Cuando era muy niño, en edad preescolar, acompañábamos a mi papá a la Gandhi a por libros y discos. Recuerdo cómo pasaba horas (o así me parecía) admirando las portadas de los discos, así conocí a Iron Maiden, por ejemplo. Recuerdo esta portada… era un viaje, lo es, me parecía maravillosa, me lo parece aún.

Transformers: Coming to Terms (Pt. 5)

Peace negotiations are a fragile thing. The Decepticons decide to do their part to cement the alliance, and now the Autobots have to come to terms with culture clash, interfacing kinks, and rubber chickens. Jazz can only hope these things aren’t somehow connected.

Title: Coming to Terms
Continuity: G1/IDW/WTF AU
Rating: R
HEY — READ THE WARNINGS.
Warnings/Kinks: Physical intimacy (tactile/hardline overloading), Sparkplay, Courtship, Contractual interfacing, Restraint/bondage, General BDSM, Sexual frustration, Consent issue (resolved & unresolved), Culture conflict, Violence, Humiliation, Voyeurism, and (Food?)play. That is the short list. If you can’t handle it, don’t read it.
Characters/Pairings: All of them. (Jazz/Starscream, Jazz/Vos, Ratchet/Constructicons, Jazz/Ratchet, Optimus Prime/Megatron, Skywarp/Thundercracker, Jazz/Thundercracker/Starscream)
Prompt/Motivation: Setting: “sunrise on the final day of war”+ Kinkmeme prompts


Pt. 5
In which the rubber chicken makes its appearance, along with some optional accessories that may or may not be yanked upon.


^DarthNeko on LiveJournal made me a picture. In case I haven’t made this clear already, I have minor breakdowns of sheer 'I am not worthy~' when someone does stuff like this for me. Just — wow.

[fic] Naming

Prompt: “Every man is born as many men, and dies as a single one.” (rough draft)

His identifying factory number was MS-289-06L; like every frame ever sparked he had come online with that knowledge already stamped into the first lines of his base code, indelible and unchanging - model, origin site, and batch number all in one.

His designation was ‘bitlet’ - uttered in varying shades of affection, comfort, frustration, command, summons, or exasperation, all wreathed in the glyphs of his factory number to differentiate him from MS-256-05C, who was also ‘bitlet’ but who had come online an orn after he had. Sometimes the both of them were also ‘youngling’ or ‘sparklet’, depending on who in the cohort was speaking, but it was all minor variations in the same tone and meaning. 

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[ficlet] Jealousy

"…It’s dumb, it’s stupid, it’s completely fucked," Lennox ground out over his third beer, the bottle leaving wet rings of condensation on the tabletop as he tipped it up on its edge, "and I can’t even TELL you how incredibly insanely JEALOUS I am of my own daughter.” 

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[fic] Guardian - Promotion

The metal rods were no bigger than his mid-flange servoes, smooth and gleaming with a fresh-extrusion sheen against the dark metal of his palm. Sensor scans - trained to reflex when handed small metal objects - had already reported back a titanium-technotium-iridium alloy that would register in a warm white spectrum through nearly all of the sensor and optical ranges a mech used.

Four of them in all, small and fragile and inexplicably heavy in his hand. His dorsal plates were itching, drawing tighter to his frame; Ironhide vented a full system cycle and set his struts straighter, forcing the fidget down. His vocalizer, when he spoke, had only a thin thread of static to it which was well within acceptable for the surprise he had just been handed. “I… I don’t know what to say, sir. Wasn’t expecting this.”  

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[fic] Guardian - Insomnia

It was quiet in the off-rotation shift - too quiet, the very atmosphere still and heavy or, worse, moving in all the wrong ways. There was no hum in either the air or the berth beneath his backplates, none of the familiar harmonics of engines that were all he had ever known, and the absence was a thousand times more noticeable in the quiet than it was otherwise.

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[fic] Guardian - Prologue

He came to with intakes full of the sharp mineral and heated metal taste scents of a medical bay, sterile and factory impersonal, and to an emptiness in frame and spark that was sickeningly nauseating. Systems rebooted slowly, sensors onlining in trickling cascades of null values and creeping wrongness that resolved into a baseline display across his HUD that told him nothing: //baseline parameters accepted, all systems normal.// 

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[fic] Age of Empires - No Turning Back

The halls of the High Council towers were as hushed as any hallowed archive stacks, baffles built into the gleaming walls to mute the sound of voice and step alike so that quiet conversations were kept quiet and the highly ranked bots who occupied those halls and chambers could carry out their debates in serene security.

It did very little, however, against the steps of an angry Prime. Optimus strode the halls at a ground eating pace that most of the venerable senators wouldn’t have dreamed of, and those aids and guards who didn’t duck aside quickly enough at the sound cringed back reflexively from the crackle of the young Prime’s energy field; it was a hot, snapping, subaudible rumble that preceded him through the corridors and lingered after he had passed, rife with the acrid scent of burnt ozone and raw electric charge. 

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