#refinery colors | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

onlyyvette · 3 months

Text

TF Titty Headcanons Pt. 1

❏* — warnings — sub/bottom characters(autobots) + dom/top reader + robo titties(duh) + nipple piercings + lactation + breastfeeding kink + rough sex + degradation + praise + breeding kink + heat cycles + i love giving them sappy nicknames + prowl needs his own warning

❏* — a/n — if I have to be plagued with horny thoughts then you guys will suffer too

also, I'm willing to take more requests on which characters(especially decepticons) I should do for part 2 ^-^

➾ AUTOBOTS

✦ Optimus - As the leader of the autobots and one of the last living Primes, it shouldn't come as any surprise that Optimus is well-endowed. His tits are large and bouncy— they defy gravity in every sexy way possible. The Prime's chest is a white-ish color, plush and pillowy, a perfect to touch and perfect to cuddle. Before becoming a Prime, his boobs were already big but now, they produce mineral-rich energon. He sometimes finds himself upgrading his chassis armor because his tits often press up on his windshields, sometimes popping his chassis armor. On rare occasions, he might even be lactating— It's very distracting, and he always gives embarrassed yet wholehearted apologies whenever his fellow autobots are met(blessed) with the sight. It might even happen that one of the decepticons he meets on the battlefield start tripping over themselves as they gawk at his chest. Optimus lets out low, silky moans whenever his tits are fondled, his audials twitching with sensitivity. He's very open about his tits. He has no problem with his berth partners wanting to grope them, even suckle on them. If his partner wanted to, he would absolutely let them lay him out on his spinal strut just to fondle and suck on his nozzles, drawing out any energon they can find. It's a bit embarrassing for Optimus to admit, but it's not too hard for him to overload just from having his refineries played with. All Optimus needs is the feeling of having servos grabbing his plush chest and constantly rubbing his nozzles, maybe even his partner clamping their dentae down hard on his nozzle for him to let out undignified sounds and squirting all over himself. As much as Optimus enjoys having warm servos massage his tits with care, his moans go up a pitch when his tits are bruised and left with marks from sharp dentae. Whether his partner apologizes for their rough treatment or not, they definitely knew that the Prime got a little wetter from it.

✦ Ratchet - Ratchet has huge tits and I will die on that hill. No doubt about it. Ratty's tits are a dark gray, matching his faceplate. They're big and hefty, hard for a mech of even his size to cup them fully into their hands. While he would rather die than admit it, he definitely loves to have his tits played with. As a medic, Ratty's boobs produce much more energon than your regular cybertronian, which causes him to need to milk them often. Whenever he starts producing extra energon, it's always a pain to deal with because it leaves his poor tits swollen, nearly pressing up against his windshield, and so sensitive when he ends up leaking energon. It's so hard for him to milk his tits on his own so whenever he's at his most frustrated and sensitive state, he has to begrudgingly go to another trusted mech for help. Even though he insists on it being strictly professional, his cute whimpers and the dark blush on his face always betrays his neediness. During the war, Ratty was definitely known for not only being the best medic Cybertron has seen, but the medic with tits that make the sweetest tasting energon. Whenever he's treating his patients, almost all of them ask if he could provide some energon for them with his generous breasts. Even though they try their best to be subtle about it(except for the most shameless mechs), Ratchet always knows their reasons, but he'll still provide it anyway because it's in his nature to help others. He just has to make sure not to get release his panel and reveal his already drooling valve during the feeding, which is going to be really tough for him.

✦ Drift/Deadlock - Drift's tits aren't the biggest but not the smallest(definitely bigger than Rodimus' though) , but there's still nothing about them that you can't love. His protoform there is a darker color just like his faceplate, and sometimes flushes a cute pinkish color. Drifty has very sensitive tits and will let out a little squeal if they're groped too roughly. He's not too keen on showing his chest to anybot, especially when he still went by Deadlock, due to his more private nature. But when he has a partner to show them off, they are one lucky mech. Whenever someone is mindful with how they treat Drifty's tits, massaging them softly, rubbing their digits over his nozzles with practiced care, he absolutely melts in pleasure. He lets out small eeks of pleasure while his finials twitch in response to the stimulation, his frame shivering like a turbo-rabbit . His whines and slight pouts are so attractive whenever his tits are played with. Drifty tries so hard to seem like he's unaffected but it's so hard for him to do when both his faceplate and his tits are both flushed pink with energon. When he was known as Deadlock, even in bed, he would be known for being feisty and a little too eager to bite. But the moment servos are on his tits and slowly groping them, he gives up all resistance and tries his best to stop the little moans threatening to come out from his vocalizer. He'll still have a look that screams "make fun of me about this and the last thing you'll see will be my gun" but it'll be softened by his half-shuttered optics and and his breathy whines tumbling from his intake.

✦ Rodimus - definitely has small tits. And he is proud of them!!! He loves to show off his tits to his partners in berth and has possibly opened up his chestplate to show them off to any crewmates that flatter him enough more than once, maybe even let them cop a feel. His boobs are a white color similar to his faceplate. He has very perky nozzles and he will whimper when they're tugged on. Even though his tits are smaller than the average cybertronian's, they're still just so adorable, especially with the way his nozzles slightly flush blue when he's aroused. Roddy knows that people are into his tits and he uses it to his advantage. Whenever Magnus is boring him to death with reports on ship maintenance or whatever, he shoves the datapad or anything that Magnus is holding in his servos, brings the huge mech's helm down to his level, and pushes his tits into Magnus' face with a cute little "ta-da!". There isn't much to push into the big mech's face but nonetheless, it's effective. He would giggle a bit and ask Mags if he liked his tits and Rodimus is left with a short-circuiting Ultra Magnus to explain to everyone. He's tried that move on Megatron too, but it's sadly not as effective on him, though the ex-warlord definitely does enjoy the view.

✦ Prowl - This praxian definitely has huge tits-- that's what his bumper is for. Now his bumper is great and Prowl definitely carries it with pride, but his titties are the real star of the show. His protoform are a dark gray compared to his faceplate. Unlike most mechs, Prowler has custom nozzle piercings: a pair of gold piercings(they cost him a mean amount of credits) and a pair of silver hoops. He switches between pairs each day. They're so big that he sometimes has a bit of trouble transforming his bumper over them. He loves to tug on them while he fingers himself silly because the pain is so delicious that even a few tugs can get his pathetic spike overloading and his messy valve squirting. While Prowler berths very few partners, he loves to get his tits fucked by a spike big enough to reach past his cleavage and into his open mouth. Whenever his partner tugs on his nozzle piercings while fucking his tits and hisses out some degrading words, Prowl's vocalizer lets out a whoreish squeal-- he probably overloaded right then and there. Prowl for sure loves his titties. He may not be on Starscream's level of narcissism(no one can reach his level), but he sometimes like to check himself out in a mirror or camera to admire his busty chest, groping himself and gently tugging on his piercings as he begins to pant and his fans click on. It's at times like this that he often dreams about being subjected to obscenely kinky scenarios: his tits being bitten down on harshly as he's forced to continue riding his partner's monstrous length, his partner hooking up pumps to his nozzles to activate his energon lactation and leave him hooked up with multiple vibrators stuffed up his valve and aft and left overloading silly for hours, or being left in a dirty alley during his heat cycle, all his panels open while he drips energon from his tits and his pussy leaks lubricant all over the ground as he's left in a spike-hungry state, just about willing to let anyone fuck him as long as they'll ruin his pussy and fill his gestation tank with transfluid.

#vetty's works. ✿#vetty's thirsts. ✿#dom reader #top reader #transformers #transformers x reader #valveplug #maccadam #optimus prime #optimus prime x reader #transformers ratchet #ratchet x reader #transformers drift #drift x reader #rodimus #rodimus x reader #transformers prowl #prowl x reader

352 notes · View notes

beloved-calypso · 1 year

Text

・゜ ʚɞ ゜゜𝖂𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖙𝖞𝖕𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖇𝖊𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖞 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚?♡ ・゜ ʚɞ ゜゜‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

♡𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈, 𝓈𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓀 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓀𝒾𝓃𝒹𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝑒𝓎𝑒𝓈, 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒶 𝓈𝓁𝒾𝓂 𝒻𝒾𝑔𝓊𝓇𝑒, 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓃𝑔𝓇𝓎. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒾𝒻𝓊𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇, 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝓇𝓊𝓃 𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒻𝒾𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒶 𝒹𝒶𝓎. 𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓅𝑜𝒾𝓈𝑒, 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓀 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌𝓁𝑒𝒹𝑔𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓁𝓁 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓀 𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑒. ~ 𝒮𝒶𝓂 𝐿𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓃𝓈𝑜𝓃♡

All pictures and gifs are not mine but belong to their original artists. ♡

I. -> II. -> III. -> IIII.

ɪꜰ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ʜᴀꜱ ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ꜰᴏʀ a ᴘɪᴄᴋ-ᴀ-ᴄᴀʀᴅ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘᴜᴛ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ʙᴇʟᴏᴡ! ᴀʟꜱᴏ, ɪ ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴢᴇ ɪɴ ᴀᴅᴠᴀɴᴄᴇ ɪꜰ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀʀ ᴏʀ ᴘᴜɴᴄᴛᴜᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ. ᴇɴɢʟɪꜱʜ ɪꜱ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʟᴀɴɢᴜᴀɢᴇ. ɪ ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ꜱᴜᴄᴋ ᴀᴛ ɪᴛ.

~ XOXO 💋🎀

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 1 ๑◞꒱ა

[Queen of Pentacles, 9 of Cups, 3 of Pentacles]

Ooo pile 1 you are a captivating beauty! Your beauty is elegant, feminine, and sensual. You have impeccable fashion taste. It's like what you wear is simple yet very chic and stylish. I'm getting that you are likely earth signs or have a lot of earth placements, I'm getting mostly Capricorn and Taurus, but some Virgos. I'm seeing muted reds, browns, beiges, suede coats, cardigans, and heels, so those are the colors and items you most likely wear. For some, you come off as a confident businesswoman, and for others, your aesthetic is dark to light academia. You emanate wealth and luxury; even if you aren't rich, your style and poise speak of those things. You may love flowers and greenery and divulge into cottage-core as well, and have somewhat of a homely vibe. You may also like to wear sweaters, boots, and leggings (it seems you dress the best for the colder fall seasons). You may be somewhat of a social butterfly and excel at social events at your workplace/school. Even if you are on the shy side, people interpret you as being quite confident in yourself. You sound graceful when you speak and your movements are careful and measured. People wonder how you can carry yourself with such elegance. You give off that 'it' girl energy. People would assume there's nothing that you can't do, like you can excel in anything. You give off the vibes of refinery and polish, and if you find that it's hard for people to approach you, just know that it's because they are intimidated by you. People assume that you must either have a great-paying job or own a business. It's giving career woman/boss woman. You may not venture out much but stick with your friend group or colleagues. You may have a lot of admirers at your workplace because this is where your beauty and talents most shine.

⊱┈─✧

✨️ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ:✨️

August. Roses. Shooting stars. Competition. Academics. Networking. Lori Harvey. Nurturer. Gold. Enterprise. Workplace romance. Secret crush. Lovesick. Thrifting. Virgo.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 2 ๑◞꒱ა

[Ace of Pentacles, 5 of Wands, Temperance]

Pile 2 your beauty is too good to be true! It's almost like people think you paid to look as good as you do, lol. If you are attentive to your self-care, like you invest in skincare, body care, hair care, or pricey makeup, people notice. Investment doesn't just have to mean you pay money for good products, but also that you have spent a long time grooming and improving your appearance and the payoff is so noticeable. You look well taken care of, hydrated, glowy, and vibrant. You may come off as someone that is high maintenance (which I don't see anything wrong with). Your beauty is like a flower having freshly bloomed-this could be quite literally my late bloomers pile. Your beauty is so enamoring that it's worth fighting over. You may attract jealous people. If you noticed any so-called friends trying to shade you, just note it as their envy talking. You may have gotten caught in a situation between two romantic interests in the past, or you notice how people will try to steal you away from others so that you both can hang out alone. It's also because you have a healing energy that people find addictive. There's something about your energy that's so calming. I think when you lock gazes with people, they feel a connection with you. It could also be your speaking voice that has this effect and you find yourself often acting as the mediator between disputing friends and family. However you coordinate your outfits and accessories, everything blends so well and people envy your sense of style. I can't pinpoint what style that is exactly, so I'm assuming this pile has a mix of aesthetics or has a hard time sticking to just one. You could be a fire sign or have fire prominent placements, specifically Sagittarius or Leo. I'm also getting a few Taurus's here as well.

⊱┈─✧

✨️ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ:✨️

Fiery. High school. Small town. Concrete jungle. Bully. YouTube beauty bloggers. College. Suburban. Computers. Long, dark hair. Rainbow Barattes. Cream walls. Video editor. 16-21. Moving from home.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 3 ๑◞꒱ა

[So sorry, I forgot to type the cards!]

This is my manic-pixie-dream girl pile! Your beauty is mystical, earthy, and unique. People perceive you as one-in-million and they may stop and stare because they know they won't see someone like you again. I'm getting Uranus-dominant people here. You may have unique features like colorful hair, pixie cuts, braids, freckles, beauty spots, crooked noses or teeth, and young, bare, doll-like faces. These things, even if it's an insecurity to you, enhances your natural beauty and makes you all the more captivating to look at. It's like people get lost in you, there's never anything dull or plain about you, like if you have visible tattoos, people assume you have a dozen others hidden beneath your clothing and fantasize what they look like. Y'all must be my air signs, Libra, Aquarius, and Gemini. I'm also sensing some Virgos and Capricorns here, also members of the LGBT+. If you don't know it by now, you are the subject of many peoples fantasies. You look young, vigorous, and carefree. People may assume that you are flighty and don't carry much responsibilities, but also that you are unburdened by the world and its dark nature. You might give off a bohemian vibe. Maybe you follow a natural, healthy-oriented lifestyle, and people see you as being the poster girl/boy for a healthy, fit life. People really admire the way your body is cut. I see that you may wear lots of colors, for someone specific, I'm seeing brown, short ashy hair, and flowy clothing. Again, I think people dream of running away with you. Like by joining you, they could shed their boring lives, and ya'll could just live in the forest frolicking and letting loose, lol. You also may come off as peppy, and high-energy. You are a fantastic conversationalist. You never run out of things to talk about, and people just love to listen to you. You are literally a pixie/fairie and your beauty is so ethereal and magical.

⊱┈─✧

✨️ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ:✨️

Track Runner. Crystals. Small town. Witchcraft. Virgo. Big City. Photographer. Multiple piercings. Shimmer. Ash brown or blonde. Home parties. Small-town bands. Silver rings. Small, brown poodle. Adventurer.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

౿૮꒰ྀི pile 4 ๑◞꒱ა

[10 of cups, Judgment (rx), Ace of Pentacles]

Your beauty Pile 4 is watery and dreamy. I'm sensing lots of Pisces here and cancer, or you have those placements in your chart. You look young, gentle and sweet. To me, the ten of cups represent happily-ever-after's, so people think you stepped straight out of a fairytale book. You are a traditional beauty and give off a princess-like vibe. People assume you are abundant and emotionally content. You give off a very calm, motherly aura. You're beauty can range from cute to beautiful, but either way people perceive you as marriage material and the perfect parent to their kids. You may have a soft, or high voice. I'm assuming that you like dresses, skirts, stockings, and corsets. Even if you don't dress this way, you fantasize about doing so. I sense your a creative and that your style will be quite unique and homely, like cottage-core, but also childlike like kawaii. Because of this judgment in reverse, I think you have a serious inner critic and you don't dress the way you want to. You hide what you really like out of fear of ridicule, but spirit is greenlighting you. They say you should snuffle out that inner critic and express yourself the way you want to. You'll feel and look much more confident, and your style will attract more admiration than criticism. You have to learn to be gentle with yourself. You already fit most people's type of attractive. People want to be generous with you. They sense this insecurity within you, and they want to show you that you are beautiful. If you think you're a diamond in the rough, they want to polish you and show you that you are just as beautiful outside as you are inside (cliche I know).

⊱┈─✧

✨️ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀʏ ʀᴇꜱᴏɴᴀᴛᴇ:✨️

Belle from Beauty and the Beast. Sky blue. Cartoons. Wavy hair. Colorful barrettes. Artist. Soft. Hopeless Romantic. Growth & development. Inner child. Lakes & streams. Flower field. Bookworm.

⊰᯽⊱┈───── ✧

ᴀɴʏ ᴄʀɪᴛɪᴄɪꜱᴍꜱ ᴏʀ ꜰᴇᴇᴅʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀʀᴇ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇᴅ. ɪ'ᴍ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴅɪʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜɪꜱ ʙʟᴏɢ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀᴍ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴘɪɴɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ɪᴍᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ɪᴛ. ♡

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀ

© lolita-bonita — Please do not plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my work on other social media platforms without my permission. This is the only platform that I post this type of content. If you see my work being posted anywhere else, please kindly report them to me. ♡

⊱┈───── ✧

✨️ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: Tarot is not an exact science, nor can it produce information that is factually true. All things posted are alleged and for entertainment purposes only. The future is fluid, and what may happen is based on your choices and actions, not what I and a deck of cards say. You are still the creator of your future. ✨️

#pick a card #pick a picture #pick a photo #pick a pile #tarot blog #tarot blr #tarot #tarot cards #tarot reader #free tarot #lolitabonita's

1K notes · View notes

skeletonsgeorg · 18 days

Note

Omg Optimus finding out he was pregnant with Sam after not feeling well for a week and the mayhem that causes amongst his troops ( mainly Arcee and Wheeljakc having to be held back from kicking Megatron’s aft for their knocking up their commander bc they jumped to conclusions) and Megatron totally not trying to pass out form shock and then winds up scaring the pit of Knockout with the jubilant shouting from the warlord once the shock faded

"Optimus? What are you doing?"

Optimus froze and slowly turned towards Ratchet from where he'd been rifling through the medic's supplies. "...Searching," he said truthfully.

Ratchet arced a critical brow ridge. "For anything in particular?"

Optimus dropped his gaze, his finials sinking back. "...A carriage test."

Ratchet cycled his optics, then cycled them again. "Pardon?"

Optimus looked at his old friend pleadingly. "The increase in my core system temperature, the ache in my refineries, the way I've been purging every morning this past week... Ratchet, you know very well what this looks like."

"Sure, I know what it looks like, but I also know that sparklings don't just spontaneously manifest from nothing, and I know you, Optimus, you haven't interfaced with anyone for millions of years! It can't be a-" Ratchet froze at the look on Optimus's face. "Optimus..." he said slowly, "oh, Optimus, tell me you didn't."

Optimus stared dejectedly at the floor. "When Megatron held the peace summit last month, he invited me to his quarters, and we... Ratchet, there was highgrade-"

Ratchet immediately grabbed a wrench and hurled it to whistle past Optimus's helm. The Prime barely flinched.

"What are you, glitched?!" Ratchet shrieked. "That summit was a ploy to learn the location of our base, we knew it from the start, and what did he do at the end of it?! Said your terms were 'unacceptable' and TRIED TO KILL YOU!"

"Ratchet, please," Optimus tried, his voice breaking.

Ratchet rapidly collected himself and reset his vocalizer. "Right. Okay. I'm sorry. Eugh..." he groaned, dragging a servo down his faceplate. "Come on. A carriage test hasn't been available since Cybertron fell. I'll have to examine you."

Miko's voice suddenly sounded from the floor. "What's a carriage test?"

The two mechs whirled around to spot the human child in the doorway to the medical supply room, smiling innocently up at them.

"Miko..." Ratchet said gently, raising a servo as if he were in a hostage situation. "A carriage test is... a test... to determine if... a mech can transform into a carriage."

Miko tilted her head and scoffed, blowing her colorful bangs from her face. "But you guys can turn into cars and trucks and cool things like that! Besides, what use is a carriage without horses?"

"What is a horse?" Optimus asked.

Miko opened her mouth to answer with a bright smile, bouncing on her tip-toes, only to turn thoughtful and rub her chin. "What is a horse? We just don't know!"

Ratchet rolled his optics and drawled, "Yes, yes, very good, now run along, I have to examine Optimus for a very sensitive, private matter."

Miko snorted. "Yeah, whether or not he can turn into a buggy."

Optimus made a face. "I am not an insecticon."

"Wrong buggy, Prime."

"Shoo!" Ratchet barked, waving his servos, and Miko squealed and ran away with a giggle, leaving Ratchet to grab a medical scanner and herd Optimus to the Prime's private quarters.

Once Optimus was lying down on his berth, Ratchet swept the scanner over his abdomen to get a reading and then squinted at the results. He did it again, then again. He paled.

"Optimus," he said gingerly. "You're sparked."

Optimus laid there and stared up at the ceiling.

That was how he noticed Jack duck back away from the ceiling vent.

Optimus closed his optics and groaned, "Jack..." but the boy was already scrambling back towards the common area, creating frantic thumps in the ventilation system.

"I'll stop him," Ratchet said, determined, setting the scanner aside and marching towards the door, only for Optimus to catch his hand.

"Don't," Optimus said quietly, sitting up and setting his pedes on the floor. "I'll have to tell the team sooner or later. It may as well be now."

"Optimus, you have a right to-"

"It's fine," Optimus assured, standing up to his full great height, and Ratchet frowned, but made no further argument. "However, I must ask, old friend... will you stand at my side as I tell them?"

"Always," Ratchet swore, and with that the two mechs made their way to the common area.

"Optimus!" Arcee barked as soon as they came out of the hallway. The entire team was assembled around the children, including Wheeljack, looking shook to the core. "What is this? You're sparked? Can we afford this right now?"

"What Jack has told you is true," Optimus said gravely, coming to stand at parade rest in front of his soldiers and charges.

Rafael spoke up then, raising his hand. "What's 'sparked'? Is it bad?"

Bumblebee beeped at his human friend, and Raf balked.

Jack glanced worriedly between Raf and Optimus and asked, "What, what'd he say, what's wrong with Optimus?"

"He's uh... pregnant," Raf said slowly, looking perplexed.

Miko's jaw dropped. "Whoa, robots can get preggers? ...COOL!"

Wheeljack was the first to recover. "So who's the lucky bot?" he drawled with a forced smirk. "Is it Doc?"

Optimus and Ratchet shared a look. Ratchet immediately commed him, :Tell them it's me. They don't have to know.:

Optimus shook his helm and looked back at his team. He would not lie to his family. "No, it is not Ratchet. The sparkling's sire is none other than Megatron."

There was silence. Then:

"I'm going to kill him," Arcee snarled, curling her servos into fists and stalking towards the exit to the base. "I'm going to tear him apart!"

"I'll join you," Wheeljack said darkly, snapping his battlemask shut and transforming into his rally car alt-mode, roaring his engine.

"You will do no such thing," Optimus said sharply, quickly stepping between them and the exit. "Megatron and I's bonding was both consensual and enthusiastic."

Miko snorted and laughed, "Ewwwww!"

Jack furrowed his brow and held out his arms. "Optimus, how could you?"

Bumblebee beeped rapidly, and Raf translated, "What does this mean for the war?"

Optimus was getting overwhelmed, so Ratchet stepped in then, placing a gentle servo on his arm. Gathering strength from his friend, Optimus shot him a grateful look before turning to the others and intoning, "I will tell Megatron of this miracle that we have made, and hopefully awaken something in his spark other than hatred."

Knock Out was examining his claws when the Nemesis's communications array began ringing. When he saw it was from the Autobots, he groaned, "Ugh, fine," and stopped examining his claws long enough to answer the call. "You've reached Lord Megatron's line~ He's not inclined to waste time on Autobot filth at the moment, so how may I help you?"

Prime's system ID image stared at him disapprovingly from the holoscreen. "I have important news that I would prefer to give to Megatron personally. Is it possible to arrange a meeting on neutral ground?"

"What do I look like, his secretary?"

"I say again: I bear news that may alter the course of the war, and will certainly alter his functioning."

"Sure you do," Knock Out chuckled, finally letting his servo fall so he could seductively lean on the console. "And I'm the King of Velocitron."

"Are you saying you will not give me an audience with Megatron?"

"I'm saying you can shove it up your aft."

There was a weighted pause. "You would deny your Lord his sparkling?"

Knock Out's vents choked on air as he shrieked, "What?!" Bristling, he glowered at the holoscreen. "What evidence- I want proof! Our Lord would never lie with- Oh would you look at that," he said, tilting his helm at the still image of a second spark orbiting around the Prime's.

"I will not beg to see him," Prime continued, voice hard. "You may deliver this information yourself, if you so desire. This channel will remain open if he wishes to make contact afterwards. Goodbye."

And with that, Prime hung up.

Knock Out immediately scrambled to run through the hallways to find his Lord.

"Uh... Lord Megatron?" Knock Out prompted with a grimaced smile. "Nemesis to Lord Megatron, come in Lord Megatron."

Megatron just stood there, intake agape and flapping, his optics bulging as he stared at the second little spark cradled next to Prime's.

"Yoohoo~?"

"YEEESSSSSSSSS!" Megatron suddenly bellowed, whirling on Knock Out and picking him up, and Knock Out saw his entire life flash before his optics as his Lord spun him around and set him back down so he could pump his fists in the air. "YES! YES! YES! YES!"

Rattling with terror and swallowing repeatedly, Knock Out gave a shaky thumbs up before walking away to go bury his face in Breakdown's amazing bosom, hearing Lord Megatron practically skip through the ship behind him and off into the distance, bellowing, "I'M GOING TO BE A SIRE!"

#look what you made us do we had to write a whole fic #megop #optimus prime #megatron #team prime #transformers prime #transformers #skeletons answer #sam witwicky megop fankid au #mechpreg

71 notes · View notes

carionto · 7 months

Text

Humans and Boredom II

The planet cracker.

A devilish name that somehow still does not do this type of Human ship justice. Arrays of massive gravity hooks capable of tearing out kilometers wide and deep chunks of mass from any celestial object one of them decides to settle in orbit of.

The process is slow and tedious and, luckily, unsuitable for any practical military application, but unimaginably rewarding nonetheless. Once a chunk has been lifted, a fleet of harvester drones meticulously tears it further apart and separates into individual minerals and any other categorizable substances. From there the internal refineries of the planet cracker process them further into more usable metals, alloys, resins, and countless other resources. Finally, another fleet of transport ships ferry those back to where they are needed.

The land based production capacity of an entire (small) planet, with a single (albeit metropolis sized) ship, crewed by no more than a hundred Humans and thousands of drones.

One of these immense beasts - The Hardy Gal - was stationed around one of Saturn's moons - Epimetheus - that was recently voted out of the global popularity contest "Who's Even Heard of This One?" and thus sentenced to become part of the Dyson Ring.

The drone fleet that was supposed to be tearing up the unfortunate little moon, however, was recently recalled for refitting after a report showed a key part was manufactured using an outdated guideline by a suspiciously licensed corporation, that was also caught up in an unrelated embezzlement scandal.

Suffice to say that chief Gravity Master Boris Fruischtyen didn't have much to do. Laws and regulations do not permit any unsupervised extraction results to just be left in orbit. Oh no, can't preemptively arrange chunks for processing later, nope, "efficiency? what's that?". *sigh* Lift, hold, harvest, repeat.

Boris would have nothing to do, except the gravity hook arrays were a set of fifty per array, and The Hardy Gal had eight arrays. Four hundred individually aim-able and moveable chunks of matter.

While his day job was not very productive for now, his social media activity shot through the roof. There's a lot you can draw with four hundred "pixels" and the literal cosmos as your canvas and backdrop.

His personal favorites were water features and creatures set against the blue of Saturn, and he arranged quite a few of the extinct whales and penguins too. Additionally, every day he would fulfill one of the audiences top ranking requests.

Through these he discovered he has a fascinatingly good sense for flower compositions, especially from unusual angles. It's odd. He's only ever seen flowers in images and videos, perhaps lacking actual real life flowers to compare to allows his imagination to fill in the gaps in a way referencing factual knowledge would limit him. Who knows.

Despite having access to a three dimensional canvas, he preferred to keep things flat.

"What can I say, 2D is better. *chuckle*"

However, that doesn't mean he keeps things simple. The gravity hooks are quite good at selective manipulation, they have to be to target certain spots beneath a whole lot of other matter (which is then raised alongside the "elevator" matter). He demonstrated how the same image can look wildly different if you just change the "pixels" from squares to spheres, or how certain material compositions change color when squeezed more densely.

His personal favorite part is the finishing touch. After he's had a drone go out and stream his latest piece from plenty of angles for the viewers, he gives the whole image a simultaneous and gentle push back towards the moon. After a few touching hours of people in chat saying farewell, sharing personal stories and just asking questions Boris is always happy to answer, the image impacts the surface where the majority of parts were extracted from in a spectacular show of minor impacts and a shower of debris. Too bad it doesn't have an atmosphere, just imagine how cool it'd look burning up on reentry.

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humanity fuck yeah #humans are artists #boredom #carionto

180 notes · View notes

be-co-me · 2 months

Text

En Plein Air

Levi Ackerman

5.7k Words

Summary: A mysterious raven haired painter seeks solace in your flower laden patio and glasses of whiskey when he finds his hidden job turns awry. This is my submission for @kentopedia's valentine's collab event, Love Through The Ages. I urge you to go check out the rest of the fics as they are written and posted! (It tried to link it but it won't work for some reason!) This takes place during the late 1800's in the impressionism era in France. This has always been a favorite era of mine, specifically for the art that debuted around this time. Monet's pieces are my absolute favorite, specifically the water lily series and I think everyone should see it. I listened to Gregory Alan Isakov for the better part of writing this, so if you'd like to listen to some folk music as you read (I think the music is very fitting to the vibe of the fic), my three favorites are Empty Northern Hemisphere, If I Go I'm Goin, and Dandelion Wine.

---

Impressionism. The art movement taking the world by storm along with the budding history and developments of the new age, especially had caught your eye. Vehicles, new necessities; water and electricity even being brought to the lower class, such as yourself would be labelled, though you had not yet been fortunate enough to have them in your own home as of yet.

But specifically, what most caught your eye was the art of the raven haired man sitting across the bar from you, occupying a table all by his lonesome as you polish glasses and watch his nimble hands paint, leaned over a decently sized canvas. 2.5x3.5 meters in size if you had to guess. The tall whiskey on the rocks he ordered earlier tucked to the edge of the table as to not disrupt his painting should it be spilled.

His jacket was discarded neatly across the back of the chair placed next to him, his hat forgotten along with his whiskey glass. You realized you had been polishing the same glass for the last few minutes as you stared, when another patron had come to the bar top to order.

Once you served them, your mind forgot the glasses and silverware that needed polishing to end the evening in favor of staring at the man located across from you once more. You noticed many more details of him as he was the lone subject of your attention now. His eyes had not yet met yours as his concentration must have been so deep.

You noticed the paint layered over his fingertips, vibrants and dulls covering the pale of his skin. The painting looked to be outdoors, and, if you didn't know any better, you would say yourself the painting looked finished, but the last three hours of refinery to detail he had done since the sun went down proved to you otherwise.

He suddenly looked up, his gaze meeting the whiskey glass he had long ignored. His paint covered finger tips grazed the top as he picked the glass up and took a long drag from it, smearing different colors along the rim of the glass, something you didn't think you would mind polishing off later in turn of seeing the finished product.

His eyes met yours as he set the glass into the same wet ring the table now adorned from the glass. You retreated your gaze to that of his drink, the ice now mostly melted, and glass now almost empty. Your staring could technically be deduced to the state of his drink, as you were the bartender, but you were wiser to know he would most likely not believe that statement.

He cleared his throat loudly, pushing his chair back and carefully paraded around his adopted work space as to not knock into it. He brought the glass up to your bar, placing it in front of your empty hands, steely gaze now meeting your own, at a much closer distance than you realized you'd be comfortable admiring him from.

The silence between the two of you was heavy as he did not say a word, the gramophone's music filtering through the space instead, something you had been lucky to receive as a gift from one of your more wealthy, regular patrons, saying he had already gotten a new model. Your gaze met the glass once more and you noticed it was now empty, a feat you didn't seem to notice as he made his way to the bar. He must have finished it off.

"Would you like another sir?" you asked, reluctantly meeting his rigid gaze once again. His head swiveled to the table he had occupied as a group of patrons walked past, eyeing the painting that sat atop it from a respectful distance, carefully critiquing it. His head turned back to you with a nod.

"Yes please." he responded, his gaze turning back to the table. You nodded in affirmation and turned to grab the whiskey he had requested earlier in the evening. You turned back to him as you poured, hoping you may engage in some small talk to find more detail into his character.

"Your eyes will be strained painting in the dim light you know?" you stated, eyes concentrated on the pour you gave him. You set the bottle down into it's rightful place and scooped some fresh ice into the cup, placing it back in front of him before meeting his gaze once more, looking for a response.

He stared for a few seconds before responding.

"Better light than my shitty apartment and I only get light in the studio during the day. This was a last resort to finishing by tomorrow." he replied bluntly, but softly, eyes grazing down your frame to give a once over before meeting yours again.

"Hmm. What's tomorrow?" you asked, leaning a cheek against your palm atop the bar in front of him, happy the plan for idle conversation had worked in your favor. His gaze met the table once again before turning back to you.

" A gallery. Not a large one by any means, although I wish to be represented in one someday." he responded, shrugging his shoulders as he sipped from the new glass.

"May I see what you are working on up close?" you asked. His eyes grazed your features once again as you sat atop your palm, taking another sip from your own glass the wealthy patron had bought you earlier in the evening.

"I'd rather you see it when it is finished." he responded. You hummed in response.

"When will that be?" you asked and he pondered the question.

"Depends on if you'll kick me out when you close or let me stay." he responded. It was your turn now to ponder his statement and you nodded, removing yourself from atop your palm and turning to eye the clock hung over the top of the bar, surprised to see the hands nearing closing time.

"I don't think that would be a problem." you responded with a soft smile. He nodded, standing to make his way back to the table. He sat and placed the glass in it's same dark ring as to not make another stain atop the wood, then plucked a fine tip paint brush off the top of his palette, beginning his work once again.

You stared a bit longer than needed, something you hoped he was oblivious to, before picking up the glasses once again and polishing them off.

As you finished your closing duties, the last of the noisy patrons leaving the bar, you poured yourself another tall glass of floral gin, with a dash of floral bitters and tonic. Your nose wrinkled at the burn of the alcohol, strong but smooth in flavor with a flowery lavender aftertaste.

As you finished wiping the bar top down and half of your earlier poured drink along with the task, the final on your list of duties now done, you eyed the raven head man's table, taking note of the empty glass next to him. You grabbed a fresh, icy glass and poured another out for him, bringing it along with your own drink to join him at the table.

You set the glasses down carefully, plucking up the empty glass placed next to him and replacing it with the fresh one. You carefully pulled a chair out next to him and watched him as he painted many more fine details across the span of the canvas.

The style vaguely reminded you of art you had seen in the papers from Claude Monet, an artist you had come to revere for his Nympheas series he had started not long ago. In favor of capturing the vibrancy of life, dark sharp lines were now replaced with colors, vibrant and dull to show the shadows, light, and depth of life in more fine and true toned detail. It also replaced the stuffiness of painting in studios with that of painting outdoors. En plein air they called it. It became a style you rather wished you owned a piece of, specifically that of Monet's work, though it was far too pricey and that dream would remain just so.

It made you feel free, a dream you wished could become a reality, to live in a home atop a pond of water lilies. Only you were not wealthy; your dresses and occupation told others that much, no matter how hard you could try to front that you were. Although you were the owner of a small bar tucked into the middle upper class estate, you were by no means seen as a respectable business owner to many of the wealthy that came to drink the afternoons and evenings away.

The clink of a glass hitting the table brought you back to reality, his eyes meeting yours as he dusted his fingers across a paint smeared cloth. You eyed the piece, wondering if it had been finished. Your eyes met his steely greys.

"Is it finished?" you asked. He nodded, continuing to wipe his fingers. an unlit cigarette sat between his lips, hindering him from responding to the question vocally. You leaned over the table even more, admiring the small details of the piece, attempting to eye the separate brush strokes.

"I'm assuming this won't be varnished correct?" you asked. His hand obscured his face, cupping around the end of the cigarette as he lit it with a match, waving the match around a couple of times to snuffle the flame out before setting it atop the table. He took a long drag, leaning back into the chair.

"You've done your reading haven't you?" he asked, blowing the cloud of smoke away from your direction. You nodded.

"I'm keen to this up and coming style and seeing where it goes," you started, eyes raking the other side of the canvas as you leaned over farther to catch a better glance at the details, "I find the switch up intriguing and rather more beautiful than works of the past." you responded, continuing to eye the painting.

A large garden bed of French lavender swaying in the breeze caught your eyes before moving onto other flowering plants adorning the canvas. It seemed to be of a farmers market, though you noted the lack of people on the canvas. Handmade dresses fluttered in the wind hung to the side of stalls, and you eyed one you thought may look rather good on yourself.

You spent a long while admiring the work and you both sipped your drinks in comfortable silence. You were sure it was well past midnight at this point, but you couldn't find it in yourself to care. You finally looked away from the canvas.

"It's beautiful. I may have to find where this market is to see it in person." you told him. Your eyes met the paint tubes littering the table, something you had failed to notice before. Maybe he's a bit wealthier than you are, being able to afford the new storage units for paint.

"You've gotten your paint in tubes. Quite hard to find around here." you noted aloud, meeting his eyes. He nodded, finishing his drink off.

"My uncle got them for me on a trip out of town. One of his customers was nice enough to give him a hefty discount, though I'm not sure I'll ever hear the end of returning the favor to him." he responded.

You pointed a finger to his drink and he shook his head. You opted to finish your own and stand, grabbing the discarded glasses and making your way behind the bar to wash them as he began to pack his supplies up. You made your way to the gramophone and halted the current shellac record that played, placing it into it's designated envelope and back to it's alphabetical bin.

You met him back at the table before grabbing your belongings, ready to also make your way home. He adjusted his jacket into prim and proper place after putting it on.

"I haven't paid for my drinks." he stated. You shrugged in response.

"Guess you'll have to come back and see me then."

---

You realized, rather irritated, the next morning, that you had never gotten his name. In favor of the spring day the farmer's almanac predicted would be warmer than the previous early spring season, you opted to open the outdoor patio of the bar for the day rather than the inside, which you would possibly open in the absence of the sun later in the evening. You now admired the flowers littering the small yard in a new light since seeing the mysterious man's painting. Maybe you could add even more flowers, specifically the French lavender that jumped out to your gaze in his painting.

Your morning went smoothly, your cup of coffee being replaced with that of the drinks a regular had bought you. He drank on absinthe, a flavor he had brought home from the military, something that had become quite popular, though you didn't admire the flavor the same way many other patrons had. You refused to drink it.

In the later afternoon, a warm breeze enveloped the patio and your eyes piqued at the raven haired man you had met the previous evening as he walked through the gate. He carried he same painting supplies he hauled last night, gaze wandering for a table that was open. Currently they had all been occupied and his eyes met your own as he made his way to the empty barstool in front of you. He looped his bag across the rung of the back of the chair, placing his jacket and hat across it before sitting atop the chair. You were rather glad you had worn a nicer dress in favor of seeing him again.

"The usual?" you asked, grabbing a glass to make the drink anyways. He nodded.

"Not quite sure I've been here enough for you to be asking me that question." he responded. You poured into the glass and scooped up the ice, placing the glass in front of him. He took a long sip from the glass, eyeing the drink sitting atop your work space. Your cheeks felt warm and you were sure they were rosy, the tip of your nose tingling at the slight buzz of the gin running through your veins.

"How was the gallery?" you asked. He shrugged, messing with the buttons of his white shirt as he unbuttoned the top two at his collar and the cuffs at his wrists, rolling them up a couple of times.

"I got quite the offer on one of my paintings. I'll be meeting the gentleman here later today." he responded.

"I'm glad I could convince you to come back, let alone bring others with you." you responded wittily, taking a sip of your drink. Your gaze wandered over his raven locks of hair, noticing the cigarette tucked behind his ear. His bangs fell into his eyes, probably due soon for a haircut, but you rather liked the longer hair on him.

He began to dig out supplies from the bag, canvas ditched for a sketchbook in lieu of the considerably smaller workplace he could now work with.

You continued your work as he began his, hastily making drinks as more patrons poured in. You thought you may let him know of an open table lest he'd want to move, but you'd rather he stayed closer, and he was so endowed in his work. You thought it better not to interrupt him unless you brought a new drink along with you.

As the afternoon slowed and patrons rolled in at a lesser frequency, you stood in front of him, taking a break from the drinks you had earlier in the afternoon once your wealthy regular left, in exchange for water. You tried to catch a glimpse of what he worked on, sketching out lines across the pad with graphite rather than any paint as of yet.

Another man made his way next to him, setting his own jacket and hat atop the back of the adjacent chair, and it was only now you got a glimpse of the work as he set the book down to shake hands with the new man. Your eyes scanned the page, a drawing resembling the flowers of your patio across the page. You felt a warmness trickle inside your chest as you looked back up, asking the other man what he would like to drink on after refilling the raven haired man's glass. Another whiskey, but neat this time.

His sketchpad then sat closed atop the bar for quite long as they conversed over the painting the man would be purchasing. You eavesdropped on their conversation, noting the painting being purchased would be the one he spent the better part of the day working on the previous evening.

You felt excitement for your newfound 'regular', dare you call him, when you heard the monetary value placed on the work by the other man, and in the raven man's expression, you found an honest surprise to what the wealthy man would pay for the fine art as they shook hands on the price, a celebration found in lieu of another drink.

As the evening sun faded into the starry sky, you lit the lanterns adorning your patio, painting it down to a bright orange and yellow haze.

"I'd like to tab out, and I insist you put Levi Ackerman's drinks on my own tab." the wealthy man insisted. You eyed the raven haired man, his gaze one of annoyance, in lieu of hearing his name for the first time before nodding. You told the man the total and he made his way out of the bar with his new piece, after leaving a hefty tip.

"It's a beautiful piece, I'm not surprised it was sold so quickly, Mr. Ackerman." you told him, testing his name on your tongue as you poured him a new drink.

"Just Levi please." he responded, taking a long sip of the fresh drink after you had placed it in front of him.

"Okay Just Levi, what are you sketching out now?" you asked. His eyes met yours in warning at the joke, shaking his head as he opened the closed sketchbook back up. Your eyes raked over it, as you found it the same as the last time you snuck a glance at it. He picked the graphite back up, beginning his work on it once more.

You noted the graphite smeared across the meat of his left hand, something you thought must have interfered with his work quite often. For sitting at the bar for the afternoon and evening, the depiction of the space you created was accurate in it's fullest across the page, the lanterns now being added in one by one.

You fell into the same routine as the previous night, Levi worked on his art as you closed your bar down, continuing to pour him drinks every so often. You poured one out for yourself, in search for a buzz from the alcohol again to warm yourself up in the colder breeze the night had brought in.

You finished your duties and your drink, pouring another as you made your way to the seat next to him, watching him as he leaned over the sketch and placed carefully calculated, soft smudges across it with oil pastels now, bringing the page to life with color. You noted the dull fingerprints of the pastels atop his glass, something you again wouldn't mind to polish away. You rather liked the lack of people in his paintings, you noted, as you found the depictions of the wealthy often polluted what you thought the nature of the paintings to be about; what they meant to you personally. Freedom.

He finished off the drink after half an hour, along with he sketch, and you grabbed the glasses, yours long empty and your body warm, as you washed the glasses under the warm water and set them atop a shelf to dry in the evening breeze.

You found the page torn out of the sketchbook when your eyes met his figure again, edges neat and crisp, sat atop the bar. He dug a glass frame out of the bag, placing the painting carefully into it. He then pushed the frame towards you across the bar top, and you picked it up with a sense of delicacy, careful to not mess with the pastels sat behind the glass. Your eyes roamed from the sketch to that of your patio a few times, noting the details even you would have failed to notice.

"Yet another beautiful piece of work. I'm quite honored you'd choose a place of my creation to bring to life." you commented, sliding the frame back to him carefully.

"You keep it. I insist. And let me pay that tab." he responded, fishing out cash from his pocket. You shook your head, taking the painting and placing it in a nook below the gin shelf so you may eye it more often in lieu of when you would be pouring your own favored drink to enjoy after long evenings.

"This is more than enough payment. I insist. So long as you let me enjoy your paintings, you can drink for free in my establishment." you responded. He left with a curt nod.

---

One day passed, then two. Three days became a week before you saw him again. You began to worry, and even felt a bit disappointed at the absence of your newfound favorite patron. A rather solemn look adorned his pretty features the next time you saw him walk through he gates of your patio, and you rather thought that he could be a painting himself as he walked to and sat across from you at the bar top right before closing that evening. You noted the lack of paint supplies and the angry red color under his fingernails and the blistering red of scrubbed hands in the lantern's orange light as he set his palms atop the bar.

"I hope that's paint under your nails Levi." you told him, your gaze leaving his hands as your brow creased in worry, turning to grab the whiskey bottle that sat abandoned the past week and pouring it into a glass. You heard a mutter of curses leave his lips and you set the cold glass in front of him. He took quite a long while before nestling the glass in between his hands and taking a sip from it.

You opted to try his drink of choice for the evening, abandoning your own in lieu of trying a new flavor on your tongue, your eyes still grazing over the oil pastel depiction of your patio every time you made a drink in his absence. The new type of burn made your nose scrunch involuntarily, a much stronger alcohol percentage invading your taste buds.

You turned to him once again as the notes of smoky wood and caramel smoothed over your taste buds, the strong alcohol leaving a rather pleasant flavor behind. You could see why he enjoyed the drink, especially colder.

You sat in a rather comfortable silence, and after he finished the first of what you assumed to be many drinks quickly, he let out a rather exasperated sigh, throwing his head back and leaned far back against the barstool, his arms folding across his eyes. You continued to sip at your own drink, grabbing the bottle next to you to pour into his empty glass, scooping the ice into it. His posture didn't change.

"Want to talk about it?" you asked, voice struggling as you took a sip of the strong whiskey, realizing he hadn't said a word to you in the half hour he had been there and you rather longed for the sound of his deep voice again.

It took him a long while to sit up before shaking his head. You nodded in response.

"I thought I'd have to revoke my offer if you didn't come back to see me you know." you joked lightheartedly, his gaze finally meeting your own, excitement fluttered in your chest as he inhaled to speak to you for the first time in a week.

"How have things been around here? Any trouble?" he asked. You shook your head in response to the rather random question, taking note of the lilt of edge in his voice.

"Just the regular drunk hooligans and their usual shenanigans on occasion. I'm far used to it by now." you responded, taking a sip of the drink. He reached into the chest pocket of his already buttoned down white shirt, grabbing the case of cigarettes and matches from it, lighting one up. He took a drag from it, blowing it away from you, eyes meeting your own once more.

"I'm glad to hear so. Seems to be trouble everywhere else." he responded.

"My offer still stands. Don't you know bartenders aren't only good at keeping bars but also secrets?" you asked with a worried smile, polishing away at a glass you'd forgotten previously to keep your hands occupied. His gaze met over both his shoulders, you assumed to confirm the lack of bodies besides the two of you within the vicinity before freely speaking of his absence the last week.

"Being an artist doesn't make much money you know, unless you're well known, which I am not." he said, pausing to sip at his drink, and you nodded in following attention of what he would explain. His tone became significantly quieter as he spoke next.

"My uncle works for the mafia, and unfortunately I have to help him. I owe him the debt of removing me from the deepest depths of society. No, I owe him my life, as much as I hate to say so. No favors that I repay him would ever be enough." he continued, ashing the forgotten cigarette before taking another drag from it.

You nodded, processing the information as you took another sip of your drink, the ice steadily melting. You wondered if that was all of the information he would allow you to know of the subject or if he would continue on. You eyed his hands once more, the redness of his skin waned, but remained underneath his fingernails. You ran a cloth under warm water as he continued to sip at his drink, grabbing at the brim of the glass in his particular way. You wrung the steaming towel out and placed your arms across the bar top, pointing towards his unoccupied hand. You couldn't help but to think the red was placed there earlier in the day, and after attempting to harshly scrub it away, he wanted to seek solace in your establishment and your presence.

"May I?" you asked, your eyes staring strongly into his own, the question coming out as more of a demand rather than a request for permission. His gaze softened and he nodded, placing his drink down on the bar top, the fingers of his right hand staying wrapped around it.

You gently wiped around top of his left hand, lightly rubbing into the creases of his fingers and knuckles before gently turning his palm over and doing the same, making sure to wipe over every millimeter of the skin on both sides before turning his hand over once more and beginning on his fingernails. His glass sat empty in your concentration and he reached for your own, something you didn't mind as you rubbed his cuticles clean.

You pulled the towel taught around your thumb nail, running it underneath his own nails to remove the angry rusty red. Once you finished his left hand, you ran the towel under the warm water once again, cleaning it of it's dirt now, setting your palm onto the bar in demand of his other hand without a word.

He placed his palm carefully onto yours and sipped at your drink carefully as he watched you clean his right hand. As you began on his upper forearms, you felt his muscles untaut across your palm and he visibly relaxed in your peripherals, a sigh leaving his lips. You felt your own shoulders relax as well.

"I like these hands more when they're covered in paint and pastels, not in danger Levi." you nearly whispered, finishing up underneath his nails. You placed the towel under the water once again, cleaning it thoroughly and tossing it onto the back of the bar after folding it up.

He brought his hand back to him, wrapping it around the glass in his other hand as he examined his now clean fingers. His bangs covered his steely grays as he pondered a response to your statement.

"I hope one day that's all you'll have to see them do." he responded quietly in return. You poured a short glass of the whiskey for yourself this time, topping his own off as well, reveling in the intimate environment the two of you had blossomed in the first of his visits.

For, in technicality, the third day of knowing him, you already felt quite a hearty connection to him, even more so than your more frequent bar guests. If anything had happened to him and he didn't come to the bar anymore, so suddenly, you'd be quite upset, on an even deeper level than you'd felt the past week.

"I hope I get to know you long enough to see that happen." you said, used to the burn of your drink now, your eyes meeting his own. You stared into his eyes, finishing the drink and placing the glass down. You stepped atop the milk crate at your feet and placed your elbows atop the bar, hands intertwining with the collar of his shirt as you pulled his face much closer to your own. His gaze penetrated your own as you took over the solemn conversation, noses nearly touching, your eyes flitting down to his lips and all around his visage, taking in his sharp features, dark long eyelashes, and plump lightly chapped lips before tracking back to his eyes.

You noted they were more of a slate grey, the flecks of blue you hadn't noticed before much more pertinent in the close proximity you'd brought about. The color reminded you much of the hydrangeas nestled in the back corner of your now peacefully quiet patio, peaceful, though your heart was thrumming harder than you think it ever had. His palms lay wrapped around your forearms in anticipation.

The color of his eyes dwindled away as they closed and his lips captured your own, the chapping of them brushing roughly against the edges of your lips. You captured his bottom lip between your own in an attempt to soften it against the petroleum across your own lips.

Your hands brushed the briary undercut he donned and his palms brushed over your shoulder blades with a squeeze as he pushed harder into the kiss you had initiated. You could taste the smokiness of his cigarette, homogenous to the smokiness and burnt caramel of the whiskey you had shared earlier in the evening, and you hoped he could taste the same on you.

Your intimacy was broken up by the loud thunder rumbling off in the distance, the breeze picking up strongly, something you failed to notice in your already lovesick state. You broke apart from him, chest heaving, staring into the slate of his eyes that reminded you oh so much of your hydrangeas you had moved closer to the front of your patio earlier in the week.

His palms lay wrapped around your forearms once again, yours in much of a similar manner. You smiled deeply at him and noticed for the first time that he returned the sentiment back to you. You sat in a more than comfortable silence as the pace of your breathing returned to normal, the searing warmth of his palms a comfort to your skin in the late cold breeze. The coarse thunder boomed once more, a streak of bright white light painting the sky and his eyes, before quickly disappearing into the covered stars.

"I need you to always come back. Please. You're my new favorite regular you know." you told him breathily. He nodded in response to the sentiment, gaze following behind you. Your eyes met the path his own followed, staring into the painting he had made for you the week before.

"Who would I tell my darkest secrets to if I didn't? And who would clean my conscience figuratively and literally when I've found myself in trouble?" he said in response, slate greys flitting back to you.

"I'll always be here, whiskey glass in hand, whenever you need it you know. I'm not going anywhere." you whispered. He nodded, rubbing his palm up and down the expanse of your now exposed forearms, your sleeves rolled up earlier to clean dishwares.

The both of you gathered your belongings, ready to fare out the storm brewing as he insisted he walk you home. He pointed out the colors of the dull night, bringing it to life in the now drenched city estate. You turned back to look at your closed down bar, and the flowers of your patio that much needed the rain thundering down from the sky.

And you found yourself more alive than you'd ever felt, standing in the rain, looking upon the result of your life's works in peace and harmony.

The landscape now bloomed in vibrants and pastels in your wake, no longer dull and forgotten. Your world flooded with a new sense of colored hues as you gazed upon your flowers, in a deeper sense of detail than before; and you found that raven colored black he brought about earlier in the week was not the absence of all the colors you had previously thought it was, but rather kin to the mix of the many hues littered about in the bottom of the raven artist's bag and across his canvases.

---

Please let me know what you think! I think this is by far one of my favorite pieces I have written. I wanted to add more, but I felt it would ruin where it leaves off, so maybe a part two will be due at some point if requested. I wrote this last night after a pretty scary time; my college campus had an active shooter and our whole campus was kind of shook for the better part of an hour (no one was injured!), but writing definitely helped to calm me down, so I am glad I made an entry for this! This is lightly edited as I don't have much time before class, so please excuse any mistakes!

#love through the ages #Levi ackerman #levi ackerman x you #levi ackerman x reader #snk #aot #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #snk x reader #snk levi #aot levi #aot x reader #levi aot #attack on titan x reader

98 notes · View notes

mollysunder · 7 months

Text

The State of Shimmer Production in Zaun

When Jayce and Vi raided Silco's Shimmer Refinery they really showed that they didn't know how to actually handle Shimer. I'm not talking on a socioeconomic level, or even Hextech vs Shimmer (chemtech), I mean they don't know where it comes from. The way Vi tears apart the central machinery of the refinery show its.

At first it looks like she did a good job just breaking every glass and pipe on their, but if you look closer, she missed something critical.

1It's the giant mass that's holstered right above. This mass of flesh is the actual source for Shimmer that the Refinery had been using. Sure it looks like a sagging lump of dead flesh, but that actually seems to be it's normal color.

We've seen a mass like this before, in the Cannery. While Vander was captured, we're shown Shimmer being produced by one of Silco's chemists.

Up close, you can see the same grey flesh masses found in the refinery, sitting in their own liquid, are being used at a smaller scale in the Cannery. The larger mass was literally pumping on its own, though I'm not sure if it's with the aid of heat or gas. Nevertheless, we can see that these are the actual sources that Shimmer is harvested from, and Vi missed it. Well, more like the whole team missed it. They just left it there instead of confiscating it.

But where did these masses even come from? The answer itself is easy, it's Rio. The explanation is a little complicated.

We already know that long term exposure to Shimmer causes Shimmer addicts to develop growths, like the ones Huck has. These growths pulse with bright pink veins, likely producing some poorer quality strain of Shimmer to sustain the growth itself, but this process is somehow isolated to the growth and not the rest of Huck's internal biology. If anything it looks as though the mass is feeding off of Huck.

The only living organism that could possibly produce masses of the size used in the Shimmer Refinery that produce Shimmer in a consistent quality is Rio.

Initially, I assumed that Singed kept Rio alive because Rio was the source of Shimmer, but I had it backwards. Singed didn't keep Rio alive because Rio made Shimmer, he kept Rio alive because of how Rio could 'survive' Shimmer.

Rio is literally a giant aoxotl, a species best known for it's regenerative abilities, where they can lose limbs and regrow them like it's nothing in the right conditions. Singed kept Rio alive (aoxotls only live 15 years in captivity) using Shimmer harvested from it's original source, the purple cave flowers, because with Rio, Singed has a reliable biological medium that he can harvest these Shimmer producing masses from.

You could even argue that with the hinted at parasitic nature of Shimmer, new strains of Shimmer, like the ones produced by Rio, are impacted by the biological traits of the host body. This could explain how Shimmer is such an effective treatment for fatal conditions.

But what does this all mean? Well, for one, it proves Vi and Jayce really went into the raid more blind than we already thought. They were able to identify the mechanical heart, which can be fixed or replaced, but not the more critical biological source, and thus failed to truly immobilize production. Even worse for them, both still don't know anything about Rio, the only one in Piltover who does know is Viktor.

Even if Vi could guess that those Shimmer masses were important, I doubt she could have done anything effective. From what we could see in the first season, these masses don't require any medical appartus to keep functioning, they already appear self-sustaining outside a host. Any equipment around them seem to function to stimulate excess Shimmer production.

And if we return to the Cannery, we can see that the Shimmer veins, these sinew-like byproducts of Shimmer production are still hearty and alive. After the explosion and massive fire that engulfed the Canney over 7-10 years ago in the story, the Shimmer veins not only remained, but have expanded through rock, ruble and the chemical pollutants in Zaun, thick and alive. What would stabbing or smashing it actually do?

In some shots they really look as though they're surrounding the cast, especially Jinx. Whatever surgery that was done to Rio, she was probably given a more 'refined' version. The kind where the Shimmer and whatever guides it's nature better integrated into her system compared to long term users that are being drained by it.

Part of me wonders that as another 'successful' mutant like Rio, can she produce excess Shimmer in the right conditions. Could she draw it from herself in secret to give to allies, or withold it Queen of the Damned style. I wonder what traits her strain of Shimmer might give to users.

Tldr: When Jayce and Vi raided the Shimmer Refinery, they missed a biological factor that's the center of Shimmer production. As long as Singed still has the cave flowers and Rio, Zaun still has Shimmer. Also, all Shimmer users that have been exposed to large enough quantity can to some degree produce Shimmer, but it's not always a well integrated process, so Jinx is likely a real success in Shimmer hybridization.

#arcane #singed arcane #vi arcane #jayce talis #zaun #shimmer arcane #jinx arcane #I'm not a biologist #arcane meta #i had more vampire analogies but i couldn’t digressing #rio arcane

145 notes · View notes

20th-century-railroading · 1 month

Text

UP North Yard in Salt Lake City

With a colorful block of K-Line containers in tow, UP's North Platte - Milpitas premium intermodal train glides into North Yard for a crew change the morning of Sept. 19, 1992. Viewed from the UP employee skybridge, one can see an SW10 working a cut of cars along Top End Tower. On the right of the photo are switches with spurs that lead to a large gravel pit on the east side of Beck Street and the Amoco Refinery. This portion of North Yard, at 13th North, is bordered by Swedetown, a neighborhood on the east side of the yard. The Rose Park neighborhood, the Rio Grande Ogden main line and I-15 border the west side.

#up #union pacific #1992 #trains #freight train #history #salt lake city #utah

15 notes · View notes

rainworldroompoll · 2 months

Text

Pick Your Favorite Rain World Room, Day 155

This is not single elimination! Every room with at least 10.0% vote will move on to the next round.

There is a hidden slugcat in one of the rooms (they can be in any color). If u can see it comment or reblog with where they are and if u are first, u get a cookie!

Credit for game screenshots goes to: Rain World Interactive Map, Rain World Wiki and me

Congratulations for day 154 winners!

#rain world poll #rain world #rw poll #rw #poll

10 notes · View notes

boxeboxer · 3 months

Text

Samya’s bad horrible no good day at Loxton-Duchêne (3.3k word practice intro)

As the air marginally warms, the fog that had loomed over the ocean like a dark, dreaded thought comes to swallow the skyline above them. It’s hard to make out where the cityscape ends, the cream-grey concrete silhouettes losing their rigid form as they dissolve into the humidity. The uniform color of it all washes out the dirt-laden snow that creeps at the edge of the tracks, making Samya squint and curl her lip. She puts her hand against her brow.

“Excuse me,” she says, waving at an ice blue krtrim that walks away from its group to puff on its miti, leaving the rest to load material up and onto the doodlebug. It looks up at her, large yellow eyes twinkling in the dim overcast, sleet collected on its shoulders. “This is Loxton-Duchêne, isn’t it?”

Its voice, cold: “Yes, ma’am.” Steam rises from its mouth and forms dew on its glass eyes.

“Which way to the assembly yard? Is it far?”

It points to the idling train engine where its fellow krtrim crawl about it like ants. “We’re bringing alloy to the blast furnace, north. Follow the line and it’ll take you there. It’s past the refinery.”

She can feel the tug of north at her back without turning to face it. The earth pulls her longitudinally along its axis, orienting her as naturally as it was to know up from down. She smiles. “Thank you.”

The krtrim takes another drag, narrowing its eyes, exhaling vapor. A dull pain has formed at its temple, which it presses a finger to. Samya strides past it up and onto the doodlebug. In the next moment, the ache is gone, and it had never seen her. Its coworkers call for its return, and she catches the end of sentence: “who are you talking to…?”

She takes a seat on one of the worn aisle chairs, their cushions flattened against the wood arches. It’s nice to take the weight off her feet, and she crosses her legs over one another while holding a hand over her knee. Where she’s sat at the front, she can see out the driver’s window, perched next to it being a heavily-clothed krtrim who reads a faded CRT display embedded into the dashboard. Its mouth opens to shout something in Krtrim Binary, miti steam rising with its voice, then it bangs on the metal wall with a piece of rebar it pulls from the console. The workers from outside file in like mice in rows.

The driver barks at them again as they sit. She can’t understand the words in sound, but she can get the gist of it through the electric fields which weave themselves through her. “Slow krtrim get fed to the furnace! If you’re not worth more than your circuits, don’t bother coming!”

There’s a murmur of agreement, and the engine shifts into gear. They gain speed to a crawl, then a walk, until they have enough momentum to settle into a comfortable cadence just fast enough to send a breeze through the empty windows. The air brings the smell of hot coke, and the ice along the tracks gradually melts away as they get closer to the furnace.

She turns to watch the scenery, what little there is of it. The Loxton-Duchêne campus sits upon the land like an open wound. Seemingly built to rust, its iron skeleton is a rich, crimson brown, dotted with aviation lights that give it a faint red sparkle. Smog rises from towers as the heat of this place, this organism, is exhaled in a great breath back into the sky. Mixing with the hanging clouds, it casts a silver shadow over it all—a cold, lingering sadness, the weight of which is heavy upon their shoulders. It might’ve been a serene view if not for the noise. The ruminating chew of the railcar engine, steam spitting from exhaust pipes, hydraulics and air brakes, bells ringing in doppler-warped tones, hammer strikes igniting, a constant coronal buzz from the pantographs above, the synchronized movement of every worker and their footsteps—they mesh into each other until they become a singular, unified sound, a roar like that of a seashell pressed to her ear. Piercing the wall of noise, there’s the sharp voices of the krtrim in the cab, talking and gossiping amongst themselves. They speak of missed quotas, interpersonal quarrels, or express a dull excitement at the prospect of a full ration ticket by the end of the day. In their outerclothes, hair covered by scarves and brimmed caps, all wearing the same khaki romper, they look identical. Their blue-white faces peek out from under all the fabric, smooth and semi-translucent. When the light hits them just right, the conduits under the skin draw symmetrical root-like lines under their dark yellow eyes.

The tracks enter a bank angle. They’re lifted up onto an overpass, the stone ballast giving way to a trellis bridge which carries them over a railyard. Long lines of sinter flatcars, sugar-coated alabaster with the thin snowfall, trudge to the depots where they drop their freight to be carried by skip cars to the top of the furnace which is just ahead. She can trace the venous piping, erupting from the ground, to its center. The tuyeres that slither and coil about the structure obscure its true shape. It beats with a rhythm that carries through the ground, a massive heart hidden behind ribs, sinews and lungs—its heat, even from this far away, urging a flush to her mouth that brings her pulse against her teeth.

The car shudders as it slows. The brakes squeal, grinding them to a halt in front of the snaking catwalks which lead to the tapping point. At once, the workers bustle past her, the driver blowing a horn with the tug of a wire. Samya stretches and gets up. Once everyone else is out, she drops down onto one of the railings.

The yard is bustling with motion. Steam from air compressors and hydraulic pumps hiss and whistle from pipes, while the flutter of electrolarynx voices from every moving body fill in any silence there might have been. Much taller than the doodlebugs, the freight cars groan with strain against the tracks. A cloud sweeps over them as coke is dumped from the rolling hoppers onto conveyors, throwing up dust that makes the air smell like campfire.

She threads herself to the other side of the crowd, as agile as a needle through fabric. The krtrim, which all stand at five-foot, don’t look up as she passes them. She sticks out—half a foot taller, paired with the silent work of her muscles and the brown, blood-rich tone of her skin, she’s an alien in the sea of blue faces. If she were somebody else, then she’d certainly catch suspicion. But they say nothing, spare her no looks, just flow around her like water, a stone parting tides in a stream.

Weaving together at the other side of the incline is another depot, and more doodlebugs. One has just set off, headed further north as it drags cargo on wheels behind it. She picks up the pace so she’s at a light jog. An updraft pushes into the small of her back, nudging her into a sprint that she times carefully with the movement of the cane in her hand. The ground departs from her feet and is replaced by the steel plating of the car, and she pulls herself up and onto the rear ladder with her right hand. Inertia forces her body back at an angle which she corrects and begins climbing. With some effort she’s able to step onto the caboose landing, bringing her in front of an exit door and the small terraced balcony that encases it. Some rocks she’d kicked up clatter back over the edge.

She, with a huff, opens the sliding door. There’s less krtrim here than before—dressed differently, too. Their colored hair is allowed to fall to their shoulders, half-covered with scarves that keep a ball cap snug against their heads. They pay her no mind as she finds a seat no one’s claimed yet.

A conversation picks up where it left off. “Did you hear Sonam got close to the cat yesterday?” says one whose smile catches on the sharp consonants of Krtrim Binary. “We’re going to compile our tickets to buy some meat.”

“I thought we were feeding it dough,” another says.

“Cats only eat blooded-flesh," says a third, indignant.

“I hope it doesn’t need to be alive. Asalee markets only sell it dried, and it’s expensive.”

“That’s why we’re pooling our tickets for a direct cuprum exchange. The dry flesh has to be better food than the mice running around here, anyway.”

Samya fishes around her pocket and finds a couple loose bills. She considers sharing it, but it’s harder to scrub a memory of charity than just her presence here alone, so she doesn’t. She already looks out of place as it is.

“Let it eat the mice! They chew on the wires.”

“What? That makes more work for us, then!”

They continue talking, pulling out their tickets, folded and wrinkled from their coverall sleeves. The laughing, interrupted by banal, muttered non sequiturs, all droning into the lull of the engine noise. Just listening to it has made her lose focus of her surroundings, a conclusion she comes to with a jump. She turns her head, eyes darting from the front of the cab to the back. It’s only her, still alone, isolated via the invisible salt line she’s drawn about herself. The racing of her heart in her ears ebbs away.

She swallows and peers out the open window. Breathing in the fresh air helps the adrenaline break down in her bloodstream. Outside, it’s darkened a bit. The blast furnace is shrinking over the horizon. The stacks about it remind her of minarets, slender tubes rendered black against the haze where they crown the great shape of the furnace. She thinks of those faded polaroids of masjids her father kept in frames, aged and faded, showing a world where the sun was still warm on the skin. If you looked close enough, you could see the small figures of her family in the corners, unnamed, forgotten. She imagines them now, as apparitions in the fog. Smiling.

Her hand slithers from under her outerclothes over the sill to place itself in the wind. When she flattens her fingers into a blade, the lift raises her palm. She rides it up and down, then again. Some stray raindrops pull the warmth from her knuckles. Her fingernails go from a light pink to oyster purple. She keeps that position even when pins and needles gather under her skin.

The shuffling of fabric and limbs brings her attention back to the cab. Across the aisle, a warehouse rises into view. The krtrim stuff their belongings back into their bags, inching to the edge of their seats. Samya retracts her hand and rubs it.

She concentrates. She plucks one of the krtrim from the rest, using an unseen hand to take its chin and make it face her. She asks, without words, “Is this the assembly yard?”

“Yes,” it thinks. “The next stop.”

She lets it go. It blinks, then turns around and forgets. She begins to wring the straps of her satchel like a child squeezes their shirt when they cry. The pressure in her chest is making the lights flicker.

She had been taught to hide herself well—hide this clairvoyance, the thing that bloomed in the space just behind her eyes, leached out of her like ink through parchment, twisting and weaving and winding around everyone, everything, these great vines that rooted her and the world to something deep in the ground. Her mother’s hand, soft on her shoulder, voice to her ear, sewing it into a shape she could hold, could touch. Tamed. That power, raging like a flame between her ribs where the heart should be. It swells now, forcing hot breath out her nose, electricity to her feet. But her face remains still. Body rigid as stone.

The train stops. Everybody’s on their feet, filing towards the door which has opened at the front. She’s the last out.

The warehouse sits before them, sagged and sunk into its foundation. Instead of windows, it displays open bays shadowed by retractable garage shutters which have been raised. The roof’s awning expands across the pad where krtrim carry boxes, push handtrucks and smoke. A gate places a barrier between the train depot and the inside. Following it, it leads to a checkpoint where the workers find their punch cards and stamp them. Samya separates from the line and walks ahead.

It’s all noise. Conveyors are squealing on their belts as shards of electronic miscellanea are carried about. Krtrim work away on stools, grabbing assemblies from the line and poking at them with tweezers, soldering irons and voltmeters, yelling at one another. The rest are pulling carts of material, entering data into terminals or manning forklifts. One trundles past her while it carries a pallet of multicolored wire. She steps past it, finding herself running into the fast-moving bodies of the workers. One looks at her.

She places a question in its mind. “Where is the employee named Deepali?”

It’s who she’s come here for, who she’s stepped foot back into greater society for, after living as a recluse longer than she’d ever been any part of it. Samya isn’t even sure what she looks like; a human with brown hair, brown eyes, a skin tone just a few shades lighter, maybe? That described a lot of people. At least here, it’d be like finding a needle in a haystack. So she hoped.

The krtrim shakes its head, not knowing. She asks another. When she again gets no answer, she sends the message to them all.

“Tell me where Deepali is.”

A wave of thoughts rush into her. Most are variations of “I don’t know,” but she picks out the few that say something else.

“In the back.”

“Ask Simrun.”

What to do next is easy. “Show me.”

Field lines flash by them, curling around the crowd and piercing toward the east, where a door is being propped open with a traffic cone. She trails behind it, hand still tight ‘round her satchel strap.

It’s a little quieter back here, the madness replaced with fan noise and the sporadic scream of a drill. Around 30 workstations, which look more like cubicles, fill the space. There are maybe half as many krtrim occupying them. While they sit perched on their chairs, two per table, they position a convex lens to more closely see the bench, using pneumatic tools to tighten shining green boards onto metal plates. The delicate, spider-like shape of fleming valves are pulled from trays to be pressed into the vacant circuits, then soldered. She watches them as she walks.

They wear name tags on their breast pockets. A blue-haired krtrim displays one that reads SIMRUN, sitting alone. Its face is shadowed by its hat, a sugar stick between its lips that it chews while it breaks apart a new set of resistors. Samya puts a hand on its shoulder. It freezes.

“Where’d your friend go?” she asks, smiling at the empty chair.

Simrun doesn’t look up. “Hiding from Bharat,” it says, twisting the sugar stick with its tongue. The immediate association that follows the name implies Bharat must be a superior. “She’s probably smoking. Check the depot.”

Her gaze is nudged towards the open bay, where rows of unloaded crates have been stacked on wood pallets. Their hide-skin covers are wet with the rain. The wind catches them, and makes them flutter under the tension of the bungee cords. When she looks closer, lifting her chin, she sees a wisp of vapor rise over the edge of a wrapped box.

Samya’s hand squeezes, then releases. “Thank you.”

The clatter of Simrun’s sugar stick falling from its mouth is the only response it gives. It wipes its glass optic with its sleeve, the memory of her reduced to a trick of the eye.

The distance from where she stands to the depot ahead stretches before her, the short expanse of concrete loosening into a thick mud that holds fast onto the soles of her shoes. Her grip on her cane is making the wood creak. She’s shaking.

What should she say? She ruminates on it. It’d be easy to look into her mind, sure, but that was just a temporary solution to her problem. The information she needed would certainly be deeper between the brain folds, and harder to pry out. The question she wants to ask, “Tell me about your father, his research, his life, who I am, who you are,” is too forward. Planting it in her head will be too much, too fast. It’d make her vomit, as surges of clairvoyance usually do. Samya was never any good at these segues.

It was simple with the mundanity of routine. People don’t remember most fleeting glances from the corners of their eyes, or conversations half-heard in daydream. That’s all she was to them—a sliver of a reflection that made them look twice, a phantom itch, the interruption of thought.

She’s still deciding on what to say when she rounds the corner. All the anticipation she’d built up immediately shrinks back into her stomach. The person on the other side is just another krtrim, sitting cross-legged and coxing steam from a miti. It, unlike the others, reacts to her presence, whipping its head up to stare at her.

“I’m looking for…” the words fall from her mouth.

Something isn’t right. As she extends her clairvoyance, it’s met with a sudden wall. A shockwave erupts through her, like she had swung a hammer at an immovable object, and the force of it was now ricocheting up her arms, resonating into her bones as if she were a tuning fork struck on metal. She sees flashes of chimerical light through her eyelids until the sensation subsides into an ache. The taste of salt burns at the back of her throat.

She swallows and forces herself to finish her sentence. “… I-I’m looking for Deepali. Do you know where she is?”

The krtrim is wholly unremarkable. Its short auburn hair just barely peeks out the bottom of its scarf. It almost looks brown where it frames its blue-green face. “I’m Deepali,” it says in a rising tone, bordering between a question and a statement. Its hand presents its nametag, and it’s true.

Samya laughs. “No, no, not you, someone else.”

“I’m the only Deepali here,” it retorts.

She loses the smile she’d made, chewing at the inside of her cheek. “You’re sure? I’m looking for a human, asalee, in blooded-flesh.”

The krtrim raises its brow. “She isn’t here.”

“It’s really, really important that I talk to her,” she emphasizes, holding out her clenched fist. She stiffens her jaw as she tries to press an answer out of it, but its mind is sealed off too tightly, and it’s making her dizzy just trying.

It regards her closer, eyes going from her head to her feet and back. Miti vapor blows past its lips. “Who are you?”

Samya stumbles on her voice. “I’m… I don’t….”

It stands, and she backs up into a box. The abrupt movement, unseen by her clairvoyance, startles her. This is a proxy, her common sense screams, a vessel piloted somewhere else, from far away, where you can’t see it.

“Forget it,” she manages. “She’s not here.”

The krtrim watches as she spins on her heel and walks away, eyes boring holes through the back of her head. Adrenaline stings where it pierces her sternum.

#mine #ouro #writing #the burger part comes after but im not done yet

10 notes · View notes

hapan-in-exile · 1 month

Text

Volume 4 - Post #3: Life During Wartime

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

GIF by myriadimagines

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 3.2K (third post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

_______________________________

“Fucking farrick,” you grumble, trying to jam the locker door back onto its hinges. When it finally eases open, you grab your rucksack and head for the exit without changing out of your coveralls.

You never remove so much as a shoe once you're inside the refinery. Showers were available, but no one used them. Cameras surveilled practically every inch of this facility. And just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t in here, too.

Stepping out from under the dim artificial light, it takes a minute for your eyes to adjust to the riot of color. It’s early morning, barely past midnight, but the sky is awash in brilliant yellows and oranges, alight with swirling pink clouds.

Lakaran’s nearest sun only dipped below the mountains this time of year, never truly setting. When it sank behind the peaks at this hour, the ridgeline became a deep indigo against the horizon, its glaciers reflecting back the sky’s warm glow.

Ehki is what the Lakarani called their star. Grandmother, it meant. Her daughter, Amular, was the world, and Ehki traveled around her in an unending circle to carefully watch over her children. So tonight, when the sun finally fell into darkness, and there would be several hours of real night for the first time in months, the Lakarani would throw a gigantic party while Grandma Ehki wasn’t looking.

You know you should hurry up and leave before someone accuses you of loitering, but instead, you pause to take in the view. A small, inconsequential act of rebellion. The scenery is breathtaking up here. The air is thin and crisp. It’s the best part of your day to stand on this spot and take in the majestic landscape right before making that sharp turn toward the escalator.

The view from the west side of the slope is decidedly less sublime.

The scale of the encampments surrounding the processing plant is almost impossible to take in at first glance. The structures are a jumble of materials built on top of each other in layers that look more like debris washed up by the river than a deliberate settlement.

The skyline is dominated by the refinery’s cooling towers belching out steam that smelled acrid and made the air thick with humidity. The water used for cooling went right back into the river, along with the encampment’s sewage. Which is why you absolutely refused to eat anything fished or gathered downstream.

You step off the escalator and see Humia waiting for you outside the checkpoint. The security guard reaches for your bag, not bothering to look up or make conversation while she searched its contents. She doesn’t care to ask for your name either, just waits for the familiar beep of the transponder at your wrist to confirm your exit as you walk through the gate.

“How’d it go today?”

“Good,” you answer brightly, patting the bound folio strapped to your stomach. “I found this fire safety and evacuation handbook with a very detailed floor plan of level nine. Raceways, server rooms, access panels…I’ll have to ask my partner about the utility lines, but we might be able to bore into the operations center from an adjoining room.”

“That is good,” she nods enthusiastically. "This is your partner, Nito? He’s the tech guy?”

“Yeah,” a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. Humia probably wasn’t envisioning a furry thirteen-year-old when she used the phrase tech guy, but that would be a fun little detail for her to discover later.

Or sooner rather than later? You still haven’t heard anything from the Razor Crest about when to expect their arrival on Lakaran. Which is absolutely fine. Definitely not a big deal. Nope. Not at all something that you’ve been overthinking for the past eighteen days straight.

Nope. It’s not at all distracting to obsess about how, after months of tortuous yearning, you finally had sex with the Mandalorian and have not spoken to him since.

Gods, why is it suddenly so hard to breathe just thinking about him? The fact that you spend most of your nights alone, willing yourself to recall the memory of his hands on your body while the tears can fall without shame…has been, you know, not great for your mental health.

So that’s why, a few nights a week, you take a break from drowning in insecurity and play at the Sabacc tables.

Guess that’s out of the question now. You’ll need to avoid Johar Kessen like the plague.

“Nito’s been dredging through the Imperial archive for more information on the refinery. The stuff he’s found is incredible. All of the records from when they built this place.”

“Good,” she smiles appreciatively.

As you descend toward the encampment, the rocky mountain path splits into three parts. Two fanned out onto the raised perimeter wall made of poured concrete and scrapwood that traced a broad circle around the sprawling camp. It had been constructed by the Tagge Corporation to help with mudslides, but what it really helped with was surveilling the Lakarani.

You and Humia take the main path through the center of camp.

The hut you shared was higher up on the slope, which was a blessing when it rained but a pain in the ass when you had to walk uphill after eating your weight’s worth of bean cakes for dinner or hauling laundry back home from the wash house.

“Another option is turning one of the technicians, but I’m not having a ton of luck in that department. I can usually wrap scientists around my finger, but engineers are so tricky. It takes them an ungodly amount of time to realize you’re trying to fuck them.”

“For what it’s worth, I would turn for you in a heartbeat,” you say, holding your face between your hands, eyes wide with adoration. “Those dark lashes are criminally lush.”

Humia swats away the compliment. “I could steal a key card, but I have no idea how long it would take for someone to discover it’s gone. That might hold us to a very narrow time frame depending on when it’s reported missing.”

You follow her up the winding footpath that leads homeward. The camp is much easier to navigate this time of day, when everyone is still asleep. “I like the idea of entering from an adjoining room. That way, there’s no exposure in the hallway. Even if we’re in uniform, five people on the cleaning crew, when there are usually only two, will be immediately suspicious.”

The Mandalorian’s solution would undoubtedly be to come in through the front door, rifles blazing, but that’s not an option in this scenario. You have to secure the operations center before anyone from the Tagge Corporation realizes the refinery is under attack. The risk that they would activate the facilities’ containment protocol is too great. It would condemn not only everyone on site but anyone within five leagues of the processing plant.

“We could stuff Serenio and Davik into the cleaning cart?” Humia chuckles at the implausibility of this suggestion.

“I doubt we could even push the cart with Davik stuffed inside. He’s built like a stack of boulders.”

“I told him to quit training in the fighting pits. He’s going to attract too much attention.”

“Why does every population center in this galaxy require some kind of fighting pit? It’s a weird kind of calculus. One communal latrine per 20 persons. One fighting pit per 100 persons.”

She rolls her eyes, “Do you know a more straightforward way to earn money than two people beating the shit out of each other? Though, I don’t think Davik does it for the money. He’s just like a puppy that chews all your socks if he doesn’t get enough exercise.”

“He’s so young,” you sigh, feeling suddenly guilty. “Him and Serenio, both.”

“Most soldiers are,” Humia scoffs. “Revolutions don’t offer a very robust life expectancy.”

“That’s true. I didn’t expect to make it out alive when I joined the Rebellion. And I appreciate the protection. But I can’t help seeing them as children.”

She tosses her head with a derisive laugh, “And I didn’t expect you to be so tenderhearted.”

No doubt she thought it made you weak. But you’re wise enough to know empathy took far more bravery than cynicism. “Just because I can recognize the cruelty of this life doesn’t mean I’ve made peace with it.”

“That’s rather noble coming from someone working with a Mandalorian.”

Your neck turns sharply to catch the look on her face, but she’s already ducking around the pilings and cantilevered beams bracing your neighbors' houses against the mountainside.

“You don’t like Mandalorians?” It seems like an odd prejudice.

“No,” she sneers. “They say they are bound by codes and honor, yet they show nothing but selfish indifference toward the plight of others.” She stops abruptly on her heels to glare at you, brushing strands of auburn hair from her eyes. “And I like your Mandalorian least of all.”

He’s not my Mandalorian, your heart sighs.

The hateful disdain imbuing her words is like a slap to the face. Humia rarely revealed the depth of her emotions. What could inspire this level of rancor from an otherwise inscrutable woman? And why bring this up now?

You cough, clearing your throat to mask the apprehension in your voice. “I didn’t realize you already knew him?”

“I don’t need to know him. I know what he’s done.” But it’s a reflexive response, not a real answer. So you wait. “They’re all mercenaries,” she says, compelled to explain herself. “Condemning their souls for money. They profit from the misery of others for the sake of themselves.”

You can tell she desperately wants you to ask, What has he done?

It’s not the first time Humia had hinted at a bitter history between the Mandalorian and her leader, Ubaa Dir. But you don’t take the bait. If you’re missing some part of the story, you want to hear it from his lips, not hers.

Instead, you remind her with a wry grin, “Well, now you’re working with him too.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she concedes. “Wars make for strange bedfellows.”

An image of them together flashes behind your eyes, and the irrational taste of jealousy fills your mouth. Don’t be absurd! Hadn’t Humia just admitted she'd never met Mando?

Lucky for you, she lets the moment pass without escalation. Her tone shifts, and she places a companionable hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve heard Kessen fights in the pits. We could go to watch him sometime? Belen’s right, you know, he’s got a crush on you.”

“I have no idea why,” you begin, but Humia raises her hand to cut you off.

“You’re a beautiful woman, Kasya. Hiding under workwear and bushy eyebrows won't change that.”

“Now, why would you bring my eyebrows into it?” You tease, as though it might erase her vitriol from moments ago. That is until you catch sight of the security guard standing on your front porch. “Is it okay that he’s waiting here for you?”

It’s the same guy she brought home last week. When he spots you walking down the path, his face breaks into a wide grin. He waves, looking giddy, as though he might jump off the steps to run for her.

“This one, I can turn,” she mutters, slowing her pace. “I’m glad he told us how to block the transponders…but he’s fallen harder than he should. If he starts getting heartsick, it could be a problem.”

“Poor kid. You bat those lashes, and what hope do any of us have?”

“See,” she looks at you askance, nudging you in the stomach with her elbow. “That shit is why Kessen likes you. You’re so sweet with your friends and no one else. He wants some of that honey for himself.”

You snatch at the opportunity to throw her off the subject. “Why Humia Fenrik, are we friends?”

“Why, yes, Kas,” her voice is laden with gooey sarcasm. “You’re my best friend. That’s why I got you this job, remember?” She adamantly refuses to change the subject. “Some men like a challenge. And Johar Kessen is very bored stuck out here with the likes of us, guarding all these soulless corpos.”

“So by challenge, you mean, like how I’ve given him absolutely no indication whatsoever that I’m interested?”

“Are you worried he might recognize you from the Rebellion?”

“What?! No, I’m sure he was much higher up the food chain.” Rumor was that Kessen had led special operations forces during the war. “Kinda sad that he went from Rebel hero to working for the Tagge family.”

“There’s your angle,” Humia says, snapping her fingers. “It would be good to have him on our side once the fighting starts. And Kessen might be elite for a bodyguard, but I bet they treat him like a piece of furniture, same as the rest of us. He must hear things.”

You cock your head at her. “Then maybe you should approach him?”

She’s probably already considered it, but come on! She didn’t have to rake her eyes over you like a bawd house madam ready to offer up her best girl.

“I’m not the one he wants.”

“Listen, I’m flattered you think so highly of my charm, but I do not have the skill set.” You’re at least tactful enough not to say, I’m not like you out loud. This is Humia’s job. She’s very good at it. And it’s not your place to approve or disapprove of the way she went about it. “I’d be too nervous.”

You remember each time you had to quietly lock yourself in the privy to heave up the contents of your stomach whenever the Mandalorian asked you a pointed question, thinking, He knows! He knows I’m lying!

Which…yeah, it turns out he did. “I think I’d have a panic attack and blackout.”

“Your cover story is a psycho ex-lover. Of course, you’re nervous.” At that, Humia gives you an appraising look. “You’re living under a stolen identity and seem to be doing just fine.”

“Exactly! Because I don’t talk to anyone.” A sudden knot lodges in your throat. “Have you asked Serenio to approach anyone?”

One of the refinery executives had an unsettling interest in her. You clean the facilities overnight, so there's rarely any staff on-site, but whenever he worked late, he made a point of saying hello to her. A good opportunity to practice his Twi’lek sign language, he claimed.

You know it’s a mistake to ask about it as soon as the question leaves your mouth. She immediately becomes defensive. “Serenio is loyal unto death. She would do whatever I commanded.”

Humia didn’t have to add, unlike you. It just hung in the air unspoken.

“But Serenio is trained for combat, not espionage. And she’s green as a pea shoot.”

“Ah, so I’m overripe?” You arch a bushy eyebrow at her. "Just falling off the vine. Thanks for that!"

“I’m just saying Johar Kessen is very attractive and likable. You wouldn’t have to pretend. It’s not much of a heavy lift, surely?”

“Okay, the sleeping with him part I could probably manage. But as soon as I ask Kessen a remotely leading question, he will immediately know what I’m up to!”

“There’s no need to tie yourself into knots,” she snaps. "Just be honest. You think it’s beneath you.”

Humia’s back is rigid, and her jaw is clenched tight. She looks so proud yet so vulnerable that it breaks your heart.

Is this why she’s so angry? She'd been seething all day, spoiling for a fight. It makes you question whether her anger about the Mandalorian is sincere or just an attempt to provoke you.

“Humia, this entire operation is built on your intelligence work. You think I look down on you because I’m horrified or judgemental about what you do. But it’s the opposite. I recognize what a dangerous game you’re playing and know I don’t have the courage for it.”

You wish you could give her a hug, but this was not the time or place to dwell on what was at stake, or the weight of what she carried on her shoulders.

“Fine,” Humia huffs, shaking off the tension. “Just think about it.”

Oh, you’ve had plenty of time to think about it. Sleeping with Johar Kessen is not going to happen for a number of reasons.

Chief among them is he would discover that—contrary to your fake documents—you are not human. Which would inevitably lead to the discovery that you are not, in fact, Kasya Hawat. That secret would give him leverage, and you simply refuse to hand someone that kind of power over you.

But you can’t tell Humia this. Because then she would know that you aren’t human, and that is something you don’t plan to share with anyone here on Lakaran. At least not yet. It’ll be another fun little detail for her to discover later.

Seven hells, now you’re doubly glad she doesn’t know. Given the course of this conversation, you have no doubt she’d insist that you use your influence to dig through Kessen’s thoughts and memories for something useful. That’s why Hapan courtesans were so highly prized—one of the few professions the Consortium allowed to leave the Hapes Cluster—and why they made the best spies.

Amongst those other reasons…you have no idea how Mando would react. Though, if you had to guess? You’d guess poorly.

While there’s the whole sworn warrior of Mandalore—I can’t call you mine—complication, you know how he feels about you. A man who struggles with trust would not find it easy to share. His sense of duty and commitment to the job might oblige him to accept it as a necessary tactic, but you aren’t willing to risk it driving a wedge between you. Things are already too delicate.

Aaand now you’re thinking about Mando again.

Fuck, you miss him so much. You awoke every morning wanting him, a dull ache between your thighs. You wanted to hear the sound of his laughter, to touch every inch of his skin with your fingers and feel his heartbeat under your lips to know he was really all right. You wanted to feel his body over you, under you, inside you…

Ugh, you’ve already thought about him about a dozen times today. What’s once more.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” You lie, hoping she’ll let this go for now. “Will I see you later?” You ask, looking meaningfully at the security guard waiting impatiently on your porch.

“No. Unless you’re going to the bonfire tonight?” Her gaze became conspiratorial. “Kessen will probably be there. All those corpos love Lakarani culture if it means slumming it up with us. He'll have to keep them out of trouble. Your pocket is chirping, by the way.”

“What?” you ask, distractedly patting down the front of your coveralls. “Um, sure. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“If not, we should meet for morning prayers at the temple tomorrow. Make our report.” Humia says, beckoning the guard over to join you. “Why are you smiling at your communicator?”

"Hmmm?"

The Razor Crest had just arrived on Lakaran.

****************

Continue reading: Volume 4-Post #4: Say goodbye to the old me.

Back to Volume 4 - all posts

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #sexy mando #mando smut #sexymando #mando x reader #mando x you #the mandalorian smut #din djarin x you #din djarin smut #din djarin #din djarin x reader #star wars smut

13 notes · View notes

onlyyvette · 1 month

Text

TF Titty Headcanons Pt. 2

❏* — warnings — sub/bottom characters(decepticons) + dom/top reader + robotitties + lactation + praise + boobjobs + masochism + piercings + Starscream is a narcissist + size kink + mommy kink + breeding kink + Megatron definitely rewards his top soldiers with his body + in this world you're either a creamer or squirter +

❏* — a/n — pt 1 got so much positive feedback so I'm just happy that I was able to do a part 2!! And if I do a part 3 I'll most likely do the autoboobies again

also omfg I wrote

➾ DECEPTICONS

✦ Megatron - Contrary to popular belief, Megs has average sized boobs for a mech his size, but they still seem pretty damn huge to most since not many mechs are his size. That is until you compare them to another mech's like Optimus (say whatever you want but Optimus outboobs Megatron). Megs doesn't care too much about his tits, seeing them as just protoform sitting on his chassis, but he does like to have them played with once in a while. Megatron only interfaces with his top soldiers, and even only the best of the best get to see their lord's magnificent rack. When he does 'face with them, he always orders them to treat him like any other mech they would fuck, the feeling of being treated like a fling always getting to his head. Despite how meaningless his refineries are to him, his partners see them as an absolute blessing. The lucky shmuck who's not only able to be graced with the sight of Megs' boobs and also being able to feel them up will never forget it. His tits have a subtle softness to them that's fucking amazing, perfect for shoving their helm into. Megatron is surprising pretty vocal, letting out gruff moans whenever his tits are fondled with. And every single time, without fail, his crimson optics will be locked onto his partner's as if he were teasing them. Something the Megs is very willing to do is give boobjobs to his decepticons that are doing an exceptionally good job at taking down any autobot forces. He'll reward them by lifting his tits up and down the mech's shaft, keeping eye contact as his optics are blazing with unspent charge. And if Primus themself has blessed a mech, they'll be treated to Megatron lavishly sprawled across a wide berth, clutching the sheets as a spike ruts into him, striking as many nodes as possible with greedy servos all over his tits, feeling them as much as they can. Megatron's optics dim as he shivers from the pleasure of having his subordinate treat him as just some random fling. His vocalizer releases moans becoming slightly higher pitched the more his nozzles are twisted and pulled on and he just can't wait to do this again.

✦ Soundwave - With the decepticon third-in-command may be hiding many secrets about himself, his tits are most definitely one of those secrets. Soundwave's tits are big and busty, a more gray color. He's one of the few mechs who actually lactate, and when he does, it's usually not too much energon but it can leave his tits feeling very sensitive. He's usually able to deal with it himself, but when it gets too much those are the times he'll seek out partners the most. Everyone who's slept with Soundwave have the same exact thoughts. He has the best tits they've ever come across. Soundwave doesn't think too much of his boobs, yet whenever people get to feel them up and lap up any energon leaking, they'll never want to go back to drinking energon normally again. Mechs who get to feed off of Soundwave's leaking titties always grope them slowly with their servos, massaging them nicely as they coax more energon out. Usually, Soundwave turn his vocalizer off since he isn't too fond of making noise from pleasure, but it's so obvious how good he's feeling when his whole entire frame is trembling and the way he tries to sneakily press his digits into his leaking valve. Whenever Soundwave begins to lactate and has a mech sucking on his nozzle, he can't help but feel something maternal in his code to get sparked up by anyone suitable, to have transfluid pumping into his forge, to carry sparklings that'll one day need to feed from him too. When he gets like this, he becomes more shameless when interfacing, doing everything in his power to get the mech pumping their spike into him to pump in a heavy load of transfluid too. He'll do everything he needs to do, whether it be tightening his valve callipers, rocking his hips back into thrusts more, or pushing his tits further into his partner's faceplate. As long as it'll result in transfluid spills into his forge he'll be happy. And he won't be satiated with just one overload. Even when his partner needs a break from fucking, he'll just find himself on top of them, working his servo up and down their shaft before it retracts as he strakes them back to full pressurization, just before sinking back down on it all over again.

✦ Starscream - Starscream has slightly smaller than average titties, but in his opinion, it's the shape that matters, and not the size. He's very right about that when it comes to his tits. His tits are a dark grey that match his face and are perky with a surprising amount of bounce to them. As the #1 narcissist of all Cybertronians, Screamer absolutely prizes his boobs. While he might start angrily huffing when his tits are fondled by his partners, it's all a farce. He's an absolute slut for having his boobs played with. Whenever he's self servicing, while his digits are busy circling his node, his other servo is gliding over his cockpit, sliding upwards until he feels soft and sensitive protoform. He lets out soft pants, his plump lips falling open as his optics narrow to slits-- he would never get tired of it. Whenever Screamer's partners want to touch his tits, he always snaps at them, saying some shit about they're too perfect for them to dirty with their servos, yet he can feel his valve throb at the thought. The only times Screamer doesn't allow his partner to touch his tits is when they're his size, but he might let them if they grovel. But when it's a mech much bigger than him? It's a whole other story. He would die before saying out loud but he's addicted to having big, warm servos on his tits, dwarfing them as they manhandle them with ease, pinching his nozzles with flat digits pads or just giving them a nice, long squeeze that'll have him struggling to not moan like a pleasurebot. With his larger partners, without them even needing to ask, he's already in their lap, legs wrapped around their waist as his chassis transforms away and reveals his rack. He arches his back so that his tits are pressed onto his partner's frame and looks at them with a knowing smirk-- he knows they won't be able to resist. It always ends with him letting out shrill cries of pleasure, truly living up to his name as his his valve is drilled into and his tits are thoroughly abused.

✦ Skywarp - As the resident Nemesis Fragbuddy™️, it's no surprise that Warp has bigger than average tits. His tits are light gray and have big, perky nozzles that are always begging to be pulled on. He owns crystal and metal pink barbell nozzle piercings that are (unsurprisingly) always seen gleaming on his nozzles. Skywarp's an absolute masochist, loving the feeling of his tits being roughly fondled or bitten down so hard he leaks energon. Warp fucks his way around on the Nemesis looking for not only the best mech to fuck him but also someone with hands big and skilled enough mess with his tits the way he likes it. He isn't really a big fan of having his boobs softly caressed and massaged-- he need them to be -- he wants his tits to be absolutely bruised, aching and possibly even bleeding when his partner is done. It's the only way to get off by playing with his tits. Since Warp has slept with a lot of the decepticon crew and is a kinky fucker, he's definitely had some interesting things done to his boobs. He's had people bring magnets close to his nozzle piercings, forcing his piercings to follow and tug on his nozzles until he's squealing. Skywarp's given plenty of boobjobs too, sandwiching a spike between his pillowy tits as he rubs them up and down his partner's shaft and if he's lucky to have a partner bigger than him, their spike will reach past his cleavage and find its way into his already drooling intake. His favorite thing ever is to have his tits roughed up while someone's banging up his valve. Just having a nice, thick spike plowing him is more than enough to get him off, but having a mech bite down on his nozzles, pulling on the piercing as the other hand mercilessly gropes his soft mesh? He'll for sure be an incoherent mess, optics rolling back as he's giggling stupidly from the pleasure wracking his frame.

✦ Thundercracker - Despite this seeker's standoffish, slightly prudish behavior when it comes to the discussion of interfacing, and his truly romantic personality, he has a huge rack hiding behind his armor. Out of all of his trine, Thundercracker's boobs are the biggest, bounciest, and the most attractive. Screamer and Skywarp are so totally jealous of him but truth be told, TC would definitely trade his with theirs anytime. He found it a nuisance to have such soft protometal sitting on his chest and the sensitivity that comes with it. They're just so soft and flimsy, making it so much easier to grope them with wandering servos and watch as the sensitive protometal nearly spills out between digit gaps. And it's exactly what other mechs think of them. Thundercracker hates to admit it, but would die to have someone worship his tits, pinch his nozzles and bring one into their intake, murmuring on the soft mesh about how fucking perfect his boobs are. TC's face would be so flushed, coolant dripping down his faceplate while he tries to keep his cute moans from escaping his vocalizer. The sweet praises would go to his head and He 100% will melt into the touch of his partner if they did that, maybe even hook a leg around their waist and beg for them to fuck him already before he's overloading already, creaming around nothing while his needy valve clenches pathetically on a spike that isn't there.

#vetty's works. ✿#vetty's thirsts. ✿#dom reader #top reader #transformers #transformers x reader #valveplug #megatron #megatron x reader #soundwave #soundwave x reader #starscream #starscream x reader #skywarp #thundercracker #thundercracker x reader #maccadam

226 notes · View notes