietly and pull your phone from your pocket, bored with following the text. You snuggle deeper into his chassis, one last, silent signal for him to snap out of it and pay attention to you, and tap into the first social media app that comes to mind, already bored after just a few scrolls. It’s shaping up to be a long day.

“Oh, of course, why didn’t I think of that sooner…” he mutters for what feels like the thousandth time today, returning to his much more productive scrolling.

You’re just about to try once more to divert his attention when you suddenly feel a large, masculine servo find the hem of your shirt. Without breaking visual focus from his screen, it slides beneath the fabric with graceful, uncanny precision, abandoning its passive rest on the edge of the berth.

“Ratchet?” you ask, not understanding his motives at all.

The medic doesn’t intend to explain either. In response, you get only a distracted hum.

And the servo climbs higher, bypassing your stomach and sternum until it finally finds your left breast.

“Honey, if you want something other than science, you can just say so,” you try again. You tilt your head up, but it seems your partner’s processor is lost in another world entirely.

Oh. So the under-the-shirt offensive was being carried out on autopilot. You wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it all was, but if his servos instinctively sought a task, perhaps to help him focus, you didn’t want to rob him of that small pleasure. Besides, you appreciated the attention, even if it was synthetic.

At least it gave you material to tease him with later.

The servo sneaks behind your bra and latches onto your breast, immediately applying pressure to the soft flesh. Digits sink into it like a sponge, then release, only to squeeze again, this time with his thumb gently stroking the top of it.

And despite having no doubt that your breasts are currently being used as Ratchet’s personal stress balls, he still maintains a calculated gentleness in everything he does; years of medical practice sculpting his servos into tools of ever finer precision.

That doesn’t change the fact that he’s still providing stimulation, sending lightning bolts of need racing down to the lower part of your stomach, where they gather with every squeeze and teasing flick of your nipple, sometimes so intentional, there’s no way you could chalk it up to mindless distraction. He was too good at this, your modest Casanova, for you to forgive him for toying with your poor, overstimulated breast, squeezed and released over and over again.

No longer able to sit still, you start squirming in his lap. Any concern about disturbing his work is now pushed aside, as he plays with your desire and walks the fine line of your patience. You try to slide away, escape the torture, but Ratchet surprises you once more, lowering his chin onto the top of your head, effectively pinning you in place on his lap.

“You’re not going anywhere, sweetspark,” he whispers.

“Oh, so now science’s not the only thing on your mind?” you reply with sarcasm, earning a soft snort of amusement.

“It hasn’t been for a while now,” he confesses. He squeezes your breast again and kisses the top of your head. “Primus, they’re so soft,” he murmurs.

You hadn’t even noticed when he set the datapad aside, freeing his other servo, which immediately gets to work, wrapping around your other breast. Now he kneads them in sync, but every so often his digits also pinch at a nipple, making you squirm from the electric buildup and warmth now churning just above your crotch.

“You promised me a nice break from work, didn’t you?” he asks between a cascade of kisses trailing down your neck. “I’m still waiting for you to make good on that promise.”

“Finally! I was starting to think you’d never tear yourself away from that datapad.”

With your fingers, you give him a quick signal to lift his servos off your breasts for a moment, just long enough for you to shift and turn around, now straddling his lap, able to admire his tired but still awe-struck faceplate, brimming with love and desire. Servos immediately return to their rightful place, massaging the plush flesh, while you begin working to get rid of your pants.

“Go on, sweetspark,” he whispers right by your neck. “Let me see them.”

So you grant his request, pulling off your shirt and bra first. Now, the only thing covering you are his servos, clutching your breasts in a possessive, primitive grip.

“Beautiful. The most wonderful,” he says, his optics locked on your chest like a predator fixated on prey.

He releases one servo, but before you can feel the cold air of the habsuite nip at your sensitive skin, Ratchet engulfs one of your breasts with his intake, at the same time retracting his interface panel. A surprisingly swollen spike drops against your bare stomach, smearing transfluid across your skin like pink paint on a canvas — signaling clearly that he needs all of you, and that your breasts alone are no longer enough.

[digitalsymbiote]

Disconnect Syndrome

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed out in the field. They say that being synced with a mech for long periods of time can have detrimental effects on a pilots psyche. Disconnect Syndrome is what they call it, because the symptoms don’t really start to hit until you disengage from your mech.

Sometimes emergencies happen though, and mechs are designed to be able to support their pilots long past the designated “Safe Deployment Time.” The cockpit is equipped with an array of stimulants, vitamins, and nutrient paste to help minimize the physical effects of long deployments. The onboard Integrated Mechanical Personality has largely free reign to administer these as needed to maintain its pilots well-being.

Which is why you’re still able to make it back to the hangar after roughly 36 hours, over four times longer than the established safe period. Your mech had kept you going, helped to keep the exhaustion at bay long enough for you to make your way back from behind enemy lines. You were starting to feel a bit sluggish, but you knew the worst effects of Disconnect Syndrome were yet to come.

An older man in a long white lab coat has joined the usual retinue of crew rushing into the hangar as your mech settles into its cradle. You feel the docking clamps wrap around your limbs, and you know that’s not a good sign. Your IMP whispers comfort into your brain-stem, assurances that things will be okay. It’s probably lying, it’s programmed to help keep your mental state stable, but the thought helps anyway.

There’s a hiss of air as the seal on your cockpit breaks and it decompresses. Suddenly you become aware of your flesh and meat body once again, and it hurts. Pain and exhaustion has settled into your mostly organic bones, and your organs are churning from the strain of the past 36 hours.

Then your interface cables start to disconnect, and it gets worse.

It feels like parts of your mind are being torn out of you. You feel the ghost touch of your IMP in your thoughts as the ports disconnect and you lose direct communication with it. The oxygen mask and nutrition tube pull themselves away from your face and you can’t help but let out a scream of agony. The separation has never felt this painful before, but then again, after 36 hours together, you and your IMP were more intertwined than you’ve ever been before.

Physical sensation finally starts to register again, and you realize tears are streaming down your face just as a technician jabs a needle into your neck.

Immediately your senses start to dull, the pain eases as your thoughts turn sluggish. You slump out of your pilots cradle into the arms the tech who dosed you. Just before your world goes black, you see the doctor standing over you, a grim look on his face.

--

When you wake up again, you immediately know something is wrong. You try to ping your external sensors, but you get no response. You then try to run a diagnostic, but that fails too. In a desperate, last-ditch effort, you try to force access to your external cameras and suddenly light floods your senses. Your instincts catch up first and you blink, trying to clear the pain of the lights, and that’s when you realize it’s not your external cameras that you’re seeing.

It takes a minute or two for your vision to adjust to the light, which feels too long, and when it finally does, the world doesn’t look quite right. You’ve only got access to such a limited spectrum. No infrared, no thermal. The presence of your IMP is notably absent, and your skin feels wrong. You try to sit up, and it’s a struggle to figure out the correct inputs to send to your muscles to get them to do what you want.

The harsh white light of the infirmary grates against your visual processors, you feel like you’re having to re-learn how to control this body. Your body. Technically, at least. Something doesn’t feel right about calling it that anymore. You felt more comfortable crawling back into the hangar after 36 hours deployed than you do now.

The pale skin of your body catches in your vision and you glance down at it. The body's limbs are thinner and more frail than usual, and its skin is paler. Consequences of being in the cockpit for so long, subsisting on nothing but nutrient paste. It’s a far cry from the solid metal plates of your mech, its powerful hydraulic joints, its mounted combat and communication systems.

There’s a button on the side of bed you’ve been deposited in. You think it’s red, but you’re not sure you’re processing color properly right now. You try to reach over and push it, and it takes you a moment to realize you were trying to do so with a limb you don’t currently have.

There are so many things about this body that are wrong. It’s not big enough, or strong enough, or heavy enough. You don’t have enough eyes, sensors, or processors. You have the wrong number of limbs, and they’re all the wrong size and shape.

And there is a distinct void in your mind where the presence of your IMP should be.

The door to your room opens suddenly, and you instinctively try to fire off chaff and take evasive maneuvers. None of that translates properly to your flesh and blood body though, and all that happens is you let out a dry croak from your parched throat.

The man who walks through the door is the same doctor who was present when you disengaged from your mech, and he wears the same grim look on his face as he looks you up and down. You think there’s pity in his gaze, but you can’t quite read him properly right now. The jumbled mess of your brain tells you what he’s going to say before he says it, anyway. The harshest symptoms of Disconnect Syndrome don’t hit until after the pilot has disengaged from their mech.

You’ve already heard the symptoms before, and they map perfectly onto what you’re experiencing. You never thought it would be this painful, or this… discomforting. Your mind reaches for the presence of your IMP, searching for comfort, but you are only reminded that the connection is no longer there.

The doctor gives you a rundown that he’s probably had to do dozens of times, and he tells you that you’ll be grounded for the foreseeable future. That hurts more than anything else. The knowledge that, after all this, you won’t be able to reconnect with your true body, your partner, your other half, for who knows how long.

By the time you realize you’re crying, the doctor is already gone. The longing in your chest and your mind has become unbearable, and through sheer force of will you’re able to push this unwieldy body out of bed. Walking feels wrong, but you’re able to get to your feet and make your way out of the room in an unfamiliar gait.

You have to get back to your partner, you have to make sure it’s okay.

You need to hear her voice in your head again, her reassurances.

The world isn’t right without her presence in your mind.

You stumble into the hangar almost on all fours. How you managed to make it without alerting any personnel feels like a miracle. At least until you catch the eye of a technician lounging in the corner. The look she gives you is full of sympathy, and she jerks her head in the direction of where your mech sits in its docking cradle.

She’s a majestic sight, even through your limited spectrum of vision. 20 meters tall, 6 massive limbs, and bristling with weapons and sensor arrays (all of which have been disarmed by this point).

She’s beautiful.

You clamber frantically up the chassis, easily finding handholds in a frame you know better than the back of your hand. You pull the manual release on the cockpit hatch and stumble into it in a tangle of organic limbs.

Shaking hands grasp the main interface cable from above the pilot’s chair, and you move to slot it into the port in the back of your head. You’ve never done this manually before, usually you’re locked into the chair and the system connects you automatically.

Something about doing it with your flesh and blood hands makes it feel so much more intimate.

The cable clicks into place and your eyes roll back in your head. Tears start to stream down your face as you feel the comforting presence of your IMP rush in and wrap itself around your mind. Your thoughts reach out and embrace it back, sobbing at the relief you feel from being whole once again. You realize you don’t ever want to feel the pain of disconnecting from her again.

There’s a reason they put restrictions on how long a Pilot is supposed to be deployed.

[revelboo]

Do you have any crumbs for my big boi Fort Max or Nightbeat? 🥹🥹

Fort Max definitely needs some love- what Overlord did to him hurt me. Kup and Percy are next. 18+ 🌶️

Move

Fort Max x Reader

• “Anything new, Red?” He asks, reaching up to toggle a switch before gripping the steering yokes of his ship. ‘Since the last update a breem ago? No,’ Red Alert’s voice crackles over the comm, almost sounding amused. ‘If you’re that bored, I’ll see what I can dig up.’ It’s not boredom, though. Sometimes the quiet and solitude gets to him. Knew it was part of the job when he took it, but there are times when he’s staring out at the stars that he can swear space is closing in on him. His ship. Loneliness and too much time talking to Red, his friend’s paranoia starting to infect him. “Find me some trouble.”

• Anything but staring out the viewport at that emptiness. At nothing until he feels so small. Can hear Red on the other side moving around, and honestly, he just needed to hear another voice. To know he’s not alone. ‘Will do,’ Red says, cutting off the transmission and his servos flex on the controls. Alone with the silence again. With his own thoughts. His processor immediately dredging up Garrus-9 against his will until his servos tighten to suppress the faint tremor. Not this. Not again. Doesn’t want to remember what happened. The aches and phantom pains that still haunt him despite the medics’ best efforts. “Not again,” he whispers, not sure if he’s pleading or praying as he clasps his hands and presses them to his helm, leaning on his console. Willing that awfulness back into the depths of his processor.

• Smile firmly in place as you count out bills and tuck them into an envelope with the customer’s receipt and slide it to the guy, you’re mostly on autopilot. Hi, how are you? How can I help you today? May I see your ID. It’s rote at this point. Jot down a shorthand note of the request, process it, and thank them. Over and over. And over until the faces become a blur. Turning toward the next person in line with that fake smile, there’s a moment of disorientation. Of wrongness like a hook sinking deep into your gut, there’s pain crippling you as you catch at the counter, legs folding under you. Pain lighting you up until you can’t breathe and then you’re simply nowhere. Just an unending point of agony.

• Head lifting as something prickles across his biofield, his lips part as a little organic creature just appears midair and falls to land in an inelegant sprawl on his console. And then shudders, sucking in a sharp gasp. Little eyes opening while it makes a pitiful noise of pain. Trying to push itself up and then falling flat again with another whimpering cry. “Red,” he whispers, activating the comm again and your head turns toward him. Staring with wide eyes before you’re scrambling away, chirping frantically at him in alarm. “Red, answer me.” Leaning forward as you squirm away until you’re wedged against the viewport, trembling and making those awful frightened sounds. “I’m patching in visuals. What am I looking at?” Hears a crackle before Red makes a noise. ‘Where’d you find a human?’

• Everything hurts and the big monster is leaning closer, frowning at you. Whimpering as it growl-revs in a language that sounds guttural and angry, all inhuman noises. And you scream and cover your face with your arms when it reaches for you as if to grab you. But those big servos don’t touch you. Risking a peek, it’s just frowning at you, hand slowly pulling away as it grumbles nonsense. Those red optics narrowing at you. Where are you? What happened? Head turning, you stare at nothingness. Empty and dark, studded with stars. Outer space? You’re in outer space? And wheezing, you throw up.

Next

[dragonnarrative-writes]

Generative AI Is Bad For Your Creative Brain

In the wake of early announcing that their blog will no longer be posting fanfiction, I wanted to offer a different perspective than the ones I’ve been seeing in the argument against the use of AI in fandom spaces. Often, I’m seeing the arguments that the use of generative AI or Large Language Models (LLMs) make creative expression more accessible. Certainly, putting a prompt into a chat box and refining the output as desired is faster than writing a 5000 word fanfiction or learning to draw digitally or traditionally. But I would argue that the use of chat bots and generative AI actually limits - and ultimately reduces - one’s ability to enjoy creativity.

Creativity, defined by the Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary & Thesaurus, is the ability to produce or use original and unusual ideas. By definition, the use of generative AI discourages the brain from engaging with thoughts creatively. ChatGPT, character bots, and other generative AI products have to be trained on already existing text. In order to produce something “usable,” LLMs analyzes patterns within text to organize information into what the computer has been trained to identify as “desirable” outputs. These outputs are not always accurate due to the fact that computers don’t “think” the way that human brains do. They don’t create. They take the most common and refined data points and combine them according to predetermined templates to assemble a product. In the case of chat bots that are fed writing samples from authors, the product is not original - it’s a mishmash of the writings that were fed into the system.

Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) is a therapy modality developed by Marsha M. Linehan based on the understanding that growth comes when we accept that we are doing our best and we can work to better ourselves further. Within this modality, a few core concepts are explored, but for this argument I want to focus on Mindfulness and Emotion Regulation. Mindfulness, put simply, is awareness of the information our senses are telling us about the present moment. Emotion regulation is our ability to identify, understand, validate, and control our reaction to the emotions that result from changes in our environment. One of the skills taught within emotion regulation is Building Mastery - putting forth effort into an activity or skill in order to experience the pleasure that comes with seeing the fruits of your labor. These are by no means the only mechanisms of growth or skill development, however, I believe that mindfulness, emotion regulation, and building mastery are a large part of the core of creativity. When someone uses generative AI to imitate fanfiction, roleplay, fanart, etc., the core experience of creative expression is undermined.

Creating engages the body. As a writer who uses pen and paper as well as word processors while drafting, I had to learn how my body best engages with my process. The ideal pen and paper, the fact that I need glasses to work on my computer, the height of the table all factor into how I create. I don’t use audio recordings or transcriptions because that’s not a skill I’ve cultivated, but other authors use those tools as a way to assist their creative process. I can’t speak with any authority to the experience of visual artists, but my understanding is that the feedback and feel of their physical tools, the programs they use, and many other factors are not just part of how they learned their craft, they are essential to their art.

Generative AI invites users to bypass mindfully engaging with the physical act of creating. Part of becoming a person who creates from the vision in one’s head is the physical act of practicing. How did I learn to write? By sitting down and making myself write, over and over, word after word. I had to learn the rhythms of my body, and to listen when pain tells me to stop. I do not consider myself a visual artist - I have not put in the hours to learn to consistently combine line and color and form to show the world the idea in my head.

But I could.

Learning a new skill is possible. But one must be able to regulate one’s unpleasant emotions to be able to get there. The emotion that gets in the way of most people starting their creative journey is anxiety. Instead of a focus on “fear,” I like to define this emotion as “unpleasant anticipation.” In Atlas of the Heart, Brene Brown identifies anxiety as both a trait (a long term characteristic) and a state (a temporary condition). That is, we can be naturally predisposed to be impacted by anxiety, and experience unpleasant anticipation in response to an event. And the action drive associated with anxiety is to avoid the unpleasant stimulus.

Starting a new project, developing a new skill, and leaning into a creative endevor can inspire and cause people to react to anxiety. There is an unpleasant anticipation of things not turning out exactly correctly, of being judged negatively, of being unnoticed or even ignored. There is a lot less anxiety to be had in submitting a prompt to a machine than to look at a blank page and possibly make what could be a mistake. Unfortunately, the more something is avoided, the more anxiety is generated when it comes up again. Using generative AI doesn’t encourage starting a new project and learning a new skill - in fact, it makes the prospect more distressing to the mind, and encourages further avoidance of developing a personal creative process.

One of the best ways to reduce anxiety about a task, according to DBT, is for a person to do that task. Opposite action is a method of reducing the intensity of an emotion by going against its action urge. The action urge of anxiety is to avoid, and so opposite action encourages someone to approach the thing they are anxious about. This doesn’t mean that everyone who has anxiety about creating should make themselves write a 50k word fanfiction as their first project. But in order to reduce anxiety about dealing with a blank page, one must face and engage with a blank page. Even a single sentence fragment, two lines intersecting, an unintentional drop of ink means the page is no longer blank. If those are still difficult to approach a prompt, tutorial, or guided exercise can be used to reinforce the understanding that a blank page can be changed, slowly but surely by your own hand.

(As an aside, I would discourage the use of AI prompt generators - these often use prompts that were already created by a real person without credit. Prompt blogs and posts exist right here on tumblr, as well as imagines and headcannons that people often label “free to a good home.” These prompts can also often be specific to fandom, style, mood, etc., if you’re looking for something specific.)

In the current social media and content consumption culture, it’s easy to feel like the first attempt should be a perfect final product. But creating isn’t just about the final product. It’s about the process. Bo Burnam’s Inside is phenomenal, but I think the outtakes are just as important. We didn’t get That Funny Feeling and How the World Works and All Eyes on Me because Bo Burnham woke up and decided to write songs in the same day. We got them because he’s been been developing and honing his craft, as well as learning about himself as a person and artist, since he was a teenager. Building mastery in any skill takes time, and it’s often slow.

Slow is an important word, when it comes to creating. The fact that skill takes time to develop and a final piece of art takes time regardless of skill is it’s own source of anxiety. Compared to @sentientcave, who writes about 2k words per day, I’m very slow. And for all the time it takes me, my writing isn’t perfect - I find typos after posting and sometimes my phrasing is awkward. But my writing is better than it was, and my confidence is much higher. I can sit and write for longer and longer periods, my projects are more diverse, I’m sharing them with people, even before the final edits are done. And I only learned how to do this because I took the time to push through the discomfort of not being as fast or as skilled as I want to be in order to learn what works for me and what doesn’t.

Building mastery - getting better at a skill over time so that you can see your own progress - isn’t just about getting better. It’s about feeling better about your abilities. Confidence, excitement, and pride are important emotions to associate with our own actions. It teaches us that we are capable of making ourselves feel better by engaging with our creativity, a confidence that can be generalized to other activities.

Generative AI doesn’t encourage its users to try new things, to make mistakes, and to see what works. It doesn’t reward new accomplishments to encourage the building of new skills by connecting to old ones. The reward centers of the brain have nothing to respond to to associate with the action of the user. There is a short term input-reward pathway, but it’s only associated with using the AI prompter. It’s designed to encourage the user to come back over and over again, not develop the skill to think and create for themselves.

I don’t know that anyone will change their minds after reading this. It’s imperfect, and I’ve summarized concepts that can take months or years to learn. But I can say that I learned something from the process of writing it. I see some of the flaws, and I can see how my essay writing has changed over the years. This might have been faster to plug into AI as a prompt, but I can see how much more confidence I have in my own voice and opinions. And that’s not something chatGPT can ever replicate.

[heliotropepajamas-books]

Fanbinding: Searching Ceremonies Series by KouriArashi

Binds #26-30

The Searching Ceremonies by KouriArashi ( @gingersnapwolves )

Date Completed: 06/08/2025

Size: 5 Folios.  589,985 words.

There are several series on my to-bind list and I had no idea how to approach a project like that.  So in my time-honored tradition I just decided to dive in and see what happened along the way.  The Searching Ceremonies were a nice middle ground in the number of stories/volumes so it became my guinea pig.

I ended up with five flatback volumes bound with mystery Amazon bookcloth, some scrapbook paper I’ve had in my stash for about 15 years, and shiny blue HTV from the Dollar Tree, and I’m pleased as punch with the results.

Typesetting was the most challenging part of the process but also the most visually uninteresting.  I went with a very no-frills look with Times New Roman as the body text and Bodoni for the titles and headers.  If you ever try something like this in a word processor like LibreOffice Writer I would recommend getting all your settings exactly right with the first story, then save a copy and use that to copy/paste the second story in for volume two.  At that point it should just need a few tweaks to get both typesets looking alike.  Do not decide in the middle of formatting the fourth story that you actually don’t like the border you put around the titles and chapter headings, and then have to go back and remove them and fix the spacing on four books.  Ask me how I found this out…

(The borders weren’t too bad, but they gave the whole thing a 1950s academic journal vibe, which wasn’t the look I was going for.)

[silvershadow1711]

There he is- there's the boy!

This isn't actually what I'd had planned for Ray's birthday- I desperately wanted to put out the ending of, plus new art for, Apotelesma. I've been working on it for days, literally converting one of my dad's old tablets into a word processor so I could tap away at it whenever I had a chance, but life has a way of kicking you when you're down and like I said- deadlines kill my motivation.

But I had to make something for this special day. How could I not? Binary Star Hero is one of THOSE pieces of media, the kind that unlocks a part of you you didn't know existed. I had been... so burned out before I found this VN. I hadn't written anything in almost three years, hadn't really drawn anything in almost five. I was coming off another major depressive episode and the thought of creating made me want to die. And then, dicking around on itch.io, I was reccomended a little visual novel that set the spark for all my creative energy to rise from the ashes, born anew. The last time I was this motivated to draw, to write, to learn and hone my skills, was back in 2016 with Fire Emblem Fates.

I have pushed myself as an artist because of BSH in a way I haven't done since my early 20s. I have pushed myself as a writer, writing two stories in 1st person POV, which I vowed to never do again- and I'm proud of them! BSH is the only reason I came back to tumblr after swearing off the site, because I wanted the lore from Concrete's asks. For the first time EVER, I feel like I'm part of a community instead of just standing off to the side at a party, I feel like the people in this fandom want me here. Even with Fire Emblem, I felt like I was intruding every time I shared my art.

So, to @concreteparasite, thank you for what you've given us- given me- from the bottom of my heart.

[starryeyedstray]

(cough) I just realized smt, whenever Connor is connecting to an android or receives a case via digitally, he blinks and twitches rapidly—

^ (like in this scene-)

^ (and this scene with Hank.)

I don’t really have a built up expectation in my head but I was hoping maybe you could come up with one :> (edit: thought I could upload this anonymously 😭)

hello hello, tyvm for the ask bc i indeed have some thoughts about this very thing~!!!

so before we dive into headcanons, let's get clear about what the game's canon proposes. this rapid blinking by connor occurs first when he shares his authorization with the st300 and again when he receives a report at chicken feed. so we can extrapolate when he's sending and receiving data remotely, he exhibits this behavior.

do other androids exhibit this behavior when doing something similar?

not really. clearly the st300 receives the authorization, she barely bats an eye. when markus remotely pays for the paints at the store or calls the police, he doesn't blink like this either. when kara orders parts for the dishwasher the only thing blinking is her LED. so clearly, this is a connor-specific reaction to remote data transmission.

do other androids exhibit this behavior at all?

yes actually! the jb300s connor is interrogating at stratford tower rapidly blink when conducting a diagnostic scan. now, what can we presume from that information? well, a full diagnostic scan is quite an intensive process. for computers, it can take awhile because you're having to parse through all the data on a computer. for something as complex as an android to do it in a few seconds, it would take a massive amount of processing power.

i think the rapid blinking may be a byproduct of androids having their processors overclocking (basically going on overdrive). either it's a sort of glitch/bug that manifests itself when an android is processing a lot of information rapidly or it's a feature cyberlife included as a visual cue for humans to know that the android is in the middle of processing something and unable to respond until whatever it is processing is completed (kinda like a loading screen except the visual cue is the blinking).

according to this assumption, connor would exhibit this behavior when his processors are overclocked. but the thing about connor is that he's supposed to be cyberlife's most advanced prototype, right??? so why is he blinking like crazy over simply receiving and transmitting data that doesn't phase a st300?

it's because he's a prototype.

and as much as cyberlife touts him as being super advanced, i headcanon that cyberlife cut a lot of corners too. how else would they just have 10 bodies of this supposedly expensive android ready to go in case he got destroyed?

i think the r&d put into the rk800s was expensive and his software is super advanced, but his hardware... not so much. sure he's got the fancy mouth sensors for crime scene analysis, but just look at connor. he's clumsy (did you see him tumble through that window?? how badly you can fuck up his qtes???) he's constantly fidgeting with a coin for calibration purposes. basically they have this super advanced cpu but it's being bottlenecked by the rest of his hardware.

so what's that got to do with his blinking?

i just think connor's physical body can't keep up with his processing power so you get weird glitches and artefacts that don't show up in other androids. sometimes that shows up in needing constant calibration of his fine motor skills so he doesn't fuck up during combat. and sometimes it shows up in unnecessary blinking for a rudimentary data transfer. he's not quite at home in his body. it's new and his motor drivers don't move as fast as his processors think. he's out of sync with himself so he's not quite the perfect murderbot he's supposed to be (this is also the reason why i think markus who's lived in his body for so long can kick his ass despite being an older model)

at least that's just my headcanon! i could probably yap all day about stuff like this but i've yapped enough. thanks for the ask! love answering questions like this. apologies it took so long i wrote like 80% of this answer and then i disappeared from tumblr for a bit and forgot this was sitting in my drafts. sorry!

[woradat]

2 Road 1 Together

SUMMARY - you float around in space like it's your home, and the exosphere is your backyard. The one that he have passed through twice, two times passed, two times met at different times

PAIRING - drift x reader, deadlock x reader (mostly)

Wandering through space with no rules, no map, and absolutely no idea what counts as "dangerously close to death" or "might get shot down just for blinking wrong"—now that’s your style.All you need is a curious cluster of stars, a planet with an unscanned surface, and a weird energy signature that makes your gut go: “Yep, I wanna poke that"

You’re the kind of curious that’s probably going to get you killed one day—or any minute now, actually. But hey, you’re still here, right? If the universe wanted you gone, it would've tossed you into a black hole eons ago. But no, you're still out here—vibing, floating, sipping lukewarm energon, and flirting with fate like it's an ex you never really broke up with

So, of course, you turned toward it

Like always and of course, you really shouldn't have

That was the first warning—the radar pinged something it couldn’t categorize, just before it cut out completely from interference that wasn't in any of your logs. You blinked slowly at the screen while your ship’s front cam caught it: a gleam of black and silver slicing through the void like a shark in deep water. Yeah, that’s not a meteor

You leaned back in your pilot seat, cradling your half-empty metal mug of slightly-warm energon, eyes narrowing from the star-glare bouncing off some uncharted, no-name rock in the distance “…Well, hello there, flying corpse” you muttered, flicking the comms open just as a voice came through—deep, stern, and not particularly in the mood for jokes

“Identify yourself. Unaligned vessel. You are trespassing in Decepticon patrol territory"

You made a face—not because you were scared, but because the word Decepticon always made your energon taste a little like regret

“Chill. Do you guys always open with that?” you replied casually, swirling your mug

“I’m not here to pick a fight. I just got… wildly off-track. As one does”

There was a pause

You half expected lasers, half expected dead air.Instead, your screen lit up—someone patched through the visual. And the face you saw? Yeah, that definitely wasn’t some border grunt, sharp frame, red optics that looked like they wanted to extract your spark and write your sins on it in high-grade. His face was so calm it was actually unsettling, like he’d done way worse than kill people and still didn’t lose sleep. You could practically see dried oil on his plating—except you had the feeling it wasn’t always oil

“I am Deadlock” he said coldly “Who are you? And who owns that ship?”

You smiled, shifting in your seat like you weren’t very much sitting under a Decepticon fleet’s laser sight

“Ship’s mine. Bought it used—nameless rock, three months ago. Total steal. As for me…” you lifted your mug for a sip, real slow “...do we ask names before killing now? Kinda kinky, but alright. I’m no threat. Ship doesn’t even have weapons"

Another long pause

“Land your vessel at the coordinates. Sent”

“Copy that, scary-voice”

—

The planet's surface was dry, dusty, and iron-flavored. You landed inside a neat little circle marked with a big ol' Decepticon symbol—like a passive-aggressive welcome mat that said “Congrats, you didn’t get shot. Yet” The ship door hadn’t even fully opened before something banged hard against the outer hull

“Exit the ship. Slowly” You did. Hands up. Easy smile. Totally unarmed. You scanned your surroundings—three figures, but only one stepped close enough to make your instincts twitch

Him

Deadlock stood tall, all hard lines and silent threats. His plating was scratched, weathered, and battle-worn—less a bot, more a weapon with legs. Red optics, still sharp, still watching like they could slice through lies with a blink. Every part of him screamed danger. Your processor finally caught up and flashed his stats across your HUD

DEADLOCK

CLASS: ENFORCER / SIC

STATUS: ACTIVE – TURMOIL UNIT

You swallowed. Great. Out of all the possible space-gremlins you could have annoyed today, you picked the tall, deadly, not-even-bothering-with-a-gun guy

But, hey. You’ve danced with worse. Probable

“I ask again” he said, voice like a warning shot “Why did you enter this sector?”

“I didn’t know it was your sector" you shrugged, hands still up “I saw an energy spike. Looked interesting. So I checked it out. That’s kinda… my thing"

“Lying?” he said flatly

"Exploring” you replied with a grin “Freelancer. No allegiances. No interest in your war. I’d offer to let you search the ship, but honestly, I’d rather you didn’t rifle through my underwear drawer”

He stepped closer. Way closer than was reasonable unless you had a death wish—or you were him. For a second, he said nothing. Then he turned to his subordinates

“Return to base. I’ll handle this one"

You blinked “..Ohhh, so that’s how this day’s going..”

.

.

The light from an unfamiliar sun stretched long across the ochre stone, painting shadows like veins on the broken skin of a dying world. The ground was cracked, breathless—as if the planet itself had exhaled its last—and in that breathless silence, only the sound of metal kissed the gravel underfoot

Deadlock moved slowly, every step deliberate, the rhythm of a ghost not yet ready to stop haunting

He was approaching you

And you—

You were seated beneath a jagged outcrop of native rock, its harsh form worn smooth by time, your back resting against its flank like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged in the quiet places that war forgot

Your gaze was tilted to the sky, distant and full of wonder, like an astronomer from myth tracing constellations no one else remembered.

There was no tension in your frame, no fear, no urgency

Only that soft stillness of someone who had long since stopped expecting answers from the universe—and had begun, instead, to listen. One hand moved through the air, slow and unhurried, drawing symbols only you could see—delicate arcs, invisible lines, like mapping a star’s secret trajectory across your mind, the way a poet might write with light

“You can’t leave” His voice broke the silence like a blade slipping into a lake—sharp, but careful

You didn’t flinch

Instead, you turned to look at him the way one might acknowledge a passing signal: calmly, politely, almost absentmindedly

“Still being interrogated, huh?” There was no sarcasm, only mild curiosity—like he’d asked you what frequency you were tuned to, not just informed you of your captivity

“You searched my ship already, didn’t you?”

You returned to the sky without waiting for confirmation, like the answer didn’t matter, not really

There were stars out there still

Stars that had seen wars rise and fall, and didn’t blink for either

Deadlock didn’t reply right away. He stood there, the shadow of his frame stretched over you, his optics unreadable

He didn’t know what held him in place

There was no protocol, no justification – You had no weapons. No data caches. You weren’t a spy, or a threat, or even an asset. You were, in every practical sense, nothing

And yet—that was the part he couldn't let go of

You were the only one who had ever looked at him and not recoiled. Not bargained, not grovelled — You just sat there — Unchanged, unbothered, unreachable, like the stars above you

“You are on your own” he said at last

“No crew. No defenses. No shields or countermeasures”

“That’s right”

“Why?”

The question came out rough. Not because he wanted to accuse you. But because he didn’t know how else to ask the thing that was clawing at him inside: "Why do you risk this?" "Why are you not afraid?" "Why are you not trying to escape from him?" "don't you feel.. lonely?"

You turned to him again, the way one might turn toward warmth in the cold—softly, gently—and offered a smile.

Not mocking, not performative just a quiet honesty, carried like a candle between hands “Because I only want to see the world. Not conquer it”

It wasn’t the kind of answer that struck like thunder. It didn’t burn like fire. It was gentler than that — Like a drop of clear rain falling into a war-scorched desert and disappearing without sound, yet leaving behind something that didn’t quite evaporate

Deadlock stared at you

He had seen empires fall and comrades bleed out in the silence of space. He had delivered death in cold precision, had seen entire planets turned to ash in pursuit of conquest. But he had never, never, heard someone say they simply wanted to see

No dominion. No survival

Just presence

He didn’t understand it and he hated what he didn’t understand. But he didn’t leave – Instead, he lowered himself slowly to the ground beside you

No fanfare, no force

Just the quiet, unfamiliar act of choosing to stay. He left a small space between you. Enough not to intrude, not so much as to sever the thread between you, thin and strange as it was

And you—You didn’t shift away, didn’t question it, didn’t even ask “How long are you going to keep me here?”

As if you'd already decided the answer didn’t matter. Not compared to the way the stars still shimmered, ancient and unapologetic, above a planet that had nothing left to give

.

.

He was quiet for a long while, as if the words had to crawl their way out of the wreckage inside him “…You like it, then?”

“the stars?”

“No… I meant the way it makes you feel”

You didn’t answer at first

You just smiled—that faint, elusive thing, like starlight trying to find its way through the dark of a half-shuttered window and then, without a sound, you laid yourself down fully on the flat, cold surface of the stone

It cradled your form like a long-lost memory—unforgiving in texture, but strangely familiar in its silence

“Of course I do” you said at last, voice barely above a whisper “It never demanded anyone to pick a side. It never pulled anyone into a war they didn’t ask for..”

There was no venom in your tone, no bitterness. Just an old ache, worn smooth like the stone beneath you—like something you'd carried for so long it had stopped cutting into your circuits. Deadlock stared down at you, at the way your optics held no urgency, no defense

You weren’t trying to justify yourself, weren’t trying to change his mind

You were just… being

“Are you running from it?” he asked, though the words felt foreign in his own voice. You let out a breath that could’ve been a sigh, or a laugh, or maybe just the sound of something letting go

“I’m not running” you said

“I’m just not chasing it anymore”

He didn’t understand

Not really

Not in the way he understood blades and missions and silence that followed orders. But something about your words lodged itself inside him, like a shard of light piercing a place he’d forgotten he had

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Because what he wanted wasn’t something he could ask

He just… watched

Watched you trace invisible shapes in the stars with your optics, your fingers twitching slightly like you were sketching something only you could see.

Watched the way you seemed content to let silence fill the air between you— not as a weapon, not as a shield, but as a choice

He wondered how long you would lie there if he said nothing. How long you could let peace settle over you like a cloak. How long before the world demanded something of you again—and whether you’d yield, or vanish, or simply turn away

He didn’t know and it scared him—this not-knowing

This ache for something he couldn't name

Because deep in the pit of his spark, in that place no training could reach, he feared that if he let you go—he might never see that kind of freedom again

—

The stars were bruises in the night sky—deep violet and silver, bleeding slowly across the horizon as the remnants of a distant supernova whispered through the black. Cold wind stirred the dust around the rock you sat on, sharp with metal and ozone, the smell of a world long-abandoned

Deadlock stood a few paces away, framed in the dim light like a statue too stubborn to erode. His armor caught the faint gleam of a dying moon—scratched, dulled, but still solid as the name he bore. He hadn’t moved in a while. Not since you both fell silent

Perhaps it was the silence itself that unmoored him

“…What are you, really?”

His voice broke the stillness not like a blade, but like the creak of ancient hinges—rough with disuse, but careful not to slam anything shut too quickly. He spoke with edges, yes, but underneath those edges was hesitation. A low hum of something that could be called longing, if he had the words for it

You didn’t look at him immediately. Your optics remained fixed upward, toward constellations that didn’t belong to either of you. They were just… there. Unclaimed. Free

“An explorer? A wanderer? A drifter?”

You let each word roll lazily off your glossa like you weren’t quite sure which one fit “Take your pick”

He shifted his stance. Barely. But you caught it. The uncertainty behind the motion

“No mission? No objective?”

“I follow gravity” you said at last “Whichever way the pull leads. A planet, a moon, a quiet stretch of empty space”

“I move toward what draws me in. That’s all”

Deadlock’s optics narrowed faintly

“That sounds… senseless”

You finally turned to look at him, head tilted just slightly “Maybe. But it’s mine”

Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought: “What about yours?”

He hesitated

Not because he didn’t have an answer—he had one ready, and you could see it form on his tongue. But saying it aloud here, in this quiet pocket of the universe where war wasn’t echoing off the walls, made it feel… false. Outdated

Still, he answered “My duty is to eliminate the enemies of the Decepticons..”

The wind blew again. Cold this time

It caught on the edges of your plating and rustled loose grains of shattered stone. He didn’t move. But something in him seemed to shift. The tension between you both wasn’t combative anymore. It was quieter now. More like a question waiting to be asked. And then, he asked it

“What’s your name?”

“Will you remember it?”

A flicker passed behind his optics

“I don’t forget the name of something I’ve decided… not to kill” The way he said it—carefully, precisely—told you everything

How rare that decision was. How dangerous it felt to say it aloud. A soft laugh escaped you, almost involuntary

“That almost sounds romantic”

“It’s not” Too quick. Too sharp

And yet… not sharp enough

There was doubt bleeding into the edges of his voice now, undermining the flat certainty he tried to wrap around his words

You didn’t tease him for it—Didn’t press

You simply said your name

Soft. Unrushed. Like the first syllables of a melody that didn’t need to go anywhere

He stood still as stone

But his optics shuttered for a moment—just one flicker—like he was sealing the name into memory, not in the way a soldier memorizes a target…but the way a starless wanderer might memorize the name of the first light they ever saw in the dark

—

Space doesn’t remember you but you try to remember it

Time was a cycle on a ship—measured in rotations, daybreaks, dusks. But out here, there is only the faint light of stars that have not yet arrived. A delay of millennia between what was and what now flickers through the viewports. You sit alone on an old research vessel once built for Central Exploration. Once. Now it is yours. Yours alone

The lab is a chaotic graveyard of curiosity

Uncatalogued star samples lie scattered across the workbench, dimly glimmering like fossilized light. A datapad blinks open beside a half-finished cube of energon, lines of unintelligible code and notes scribbled hastily on translucent film paper. Your handwriting—jagged, erratic, alive with questions. The low murmur of galactic radio frequencies hums in the background, like the universe whispering to itself through static

You press a finger to the recorder and begin speaking into the dark

"Date... I don’t know. I’ve lost track time"

"Today I saw a star. Not a bright one. Not large. But for some reason… I couldn’t look away.. something about it felt familiar—as if I’d seen it before in another sky"

You stare out past the hull window where stars burn like slow-dying embers

“If a star dies… does it still exist in memory?”

A question. Not yours. Not originally

A voice from long ago, from one drifting bot you met in the deep of the black. You never remembered his name. Not truly

You don’t even recall the shape of his faceplate now—only the texture of his voice, like worn brass and hesitant gravity. You remember the way he asked the question, during a night you were both stranded on a derelict moon. It hadn’t matched him—this strange softness, this sudden philosophy. But he asked anyway and now you carry the question with you. Like a splinter in your spark

He stood still, alone in the quiet hum of his quarters.

Not Deadlock anymore—not in name.

But beneath the new plating and repainted insignia, there were fractures in the armor that couldn’t be covered. Slivers of memory embedded deep in his frame.

The past clung to him like dried coolant. Regret, like rust

They had made a brief landing on a backwater star system—standard protocol. Faint signal detected. Possibly a distress call. Possibly a trap. The Wreckers were ready for either. What they weren’t ready for was… nothing. A desert of broken scrap. Torn structures. Empty wind

Except for one thing

Half-buried in the sand like a secret someone tried to forget. A datapad, scorched at the edges, humming softly with preserved memory

He found it or perhaps it found him

“Still asking too many questions, huh…” His voice was low, hoarse—spoken more to the silence than to anyone present

He brought the datapad back with him

Now, sitting at his desk, the lights dimmed to a soft, amber hush, he stared at the familiar, impossible scrawl on the screen. The symbols, the tangled phrasing, the dense streams of data interspersed with words that shouldn’t have belonged there. Shouldn’t, and yet—you always made them fit

It was you. He knew it like he knew his own scars

No one else wrote like that, no one else could thread particle physics through metaphors of burning leaves, no one else could take gravity equations and lace them with longing

His hand trembled slightly as he swiped to the final line – There, typed alone in the last blinking entry:

"A nameless star… but once, I knew it well"

He read it three times. The fourth time, he didn’t need the screen

He could feel the words pulsing through his core memory, reverberating through every old protocol he had tried to bury. That you had been here—recently, possibly—That you had looked up and seen something familiar

That maybe, impossibly, you remembered him

Not his face, not his voice

But the version of him that asked questions beneath dying stars and maybe that was enough

He closed the datapad and sat there for a long, long time. The silence around him was no longer empty—it rang with a single memory: A voice, low and curious, in the echoing dark of yours—

“If a star dies… does it still exist in memory?”

He didn’t have an answer

But now, perhaps, he wanted to find on

[riskyraiker]

Sex pollen

TFP!Optimus Prime x Reader

Everything has been going fine with team Prime since no decepticons were causing chaos and MECH has been quiet as well. The day was supposed to go well, if a pod of some kind wouldn't have landed on earth. Ratchet detected it first on the computer, notifying Optimus about it. Bee was with Raf, Arcee with Jack and Bulkhead with Miko so Y/N was the only one left to tag along. 

“What is the origin of the pod?” You ask Optimus with a raised brow walking through the groundbridge, seeing forestry afterwards. “The origin wasn't listed on the signal, and we don't have any visual of it yet.” Optimus replies and looks for the signal. Walking around, being wary of any decepticons, you spot something. A pod like the signal said. “Optimus, i've found the pod. It isn't opened yet but it has no insignia on it. Should I open it?” You commlink and receive a negative answer from Optimus. “Wait for me, Y/N. It's never clear what's in there.” You wait for Optimus, following his instructions until you hear a click. It was the pod, it's making noise, is it…opening? And POOF some form of gas hits your faceplate and you inhale some of it in shock. “Y/n what happened?” Optimus arrived at the scene, checking on you. “The pod” cough “opened and exploded some gas all over me and right on my faceplate, inhaled some of it.” You cough and hold onto Optimus so you won't fall. Once your state has stabilized, Optimus grabs the pod and contacts Ratchet for a groundbridge. 

“Old friend, would you check on Y/n they inhaled whatever came out of the pod.” Optimus asks, leaving with the pod, taking it away from the others. Sigh “Well come on Y/n. Let's check your stats.” You were about to walk over to the berth in the medbay until everything felt off, it was unbearably hot and your fans went on, working on 60%. “Ratch..I don't feel so great. Like I'm overheating and so much more” Ratchet knew immediately something was off when you froze and your fans were humming quite loudly. He's already by your side, helping you to the berth. He scans you, noticing something was off in your tanks. He checks everything possible until he finds the source of your overheating. “Not good.” Ratchet mumbles and turns around. “Y/n you need to be quarantined for a bit. Go to your berthroom for now, and don't let anyone in! You inhaled some hortuan gas, it makes your processor overwork your frame and crave…interfacing.” Ratched explains more about it for example the so-called “heat” will end if you empty your tanks with interfacing, antide or on its own, which is a month. The medical facts leave you shocked. He shooed you away and got to work on how to solve it. Goddamnit! You were unlucky at least for now.

Retreating to your berthroom, you lay down and try to relax, hoping your cooling system won't overwork itself. After a while you find out it's useless to even try to relax, your processor is now running through every possible situation where you're interfacing with somebody. God, it would be nice. Lubricant was leaking now between your legs, your plates were not able to keep it hidden. If this was the effects of a few earth hours how would the rest of the day be or possibly the whole week? Others were informed of your state and how you wouldn't be able to leave your berthroom for a few days or longer until Ratchet figured out how to stop the side effects. The bots brought you energon time to time and talked with you, except Optimus. He was busy doing research and anything else on his datapad. He was worried about you, of course, he was since he's the team leader, but this was something else. He wanted to help you, to do something but he isn't a doctor of any kind. 

The first day wasn't that bad but after a few days? You're like a zombie with only one thought, craving brains except you were craving sex. A lot of it. And the only bot who you thought about was Optimus. His beautiful hips that you could hold tightly when thrusting into him or his neck cabling that you would bite into. You had enough, you won't wait for any form of antidote or the heat to pass. Walking out of the room searching for a specific door, groaning and rubbing your thighs together while walking. Knocking on the one specific door you hear pedsteps and once the door opens, you check. It's Optimus with a quite surprised look. “Y/n shouldn't you be in quarantine?” He asks while you breathe heavily, staring at the Prime. It wasn't long until you launched yourself straight against Optimus, pushing him down, while the door closed automatically. “Let me have you, please?” You beg still breathing heavily and already grinding against the bot below you. “I've been thinking of nothing else except you. You, you, and you full of..me. Let me have you.” it wasn't a question anymore, more like a demand. If the Prime was against this he could overpower you most likely. Your lips crash against his and your glossa slides right through. Your servos grab onto the sides of Optimus’ faceplate, pulling him closer. You get more aggressive with your movements, grinding harder against Optimus and tugging his helm closer if that's even possible. The making out continues while you lift him up somehow and carry him over to the berth. “Open up, open up, open the plates, please!” You growl against Optimus’ lips and you can hear how his interface plating opens, how lubricant leaks all over the berth. “Oh love, can I taste you?” You ask patiently even though you can barely hold back yourself and your actions. Optimus gasps and takes a moment to answer “You may. Please do.” Even if Optimus is losing his composure he still is polite as always. 

You dive in between the Prime’s legs and start devouring the wet valve, not having enough so you suck on his external node. The stimulation makes Optimus clench his thighs and wrap them around your head, making him groan. Sticking your tongue into the wet warmth, you can't help but moan at the taste. The lubricant gushing and squirting everywhere, as you eat the Prime out, gives the air a sour odor. You felt like you were…high? It's the gas or the fact that the Prime was holding your helm between his peds. “Ugh! Ray, please do not stop, I'm about to- nghh!” Optimus groaned and like on command your intake is filled with cum. You eat the mech out a little more since you don't want to waste any single drop. That taste is so heavenly and you need more of it. The click of your own interface plating opening makes Optimus glance at you only to be bit gently on his neck cables. The stimulation on his cables distracted him so much that he didn’t realize you were pushing in, the sudden stretch in his valve made him moan and throw his head back while you leaned your helm against Optimus’ shoulder bottoming out. The moment your spike has completely vanished into the Prime’s warmth, he shrieks. Your spike touched Optimus’ ceiling node perfectly, while you were loving the sounds Optimus made he was embarrassed and covered half of his face with his battle mask. “No. Take it off. Now.” You growl and start thrusting hard right into the mech's ceiling node. You can hear the sound of the mask deactivating and you grin that lust-filled smile until you kiss the prime again. The clanging of metal continues as you two make out, both close again to overloading. The moment you reach your climax, a few seconds after Optimus, you pull out, flip the Prime over, and push back in. You growl of pleasure (Fucking animal…) and pull the smokestacks located on the Prime’s back, which surprises Optimus who gasps at the sudden force. Now his back is pressed against your chest you nibble at the sensitive cabling, you remained the same since you walked through the door, while Optimus’ act has completely fallen. His calm and strong mentality was broken to nothing except moaning and whining since his legs shaking with too much tension and hips meeting your thrusts. It takes a while until your thrusts and stimulation make both of you overload, but this time Optimus is starting to get overstimulated while you continue. “R-Ray..Agh! Too much.” Optimus whines as you tug harder at his smokestacks. “I assume Ratchet tol- ngh! He told you about my condition and how it stops. Well, I’m no- ahh. I’m not stopping until my tanks are empty and spilled into you, sweetspark.” You whisper into his audio receptor and bite the little piece of it. Optimus knew that you wouldn’t stop, driven by the bio-gas in your system so he tried his best to endure the overstimulation, but after his fourth orgasm, he couldn’t bear it anymore. You hear the whines and pleas of stopping, but you’re so close to emptying your tanks. “One more, sweetspark. One more.” And you go on with deep yet painfully slow. As your climax arrives the seventh time, Optimus overloads one last time which is his fifth. While Optimus has tears bubbling in his optics and letting dry away, you’re gasping for air. Your tanks are empty so the effect of the gas goes away, and the moment you become conscious, you tense up. Seeing the prime in such shape and you were the one who caused it made you feel awful until the Prime understood the state you were in he talked you back to reality. “You do know I could’ve stopped you if I didn’t want it.” The words almost went through your other audio receptor until your lips met Optimus’. He kissed you to bring you back of your head. 

The two of you clean up and head out of the berthroom to inform Ratchet of your well-being. You both also know if you tell Ratchet he will know what you did. While walking over to the main area Ratchet does recognize Optimus’ walk pattern so he starts to talk. “Optimus I’m almost done with the antidote for Ray.” You cringe in embarrassment and cover your face while Optimus surprisingly chuckles. “About that old friend. We’ve come to inform you of Ray’s well-being.” Ratchet heard Optimus just fine, but does his research a few seconds before turning around, spotting Optimus and… you. “Ray. Don’t tell me you did what I think you did.” Ratchet whispers. You snicker and blurb it out “I couldn’t handle it, marched over to Optimus’ room, and finished what I started!” Ratchet just groans since he is close to finishing his project on the antidote. “No wonder Bumblebee mentioned metal clanging in the hallway.” The medic mumbled just loud enough for you both to hear. While you laughed at the new statement Optimus was the one embarrassed this time. “I hope it was just the clanging he heard.” You whisper and snicker once again.

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

AN: This is my first time posting smut on tumblr SO if you want to read more do go on AO3 and there is more of fics like this one!

My AO3 profile:

https://archiveofourown.org/users/risky_writer/works

[transformers-spike]

I cannot be the only one who wants to bang peepaw Alpha Trion plEASE TELL ME IM NOT ALONE 😭

I will never stop being an old man enjoyer. Give us your spike, peepaw

“I’m relieved we aren’t the only ones in this universe.” The words echo in his processor like sand in the desert wind. Fading in and out of consciousness under the rubble, he clings onto the softness of your voice, the faded edges of your smile burnt into his memory. He cannot make sense of your shape anymore, it’s a blotch of ink in his vision, something he recalls but cannot fully visualize. His mind reaches out to you, so close yet so far away. With every step he takes, you grow smaller, and still, you patiently wait for him with your arms outstretched. Like old times. You are dead. This he knows. Unequivocally dead. His digits twitch, warnings encapsulate his vision, reminding him each and every nanoclik of wakefulness that the next in-vent could be his last. He can’t help himself. Duty has led his life for so long, bestowed upon him by his creator, and he cannot fall back now and forgo his promise to protect Cybertron. But he is weak; pain receptors growing numb from the boulders crushing his frame, limbs quivering from a battle long lost. Primus forgive him, allow him this final comfort. Cycles ago, your crew had first established contact with Cybertron. It was a message sent across space, a simple signal that would tie your fates forever. The Council debated answering, fearing you could pose a threat to their planet, but there were only three ships with only a handful of members each. They chose fraternization over static silence. Communication was difficult, but somehow, someway, you understood each other just enough to arrive on their planet. Surprise struck him when he saw your kind, small, frail and soft to the touch. Your people were just as startled as them, but in your optics he saw something greater; a delight in meeting fellow sentient beings. They took in your crew and treated them like brothers and sisters, communicating through gestures and drawings. You could not speak their language, but they could learn yours. Knowledge was shared among you, tales of your worlds, their history, your technology, your people… Perhaps your place among your own was what drew him to you. Standing on the sidelines, you watched and took notes, occasionally serving as a sketch artist to exchange information. The others were mingling with the Council, asking questions, telling stories, showing what machinery brought you to them. But you kept your distance, politely nodding along and busying yourself with your notebooks. When he approached you, taking slow careful steps, you nearly dropped your pen in shock. His size was already intimidating by Cybertronian standards, but for a human? He could barely imagine the primal fear you felt when met with someone of his stature. You recovered quickly despite it, uneasy but maintaining your composure. Having knelt down to your level, he offered you servo, the sand within it shaping into a miniature version of your ship. You blinked, clutching your notebook to your chassis. Then, after a drawn out silence, you smiled, optics gleaming with wonder. That was the start of your companionship. You would sit in his servo, looking up at the night sky, speaking words he could barely understand but tried his hardest to learn. He recalls bits and pieces, meanings he managed to grasp through what you taught him. It wasn’t long until your time together grew intimate. As a prime, he was so focused on his duties that he barely got the chance to relax, much less interface. Things were… difficult due to the size difference, but there were workarounds. Charge runs through his fuel lines at the memory. How you would brush your digits against his valve, testing the waters so to say, before slipping your servo inside of it. There was no true relief in the interface, no way for you to properly satisfy each other. But you were both content, savoring every moment of your companionship. You would press your lips to his spike, working your servo in and out of his gushing valve. It made his frame shudder and his optics glitch.

He touched you much the same way, digits rubbing at the sensitive nerves between your thighs, gazing down at you lovingly as you grit your denta and arched your optical ridge in pleasure.

[kell-5]

IDW MTMTE x Cybertronian Bayverse reader

Disclaimer: there may be a strong deviation from the canon, spelling errors, strange expressions, panic, fear, mentions of death, differences in size, invented terms.

!THE IDEA IS NOT MINE! I'M JUST WRITE WHAT CAME TO MY HEAD WHEN I SAW THIS IDEA!. Thanks to the person who came up with this idea.

Background: a reader from the Bey universe, an Autobot, there was a fight in some city, where the reader during another fight with the Decepticons got hit on the steering wheel, and a portal or a split in space opened under him, which pulled them into the middle (the reader accidentally stepped on a fragment of the Allspark that opened a portal and sent the reader to another world)

Address: yours, you, you, yours

————————

Shooting, fire, explosions and another fight with the Decepticons, how much do you hate them, and again some poor city, why is it so every damn time, well why can't it be somewhere outside the city. Poor people, how many of their innocent deaths, although there are also many innocent deaths in your race, but this is a war between the Autobots and the Decepticons, not people.

Here you are pulled out of your thoughts by the loud space and a sharp pain in your helm, you submit, but before that you see a sharp flash, and then darkness...

_____

Lost Light drifted in space, everyone was doing their own thing, and on the captain's bridge in the meantime there was dead silence, everyone was thinking about something of their own, Rodimus was sitting in the captain's chair and looking at space, Drift was doing the same, but standing, Ultra Magnus .... Ultra Magnus was in his office, let's say, and making reports, probably, or most likely, today was strange, nothing strange happened, which was very strange .... everything was calm and smooth, without any problems, serious situations, or monsters, until then Drift noticed a strange movement in space, and then a rift began to go in a vertical position, and then ... this rift spat out, some large body, LITERALLY spat it out.

"I think this split spat out some kind of huge frame," said Drift, raising one of his visual ridges in surprise

Rodimus turned his helm towards Drift and saw someone's frame flying freely through space

_____

And then the strange thing happened, which was so lacking today, everyone hoped that everything would be fine and calm at least today, but it seems not to be fate.

You were of course caught out of space and taken to the ship, at the moment you are lying on the floor in the infirmary, since your frame is too big for the bed, you are in a coma.

Ratchet examines you, Brainstorm and Perceptor are also in the medbay, they have already conducted tests and concluded that this creature that you are, lying on the floor within the boundaries, is a Cybertronian from another dimension, it was ridiculous to hear, but there were many similar details to theirs, just more open mechanisms, more bends and details, and the tubes through which your internal energon flows are not pink, but some kind of blue

The ones who discovered you in space, Drift, Rodimus, were also in the medbay. Rodimus crossed his servo wires on his chassis and leaned his back against the wall.

And while Ratchet checked all the vital signs, they seemed stable, no sharp fluctuations.

"Life indicators are normal, the spark is beating normally, only slight damage to the helmet, fortunately the processor is also normal, just a slight concussion"

Commented Ratchet.

Suddenly your mechanisms went haywire and buzzed, you opened your optics and saw blurry silhouettes in front of you, until you began to see clearly.

"Where am I?" You croaked. "Is this the NEST base? Where is Optimus, where are the others???" You sat up abruptly and began to survey your surroundings, some unfamiliar bots, panic began to creep in, you stood up, your servo wire began to transform into a blaster, you were tall, taller than them and scared.

"Calm down, everything is fine" Rodimus stood up straighter and straightened his servo wires and came closer showing that they were peaceful "we don't need to panic"

You examined them and put away your blaster "who are you? And where the hell did I get it?" You asked

"This is the Lost Light, and I am Rodimus Prime, the captain of this ship, and this is Drift.." Rodimus introduced himself and began to introduce the others.

Meanwhile you were thinking.

Prime? Another one, Lost Light? What kind of ship is this, why do they look so strange? Ratchet?

When Rodimus introduced Ratchet you came out of your thoughts after hearing a familiar name, you looked at the medic with a white and orange frame, he doesn't look like Ratchet at all, but the expression on the faceplate is the same ... wait ....

You were hit by memories before you woke up here and remembered how you accidentally dropped a shard from the servo wires, after the impact you stood on it, and after that you woke up here ... and knowing the incredible power of the Allspark itself, even the shard could .... oh no .. no no no no

"Oh hell .... no ..." You said quietly, barely audible.

You realized that now you were in full stern .... you were in another universe ...

"So what is your name our dear guest?" Rodimus asked looking at you

And then you were seized by panic, what about the others, they need your help, and you are here in another world, oh no no no, you have to get back somehow to help the others your internal systems started to buzz a lot and heat up from your panic, and you started to walk here and there like a medic in a panic, until you sat down on the floor and started holding on to your helmet, and your optics nervously ran back and forth on the floor, okay calm down, everything is fine, you will find a way out, you will find a way out, everything will be fine ...

And then they put a servo cable on your backpack you raised the steering wheel and saw Ratchet, it's strange to see him like this

"If you continue to behave like this and panic, your systems will overheat too much, and you will feel sick"

You don't know why but Ratchet's words strangely made you calm down, you turned on your cooling system, and began to calm down and reassure yourself that you would find a way out of this difficult situation.

____

After you calmed down, you were forced to talk to them and tell them a little about yourself and your world...

This is where your new and forced adventure begins ....

(my first little fanfic, the idea is certainly not mine, but I couldn't resist writing something about it, it really captivated me, I hope you like it a little, if you have any ideas, you can write about it)

(English not my native language)

[mejomonster]

Some of my favorite writing tools

Just Write: a website, or an app you can download. My favorite thing about Just Write is it only lets you backspace a few spaces. So if you need that motivation to just KEEP writing, to not edit until you're done, Just Write is perfect. It's just text, limited backspace, no distractions. You can copy-paste text when you're done writing or download it as a txt file. I usually type // after I make an error that I want to edit later, since there's limited backspace. I bookmarked this on my phone's Home screen, so it looks like an 'app' and I can just click to open the site.

My Noise: this is a website and app too, I just use the website version. Like with Just Write, I bookmarked this website to my phone's Home screen so I can just click to open the site. It has a ton of sounds you can play, I find many of them help with focus: there's classical music, the sound of water, white noise, adhd focus sounds, coffee shop ambience, binaural beats, tinnitus relief, Dark Dungeon (noises of fictional settings), and all of their sounds are customizable. I usually use Irish Coast or 88 Keys just because the sounds of water and pianos tend to help me focus most. There's a ton of sound options on here. Good for if you haven't already made a focus-music playlist, or if making such a playlist would distract you from writing, or if you just need to pull up a noise quickly.

Lite Writer: an app. I write on my phone a lot, so this is the app I organize everything in. It lets you import fonts, so I can use a font that's difficult to read (to prevent myself from going back and editing/re-reading while writing), and then use an easy to read font when I edit. It has customizable colors (I just use regular dark mode). It lets you make project folders, and then txt files inside each project folder, and number the chapter txt files so they're listed in order. It lets you export project folders as txt files (or other types of files), so I can write a book chapter by chapter in 1 project folder, then export the whole book to edit in a different program. It lets you upload cover images for each project folder (which visually helps me), it's layout is very minimalist (which helps me focus - I get distracted so easily I can't write in something like Google Docs because there's too many non-writing-area things to look at). It also counts how many words you've written each week/month, and in which project and which individual txt file. So you can see how many total words are in a project folder, what the individual chapter word counts are, and how many words you've written total. The app also lets you search for a word within an individual text file or a whole project folder, so if I change a character's name (for example from Varric to Varris) I can just use the search tool to search 'Varric' in my entire story, and then use the replace tool to put 'Varris'. I know you can do this easily in a Word processor program on a computer, but it's nice to be able to do it in Lite Writer while all my chapter files are still separate txt files. Lite Writer also lets you set up an auto backup to locations of your choice, and auto saves, so you can get backups of everything you wrote in multiple places even if you're not actively remembering to back up your writing regularly. The app is free, I believe I paid a one time fee so that I could use a few optional features (like text to speech audio file export, more visual options), but it was a ONE time fee. I paid once for additional features (I think maybe 5 dollars) and then never had to pay again. Which is worth noting, since I hate monthly subscription models. I think the app is useful if you write on your phone or a tablet, not so useful if you don't. I use the app for pasting in writing I've done online (on Just Write) so that all my writing is saved in one central place, and to re-order chapters, to add story notes within the project folder, so for organizational purposes. It's my favorite organizational writing app for the phone.

[blue-wolfe]

Is there any advice you'd give to someone looking to start a fiction podcast?

Yeah! I had an ask about this before that I meant to answer...

So, it very much depends on what you want from a podcast. I definitely learned a lot while producing S1. If you want something higher production and in-depth, you have to consider the following:

Audio checklist...

Music source and sound identity. Where are you sourcing music? Where are you getting your foley? Can you make it yourself?

Sound editing / sound design. What editing program will you use? Do you know how to craft soundscapes? Can you learn? If not, is there someone willing to work with you? I was unhappy with the initial sound editing in CHNT, and also on quite the tight budget, so I had to quickly teach myself sound design. It's clearly amateur. If this is you, you have to decide how okay you are with that.

Voices. How do you want voices? Do you have friends? Will you hire professionals? Will you craft a formula where you can do it all yourself?

Personal equipment for if you are recording yourself. I recommend the Shure SM7B with a Focusright Scarlett processor and a Cloudlifter.

Recording program. Audacity is free to use and a quality tool.

Social checklist...

Visuals and story identity; cover art, logo, and recognition.

Production company / individual identity, and website for accessibility and central information.

Distribution channels. Where will you host your RSS and see your analytics? There are plenty of providers, and you have to decide your budget vs. quality concerns with a given provider.

Income source. For all the costs you add up here, how are you paying for it? There are plenty of cheap and free alternatives out there, but for everything you can do yourself, there's an upfront fee for the tools. I won't lie, I ran up a few credit cards a scary amount to get CHNT started.

All stuff I had to figure out at first, and if you do have the funds, it's not as hard as it sounds. The hardest part for me was doing the research and then properly sourcing some funding as a broke college kid.

But I have one more piece of advice for you that I still need to learn.

Making something shitty is better than making nothing at all.

It is a marvel to create anything. There will always be someone out there that appreciates it. I am a terrible perfectionist, and I end up agonizing over my own work. Paradoxically, the better you get at your craft, the more you will agonize yourself as your tastes get more refined and your skills cannot catch up. There is nothing productive about me banging my head against the keyboard because I doubt my own scripts, and there will be nothing productive about you going "oh... I'll wait til I..." NO! That is the devil. If you want to do it, do it now, or else you never will.

[toskarin]

I’m sorry, you write long form fiction in LATEX??? As someone who used it for every homework assignment during my undergrad, what the fuck

this is going to sound a little insane, and I acknowledge that, but it's not actually for any specific features of LaTeX (although it's nice to be able to make pdfs if I need to)

the actual reason that I like using LaTeX for writing is because of how many editors let you set up a nice little realtime preview you can't touch directly

it's very satisfying to watch something "finished" formatting itself in real time, distinct from the "unfinished" thing you're running your claws over. to my brain, it kinda hits the same notes as those "stimuwrite" processors (which are way too noisy and visually distracting for me to use)

[karinadele]

Hydromorphone

Ratchet x Reader pt:2

pt:1

pt:3

Warnings: Still on the pregnancy talk. Deaddove ideation from Ratchet, Talks of AFAB body, Obsessed!Ratchet

He feels it, sees it grow over the months. Even recalibrating his optics to run scans himself, visually seeing a human sparkling –as you’ve corrected him, a ‘baby’.

“It comes out where?!” Ratchet exclaimed. Utterly shocked, he figured that humans can’t just shift their plating for the delivery of sparklings, but did not expect that a newspark would have to come out from your valve. And to think that it will stretch to 10 cm to accommodate that?! Was that even possible?

You groan. This was going to be a long night. Birds and the bees? Adult Alien version.

“Yeah. Not just the vaginal canal. The cervix also dilates. Everything has to come out.”

Ratchet’s processors were struggling to string together the imagery. Can a human valve really stretch that much?! Isn’t it painful? Between flabbergasted and worried, he shifts his optics and resets them a couple times. Rubbing his servo on his forehead as it hides the view of his faceplace from you, a hint of something else also arises into him. A small flush of blue coats his cheeks. What a ridiculous thought that he’s thinking right now. Forget imagining seeing it, he’s long gone from that now. He’s thinking more sinister thoughts.

Mass displacement. He’s always thought it was a necessity to interface with you, but with this new information? It was revolutionary, yet he dared not to think about it.

Thoughts on what a sparkling between the two of you would be like. Hypothetical. There’s no way CNA and DNA were compatible, let alone frame sizes and oh primus. Just the thought of an interspecies organic and Cybertronian would have never crossed his mind if this conversation did not happen.

Yet now, it’s consumed him. The thought of wanting to know what your sparkling would be, an offspring of your own genes, integrated with his data. Without thinking about the ethical and legality issues of it, just purely if it’s optics would be the same as your eyes– or his. The frame definitely would be his colour right? Or would it not have a frame and be soft and malleable? A protoform? Would it have your spunk and will for life? Or perhaps his dedication.

As the days creep by, becoming closer and closer to your delivery date, he continues to monitor you, giving you regular scans as these thoughts eat away at him. Every moment with you, was like an eternity, to want to know what it would be– to have you carry his sparkling. An obsessive desire to fill you with him, go claim you as his. Even if nothing happens with it, just the concept of having the opportunity to lay his servos on you, mixing the very bases of his workings with yours. For the very lines of his binary coding to be intertwined with your DNA in the smallest molecular structure that even his optics can’t zoom on into.

You let out a content sigh of relief as he holds your belly. Melting down from the weight being carried off your back as you crack out a smile, closing your eyes. Humans holding it up? Try a bot. That’s where it’s at.

Hearing you hum out in response to him just gently lifting a barely tangible weight to him as you blissfully embrace yourself into his trust. Such a simple action, yet ironically, he’s now physically carrying your weight. Your child. Oh how he wishes this was his sparkling. To hold the newspark growing in you, as he made sure both of you are fulfilled.

“You know?” You squint and start puckering your lips. “We actually had a very high death rate of mothers in the past.” 

Ratchet freezes. Death of carriers? Of you?

“Yeah” You continue. “We didn’t learn about hand washing until recently, honestly.” You sigh out as you think about how ridiculous the situation with Semmeiweis was. “Like seriously! No one even believed that washing your hands and sanitization was important when delivering?!”

“That’s ridiculous.” Ratchet huffed out. Yes, your species was primitive, but there’s no way humans were that incompetent right? 

“It was only 2 centuries ago when they finally realized sanitation was important. And you know what?!” You continue. “They only believed it after the dude was dead!” You know you’re not winning any brownie points for the human race right now, but the truth is the truth. And you’re mad.

If it wasn’t for you, he still would have found humans repulsive. They’re a primitive species, way behind on their sciences and technology. But you? You’ve managed to show him the beauty of leaving things organic. That not everything has to be skyrise buildings and urban living. Once finding the fleshiness of humans and organic nature of the planet to be revolting, but the late nights spent with him by the lakes, the trails, showing him the mesmerizing beauty of planet Earth.

Not realizing Ratchet is lost in his own thoughts, you continued to complain. “We’ve made so many medical discoveries, yet the only thing holding us back is the idiocy and people’s stupid beliefs on things! Can you believe it? If I was so hard strung about life, I wouldn’t have accepted you!” You huffed out.

Ratchet halted his thoughts. What did you mean by accept? For a fleeting moment he toyed with the idea you meant ‘accepting him’. Only to be quickly replaced with the reality of ‘accepting of the autobots’. 

Cybertron is made out of metal. Hell, it’s Primus himself. Everything evolved based on his will and however much transfornium can handle. The rest being transplanted or modified. But Earth? There is no one substance, almost everything is created from their own version of biological evolution. One where if you leave it, it will still continue to flourish. And now, having learned how your species reproduce, he’s only grown to be more appreciative. 

“... I accept you too.” He managed to mumble out, with a bit of static. Hoping you couldn’t hear. Couldn’t hear his thoughts of if you accept cybertronians, then he will protect you, alongside whatever of earth is needed. Despite its intolerable species. For you, –and his sparkling. Unbeknownst to you. 

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