#synapse transformers

[star-keepr]

silly goofy doodles with mostly transformers characters but I got sidetracked /silly

[starrycloak]

I attended a series of lectures on neuroscience these last few days (well, they were a super basic cliffnotes-esque version of the topic cause medicine/STEM is not my field of work, so apologies for any innacuracies ahead), and when the lecturer brought up the importance of the frontal lobe, she casually alluded to what happened to Phineas P. Gage and-

wbk but also non-accidental split imagery one more time ^

She also briefly touched upon the 'cuts' of the brain (left and right hemispheres, lobes —and primary functions of each—, gray and white matter) and neural processes like synapsis —communication between neurons by chemical and electrical reactions—, but one of the things that stood out to me the most was the creation and reconfiguration/transformation/plasticity of neural circuits.

A neural circuit is a population of neurons interconnected by synapses to carry out a specific function —i.e. processing specific information and sending signals to other parts of the brain and body — when activated.

definition just for context; the point of bringing this up being what these circuits look like:

^^^this is just a guide alluding to the differences in morphology neurons can have, but they kinda giving-

and-

literally when the lecturer first showed what these cells look like I was like "neat, the tree of life. kinda, sorta. out to deliver trauma to the rest of the nervous system :))"

and (to the right, for comparison: what neuron synapses look like)

and of course, not totally accurate comparison ahead, but I couldn't resist the slight visual graphy coinkidink with the letter-assigned grid:

Additionally, zooming out, multiple neural circuits can interconnect with one another to form large scale brain networks, and the one that stood out to me was the default mode network (DMN):

also known as the medial frontoparietal network, it's a large-scale brain network [...] best known for being active when a person is not focused on the outside world and the brain is at wakeful rest, such as during daydreaming and mind-wandering.

Other times that the DMN is active include when the individual is thinking about others, thinking about themselves, remembering the past, and planning for the future. The DMN creates a coherent "internal narrative" control to the construction of a sense of self.

^ smart people, pls do with this info what you must.

the point I think I was trying to make: what if the blue UD we know has blurred the lines between being a representation of will's subconscious mindscape and also a visual abstraction of the biological/neurological state of his brain —as the two, like irl, are so intrinsically connected?

which, fortunately, means hope for will and the UD too (wbk), because by this line of thought/theory of sorts, the capacity neural circuits have to rearrange themselves, even after years and so much pain, can transform the blue UD, will's mind, as we've come to know it (the plasticity I was reffering to at the beginning of the post). However, it's important to note that to learn something new, you have to unlearn other stuff to make room for it.

I'm far from the first to talk about this topic, so check out the following posts! This one by @erikiara80, along the lines of her loop theory, dives into the implications of will's possible injury or death caused by having been hit on the head, particularly the zone closest to the frontal lobe, by a blunt object.

@conflictofthemind also has a great post about the treeflayer (shoutout and tysm to @threemanoperation for telling me about it and for prompting me to post this) with more tree imagery that evokes similar shapes to those of neurons (and it also links to Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan/Neverland parallels).

edit: everyone, please take a look at the additions other users have written on their reblogs! you won't want to miss them!

[delirious-donna]

tw: Kafka Hibino x female reader, monsterfucking (kinda?), face sitting, dirty talk, pussy drunk Kafka, partial Kaiju transformations, squirting

The first transformation was subtle, so subtle that your brain tried to trick you into thinking it was purely your imagination.

Your fingers tightened around the cool metal frame of the headboard, listening to the filthiest slurping noises you had ever heard whilst electricity zipped through the length of your body.

Kafka was always an enthusiastic eater, and this was no more apparent than when his face was buried between your plush thighs. For once you had indulged his persistent desire for you to sit on his face so he could drink down every dribble of your arousal as he worked you over with gusto.

His tongue circled your clenching hole, the tip slipping inside only to dart out again when the muscles tried desperately to pull him deeper. His nose rubbed back and forth, side to side and in messy circles atop your pert clit until you were throbbing all over, barely holding onto your ability to think straight.

Your thighs tightened around his ears and that’s when you felt it…

The warm wet muscle pushed deep into your cunt, far further than should have been humanly possible. Perhaps… no, surely not.

You glanced down at the dark mess of hair, peering at his eyes screwed tightly shut and wondered again.

Kafka wouldn’t transform his tongue into Kaiju form… would he?

“Kaf?”

He grunted in reply, nosing firmly at your swollen bud and grinding you against his mouth. The scruff of his chin scratched your perineum deliciously, puffs of hot air exhaled from his nose and his tongue writhed inside your walls, massaging every possible pleasure spot simultaneously.

The slippery muscle wriggled and seemed to thicken and pulse. You squeaked; sucking in great lungfuls of air in an effort to steady your breathing. Never had you felt so full from being tongue fucked before. If you didn’t know better you could be forgiven for thinking it was his fingers or his thick cock plugging you up right now, not his tongue!

One hand let go of their perch, sinking your fingers through his midnight hair and fisting the strands until you could feel his hips buck against the bed behind your back. You wanted to turn, to look over your shoulder and see his hand curled around his cock. Pumping the generous length and watching thick pearls of precum leak from his tip and over his knuckles. Except Kakfa had other ideas.

His palms came up to where your knees were perched on either side of his head and yanked them wider apart, rough callouses dragging up the insides of your thighs to where your skin shivered from the hungry touches.

He growled, head rising from the bed to practically suffocate himself in your sweet, sticky cunt.

It was too much stimulation for your poor brain to cope with, the synapses crackling and shorting out entirely when the dam burst on your restraint.

Your head flew back, thighs trembling at the strength of the orgasm racking your body. That curiously long tongue prodded and poked at your engorged front wall with careful precision, forcing you to ride out the high without a moment to catch your breath.

Without thinking you had risen to your knees, taking the weight off Kafka’s face and allowing him to speak for the first time since you had settled yourself over his eager face.

“Sit,” he said with annoyed huff, swatting at your backside lightly.

“Hey! I’m heavy, just giving you a moment to come up for air. Let me just move a little so I can brace myself some more,” you countered, shuffling back towards the headboard to spread your weight and leverage yourself better.

That was when it happened again.

His hands had travelled from your thighs to your backside and up to your hips then waist. They went from roughly calloused fingers and warm broad palms to long clawed fingers and scaly palms.

“I said… sit.”

Kafka was rarely demanding but the authority in his gravel-laced tone forced your eyes to widen and your pussy to flutter and drip. Sharply tipped claws bit into your skin, just the right side of pain, and forced you down onto his face once more.

You squirmed; moaning wantonly at how turned on you were by both his loss of control of the instincts running rampant in his mind and the skilful precision that he could keep the transformation controlled and limited to where he wanted it.

There was no room left for argument as the whole of your weight spread across him. This time his lips smacked wetly at your pretty puckering hole before moving to suckle around your already abused clit.

Your eyes were glued to the kaiju hands holding you in place. He could tear you apart with those dangerous claws but the care in which he demonstrated had your heart pounding all over again.

Yes, a monster dwelled within him, but this was Kafka Hibino. Your Kafka, the man you entrusted with your safety and your heart. You loved him and the otherworldly presence inside.

Carefully you let go of your useless grip of the headboard, running the pads of your fingertips across the rough scales and towards the smooth skin at his wrists. You gently touched the tips of his claws, gasping when they kneaded into your plush skin like a cat making biscuits.

“Fuck, Kafka…” You whined and bucked, hips working into a rhythm with his help so you were riding his face with fervour. “I’m gonna lose it!”

“Do it,” he rasped, sounding drunk and giddy. “Wet my face, baby. Need it. Need it so fuckin’ bad. Then you’re gonna take my cock, right? My good girl is gonna sit right on my dick and ride it like you’re doing to my face. Wanna watch your tits bounce… fuck. I’m too close.”

He was babbling, totally intoxicated by your cunt, but the words only heightened your pleasure and careened you towards the edge of oblivion.

You had never squirted from oral before, not until that very moment. The warm gush took you by surprise, but Kafka was ready. The freakishly long tongue returned to catch as much as possible, lapping at your swollen folds from end to end whilst his strong hands held you steady.

“You’re so good to me. Taste like heaven… could drown in your juices. Fuck, I love you.”

That was the first time Kafka partially transformed in bed… it was not the last!

[orphiclovers]

Actually, I'm not giving Kim Dokja a pass for the Punisher thing.

Persephone took on Yoo Joonghyuk's form and then in front of Kim Dokja's two good Christian eyes grew long hair & pair of tits to transform into the Punisher and not a SINGLE synapse in his brain fired in recognition. This level of oblivousness takes actual effort. It's sort of impressive.

[2hdedmthr]

𝑃𝑢𝑛𝑖𝑠𝘩

mother miranda x vampire!reader

・❥・E(xplicit), 3200 words

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

A wave of indescribable bliss came over you with the squirming of Mother Miranda’s gift in your abdomen. It was nesting deep in your nervous system, having found purchase along your spinal cord. Slowly it crept up, up, up towards your cranium— then finally, the neurons in your brain began to synapse; and before you knew it, endorphins were flooding your system.

“Mother, oh!” you giggled, your forehead drenched in sweat, delirium roping your mind. The torches that lined the dank laboratory walls began to, in your vision, dim and blur. You looked toward your priestess— who had been sitting at your bedside since finishing your operation, silently monitoring your condition. She was jotting something down in a leather-bound journal. You continued, even though she did not look up at you: “I’m so terribly content! Comfortable, even— I think we ought to do away with these restraints.” You tugged a bit at the thick leather straps keeping your wrists bound up on either side of your head, and your ankles to the bedposts. They were uncomfortably tight.

Mother Miranda simply continued to write, no doubt documenting your hectic state. “You are in the rudimentary stages of transformation,” she returned dully. “You are to remain bound until I’ve seen proof of your fortitude.”

Excitatory chemicals were still running rampant through your body, so you’d no clue what Mother Miranda was going on about. All you could focus on were the warm streaks of color snaking, leaping, pulsing through your vision: you were in a weightless, feverish state of bliss incomprehensible to the ordinary human mind. Until, of course, small bursts of ineffable pain began to spark and flower across every inch of flesh your body had to offer. You’d fallen painfully from your high in less than a millisecond.

“Mother!” you wailed, arching your back up off the bed. The pain that came merely from lying still was too agonizing to bear. You began to sob, and, shortly thereafter, to plead: “Please, please, please, Mother! I cannot suffer this— I cannot endure this hell! Oh, what is happening to me? I beg of you, I beg: my heart will give out if you do not make it end!” You were pulling and tugging against your restraints, trying to reach for Miranda.

Your priestess merely dipped her pen into the pot of ink, continued writing, and said: “Your body is dying,” she paused, tilted her chin slightly upwards, and met your eye; “and your mind is trying to comprehend it. That is all.”

“No!” you cried out, still arching your torso, twisting every appendage and extremity against your restraints. You were desperate to flee the touch of the bed. “No! It cannot be, Mother! I cannot be—!” You stopped to sob for a moment, then finished, hysterically, “Oh, I beg you to kill me! Truly kill me!”

“Ah-ah,” returned your priestess, who had, at last, flipped her journal shut and set it aside. Her affect remained unfeeling as ever as she reached to splay a palm over your abdomen, and then pressed your squirming body back against the mattress. “You must endure. Find the source of your agony, and it shall be quelled.”

Despite your continued sobbing, you dug deep inside yourself to root out your pain; when had Mother Miranda’s advice ever led you astray? Within, you were met with a hunger so primordial, so physical— so carnal— you’d no idea what, exactly, it was that you were hungry for.

“It hurts,” you managed; “I am starved, Mother; famished. Yet I know not for what.”

But Mother Miranda already knew exactly what you needed. It was in her preternatural nature, after all, to know everything that her subjects did not. She stood to retrieve a sharp, silver dagger from somewhere deeper within the lab, then returned to stand beside the bed with it in her grasp. At that point, she began, unaffected, to cut a deep gash into her wrist. The spine of the blade flashed keenly as she carved, blinding you horribly for a split second; though, as soon as your sight returned, you found yourself wishing to be blind again! Miranda was hovering her gashed wrist just above your mouth. Thick, black blood dripped and trickled down, steadily, onto your trembling lips.

“Drink,” she ordered— and that was all.

Your stomach churned: you felt extremely ill at the notion of drinking from another’s wound. But… you neither could deny the inherent temptation of it: the way your gut twisted was, in a way, perversely pleasant, subtly craving that which Miranda had offered you.

Should you… drink?

Oh, you couldn’t, you shouldn’t!— but your body was begging for it.

You couldn’t refrain. You ravaged the laceration with your mouth, latching onto it like an emaciated animal, sucking and biting as Mother Miranda pressed her arm into your want. She tasted dull— as if her blood had been stagnant for years; but even then, you simply couldn’t stop drinking. The bliss was coming over you again, washing clean away the pain of cell death. All you had to do was slide your tongue along the gash, suck, and the endorphins came rushing back. It was that easy.

Miranda observed aloud as she watched you feed: “Yes, an insatiable appetite, indeed.” She put a hand down round the back of your head to support your neck, then continued, “I’ve seen it a manifold of times before; though you are certainly my strongest to date.”

After a few more moments of starved suckling, panting, and licking, you fell back against the pillows in order to catch your frail breath. Your face was still half-drained of color— perhaps a lasting side effect of death— and your soft flesh glistened with sweat; though, you were invigorated as ever. Once you’d caught your breath, you licked a bead of Miranda’s blood from the corner of your mouth, leaned back up (as best you could against your restraints), and began to trace your tongue along her wound again.

But as soon as muscle met muscle, Mother Miranda pulled her arm away. She kept it a tentative distance from your face, where you could not reach, but still could ogle.

“You must learn discipline, if you wish to remain in my service,” she said. The wound then healed near instantaneously, and she brought her hand to her side. “No more puerile indulgence.”

‘Puerile’? you thought. But how could the need to sate your hunger be deemed puerile, or an indulgence, when there was a very real, very terrible ache in your gut for more of your priestess’s blood, her flesh? It was an ache so great that a whine had begun to creep up your throat; though, luckily, you managed to swallow it in time to prevent its escape.

No indulgence. For now.

“Of course, Mother,” you replied breathlessly, still half-leaning up. “As you wish.”

Pleased enough with your compliance, Miranda reached for the nearest of your bound wrists. “Now,” she began, freeing the restraint, “undo the other.” She waited, and then— “Sit up straight.”

As you straightened to your full sitting height, your head pounded, and swam with a tumultuous current of warmth. Everything was slipping in and out of view as your vision darkened, then returned, then darkened again: the dank stone walls, the scattered medical equipment, the dark holding cell in the corner. The minimal lighting couldn’t have been helping. It was like the time you’d had too much wine before bed, and woke the next morning feeling more ill than ever you’d felt before; only this time, it was amplified twentyfold— and had come merely from fixing your posture! You rubbed your eyes; Miranda began toward the end of the bed. Her stride was meticulously slow, each deliberate click of one heel identical to the last.

Once her steps had halted, she unstrapped one of your ankles, then the other, and asked, “What do you feel?”

You breathed out— only once, very weakly.

“Like… I’ve had too much liquor,” you replied. Your gut still ached with a dismal sense of vacancy, and you knew that you should not beg, or pry, but you could not bear the pain: “And I am still very hungry, Mother. If only I could have—“

“Patience, dear child,” Miranda interjected. Her tone of voice was as strategic as her stride. Once she’d retaken her post at the side of the bed, you looked over at her. “You’ve a far more acquired taste than the Countess: not just any petty, virgin flesh will do.” She wiped a bit of sweat from your forehead with her palm, letting her cool hand linger there as she went on, a bit quieter, “I am your lifeblood; and if you come to prove yourself as vexingly greedy as the aforementioned Lady, know that I will not hesitate to sever your access to nourishment.”

A weak, “Yes, Mother,” was all you could muster before your priestess was ordering you to get out of the bed; she’d like to see how you held yourself, now that your mind was not so clouded with bliss nor hunger.

You will only be fed if you obey. That is what Miranda’s keen, steel-blue eyes silently conveyed.

Once you’d managed to stand (your legs were incredibly weak, hardly able to withstand the scant weight of your deathly frame), Mother Miranda began to circle you. Again, her steps were slow and deliberate, as she was being very thorough in her scrutinies of your appearance.

“You hunch your shoulders; push out your chest. Yes, like that. No— now you’ve an unpleasant look about your face. Don’t allow yourself to appear so bothered. Fine, I suppose that…” This went on for the better part of a minute, Miranda fixing your posture, your face, your hands, your hair— until she had, at last, come around in front of you again, and quit her prowling.

Your eyes darted between her fearures, vision blurring, clearing, blurring again. Gods, were you hungry! Famine had consumed your every thought, poisoned your mind so that you could think only of feeding. You soon found yourself staring over-covetously at the pulsating artery along the side of Mother Miranda’s neck. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that she might still have a living, beating heart; but, considering, it must’ve been true. And what heaven it would be, you dreamt, to gnaw right through her soft breast, and tear her heart from its calcic cage. But your dull maws would be ill-fit for such carnivorous endeavors… Oh! who gives a damn? The experience would only be prolonged.

Your fantasies of soft, sacred flesh were cut short when you realized your quivering knees were about to give way. You breathed out another small plea to your priestess for more of her blood: without it, you did not think you could hold yourself upright any longer.

Begging again.

But she only tsk’d, and said: “If you are no longer able to stand without aid, perhaps you should kneel.” Mother Miranda emphasized her final word as a command, tilting your chin up with the gold-razored tip of a single finger. “I will not simply hand over my blood as if it were some meager commodity; you must earn the right to feed.”

To feed. The subtle promise of sweet sustenance— flesh, blood— spoken into existence by your priestess was a spell you could not help but fall under. So, as if it were in your very nature to serve, your knees came down in a bruising tumble onto the stone floor. In lieu of asking, though, in plain words, ‘What might I do next?’— you simply looked up into the eyes of your Creator, and let your softening gaze speak for you.

Anything at all, it said; I shall do anything for another taste of your blood.

This pitiful display of obedience made Miranda’s keen eyes dull just a bit with pleasure, and an arch little smile crept across her lips— “Greedy, yes,” she mused, threading her fingers through your hair, “but so very eager to please.”

You sucked in a quiet breath. “Please, Mother. I don’t…”

She pulled your face closer to the apex of her thighs. “Quiet,” she hissed. “How much can you take?”

For a moment, you were too stunned to reply. Had you any blood still coursing through your veins, your cheeks would’ve been flushed deep and hot. “I— Probably very little, Mother. I’ve never…”

“Good.”

Mother Miranda ordered you to hike up the skirts of her robe, and, of course, just as you’d been conditioned to do, you obeyed. Inch by tantalizing inch, her legs came into view: they were smooth, pale, and firmly toned— and they made you forget, for a split second, how carnally starved you were for flesh and blood. You clasped your thighs together unconsciously, not caring to brood over the indecency of your current thoughts. The thick, heavy fabric of the robe continued to creep higher by your hand: you pushed it up over her knees, her thighs. Once you’d hiked it up to her hips, you found that she’d been wearing no undergarments at all; for the patch of blonde hair covering her mound was at perfect eye level, and you could not look away. Earn the right to feed. You quickly tried to lean in, but Miranda yanked your head back, forcing you to look up at her once more.

“My true form: another privilege you’ve yet to earn.” While she spoke, the quiet sounds of transmutation came from between her legs; but she kept your head tilted upward so that you couldn’t see a thing. How cruel. “You will prove yourself another way, tonight.”

At last, she loosened her grip on your hair, allowing you to drop your gaze between her legs again. Though, instead of her cunt, you were met with the sight of a thick, erect cock. You swallowed hard, and found yourself short of breath.

“Do not fret,” Miranda soothed, gently scraping her talons over your scalp; “it is entirely artificial.”

“I…” You were at a loss for words. You’d never done anything so… base before, so salacious. And you wanted to, really; you wanted to please your priestess, so that she might grant you another quart of her blood. But you simply didn’t know how.

Miranda, though she could, at times, be effortlessly malevolent, did not disregard your apprehension: “There are other ways you may please me, if you so wish,” she said.

But you’d already gotten this far, hadn’t you? Knees pressing deep into cold stone, face inches away from your priestess’s cock— one mouth-fuck away from being fed? You shook your head no, managing a quick, “I want this, Mother.”

A faint grin flashed across her lips, and she wasted no time in pushing your face a bit closer to the newly-formed appendage. Then, she began to guide you:

“Open. Yes— good girl. Keep it just there.”

Your priestess pulled your head forward again, silently ordering you to wrap your virgin mouth around her cock. So you did. You’d not a clue what you should be doing; but you absentmindedly pressed your tongue along the bottom of Miranda’s shaft while she pushed into you— and, sure enough, it created a pleasant amount of pressure between her and the roof of your mouth. At least, you supposed as much from the way she gasped.

When the head of her cock finally bumped against the back of your throat, you gagged quietly, and your eyes welled with tears. There was still about a quarter of her length to go before she was fully sheathed; and you hadn’t a clue how you were going to take it.

“That’s it. That’s good,” Miranda praised. She rocked her hips forward, trying to coax herself a bit further down your throat. You gagged again, and she chuckled. “Is it too much?”

A moment passed wherein you thought it was; perhaps you weren't ready for her. Though, just as you were about to pull back, you felt your throat ease up a bit. That’s when you knew you could take her all. And, oh, the whine Mother Miranda let out as your warm mouth enveloped the entirety of her cock: it was utterly delectable. When you began to suck, her thighs quivered, and her fingers tightened through your tresses. You went slow— in part for the sake of your throat, seeing as you’d never sucked cock before; but also because you wished terribly to savor this moment of worship. It was languid, raw, intimate: the way Miranda allowed you to slowly ease her dick back into your throat then out again, never forcing you to take more than you could handle. You’d grown terribly aroused.

Though, this gentleness, this intimacy that you’d so quickly become accustomed to, lasted no longer than two minutes. Soon Miranda was fucking your face with abandon, grunting breathlessly out of exertion with every forward thrust of her hips. Each of her hushed groans were trailed by short growls of pleasure, usually when the head of her cock hit the back of your throat just right. At one point, she even uttered your name, to which you replied with a surprised gag. You continued working your flattened tongue over, under, along her shaft the best you could, desperately trying to keep up with her sporadic and vigorous pace. Until, finally, she came. Hard.

Hot ropes of cum shot down your throat and coated your tongue, all while Mother Miranda tipped her head far back, and let you suck her dry. She was drowning, and fast, in the throes of pure bliss: breathless, uninhibited moans tumbled dryly from the depths of her trachea in a manner quite unlike anything you’d ever heard before. And you, too, had become more vocal upon her release: you whined ceaselessly around her hard cock as it throbbed, and twitched and pumped your mouth full of cum. You were struggling to swallow it all (it was so unpleasantly salty and thick!) but felt you should not waste any part of your priestess’s pleasure, either— and so, you swallowed, and gagged, and swallowed some more until she’d no more cum to fill you with.

Mother Miranda pulled out of your mouth with a long, outward breath, and, at that point, you let her skirt fall back over her legs. She yanked you to your feet by your hair, and told you to clean yourself: your mouth, as well as your chin, were coated in a diluted amalgamation of spit and cum.

Immediately embarrassed, you began to wipe your face with the back of your hand, licking away any excess fluid that got into either corner of your mouth. Jesus, you’ve already begun to like the taste. Meanwhile, you noted the familiar sounds of transmutation from between Miranda’s legs, and her cock dissipated into the rest of her flesh.

“That’ll be enough, little dove,” Miranda said finally, grabbing your chin. Your face was clean. “You’ve proved your merit for the night.” She then slipped her hand round the back of your head, guided your mouth right to her cold neck, and gave one last order:

“Drink.”

✧༺ ❥ ༻∞

[princerania]

Magical Combat IRL

Today we will go over how to do magical combat in real life, using techniques outlined in the anime "Love Chunibyo and other Delusions". ───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

This Strategy uses some elements that are similar to how we Bilocate into areas designated for magical combat, but we will cover that in a future post.

First, It's important to know most magical creatures and skilled combatants don't allow outsiders to view their magic. since ancient times, magic has been persecuted, and the spirits remember. so you have to learn how to get in the mindset to be able to view such combat.

In "Love Chunibyo, and Other Delusions", (for which which we will use the fan abbreviation "Chuu2" from now on,) Rikka Takanashi, the Eye of the Wicked Lord, triggers her ability to engage in magical combat with a trigger phrase, similar to a mantra. she says, "Reality rejected, synapses shattered, be banished from this world" (dub). this allows her to begin to see and engage with the magical world. Your eyes and mind must be focused on the Magical Reality beyond our own despite moving your body physically. sometimes, some spiritual entities bay only exist beyond normal sight. if you want to fight them, you have to be able to see them. It's often a good strategy to pick some phrase or action (like pulling out your magical weapon, or having your transformation sequence) to help trigger this mental shift. Now, how will you know if it's worked? you will be able to see the magic being cast, or spirits present. or in some cases with a weaker connection, it will look like vividly imagining it, but you can still also see actual reality too. this works just as well, as long as you're careful not to drop the connection. Here is a clip from the anime, demonstrating a battle between two magic practitioners. For non-believers, the result is often an appearance of delusion. This is why we (us as a person, Rania) reclaim the term Chuunibyou. From this state, you will be able to battle like you would in the astral with beings residing in the physical world. be careful, however, as your physical body can be at more risk in this state. some attacks can be sustained physically, especially when fighting other practitioners. it's good to spar like this with allies often to build your ability to connect well, and also to build resistance.

Often, it's important to call out attacks when sparring or battling. this may seem counter-intuitive, but there is a reason for it. Naming your attacks allows you and your battle partner to both envision everything correctively, allowing you to mutually build your connection to the world beyond ours. clarity is essential for keeping invested in the battle. ───── ⋆⋅♛⋅⋆ ─────

Next post, we will discuss Magical Other-worlds constructed for battle, Such as Mind Palaces, Digiphysical Spaces, and Witch Labyrinths like in Madoka Magica. Until then, Ciao loyal subjects of Darkness!

[vynxwave]

Soundwave Bio/Description Compilation

+ anything else I felt like including

1986 Marvel G1 The Transformers Universe #3

1984 G1

1984 G1 Sunbow voice acting audition sheet [Source]

1990 Action Master

2002 Heroes of Cybertron

2003 Dreamwave Transformers: More Than Meets the Eye #6

2004 Transformers: The Ultimate Guide

2006 Cybertron

Collectors' Club #9

2007 Titanium

2008 Animated

2010 Transformers: Nefarious

Information is power. Nothing moves on the orb below me without my being aware of it. I see and hear everything, be it out in the open or behind closed doors. My reach is invisible, intangible. My grip... cast-iron.

2010 Transformers: Nefarious (perhaps this is also relevant)

2011 Transformers: Convergence (prose story in Transformers: Dark of The Moon Movie Adaptation)

Something was wrong with this region. Something about space itself felt unaccountably wrong—and this trouble Soundwave. Soundwave was an intelligence officer. He reveled in the streams of data—transmissions, radiations, sounds, sights—that flowed around him. Soundwave trafficked in information, not feelings. So his uneasiness about this region bothered him. He walked down the passageway toward the bridge of the Nemesis, the Decepticon spacecraft he commanded. Lord Megatron had assigned him a task—assigned it to Soundwave over Megatron's favored lieutenants such as the sociopath Shockwave and the impetuous upstart Starscream. It was a point of pride for Soundwave—this was his mission and his responsibility to make sense of the findings.

Soundwave hated this creature. Hated the way its cells divided and apoptosized, hated the bacteria that lived in it, hated the sound of the liquids churning through its body, hated the hair that sprouted from its frail outer coating, hated the syntax that was wired into the crude synapses that crackled in its head, hated the sounds that came out of it. He hated this particular creature more than the rest of the species, but only slightly. Gould's usefulness outweighed Soundwave's contempt. […]

2011 Dark of the Moon (unreleased)

2010 WFC & 2011 FOC

Fall of Cybertron [secondary source, original unarchived]

Ability: Eject Mini-Cons Soundwave is known for being unquestionably loyal to Megatron. Commanding an armada of Mini-Con Deployers, Soundwave can infiltrate and acquire enemy intel. Soundwave is often not trusted by other Decepticons out of fear he might also spy on them and report back to Megatron.

2013 Transformers: The Ultimate Pop-Up Universe (aligned continuity) [source 1] [source 2]

2010 Transformers: Exodus (error: despite his exclusion from this list, Frenzy does exist in this book)

Soundwave was a different matter. Spymaster extraordinaire, controller of a horde of Minicons so small that Megatron could crush several of them with a footstep, Soundwave was the only gladiator Megatron had ever fought who had a chance of beating him—they had met in a match to first wound rather than death; otherwise only one of them would still exist. He was nearly as single-minded as Megatron, nearly as dedicated. He possessed a suite of abilities that Megatron very nearly envied, with his multiple transformations and the triple Minicons that he contained within his proto-form and could eject into combat at any moment. These were Rumble, Ravage, and Laserbeak.

Crystal City had stood for teracycles, a monument to the union of Cybertronian ingenuity and aesthetics. It shimmered and glowed as the various materials of its composition caught different spectra of light, creating a prismatic show that was visible for dozens of hics in any direction. During certain atmospheric conditions, even the citizens of Iacon could see it shimmering like a mirage just over the horizon. It was a monument both to achievement and to the aristocracy of Cybertron that demanded beauty along with function. Scientific research went hand-in-hand with artistic innovation here. Soundwave hated the place. To him it reeked of self-indulgence,

2014 Transformers: Retribution

“At once,” Soundwave replied in his usual monotone. Starscream knew there was no need to vocalize what was merely standard operating procedure, but he did it anyway to remind Soundwave that he was second in command on this bridge. He enjoyed reminding all of them every chance he got. Soundwave might be Megatron’s loyal pet, but as far as Starscream was concerned, he was nothing more than a jumped-up communications officer with visions of spymaster grandeur, though he was nothing if not obedient: [...]

“Lord Megatron, I have completed my interrogation of the traitor Axer and have obtained the precise location of the Autobots. Would you like to see the playback of the questioning?” He said it with enough unrestrained relish that Megatron waved his hand wearily in assent. Sometimes you had to indulge your subordinates. [...] When Axer’s screams grew loud enough to drown out Soundwave’s questions, Megatron decided that it was time to move things along. There was no doubt in his mind that Soundwave could watch this video over and over again—and that he probably already had.

2012 Prime

2007 IDW Spotlight: Soundwave

2017 IDW Hasbro Heroes Sourcebook #3

(short guide to IDW1's Soundwave characterizations: yellow visor = opportunist (like in Marvel comics) & red visor = loyalist (like in Sunbow cartoon))

2015 Devastation

2022 Royal Mail Stamp bio [source 1] [source 2]

2020 Siege Webpage (military insignias)

2022 Legacy [Source]

2022 When EarthSpark's trailer dropped [Source]

A Con of few words, Soundwave maintains a cold exterior by choosing to express himself through his fists.

2023 Transformers EarthSpark: The Official Guidebook

[regular-gnome]

hey..

at what point do collectors opt to turn things from puppets to scrolls? I feel like turning an entire living creature into [a piece of paper] is very complicated, while turning them into simple puppets is easier because they keep all the same parts, just simplified and wood?

It is! It depends on the person's proficiency and understanding of the mechanism regarding when and how they change the creature. Once someone gets good at it, the creature can be transformed into a lifeless object without it dying in the process, and they will move on to more complex and efficient ways.

The way I see it, archiving is a form of information compression and storage—and there is A LOT of information. When looking at Earth creatures we have everything from single-cell bacteria to whales that range up to 100 quadrillion cells, all with different sizes. The smallest single-cell critter is 0.3 μm, while the largest single cell is an ostrich egg that can get to 18 cm. So it's not just noting "a cell"—there's also a lot of information about the cell content, size, the DNA, current water, and oxygen levels, what protein it contains and how much. Then there are spatial dimensions. (While we can consider there being more, especially in fiction, I’m sticking to three; trying to visualize four fills me with frustration and existential dread xD) Every cell has its place in space in relation to the others, and all the contents' relations are also important. If, suddenly, all histones materialize inside a mitochondria instead of the nucleus, we can have a problem. Additionally, physical and chemical processes gotta be considered. There's electricity powering our brains, hearts, running nerves, air in airways traveling to lungs, chemical signals traveling between synapses that also need to be accounted for. So, you have all the contents in space, their vectors, and building blocks. Thats a ton to save. This information has to be compressed to be preserved in an organized manner while also remaining lossless so that when returned to its original shape, it's as it was. Not even mentioning that in intelligent beings, there are also minds to take care of. Jellyfish might be fine after 100 years in a static void, but a human? Yhhhhh.

I think the mechanism would work by saving information in intangible magic and assigning it to a physical medium—be it a statue, doll, book, or scroll. If it is physical and can carry information, it can be used. We can argue the mind is part of the soul, or it is a biochemical process, but the fact is nobody really knows for sure what it is and Im not a theolog, so for the sake of this universe, I'll say it's something that occupies the same space magic does and is influenced by chemical processes, meeeeaning it can also be tricked by them. And the magic.

The first degree of preservation would be spells that only change the material but keep all shapes and info in place. This wouldn't require much thought while executing and could be "automated" or worse, taught to mortals (if they have enough magic to power the spell), like petrification or changing someone into wood, metal, or any other solid material. It's not perfect, if the structure is damaged, the spatial information is damaged too. Breaking is one thing, but imagine if the statue melts.

The next step would be assigning objects with some compression and change, like toys and dolls. I feel like there would need to be a system like a content library, so not every single atom is saved each time, but chemical structures like nucleotides in DNA (the ATGC thingies) would just have a shortcut. Larger repeating patterns could also be assigned their own id to save data, and it would slowly stack up. While things are written in intangible magic form and anchored to the medium, the medium can be somewhat customized, like the decorations the Collector added to the dolls. The mind, running in controlled magic, can also be affected, as we saw with Collie trying to scare them and Luz’s dream. On the spell keeping the preserved critter stable has a link to what shortcut it uses so with countless diffrent worlds and structres it wouldnt mix up.

Then we go further into compression, reducing size and dimensions until we reach a point where one axis is almost entirely removed, and we end up with a scroll. Then there are other things—creatures saved as amber miniatures, snow globes, scrolls, or drawings, sometimes purely to annoy the sibling that has to deal with the creature in unhandy form. A more permanent binding would be in a book that can contain a bunch of different animals. Rebinding for long-term preservation is the Curator’s job.

Looking at Earth creatures, eucariotic life shares ancestry with some ancient bacteria that decided to rebel and started to cooperate, so we share similarities even with distant organisms in some strutures since they come from each other. So when it comes to preserving whole populations with relations, the library of compression doesn’t have to be separate for every single animal or plant. For each section of the archive, there would be a common library of building blocks, and scrolls being somewhat separate carrying the exact instructions for body arrangement and the soul/mind/the part that makes them alive attached.

Next is unpacking the information. I think this requires the ability to interpret and recreate what was saved that mortals lack. While they couldn't really unpetrify others, a collector could (assuming the mind hadn’t deteriorated into a husk). In the case of an automated spell, I think it would result in a very lossy transmutation—like a jpg losing pixels, the creature might lose like heart funtion. The Collector's spell also looked temporary or incomplete since an influx of other types of magic (like in Amity or Raine’s case) was able to push back on it. That might also be why they were conscious in the form they were in. Not meant for long just enough to take them to archive in normal conditions. When a creature is heavily compressed, it needs external force to rebuild, as it's essentially written fully in magic. That’s what I think happened to the Owl Beast. Lilith released it from the medium, but since it wasn’t fully rebuilt, it being a magic form attached itself to a magic source.

SO YEAH, its a process that takes quite a while for them to master and it comes with experience. But when experience is based on life it often makes it hard to practice so those with less empathetic approach master it faster. Thanks for the ask! I was dying to talk about that for such a long time and that was a perfect thing to organise thoughts

[scribbledghost]

Hi Ghost! New fan, I have consumed all of your writing in one day, it’s all SO good. I had a thought after reading about inhuman!Vessel and readers argument about her mortality, and how they worked it out… how do you think Vessel/the other vessels/Sleep would respond if she asked to convert and become an immortal vessel too?

Hello!! I'm so glad you're enjoying your time here!

So, in the event that you want to convert and become Sleep's fifth vessel, there's going to be some discussion.

A lot of discussion, actually. Primarily because the others need you to know what you're getting into with that request. They need you to understand how things will change, and what your new path will mean for you.

Sleep is perfectly content with it, make no mistake. The more vessels it has, the better. You'll find no argument from the eldritch deity. As for the vessels, though...

I think they'll all want to give you their own perspective on the matter. III is pretty okay with you converting. II is neutral, but leaning towards a positive opinion. IV is slightly apprehensive. And Vessel is... conflicted.

III will tell you all the good things about being a vessel; long life, supernatural powers, a bond deeper than anything else in existence. II and IV will be more pragmatic, telling you that it's not easy, nor is it simple, but they find it to be worth it overall.

Vessel, on the other hand... he will not sugarcoat it.

He remembers his own transformation, many centuries ago. It's one of the very few things he remembers from that time, particularly due to how traumatizing it was. Granted, he's fairly certain the others' transformations were better, simply because he could tell them what they'd be in for. They didn't have to wake up daily to their skin turning obsidian or their teeth changing shape, not understanding why they were turning into a monster.

Doesn't mean the process is quick and easy, though.

Vessel likens it to an extended drowning; allowing a foreign substance to fill your lungs as you collapse into yourself, being reborn again from the waves. The physical changes take time - months or years, in fact - but the mental ones are nearly instant. In the blink of an eye, you will no longer be allowed to leave the forest around the manor. You will never be able to see anyone on the outside again unless they come to you. And as your physical form begins to change, you will no doubt be viewed poorly by any normal human that sees you. It will become dangerous to be away from the manor grounds for too long.

All four of them want you to really consider your options. They want you to be absolutely sure that this is what you want, and they want you to be fully aware of the consequences of your choice, no matter what choice that is.

If you're firm in your decision to become one of them, they will begin the ritual proceedings. Sleep will officially handle your conversion, but the vessels will prepare you. There's a lot of ceremony to it, involving various worshiping in the form of song and gestures. In the end, you are laid upon the main altar in the manor, and the vines that act as Sleep's appendages finish the transformation. They will bind you, lifting you into the air as Sleep bestows its visions upon you and connects your synapses to its own. This process is not quick, nor is it particularly pleasant. You will likely see Sleep in various forms, and you will watch as it folds you into itself. Your mind will officially belong to the deity from then on, and when the vines rest you back upon the altar, you will be a vessel as well.

[merakiui]

I sent an ask saying how big brained the funny skeleton (wannabe) man is, but damn that’s an understatement bc you keep pushing out banger after banger idea. He’s rewriting your brain chemistry, injecting himself into every synapse your brain makes, cause how are all your takes are so good??? I’ve always loved the horror/suspense element to dark content fics (sea glass still has my heart since it came out), and at first I didn’t think much of skully’s unique magic, I thought it was actually kinda cute and that was about it, but you came up with horrific concept, its potential so perfect I can’t help but roll in the dirt and kick my feet in the air. I envy your brain teach how to come up with these things, you deserve all the flowers I can never get enough.

AAA THANK YOU FOR ENJOYING MY SKULLY THOUGHTS!!!! (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))♡ he really is rewriting my brain chemistry……

I adore Halloween and I fear a fanatic like Skully is the perfect character for me,,, perfect to place in all kinds of spooky concepts. orz my brain has one part that is dedicated to the morbid and the macabre. Funnily enough, the moment I saw his UM I immediately had that thought. It was very cute until I realized: what if someone carved that pumpkin??? Wouldn’t that kill the affected person? >_< his UM can quickly become unsettling if you think of it in that way!! But then perhaps transformation magic itself can be quite frightening. ;;;;

I am just filled with ideas for Skully!!! I want to write all kinds of scary plots with him. But before that,,,, silly Halloween romcom comes first. (^з^)-☆ I love him so much. He’s getting the royal treatment with this fic. >:)

[itsclydebitches]

Though I adore the dynamic myself, it struck me as odd a few months back that fans were taking a "Monster loved for the first time" approach to Astarion. Part of the allure of a vampire (for me anyway) is the act of transformation; the horror and tragedy of having lost who you were before—including all those everyday, human experiences. There were debates about precisely how old Astarion was when he died and at the same time fans were screaming over him having his first hug, his first real romance, this is the first time someone has helped him without ulterior motives, etc. and I'm going, "How is that possible?" This is an elf who lived a life before being turned, even if it was short compared to what his race would normally experience. Astarion had a family. He had a job! Yet the fandom (and to an extent the game as well) treats Astarion as more of a Phantom-esque character: deemed monstrous from birth and blindsided by the simplest acts of love because he was denied them from the get-go.

Of course, it's easy enough to read everything through the lens of slavery and torture. Sure, Astarion had all this at one point but it's been so long and his life as a vampire has been so unimaginably torturous that it's eclipsed those earlier experiences. I get that... but time as the answer still didn't fully convince me.

Not until I started romancing him and hit this line:

"I... I don't know. I can't remember."

This is in response to asking Astarion what color his eyes were before they turned red. Can we just sit with that for a moment? He doesn't remember the color of his eyes. This line was a game changer for me because I can't even CONCEPTUALIZE that. Mirrors appear to be pretty common in Faerûn—it's not like this is a setting devoid of all modern inventions and Astarion, as a member of the upper class, absolutely would have had access to various ornate mirrors like the one he starts this scene with—so what does it take to make you completely forget such an ingrained bit of knowledge about yourself? 200 years as a dehumanized slave, obviously. Still, my mind continues to trip over the idea. I have blue eyes. That's a fact I've known since I had any real sense of self. If my eyes were to suddenly change tomorrow I can't imagine forgetting that they were originally blue. Even if I'd put it from my mind for an extended period of time I'd expect the very pointed question, "What color were they before?" would fire some old synapses and drag the information back. Obviously none of us have any idea what 200 years would do to a human brain (or, you know, an elf's) but it still feels firmly in the real of impossibility that I could ever completely forget something like that.

Yet Astarion has and this line more than anything else has sold me on his Baby Monster Loved For The First Time characterization, both in-game and in the fandom. He acts like he's never been hugged before? Of course he does! The guy can't remember his eye color and you think he's going to recall any probably-treated-as-casual-and-thus-didn't-solidify-as-significant-memories hugs while alive? When was the last time you were hugged? I'm not sure. I know I HAVE hugged recently but was the last one with family over Thanksgiving? Did I give my friend a brief side-hug before we parted? I'm lucky in that hugs are such a normalized part of my life that I don't give them much thought... which means that if you were to suddenly enslave me and keep me isolated for 200 years, yeah, I'd probably forget what they feel like too. Or that I ever had any at all.

(Self-hatred is going to play hell with memory too. Once you feel like you don't deserve something and it's continually denied to you it's easier to convince yourself you never had it to begin with.)

So yeah, Astarion acts like someone who was always the monster because he has, on a literal canonical level, forgotten what it was like to be anything else. Which just sets his relationship with Tav into such angsty, terrifying focus. Here's someone who has lost his previous identity. He (rightfully) despises the identity Cazador forced on him. Even if he didn't, Astarion is now miles away, the tattered remains of his self threatened by ceremorphosis. He stares into a mirror knowing he'll never see anything, but doing it anyway because he needs to figure out who he is—and that's precisely where most of us would start. What do I look like? What do others see when they see me? Is that the person I want to be?

Then Tav offers to be his mirror, just like they offered to sketch out the poem on his back. How exquisitely horrible for Astarion. He's being given precisely what he wants but he's in NO position to take it. All his sense of self placed in the hands of another? Asking, "Who am I?" and hearing, "I'll tell you. I'll be the keeper of that knowledge"? That's a far more intimate, potentially destructive power than anything else Astarion is looking to get his hands on AND he's trying to manipulate YOU at this point in the story! It just makes me crazy because Astarion is desperate to figure out who he is, but circumstances have ensured that, at this point in time, he needs to put his trust in someone else to begin answering that question... and the one thing he does know about himself is that he's a manipulative, mistrustful rogue who's only out to keep himself safe. Allowing someone else to take the reins with his identity (again) is probably the least safe thing he could possibly think of.

It's this messy tragic loop that yes, Astarion is working to break by the end of the game (depending on your choices) but in Act 1? Goddamn. No wonder he's trying desperately to maintain control of this relationship. No wonder—despite his best efforts—he's still undone by the simplest acts of kindness.

[drunkwhenimadethis]

Too many brilliant scientists thinkers consciousness researchers etc ruin their appeal because they’ll upload a lecture about something incredibly cool for example how memory may not live in the neuron’s synapses or how awareness is not localized in the brain and then title the video “TRANSFORM your REALITY with THIS one SECRET” Who is clicking on this. I’m just here because I read your book. Best of my generation destroyed by SEO

[moomimania]

💥💥 I'M BACK! 💥💥

Sorry for the silence - not gonna lie, I've been swept up in Arcane since the series finale (as anyone who follows my sideblog is painfully aware of with the amount of jayvik I reblog lol)

However! Upon hearing of the Year of the OTP event, my snufmin synapses fired, which has resulted in this first fic in a series of 12.

I'm definitely going for the challenge! and not only that, I will make it one continuous story - yet, I'll try to make each fic work as a standalone piece as well.

Some fics might be short (like this first one... I really have to get back into gear), some might be longer - I don't know yet! But I do have the story mapped out, considering the prompts of course, and I'm very excited 😉

Anyways, hope you will enjoy this first entry! 🧡

[engagemythrusters]

new album (fic) just dropped xoxo stream (read) it here

[yallthemwitches]

I was rereading your NSFW headcanons and was wondering… would you ever write somno? perhaps Lily is sleeping in and James wakes her up? that totally seems like something they’d be into

Hiiii Anon!!

I was absolutely addled all day from this note because---and I swear---I was CERTAIN I had written some sort of 'morning, wake up, sleepy' sex situation...yet I could not find it anywhere (if anyone somehow knows my smut work better than me and can point me to it that would be greaaaat)

So, because I am downright ASTONISHED I've never done it before (though trust me, it lives strong in my jily hc..) here is just a little flash piece of a nice morning wake up call. ;)

Read under the Cut or on AO3 via my smut prompt collection!

Something feels good—no, really good. It seeps in while her consciousness floats at the back of her mind: an incredible warmth; the zing of her synapses firing in quick succession; warm undulations drifting her to some distant shore. Colors pour around her, flashing like bulbs with every stroke of pleasure that passes. Her body rises and drops with each roll of a wave and the crest feels like heaven, so much so that a bubbling gasp escapes her lips, ripe and joyous and needy for more. 

A sound responds in return, a deep rumble that vibrates through her like a tremor, hitting straight to the arteries and pulsing deeper than she can fathom. Something wet and warm slides against the same spot, then again, then again, pulling her towards a crescendo that feels too grounded to still be a dream, too real. 

Her eyes flash open and the world clicks into place like wiping steam from a mirror. A hand contracts and she finds it tangled in hair, thick and lustrous and moving right where her legs have been parted during sleep. Hands, calloused and hard snake around her thighs to press fingers into the flesh of her hips. 

The wet pressure from before gives a stroke, then dives deep into her, forcing her to gasp and her back to arch into the mattress. Another rumble comes from below and it sends the sensation teetering near the ledge, just enough to shatter everything—

Swift clarity. James brings his head up and his lips glisten in the daylight—a smile breaks his face in two and she doesn’t know what she would rather do more: kiss it, smack it, or push it back between her legs from where it came. A frustrated cry flies from her mouth and it only makes him grin wider.

“Morning, baby.”

[radioactive-earthshine]

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandoms: Young Justice (Comics), DCU (Comics) Relationships: Impulse/Superboy, Impulse 1000000/Superboy 1000000, Impulse & Superboy

Characters: Impulse, Superboy, Robin, John Fox

Additional Tags: DC comics, DC Comic Event: 1000000, DC Comic Event: One Million, Canon - Comics, Young Justice 1000000, teenagers being teenagers, Impulse and Superboy Irritate Robin, Angst, Question of Personhood, Body Horror, headcanons, Impulse 1000000 is Bart's Dead Scout, A Tumblr Poll Decided Superboy's Name, This Takes Place 800000 Years Post-Young Justice, 853rd Century

Words: 9,890 Chapters: 3/3

Summary

Over 800,000 years after Young Justice was formed by Kon, Bart and Tim - teens in their effigies piece together bits of physical history as the new Young Justice operating on Pluto. Everything seemed so simple to all three until Impulse begins to have unexplained memories of the past that threaten to challenge everything they thought they knew about him.

Excerpt

The space in Superboy’s mind was warm to Impulse. As a construct of the Speed Force, and a being that was never made of all that messy biological meat-stuff, engaging with the physical world was… an experience. Typically, Impulse didn’t ‘feel’ anything other than the unique vibrational hum of the universe and everything within it. But in Superboy’s mind he felt warm.  Anyone else’s head just felt like a head, lukewarm at best and gooey as tiny synapses crackled around him like static. Not Superboy’s. So long as he was in his head he felt as though he was wrapped up in blankets which was an odd thing for him to compare it to, because he couldn’t really remember ever being bundled in anything. At least he thought he didn’t.  He guessed Superboy’s mind just had that effect on him.  “Impulse! I know you’re in there. Get! Out!” the Superboy in question grumbled in mid-meeting with Robin.  “Meep!” Impulse squeaked as he exited his head. When he left he materialized like heatless fire caught in a sunbeam. “Sorry!”  “Man, why do ya gotta keep doin’ that! Knock it off!” Superboy rubbed his head in irritation and Impulse felt guilt scrape throughout him. He didn’t want to hurt Superboy, he just wanted to feel warm. 

Read on AO3