#Lined Valve Fitting

[dimonds456]

I need to draw the FC cast saying hlvrai quotes but im also at WORK i hate the floor /ref

[alfaheating1]

RV Water Line Fittings

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[lalunanymph]

୨୧ zayne's unusual method of coercing lulling your baby back to sleep

✧･ﾟpapa!zayne, husband!zayne, mom!reader, talks of medical research, babies, you both have a little girl named 'jasmine' (iykyk), mild spoilers for lads if you squint, pure fluff, spoilers for the good night video call with zayne, he calls you 'my aurora' (also iykyk)

✧･ﾟhelp me plz i have fallen for this man and i cant get up

night falls, bringing with it a peace no wish in the world could.

it's the type of peace which echoes gentle snowfall during the dawn; a hum of wintry wind on the back of weak sunlight.

for now, the household is quiet, everyone catching up on precious minutes of sleep.

or, as much as they could before your daughter's piercing wail shatters through the night.

"i'll go get her," the fatigue roughened voice of your husband, zayne, reassures you. his large palm reaches across the bed, clasping your own for a single second, a silent order for you to go back to sleep.

"zayne," you murmur, rubbing your eyes. "i'll go with you—"

"you need rest," he cuts you off, though the look in his emerald gaze is eclipsed with a special softness reserved just for you. "i don't have any surgeries lined up tomorrow until after lunch. i'll do it."

stoic yet kind, your husband volunteers to take up the mantle; hurrying towards the nursery to tend to your fussy baby.

you sink back into the soft sheets, exhaling in exhaustion. it must've been hours or minutes, your consciousness dipping in and out of the pool of wakefulness.

when you turn to the side, zayne still wasn't back. curiosity propelled you to sit up, stuffing your feet into a pair of blue, fuzzy slippers. you tightened your robe around your shivering body, shuffling down the hall towards the nursery.

"... common treatment is a myectomy of the hypertrophic IVS. however, surgical treatment of midventricular is usually challenging. the hypertrophic area cannot be reached via a transaortic approach. for that reason, a transapical ventriculostomy has been described as preferred access for surgical correction..."

zayne's voice piques your interest. as you turn around the corner, you nearly burst out into a fit of giggles.

your husband, baby in one arm and large research book on his knee, was trying to read a "bedtime" story to your sweet jasmine.

"—in some cases of diffuse myectomy has been performed via trans-mitral septal myectomy with a video-assisted minimal invasive 2D technique—oh, look, it's your mama."

he moves your little girl to the other arm, her shimmering emerald eyes clasped on the hook of his nose. she bubbles and squeals, trying to swipe at his chin—definitely not drowsy or ready to fall back to sleep.

"come on now," zayne remains stern with her. "it's time for you to sleep. you've been keeping me up for almost an hour."

as much as your husband's antics were drawing your mirth, you could sense the despair in his tone wasn't fabricated.

"perhaps you're reading her the wrong bedtime story." you tease, walking into the room. you take jasmine from her papa's arms, cradling her close to your chest.

your daughter fusses, gummy mouth gaping and closing, cooing her agreement.

"the resection of hypertrophic papillary muscles and mitral valve replacement is a good bedtime story," he quips. snapping the heavy research book close, he sets it down to the floor. "she's just being like her mama, that's all."

fighting back the urge to smirk, you shake your head. "at least you've never given her a lecture on fusion guidance."

his brow crinkles, and eventually, a small smile decorates his lips. "you remember?"

zayne's voice is unexpectedly soft, and you nod; delighting in sharing this memory with your husband.

"how could i forget? it's my go-to bedtime request from you."

he stands, coming behind you and jasmine. a long, calloused finger traces down her chubby cheek. one arm around your waist, the other supporting your own arm under your baby.

"if only i could know what hers is," zayne sighs. "then, you wouldn't have to check up on us."

"i want to," you interject, nudging your face back to give his cheek a soft kiss. "i love seeing you with her."

"hmm."

your husband goes quiet for a few more moments. you almost fall asleep standing up, the warmth of his broad back emanating through your thin cotton nightdress; lulling you into comfort. jasmine, soothed by your steady breathing, droops off; her shell pink lips puckered like a bud about to bloom.

"she's finally asleep."

"your heartbeat," zayne says, barely above a whisper. his warm breath touches your neck, making gooseflesh rise on your arms. "she's soothed by it."

you touch your gaze to her puffy cheeks; the thin wisps of dark hair on her head she inherited from the one man you adored with every beat of your heart.

"i'm glad you saved me," you whisper, remembering the day when zayne performed the life-changing operation on you; finally stabilising your condition after years of distress and anxiety.

"i owe my heart to you."

"keep it," your husband is quick to dismiss his role in saving you; a man of little words with the biggest impact.

"but, take mine if you need it. my heart is all yours, my aurora."

sobs iykyk the spoilers for mr. love: queen's choice (lads predecessor) you'd know that zayne's hea—[gunshot]

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[rowanmutt-afterdark]

Kinktober Day 4 Sounding (TFO Orion and D16)

Word Count: 1,511

TFO Orion and D16 X Cybertronian GN Reader

18+ tags: Rough sex, teasing, sounding, and light voyeurism.

(Yes I am planning a second part, the original plan was to make it 3,000 words. That backfired so expect a part 2!!)

Read more below the cut!

During the day, you were all miners working hard in the mines to keep Iacon running. At night, you and your two mechs were lovers who couldn't get enough of one another. The three of you retreated to your respective stations and waited until every bot was in recharge when you all snuck off to enjoy each other's company.

Which brings you to now.

The muffled sounds of Orion were erotic, his hip struts bucked as the vibrating rod within his spike made him a complete mess for D16. You watched the arousing scene before you unfolded as D moved behind your shared lover and grabbed his neck cables with a rough yet calculated gentle hold. It was firm, pulling his helm back so he could kiss the whimpering mech's cheeks as he sobbed behind the gag and blindfold.

“You are doing so well Orion, you have no idea how beautiful you look right now. The way you squirm, begging for release. It's intoxicating, I feel so lucky to see you like this.” D16 purrs in the sinfully deep voice of his he used when he was aroused. It sent shivers down your spinal strut.

To bear witness to such an intimate display, your partners taking part in this little fantasy you thought up was such an honor to you. Your spike was pressing hard against its housing. It was becoming unbearable, but you stayed closed while D took care of Orion.

His servos traced down his front, focusing on the sensitive cables lining just under the edge of his bulky chassis. His digits explore Orion's heated frame, feeling up every inch with eager optics. Hungering for any reaction he could get out of your shared partner, his golden yellow optics were dark with desire, and his intake was drawn back in a smirk that showed just how much he was enjoying being in charge of the both of you.

His optics focused back on you, and your frame stiffened under the heated stare. His frame rumbled as his servo moved to the blindfold and removed it to allow him sight once again. Orion's optics flickered and adjusted to the light before he focused on the two of you. D16 leaned down to kiss Orion's helm before he stalked over to your kneeled position.

He looked over to Orion and barked an order. “Don't look away and don't overload. You must keep your optics on us at all times.” He slowly walked around your form, his servo grabbing a hold of your helm with a low, dark chuckle as he pushed you down.

Faceplate on the ground, aft up. His servo pinned you down with ease while the other rubbed along your panel, feeling for the sensitive wires to trigger that would open your valve. His thick digits ardently sought for that wire until it was pressed upon and the covering of your valve popped open. D rumbled his growl, not quite a chuckle. No, this was primal. It was low and vibrated through your chassis as the mech mounted you without hesitance.

His larger frame slotted against your own, fitting together like two pieces to a puzzle. Your frame shuddered at the impending thrill, his digits teasing your valve entrance. Smearing the lubricant around, testing your eager hole for the next step. His knees dropped one after the other as he pressed your frame into the floor, his hips pressed flush to your aft while one arm wrapped around your middle and the other went to your intake. His digits covered in your fluids pushed past your dermas, and you whined against the blunt object as he urged your glossa to clean it off.

Solvent soaked his digit, the writhing mass in your intake covered it until it was cleaned to his liking, and without warning, his digit was joined by another before the third was shoved inside. Your intake stretched wide and and the three large intrusions thrust inside to cover them in your solvent.

“Get them all nice and wet for me. Make sure they are throughly lubricated.” He purred, admiring the way your optics flickered as your frame started to whirr with the fans trying to cool your heated frame. His digits pushed further into your open intake, coating them with the fluids pooling as you drooled from the intrusion. Your glossa dragged along them to soak them as requested. He hummed approvingly as his hips grind against your rear excitedly at the feeling of your moist orifice preparing them for whatever he had planned.

He pulls his servo away, his digits throughly coated in solvent, he reaches down between your frames, and you hear a hiss, then something hard pressed against you. The slick sounds of something moist is heard from just behind you, curious, you lean your helm down and look under your frame to see that D is stroking his erect spike. It's absolutely weeping with trans fluids. His servo that was in your intake is stroking it. A chuckle vibrates youcatxck, you pull your helm back up to see that D is watching you.

You flush at the fact you got caught watching him lube his spike up. He doesn't push the subject. Instead, he pushes your helm down against the ground once again as he aligns himself with your valve and pushes inside your hole with little resistance. You gasp as he bottoms out with ease inside of you, his servo runs down your front until he reaches the buldge where his spike rests within your clenching walls. A low moan leaves him, a playful nip to your audial with a low rumble of his chassis as a growl passes through him

A whine from Orion has you glancing at him, but D quickly snatches your chin up and makes you look away from the needy bot.

“Eyes forward, he has to watch as I ravage your body all night long~” He purrs before his hips start moving. His spike is thrusting slowly at first, building to a speed that is carnal and rough. The speed takes you by surprise as each thrust leaves you breathless as he rearranges your insides with a pace so fast and hard you can't think. The noises you are making are lewd, solvent drools past your dermas, knees weak, and a valve pulsing with a building charge that has you begging for him to finish inside of you.

Orion is watching from his spot. His spike is aching with the need to release. His transfluids chamber aches to purge the building fluid, but the obstruction inside his spikes channel prevents him from doing so. He watches D ravage your frame, fragging you with a relentless pace. He's jealous that he isn't the one pulling the noises from you. He wants nothing more than to break from his binds and sample that tight valve he knew would suck him inside without hesitance.

Orion shifts his leg struts to sit just under him and starts to grind himself against his metal, groaning in relief as the aching need to be touched is achieved. It wasn't the touch he wanted, but it would do. He watched as D chased his building charge. The snarls and growls of his pleasure were hot. Fueling his grinding to get faster, his valve clenching around nothing as his node drags along his leg and with a roll of his hips he starts to grind roughly at a pace that starts to push him to the edge of his building overload. His hips rock desperately, humping with huffs of pleasure leaving him as he feels his charge building tight within his frame. It hurts so bad. He just wants to let go!

Your towards your own end, the savage rocking of his hips against your own is mind numbing. You are lost to the world around you as the rolling heat is close to snapping. A servo is between your spread thighs and rubs at your node as a low, sultry voice whispers a command.

“Overload for me.” D whispers, and you listen.

Your frame stiffened and shook as the hot flash of pleasure spreads through your body and shakes you to your very core. You cry out as your valve snaps down and D follows suit. His spike pumps you full with his transfluids as he fills your chamber with his hot fluids. You feel your body go limp, falling back against his as the euphoria floods your system, and D holds you close to his body to kiss your face and helm with his own exhaustion curling around his processor. He does pause to see that Orion is heaving, he grows worried that something happened until his optics land in the sounding rod on the floor,a limp spike, and transfluids covering the front of his frame.

He clicks his glossa with a hum of disappointment “That wasn't very smart of you, Orion. I have to punish you now. Only good boys get to overload. And you are far from being a good boy~”

[mychlapci]

Devastator needs to fuck Prowl too After the Constructicons get Scrapper back, Devastator would be torn between having all of their original components together, as well as wanting to pull their new component back in, somehow. Coupled with the Structies' own lust, this winds up translating into a collective desire to fuck that slutty policebot.

So the next time they meet on the battlefield, instead of devastating like they should, Devastator would snatch up Prowl and run off with him, spending the rest of the battle undisturbed as they test out various ways to "combine" with their quarry. Using the memories the gestalt have of their former head component, they tease the tiny mech in all of the well known erogenous zones that their fingertips could reach, drawing out whines and moans until his panels snap open on instinct. Revealing a moist little valve and sweet little spike, adorned with blinking biolights still coloured green from their past linkage. A sight that deeply pleases the gestalt.

They first try fingering Prowl open with their pinky, licking the little mech all over with that massive glossa, slathering oral lubricant all over those sensitive doorwings to make him relax. When he's loose enough, Devastator would try to fingerfuck Prowl with a different digit, only to find that they're all too big to fit inside effectively, pussy so tight that they can't even really move inside. They then settle on using their pinky to pound that quivering valve until Prowl squirts helplessly in their grip.

Intrigued by the trail of fluids dripping from that twitching cunt, Devastator retracts their digit and tastes it, rediscovering the wonder that is Prowl's delicious pussy juice. Which is how Prowl finds himself impaled on that girthy, flexible glossa next, licking and filling him up until he's stuffed to the brim with that squishy appendage.

The way it moves, and the fact that the tongue is so much more flexible compared to the digit making the experience a hundredfold more intense than the fingerfucking. Prowl cums again, spilling uncontrollably into Devastator's mouth as the big guy holds him above their intake, lips sealed around that snatched waist to grip the squirming bot. Rounded teeth gently but firmly restraining those kicking legs as they lap at that puffy valve.

When Prowl goes limp again, Devastator lifts him to eye level, noting those curious white streaks leaking from beneath that plump bumper. They lick a large stripe across Prowl's entire front, and starts teasing his chest for more when they register the heavenly milk flavour that their components appear so very fond of in their memories. But this time, Prowl resists.

He might've not been able to prevent his interface panels from popping open, but his chest panels are nowhere near as sensitive as those were. He remains stoutly resolute, until Devastator changes strategies after they drew on another memory from their components. They turned the little bot around to tease at his doorwings with the tip of their glossa again. This not only angled Prowl's line of sight away from Devastator, but also rendered his motion sensors useless with the physical distractions, preventing the tactician from figuring out the big bot's next move.

As Prowl is being bombarded by the pleasurable touches, Devastator is actually bringing him closer to their own chest panel, which has parted and has data cables snaking out. Reaching for Prowl's closed ports. If the Constructicons can't combine with their policebot in frame, they will so in code. They all remember how much that neat little mind enjoyed being linked to their mental presences, and clearly, so does Devastator. In fact, Devastator very clearly remembers just how to make that thirsty little dataslut submit to their wills.

When each cable is in place, simultaneously, their pronged ends wedge themselves into those coverings, prying open each jack in one go. Shocked by the sudden burst of pain, Prowl has no time to react when each cable plugged themselves into his sparking connectors, charge flowing and overwhelming him in an instant from the sheer potential difference between their frames.

Old, dormant protocols slipping back into place. Seldom trodden but intact neural circuits flaring to life. Psychologically conditioned stupor settling over conscious thought like a fog. Weakened and exhausted from the orgasms, Prowl lets himself slip back into that old, nearly forgotten haze of being a part of Devastator again. When his struggles stop altogether, Prowl gets turned around again.

Pleased that their wayward component was no longer resisting, Devastator pinged the little mech's systems to open his chest plates, revealing a pair of leaky refineries at last. Savouring their victory, Devastator took their time licking over Prowl's front, reacquainting themelves with the flavour of that wonderful milk, transfluid and lubricants, all freely flowing from the cascade of continuous orgasms wrecking his mind and body. There's just too much charge being pumped into that little Praxian frame through their hardline.

It's as if he's been reduced to a puppet. A little pleasure doll for the combiner to lick and suck at. Prowl knows that he should be fighting it, but it feels too damn good to have those hanging threads soothed at last. The bond may have been shorn off from his end, but something inside him still craves this. It feels right to be connected to his gestalt again. It feels incredible to let himself be swept away into that mind meld, and lose his sense of self once more.

His choked and aborted gasps morph into a prolonged whine when those massive, plush lips seal over both of his tits at once, sucking hard and drinking in their fill of his creamy milk. Though Devastator pulls back when they note that Prowl's fuel levels had dropped to 40%. Which wouldn't do, of course. They scour the gestalt's memories again, and recall a visage of the little tactician on his knees, begging to be filled with transfluid.

The data is coming so much faster now that they're connected to that overpowered processor. As they lower the little bot's panting mouth onto the slit of their spike head, absentmindedly stroking their pressurized spike, they ponder on what to do with this newfound information. Seven minds linked in one, Devastator realises that they've never been this cognizant before. That's when it clicks. This is what they've been missing the whole time: a dedicated processor component.

They groan as their first, light overload washes through their core, cock spurting glugs of transfluid into that waiting mouth, the veritable excess running down the sides of that black and white frame. Through their linked processor, they command Prowl to swallow his sustenance like a good bot. Unable to disobey, Prowl swallows, feeling the intense charge of the rich, energised nanites sweeping through him. His fuel gauge climbs a little. Unacceptable. Clearly more is needed.

They lean back against the angular incline of the cliffside, spreading their legs wider and braced their left arm against a knee, continuing to hold their precious seventh to the tip of their pulsing cock. Their little dataslut is still far from full. Continuing to pump their spike as they ponder the best way to reintegrate the policebot to their fold. Devastator already has a head, but surely there is space for another inside them? Perhaps- he could be their backup processor. Like how Prowl has that experimental battle computer integrated into his cerebral hardware.

As Devastator carefully reoriented their internals and began planning out in detail how they would reclaim their perfect dataslut, Prowl is forced to continuously drink in mouthful after mouthful of transfluid. Very quickly rendering him completely cum drunk, and none the wiser to the big mech's increasingly intelligent plotting.

Finally deemed sufficiently fueled, Devastator attaches more cables into the remaining unoccupied jacks, plugging up the bloated Praxian in full this time. No longer aware of what's happening around him, Prowl's head lolls a little to the side before an internal servo gripped his temples and straightens it. He's inside Devastator's chest cavity now, right below the combiner's own massive pouches, where a mech's spark would've been located. More servos clamp onto his limbs, as lines of various widths snake around him, plunging into his twitching pussy, aft pipe and spike duct. Another line with a nozzle, one that's directly connected to both his host's refineries and transfluid stores, inserts itself into his intakes.

Prowl numbly notes the code edits flowing through his firewalls, but he lets them pass unbidden when jolts of pure pleasure washed over him, making his vision swim. The evolved gestalt programming is overwriting his silly little leaky and melting processor, and there's nothing he could do about it. All of that bandwidth siphoned away as Devastator lovingly caressed their beautiful, cum drenched brain component, so very clever, yet so dumb and mindless now. The chest plates close around him, leaving Prowl to marinate in the dark as the gestalt protocols slowly suppress any pesky contrary thoughts in his empty little head.

Their pretty tactician would be kept safe inside them until Devastator returns to base and manages to convince Shockwave to link their sparks together again. With their newfound intellectual prowess in tow, Devastator would have no trouble making their case before the scientist for sure. When Devastator finally disassembles, the Constructicons' wayward seventh would be home at last, whether he likes it or not.-🔌

hrghh no notes, I just think everyone needs to see this honestly. We need more Devastator action.

[pinkanonwrites]

EARTHSPARK TRANSFORMERS DILDOS AGAIN!!

Bumblebee finding the ✨Stinger✨ while going down a rabbit hole of his merch. He is too horrified to ask if Alex has one (he doesn’t)

Optimus finding one obviously based off him and wondering if he should release an official one. I mean, it would be good for human and cybertronian relations right? Right??

Elita finds the mother of all strap-ons that would make a size queen weep and is like “🫤 why did they make mine so small?”

Megatron finds one probably called the Destroyer or something and is just horrified. Elita probably sent it to him jokingly because if she has to see this shit then so does everyone else

Wheeljack probably has an officially branded vibrator he designed. Has the same reputation as those rose toys but people have passed out using it and swore they saw the face of God after

Arcee finds a pocket pussy based off of her and is like “bro cybertronian valve would shred your dick to pieces!” And so a pencil sharpener based off Arcee was made

The Earthspark 'Bots are split into three different categories depending on how they feel about having knock-off sex toys made of them. They are as follows:

Deeply Embarrassed: Bumblebee and Megatron

Tentatively Curious: Optimus and Elita One

Genuinely Hyped: Wheeljack and Arcee

It's the one piece of merchandise above all else that Bumblebee is glad Alex doesn't own. He's... flattered? Kinda? That there are humans out there that may be into what he's got going on. But he's mostly embarrassed, and hopes to Primus no one ever asks him about it because NO, he did NOT sign off on this!

Meanwhile Megatron's is one of those three-foot tall ones that weighs like 60 pounds, custom textured with mechanical plating and details. He's confused that it even exists; There's no way any human on Earth can fit that thing into one of their tiny little holes, is there? It takes him a second to remember that humans are incredibly versatile, and insertion isn't they only way to have fun, then he gets supremely flustered.

Optimus is a little bit embarrassed, though not nearly as much as Megs or Bee. Despite this, the fact that there's even an interest in these sort of things gives him hope that humans and Cybertronians will be able to live in peace. Just gotta get past some... awkward speed bumps first.

Elita is impressed. Mainly because she hadn't really thought humans would be interested in Transformers in that way, so she's actually a little tickled by the idea of Cybertronians being desirable enough to humans for a whole adult toy line. She has a few qualms that the femme false spikes seem to always be more dainty than the mech ones, but she has no plans to whip it out for any designers so she can't really complain.

Wheeljack is sending signed designs with elaborate detail charts and specifics about strength and material and battery life. If it's gonna be associated with him anyway, why wouldn't he want it to be the best of the best? Let the humans have their fun, and it doesn't hurt to make a little money on the side to fund some research projects and base repairs.

Meanwhile Arcee is having fun messing with the toy designers by coming up with elaborate lies and exaggerations about Cybertronian anatomy purely for her own entertainment. After all, if none of these humans have the ball-bearings to ask her for proof of her little claims and spiels, that's on them!

[ninibeingdelulu]

heyy could you write any headcannons you have in mind about Levi in a “relationship” with one of his female scout? Whatever you have in mind cuz i like the way you picture him

headcanons ft. levi ackerman

a/n: hii ty for requesting I LOVE this

At first, dating humanity's strongest and most renowned soldier feels utterly surreal. You go through bouts of imposter syndrome wondering how someone as incredible as Captain Levi could desire an ordinary scout like yourself.

His icy demeanor and prickly standoffishness in public make it easy to forget the softer side he only allows you to witness behind closed doors.

Levi is an incredibly private person, so keeping your blossoming relationship on the down-low is a must around the scout regiment.

No overt PDA or unprofessional doting - he maintains strict boundaries while on duty. Only in fleeting moments does the faintest hint of tenderness shine through his steely facade directed solely at you.

Perhaps his hand lingers electric against the small of your back as you salute and depart his office after filing reports. Or you notice his piercing gaze following your movements a beat longer than necessary across the grounds.

Each covert caress and weighted look reminds you this guarded man longs for you just as desperately.

While out beyongdthe safety of the walls, however, a transformed sort of protectiveness takes over Levi. His hyper-awareness of your positioning and safety borders on smotheringly paranoid at times.

He simply cannot fathom losing one of the few tethers still binding his soul to living.

You've lost count of the number of times Levi has abruptly extracted you from the heat of battle using his ODM gear like a ragdoll - eyes blazing with frantic fear.

Only once you're tucked away in some temporary haven does he finally allow himself to cup your face tenderly, scanning you over for injuries through trembling palms.

Harsh words laced with worry always tumble from his lips during these fraught reunions. "Foolish brat...always taking unnecessary risks...would never forgive myself if—"

Whatever self-recriminations Levi begins spitting will instantly evaporate as you surge up on your tiptoes to silence him with a searing kiss. Your reassurances that you're perfectly unharmed gradually smooth down those worry-lines etched across his brow.

Assuming you survive each expedition unscathed, Levi becomes almost insatiable for your affection whenever your boots hit headquarters ground again.

As if proximity to death's cold embrace reignites the urgency to savor every possible second with his greatest source of warmth and comfort.

He'll stride directly up to wherever you're stationed, seize you by the elbow and all but frog-march you both down the halls to his personal quarters.

Once the door bangs shut, Levi finally releases that ragged groan you've come to recognize as pooled tension seeping out like a valve opening.

All it takes is your delicate fingertips cradling his face and lips seeking out the jump of his pulse in that elegant throat...and suddenly you find yourself pinned flat against the nearest wall.

Every sacred inch of your body abruptly scorched and worshipped with ardent, possessive fervor.

Long after the afterglow of your frantic lovemaking has faded to drowsy embers, Levi's stormy gaze still rakes over you with mingled awe and disbelief.

As if whatever deity charged with spinning the threads of this cruel world saw fit to weave this small but brilliant spark of solace into the tapestry of his life.

Each time he rediscovers you lying sated and tousled beside him, you become the gravity lashing his heart into orbit anew.

On nights when memories of carnage past seep like toxic fumes into blacking out his dreams, Levi clings tighter to your sleeping form than he's ever dared to anything else.

You are his lighthouse, hearth and sanctuary against the darkness continually attempting to extinguish his faltering flames.

Enduring the loss of so many admired comrades has made your captain extraordinarily skilled at donning an impenetrable mask.

Only when your hands and lips and limbs entangle with his does Levi's stillness gradually erode back into the fiery embers burning hot at his very core.

No words need transpire for him to silently thank you time after time for slicing through the ice barricading his war-torn soul.

One look from those stormy greys conveys everything he can never find the breath to articulate before crushing you tight against his rapidly thundering heart once more.

[seat-safety-switch]

A lot of people call me an egocentric prick, but they're just bad spellers. If I'm anything, I'm Eggo®-centric. Those frozen waffles have helped get me through some really awful times in my life. They're almost edible, for starters, which makes them legally a food.

Although I'm fairly sure they have zero nutritional value, this is offset by the additional convenience value. Most foodstuffs can be cooked in your engine bay, sure, but a frozen waffle fits pretty much anywhere. Anywhere, that is, as long as it doesn't start to roll away. It's a common problem with wheel-shaped breakfast goods, which is why donuts have a hole to pin them to things with. Maybe also wrap your Eggo® in tinfoil first unless you want to get some of the oil leaking out of the valve cover on it. I digress.

Because these waffles are so convenient, you can basically spend an extra fifteen minutes of your morning routine doing whatever you want. Sleeping in, for instance, or adjusting the carburetor mixture on your '76 Volare. You can pop the toasty-warm waffle out of your exhaust manifold and eat it at your desk when you get to work, which will impress the bosses. Unless you live in France, where eating at your desk (and also the Eggo®, probably) is illegal. In that case, you'll be able to eat your partially-thawed frozen breakfast treat in the picket line as your floor manager is thoroughly guillotined.

This whole thing has been so successful, in fact, that I've considered getting rid of my kitchen altogether. All these appliances and tables and chairs use up space that could be used for, say, motorcycle storage. Motorcycles that I'll be buying with the fat cheque that Big Waffle has coming my way for this entirely authentic endorsement of their product.

[healpimp]

While the bot banwave is all well and good, do not forget that this happened after we endured 5 years of nothing but lootboxes with community-made cosmetics and maps and a boatload of cheaters and bots. Valve profited off of the community both in labor and purchases while they left the game to rot. The banwave is GOOD; we can finally enjoy playing the game without having to deal with aimbotting, mic and text chat spam and we don't have to risk our private information either.

But this is the bare minimum and this wasn't the case for five years. FIVE YEARS.

Valve is LATE; this should NOT have taken five years nor should the playerbase have had to force Valve's hand through protesting. And we didn't protest once, we did it TWICE. There is still no line of communication with Valve either, there are still no official statements, nothing.

It frustrates me because why did it take 5 years? Why did we have to scream at Valve TWICE? Why did we have to give them bad publicity to give them a reason to move? Why did we have to consider a boycott for one of the few things that still gets new content added to the game and gives community creators revenue for their hard work?

We can celebrate this change. The game is playable again. This is what we wanted.

But do NOT get complacent; Valve have every reason to do this as a publicity stunt. Between their new multiplayer PvP game Deadlock coming out, both TF2's AND CS2's extensive bot/cheater problem and Artifact (a Dota 2 based card game AND their last big flop), their reputation and profits are at stake. They have garnered a reputation for harboring cheaters in their multiplayer games, and if they didn't fix that before releasing Deadlock, this new game would automatically flop. Not to mention the very concept of Deadlock is rather unpromising in itself (MOBA 6v6 3rd person Hero Shooter... Okay.)

What I'm saying is these recent news of the ban waves and the confirmation that yes, the TF2 comic is going to be released eventually (no actual date or even year has been confirmed, mind you), it's easy to forget why we were so frustrated to begin with. This happened last time, and Valve saw it fit to start slacking again.

Do not forget. Do not let up until we know Valve isn't just trying to make us settle down to earn more money. We were promised a functional game, and it needs to remain functional.

[anon-e-miss]

Ever thought of transformation pregnency?Like Jazz is giant-like creature and he gets to have Prowl as his bride(probably in some ritual sacrifice).Prowl gets to be sparked by him but since his sparklings would bigger than him,he will start to grow with them,so their sheer size does not tear him apart.

When the Dark priests had toed Prowl to the altar they had intended for him to be an Energon sacrifice to the God of Death. Instead, that God had made Prowl his bride. The tentacles that had fallen upon him had claimed him, rather than killed him, filling his womb with divine seed and leaving Prowl ensparked. Jazz as the god called himself was impossibly giant, even his tentacles strained Prowl’s interface equipment. Very quickly, his progeny strained Prowl’s forge, until he himself began to grow.

Prowl grew tall as his belly grew wide. His godly conjunx watched fondly as he progressed. He still felt unnaturally large, which was only fitting as he carried not one but three divine bitlets. Jazz was diligent on contributing, through his seed, his divine essence flowed, ensuring both Prowl and the bitlets prospered. He was familiar with the caress of Jazz’s tentacles. It was different to feel his servos, still large, so large compared to Prowl as he was only so tall as the god’s midsection now. Jazz cupped Prowl’s engorged wells as he held Prowl on his lap. His spike was hard against Prowl’s back, rubbing between his doorwings.

A half dozen tentacles speared Prowl’s wet valve. They strained his lining, spreading him impossibly wide. His god-conjunx lifted him up and Prowl stared at the pool below’s reflection as Jazz lined his spike up with Prowl’s slick folds. He gasped as the spike, wider than his fist popped into his well claimed hole. Though the tentacles had stretched and strained him, they were nothing compared to this spike. He could not ventilate, could not speak as Jazz pulled him down until their arrays were flush. The god looked down at him with smouldering optics as the mortal sputtered on his lap.

“Perfect,” the god groaned.

“Gah,” Prowl’s glossa lulled out of his mouth as he bounced on Jazz’s lap. Overload and overstimulation were unending. His ruined valve gaped so wide it was a miracle his internals did not fall out of it. Jazz kept his legs spread as he played with Prowl’s ravaged hole with his digits. Not a drop of transfluid oozed out. Every dropped had been siphoned into his swollen belly.

“Just think how my eggs will destroy yer sweet lil valve,” Jazz told him as he rubbed the heel of his palm against Prowl’s tender node as he digit fragged him. “Y’ll overload as the air brushes yer internals for orns after.

He did not lie. Prowl wailed and keened as he pushed the giant eggs from his straining frame. The lubrication from his overloads helped ease their way. For mega-cycles after giving emergence, Prowl could not close his legs. Every moment, every breeze made him wet and desperate. He fuelled his divine creations from his valve as their godly progenitor watched on with mirth. When Jazz came to his berth for the first time after emergence, his spike breached him with ease. Prowl’s legs kicked as the god’s spike speared his womb and flooded him with promise, ensuring Prowl would bear him another brood in a vorn’s time.

To think Prowl had been a Vestial Virgin before the god had claimed him for his bride. He had turned up his olfactory ridge at the sins of the flesh. Now he lay under the god, screaming in ecstasy as the god plowed his aft. He could think of nothing but pleasure now.

[emotionallyattachednerd]

Mine | IDW Starscream x f!robot reader | NSFW 18+

Word count: 2100+

Warnings: Smut ( spike in valve and rough interfacing ), slight angst, biting, dirty talking, dom Starscream and cheating. NSFW 18+.

Notes: This was named 'On Break' in line up but I changed it to fit the story better. I'm surprised I haven't got more written for Starscream since he's my all time favourite character. Will build up around him. Thanks so much for sending in and enjoy. 🥰

☕ Coffee

Following the end of the war and the revitalization of Cybertron, Starscream found the burden of leadership placed on his shoulders once more after a titan declared him Cybertron's chosen one, destined to reunite and rebuild their ruined world.

You're tasked to work close to him, help with whatever he asked for and make sure he doesn't cause any trouble. Not just you though, but your soon to be bond mate, an arrangement between your sires and creators, is tasked to work for him too.

The mech is kind, respectful, something anyone would desire, but he's dull. For a while you tried to find out more, anything buried deep in him, but there is nothing thrilling. Perhaps you'll grow to love him but even the thought of becoming his bond mate made you quiver in disgust.

That's when you discover the more time you spent with Starscream, the more you noticed him staring at you, hungry optics dragging against your frame constantly causing you to quiver in excitement. No one has ever looked at you in that way before, and it's just what you've been craving for as well, needing that exotic thrill to corrupt your world.

It's not long before he makes his move and you find yourself lost in blissful makeup sessions along with heated interfacing, wherever possible no matter where you both were, and you let it happen.

It's wrong. You knew this, yet you couldn't help what you were feeling. From the moment you both locked optics with one another it's like you both ended up tied together, no possible way to get away. On top of that he was a decepticon, or former, you weren't too sure anymore after everything that's happened.

This is ignored though and you continue to let it happen, sneaking around without anyone finding out or getting caught, though it's only a matter of time before it's discovered and you'll have to answer to your sire and creator for your actions. You dreaded that day.

While on your break you end up in your office where you plan to give yourself some time for yourself, but that doesn't happen. Upon entering, Starscream pounces on you so fast, like a predator latching onto their prey, but he wants something else. Having him sneak up or waiting in the shadows for you wasn't anything new, you really like it when he does this, as it can happen at any moment.

This time he lifts you onto your desk and grabs hold of your chin, kissing you firmly and coiling your glossa's together in a deep passion. His roughness is what you crave, to be used, marked, and pinned down, you couldn't get enough of it. He pulls away from the kiss but not before taking hold of your bottom lip between his denta's, nibbling, but not enough to bleed. His soft chuckle causes your frame to shiver in a dark desire.

"Darling, you have no idea how hard it was to not bend you over the table in the meeting today. I wanted to ravage you so bad, right there and then." His words carve through you delightfully.

"Yeah, I know, I could feel you staring at me all throughout the meeting." You answer through a heated smile. "You should be more careful when you do that, someone is going to notice one day."

"So? It's you that doesn't want to get caught, I wouldn't mind if we did. Would it be so terrible if we did get caught?" He buries his mouth against your neck where he kisses and gently bits, making your optics shutter softly.

"Maybe not for you, but it would be for me. Do you seriously want to talk about this now?" You vent. It's not the first time he's brought it up, and as much as you understand, he needed to understand your position as well. He moves away from your neck and smirks down at you. That damn smirk, that face, his seeker frame, it all screams power. You love it.

"Not really. Now, my dear, open your panel for me."

Without hesitation you do this, revealing yourself and you let out a heated vent feeling yourself already soaking wet, before feeling his digit drag between your folds and across your ceiling node, earning him a low moan from you.

"Already dripping fluids. Good, I always want you to be ready for me." He pushes your thighs apart and presses himself against you, grinding his already throbbing spike against your valve, you didn't even notice him retracting his panel, and you part your legs more for him as he does this.

His servo wraps around the front of your throat and pushes you down against the desk, causing your venting to hitch followed by a lingering moan. He continues to tease you, dragging his spike against your valve as you feel the ridges rubbing along and against your node, making your frame heat up as you wiggle your waist eagerly.

"So needy." Starscream purrs in delight through a smug smile.

"Please..."

"Tell me what you want?" He does this, forcing the words out of you.

"You..." Is all you can murmur but it's not enough for him.

"Hmm? I think I need more details. What do you want?" His words are more forceful as his grip on your throat tightens, causing another delighted moan to sound from you. Finally, you find the words.

"Your thick spike, buried deep in me, fragging me senseless!" His proud smile expresses his satisfaction.

"Much better."

He thrusts forward, snapping his hips and burying his pulsing spike into your valve, filling you completely while you mewl out loudly before covering your mouth quickly to try to suppress your sounds.

"Don't do that. I want to hear everything." Starscream tells you while keeping himself still in your valve, groaning lowly as you clench around him perfectly.

"I don't want everyone to hear..." You don't want to be caught.

"Well, I do." He pins you down more against the desk by your throat and starts to thrust into you, roughly, using his other servo to grip your waist as he drives into you over again, letting out silky moans as you howl out in bliss, still trying to suppress your noise.

There's no holding back as he dominates you on the desk, holding you down and hammering away, his spike rapidly pulsing throughout your valve as your fluids soak out onto the desk and drips down onto the flood below. You're unable to control your sounds as you whimper loudly over again, the overwhelming pleasure boiling through you while he frags you over again.

The desk rocks and creaks under your weights with each thrust delivered, your thighs clinging onto him before you grip his arm where he uses his servo to hold you at your throat. He moves a digit upwards against your hanging mouth and you instantly latch onto it, sucking and moaning while he watches in joy at the sight of you.

"Such a gorgeous sight. If only you were all mine, we could do this always than." As nice as that sounds, it's not possible. You can't even answer through the intense fucking and only moan in responce.

He removes his digit, and servo, only to lunge down and bite into your neck, holding on as he jackhammers himself against you. Your blissful cries increase as you try to muffle them against his shoulder, arms wrapped tight as you cling your thighs around his frame, you ceiling node already being perfectly stimulated against his body as you feel your overload approach, but you knew better than to let yourself go. Not until he says you can.

Starscream bits hard into your neck cables, enough to leave his mark on you, tasting the energon as he snaps his hips against your frame, feeling his spike twitch more as the sounds of moans along with metal hitting together fills the room. He's claiming you, whether you like it or not, you'll always be his.

He lets go of your neck, dragging his glossa against the area before looking into your face again, keeping close as his movements never cease. "Are you around to overload?" Your answer is only a low whimper. "Well, go ahead, overload on my spike, and I'll fill your chambers deeply, soaking everything."

His blazing optics pierce you in the most delightful way possible, and with the permission given you finally let yourself go, overloading hard as everything in your clenches, helming tossing back against the desk as a lusty mewl erupts from you.

Starscream isn't far off as he snaps into you more, grunting with each stroke before his spike bursts out thick ropes of trans fluids throughout your channel. Everything pulses and he delivers small jerky thrusts, savouring everything, before leaning down to kiss you passionately. You can only kiss back through your aftershocks, rolling your waist against him still, drawing out your pleasures together.

Once the kiss is broken he looks at you with a fond expression, something rare, but you do enjoy it, along with his controlling side. Everything about him is perfect. However, you sense you're not alone together, and glance over at the door. You tense when you see your soon to be bond mate right there, staring right back at the horrifying scene he's just walked into. Your spark pounded rapidly as you try to form words to explain this awkward situation, as he looks like he wants to scream but can't. Only Starscream looks unbothered, complete opposite, he's rather pleased as he turns his helm to look at him, smirking proudly.

"Oh, fancy seeing you here. Can I help you with something?"

That's all that was needed for him to hurry away, leaving you and Starscream alone again. You try shoving him off so you can go after him but he stops you from moving away from him, tugging you back by your waist against him making you wince through a surprised moan.

"Where do you think you're going?" Starscream hums casually.

"L-let me go! I have to-"

"What? Explain this was a misunderstanding? He just witnessed you buried deep on my spike, I doubt there's any way around that. Besides, is it really that bad? I mean, you don't need to become his sparkmate anymore, and I can have you all for myself." He looks so smug, causing you to think over it.

"You set this up, you knew he was going to come here, or you asked him to be here. You wanted us to get caught." You felt like screaming at him yourself.

"Of course I did, because now we don't need to sneak around like foolish teenagers, and one day we'll become sparkmates, as it's meant to be." He lets out silky purrs that vibrate through you. Damn seeker knew how to make you feel too damn good, even more so you can feel his spike twitching more throughout your valve.

"And if I refuse?" You pout bluntly.

"Oh darling, you won't refuse me." He sounds so damn confident. "You won't deny me, because you love me, and I've already left my mark on you." He rubs the wound on your neck where he had bit you. "I always get what I want, and you belong to me from now on. No one shall ever take you away from me again, that I'll always make sure of."

A part of you wants to slap him, to curse him out, but you lack the energy and he just feels so damn good in your soaked valve.

"Damn you, Starscream."

He lets out a low cackle before whispering into your audio. "I always win."

That he does, and now he has you all for himself. You respond by kissing him deeply, coiling your glossa's and letting out a low moan against his lips. You love him, that damn seeker, and deep down there is a part of you that is glad you've been caught, because it means you both can finally move forward together. You just feel bad for the other guy.

You did love him, sort of, but not the way you love Starscream. He's someone that deserves someone better than you and you hope that he'll be able to find that. However, you knew you were going to be hated by your creator and sire for ruining this arrangement, but you had to be happy, right?

Starscream lets out a low growl and breaks the kiss, taking hold of your chin between his digits. "Don't think about him, never again, focus only on me."

And so you do, from then forward.

[fleckcmscott]

Something Old, Everything New

Summary: After Arthur has a run in with the past, Y/N provides the shelter she’s always hoped to.

Words: 4,227

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

A/N: @tally-kiza made the request that prompted this story. Cal, I hope it's what you're looking for! 😂 Heartfelt thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for beta-ing, helping with the summary, and her neverending kindness and support. 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The shopping list was broken into three sections, each separated by a thick, felt-tip line. Ingredients for a recipe Y/N was keeping secret. Refills of temazepam and fluoxetine. And supplies for light repairs he was determined to finish before the weekend was out.

Through poverty and an absent landlord, Arthur had become something of a handyman as a teen. He'd figured out how to snake gooey clumps of hair from the shower drain, unstick stuck drawers with a spritz of WD-40, patch the hole in the wall left by his fist. A job done himself was a dollar saved, a buck to spend on cigarettes or butterscotch candies, depending on how his week went.

Tapping each item on the paper, he dodged a pallet of tightly stacked potting soil and ambled down the fourth aisle of Garber's Value Hardware and Housewares, his first stop and a staple that'd served Burnley since 1926. Paint thinner stains dotted the creaky wooden floor, the shop's knob and tube wiring was a decade out of code, and the fumes of last year's grease saturated the air.

The red bins of O-rings, washers, and valve seals were poorly sorted. He sifted through grimy plastic baggies, searching for a standard size set. The kitchen faucet had been leaking for weeks, and the drops grew ever fatter and faster. He decided on a variety pack, then aimed for the door section for hinge lubricant, as vegetable oil no longer quieted the bedroom door's squeaks and squawks.

He was midway through the yellow bottle's directions when an old nickname smacked him in the back of the head.

"Hey, Fleck the Speck!"

The jovial call made Arthur's joints as stuck as an old drawer.     

"Hell, it's been what, twenty years?" Richard continued, dark blue mechanic's overalls swishing as he advanced on Arthur. The guy thrust a friendly hand his way. "You just kinda fell off the face of the earth. How've you been?"

Arthur glared at that hand.

Richard McMahon was an old classmate, from Cowther's Middle School straight through sophomore year at Gotham High. Being held back two years hadn't stopped him from reaching the level of cool to go by Rick, not Dick.

And he was one of the many people Arthur could have gone to his grave without seeing.

Fleck the Speck had caught on amongst Rick's group of rowdies like too much Brylcreem. Dingy hair and ratty, ill-fitting clothes had made Arthur a target to rival a dart board. Rick's hair had been just as greasy, his t-shirt couldn't keep up with his stocky teenage body. But youth hierarchy demanded someone be shit on, and via his natural awkwardness, Arthur attracted all the flies.

But that was then, and this was now, and if Arthur interpreted Rick-not-Dick's tone correctly, he saw him as a regular guy.

"I'm good," Arthur said, returning the shake. The man grabbed him in a sweltering grip. "I- I had a lot going on. With my mother and everything."

"Good, good. You working now?"

"Yes. I'm a comedian."

"No shit! You still doing that laugh?"

That Rick would bring up Arthur's condition wasn't a shock. It'd been a source of endless entertainment for his peers. He took half a step back. "Doing that laugh?"

"Yeah! It was a riot, really threw the teachers off, too. Got any kids?"

Rapid fire questions with teasing cloaked as compliments dizzied Arthur, like he was a returning guest on the Murray show under the lights and the heat. "I'm married."

"Me, too. You remember Shelly Petters?"

Shelly Peters had sat to Arthur's left in US History, a course he'd struggled with like all the rest. Getting dates confused was too easy, and it was far too hard to concentrate while awaiting next month's allotment of government peanut butter and wondering if Penny had left on the oven again.

In her pink miniskirt and flowing, flaxen locks, Shelly had been a beauty fit for the cover of TV Guide.  During the mid-term, he'd frowned at the blue test booklet, the words swimming in front of him. Frustration channeled its way to his knee, bouncing it against the bottom of the desk. Bang. Bang. Bang. The force of his grip snapped his pencil in two. The pointed half fell and rolled across the floor, right into Mr. Galloway's shoes.

As if helping Arthur was the most natural thing in the world, Shelly had offered her spare. He'd done his best not to chew on it and fallen in love.

But his heart was as poorly schooled as his mind. As sweet as that recollection was, it was interlinked with the truth of how rare kindness had been.

He'd untangled his curls, slicked them back with tap water. Tucked his sweater into his trousers, rolled up the cuffs to hide the holes. When he'd caught up to her by her locker, Rick had stuck one heavy foot between them.

"What'd you do to your hair?" The rowdies formed a half circle, a pack of wolves, and the leader addressed his eager audience. "You gonna put on a show for us, Fleck the Speck? How about telling one of them jokes of yours? Knockknockknockknockknock!"

"Richard, stop it," Shelly hissed.

Laughter forced a cough from Arthur, his fingers clawing his trousers in an attempt to get control over his breathing. The tightening of his throat turned tears into a nakedness that choked. He'd fled to the boy's bathroom on the third floor. Locked himself in the last stall. Wiped his snot with cheap toilet paper and sleeves. What a fool he was for trying to raise himself above his station. The station shared by them all.

A blink returned Arthur to the present. The raw quality of his voice couldn't be restrained. "Shelly married you?"

"Right out of high school," Rick said. "Our daughter graduated this year. It was fun, seeing the old gym again. It hasn't changed one iota." His thumb gestured at Arthur's baggy cardigan, a hitchhiking motion. "Looks like you haven't changed much, either."

Nostalgia coated the comment, not meanness. But the same sense of worthlessness engulfed Arthur, joined by a rising fury that this man - this- this asshole - maintained the power to tear him down. To leave him the same boy who'd fled to the bathroom, when he'd tried to be more than allowed.

Crumpling his shopping list, Arthur shoved his first in his pocket before he could shove it in Dick-not-Rick's nose. Blunt nails dug his palms. "I can't believe she'd marry someone like you."

Offense deformed the man's face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you remember? All you did was make fun of me."

"Hey, everyone had a nickname back then. It was all a joke."

"Yeah, well. Comedy is subjective, Dick, and I never thought it was funny."

"We were kids. Kids do stupid shit." A hint of reticence twitched Dick's mouth. Lifting his chin, he straightened his features into calm. "I'll say hi to Shelly for you. Let her know you're doing all right. She'll be glad to hear it."

Then came the words that hit Arthur like a hammer.

"You really haven't changed at all."

~~~~~

Y/N brushed stray strands from her hair, the usual stragglers after a fresh cut. Wilma, the hairdresser she'd been seeing for three years, had called out sick, so she'd met a new beauty school graduate named Nancy. Though shy about feathering, the girl was eager to blunt cut. Y/N had halted her with a raised hand just as she was about to give her bangs.

Crossing the living room, Y/N paused long enough to turn on the TV, where a rerun of the Honeymoon Game would start at five. Arthur and she had become experts at guessing each other's answers and often ended those nights with more than a kiss. Being newlyweds themselves, it was the perfect watch.

And what a blissful eight months it'd been.

All on her own, she'd made the leap to move to Gotham at an age when most people had a spouse, a house, and two cars in a garage. Self-sufficiency had been her middle name for over a decade. She hadn't planned on getting remarried, instead relishing in finally having her own path.

But fate had introduced her to the kindest, most wonderful man she'd ever met, and the whole world had shifted.

It was a delight to have a helper, a partner. A person she could come home to and who could come home to her, who brightened her day with love and laughter. Who made the smallest domesticities matter, because she could share them. And being married to Arthur was fun.

She'd jotted a shopping list this morning, starting with ingredients for skillet enchiladas, a recipe he'd played at trying to peek. Then he'd perched on the kitchen counter and named all the hardware he needed, counting on his fingers as he went. There was something undeniably alluring about it. A masculine confidence that tickled her insides, a suaveness that came naturally when he let go enough to let it.

Alone, she would have waited at the bottom of the super's list for small fixes. She was good at keeping house, but repairs were outside of her league, Class A when her skill set was Class C. Now, sitting at the dinette table with a cup of tea and the Gotham Times, she couldn't stop picturing Arthur holding a wrench. The flex of his bicep as he twisted it, his broad stance as he bent over the sink.

Heat burned her cheeks, a good dose of fluster. Squeezing her thighs together, she turned the page.

Just as she'd read a statement from Gotham's Office of Management and Budget protesting any attempt to expand aid for the unemployed, the front door unlocked. She pushed the paper aside, tightened the bow of her pencil skirt. "There you are, Mr. Fleck," she said, rising to help with the shopping bags. "Did you find everything?"

A single sack hung from Arthur's twitchy knuckles. Brown paper. Wrinkled. The size of a lunch bag.

Head tilted to one side, she tested its light weight with two lifting motions. "Was Ed's closed?"

"No."

She looked inside. Hardware jumbled at the bottom, along with a distinct lack of orange, plastic bottles. "What about your medication?"

"Don't worry about it."

He shoved his tan jacket on the hook next to hers. Fingers smoothed his hair, turning into claws, a pressure that blanched his temples. Warmth fled her face, replaced by a concerned chill, for it was a move she recognized. A jarring and painful echo of tough times.

Without the usual peck, the usual caress, the usual smile, he walked past her to the living room. Grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked off the TV.

One foot forward before she held back. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

No answer, no turn towards her. No indication he'd heard her inquiry. He jerked the chair from his desk and dropped into it. Yanked open the top left drawer and smacked his journal to the surface.

Y/N's breath caught in her breast. When Arthur was upset, a pattern came into play: he wanted space, and she respected him by giving it. A behavior she attributed to his years of isolation and not a small amount of fear. Yes, she'd gotten used to it. But that didn't make it any less irksome, any less hard on her heart. Without the whole story of what'd happened, she found herself at a loss as to how to help. A fog had rolled in and she was a dinghy, drifting through choppy waters with a broken masthead.

She forced herself to browse the cupboards, search for what to piece together for a comforting meal. A can of peas sat on the second shelf. There was half a box of macaroni, but they'd used the last jar of tomato sauce on Monday. In the freezer, one Salisbury steak Swanson stood its ground, next to bags of chicken breasts and sweet corn. It was all about as comforting as cold chowder.

In the doorway by the dinette table, she observed him anew. He hunched over his desk, muttering to himself. He'd shed his cardigan and shirt, his trousers, even his worn white socks. They lay strewn on the other side of the room divider to his right. Out of sight but, judging from his posture, far too firmly in mind.

She approached with quiet, measured steps. Stopped six inches behind him. His every sinew screamed dissent. Ballpoint pen scratched across paper. She pushed herself to her tiptoes to peer over his shoulder. Though his forearm covered two-thirds of his journal, enough of the slanted script cried out to her.

"...bad guys alwaze win at life. 35 years here and I got one prize!!!!! What??? How fucking long can peeple like Dick make me feel awful? I don't want anything to hurt me any more. They never think what it's like to be someone like me. This city is too crowded and full of Dicks. If I..."

Testing the waters of what Arthur was willing to receive, she laid her hands on the nape of his neck. It was cement under her palms. Thumbs worked lines up and down on both sides, beneath brown curls that brushed knuckles. After a minute, after he hadn't pushed her away, she said, "You don't have to shut me out."

His scrawling stopped.

Lines became circles as she moved outwards. The pads of her fingers traced his clavicle, massaged the bony knobs of his shoulders. But his muscles grew tauter, and she realized the swirling strokes stung instead of soothed. Reluctance ached her sternum. She swallowed against the worry he hated.

He'd been in worse shape before and he'd come to her. He would come to her again soon.

In the meantime, she'd meet him where he was. Care for him the best way she knew how. "I'll get the groceries and stop by Groves." Her lips brushed the shell of his ear. "And be home before you have a chance to miss me." One final squeeze before she turned to leave.

Quick as a whip, his hand locked around her wrist.

Relief flooded her frame. A welcome, wished for reaction to the man she loved. The man she was devoted to, the man she adored opening up enough to need her. She went to his side, assuming he wanted to embrace her, press his face to her stomach. Let go with her, into her. But his posture remained rigid, a ramrod of resentment. His whole body appeared to be filled with waiting - but for what?

He traced the veins on her forearm, mapped a path to her palm. Her fingers curled around his. Low and rumbling, he pierced the silence. "Say you want me." A rasp equal parts desperation and demand. "Tell me." When his gaze darted to hers, the smoldering in his stare said he wanted to possess her.

She'd let him.

One sideways step to stand before him. Her rear rested on the lip of his desk.

"I want you," she said. She placed his palm on her breast, guided his thumb beneath the placket of her blouse. Popped the buttons with a flick of her fingers. "Put your hands on me."

A harsh inhale as he shot upwards, grabbed her chin with greedy hands, and shoved his mouth to hers. Her bottom lip caught on his teeth. He groaned and lapped the sting away. In one smooth motion, he shoved her skirt to her waist and lifted her onto the desk. The pages of his journal crumpled under her ass.

He grasped her collar, tugged crepe to her elbows. She snaked between their torsos to open the front of her bra. Her breasts spilled onto him and he groaned. Smothered her mouth with a savage intensity.

His clothed erection bumped her vulva, flint striking stone. Aching, her nipples tightened against his chest, his hair tickling, teasing. Thumbs hooked around the lace trim of her panties. He shoved them over her hips, down her thighs, past her knees. When the cotton reached her toes, she kicked them off. They landed on the console stereo, hung indelicately from the corner.

Dragging her ass to the edge of the desk, Arthur pulled himself out of his briefs. She fell backwards onto her elbows, knocked over their framed photograph, taken on a night to remember. It fell to the wooden surface with a slap. He cupped her labia, slipped a pointer between her lips. Long enough to test her readiness, to test her willingness.

The desk lamp's gentle light played across his ribs, his toned abdomen, his thighs. Breath shallow and ragged, she eyed the tip of his cock. Purplish red and shiny with slick. Stare fixed on her center, he took it in his palm. She gulped. Her knees fell further apart as she canted upward, her damp folds brushing his knuckles. He pumped once. Twice.

And then he breached her.

A rough cry flew from her throat. One leg curled about him, her heel at the small of his back, her other foot braced on the seat of his chair.

Bent over her now, he propped himself on one hand. Cupped her neck and sheathed his shaft completely. He crushed her to him for a fierce, firm kiss. The tip of his tongue pressed for entry. But before she could grant it, he moved to nuzzle her temple, her jaw.

Steady and sharp, his thrusts impaled her with the taste of something primal. The hot glide of flesh on flesh. His thighs rattled the pencil drawer. He grunted. Fucked faster, harder. The desk threatened to bang the wall.

His sweaty face fell to the crook of her shoulder and her eyes fell shut. The sensation of him inside her was powerful, overwhelming. A stretch that scorched in every way she wanted, forever and always.

This felt different, though. In the past, she'd invited him to take comfort in her body. To let their coming together be a haven, their union be a defiance against the tragedies life had dealt him. Besides the night she'd confessed she loved him, he hadn't taken her in that way. Arthur doing so now confirmed the strength of their connection. How much he trusted her, how much he honored her, as equally as she trusted and honored him.

Her heart longed to comfort him, too. To heal whatever had happened, to make the present and future brighter than the past. She sealed that vow with a kiss to his cheek.

His pelvis jerked unevenly, stammering between her thighs. She clutched his shoulder, gripped his forearm. A ragged moan tumbled past his lips, onto her skin. Her calves rose to squeeze him tight, tighter. Fingertips digging her hip, he stiffened, his hot essence splashing her walls. Gasps mingled, humid and heated. His abdomen quivered against hers.

Once he'd softened and steadied his breath, he slipped out of her. Arming his forehead, he stumbled to land in the chair.

Slowly, she clambered down, one foot meeting the carpet, then the other. She left her skirt at her waist but peeled off her blouse. Wiped their mess from the desk and tossed it on the pile of his clothes. She smoothed the pages of his journal, shut its leather cover. Smiling, she picked up their picture. Straightened the easel and put it in its place.

When she turned towards Arthur, he appeared to still be in a state, but one not altogether unpleasant. Gaze dazed and out of focus, dark brows lifted and lines of his face relaxed. And was that blush the result of his brazenness or his orgasm?

"Feeling better?" she asked, slinging an arm about him as she sat sideways on his lap.

"Uh huh."

She gave a throaty little laugh. "Good."

Sticky with perspiration, his forehead met her cheek. Her nails ran over his scalp, caught in damp, knotted curls. He heaved a long sigh, which goosepimpled her skin. Quiet blanketed them, tranquil and lovely, sunlight that sliced through the earlier fog.

But clouds did remain, questions she couldn't let go. Who was Dick? And what had he done to her husband, both then and now?

Rumbling disturbed the peace, a loud squeal like a balloon. Chuckling, Arthur splayed his fingers on her stomach. "Sorry about the groceries."

"Don't be." She covered his hand with hers. "I have an idea."

~~~~~

At a nearby diner, in a booth by the kitchen, over a blue-plate special of baked beans and hot dogs, Arthur told Y/N about it. All of it. The bullying, the cruelty of laughter, the taunting he hadn't always understood but a tone as familiar as not fitting anywhere. How reading had been hard and therefore it'd been hard to learn, even when he'd had the will. ("No one else had any problems. I felt stupid all the time.") That the awfulness he'd been destined to encounter every day made it a ten round fight to get off the couch, get washed up, and get to school.

And that he didn't get - would never get - how a guy as mean as Dick McMahon could wind up with the nicest girl in class.

Arthur scraped his spoon across the plate to snag the last bite of beans. "I dunno. I didn't want to be upset. That happened when we were kids."

"It's normal to be upset by assholes," Y/N countered. "What happened wasn't okay. Twenty years doesn't change that."

"But shouldn't it be easier by now? He said I hadn't changed but I have." Arthur wanted to believe that. He had to believe that.

"There're people I don't ever want to see again, no matter how much they've changed. Why do you think I moved to Gotham?"

The corner of his mouth quirked. "You're right, I just-" A slight shake of his head as he broke off. Dick had already stolen enough of today. Arthur wasn't about to allow him the rest. He retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. "I don't want to talk about it anymore. I'll be fine. I just want to enjoy being with you."

"You're always welcome." She caught the waitress's attention with a raised hand and ordered a decaf and slice of Pineapple Dream Pie. "We can get groceries tomorrow. Your refills, too. No, wait. Groves is closed Sundays."

"I have enough until Wednesday. Don't you have an appointment that morn-?"

"Schcuze me, ma'am?"

At the end of their table stood a man, clad in an orange and white Gotham Knights basketball jersey. A fiery K was emblazoned on his cheek. Arthur wondered where the rest of the letters had fled to.

The squire teetered on drunken knees. "Can I have your catchsup?" he asked, gesturing towards the glass bottle at the other end of the booth. Arthur handed it over. The man offered a goofy grin and shuffled away.

When he'd rounded the counter, Y/N smirked. "I hope he ordered a pot of coffee. Anyway, yes, Dr. Shapiro's at ten. Just a routine visit and he'll check my IUD. I got it after I moved, so it should have a few years left in it."

Ready to tease, Arthur wrinkled his nose. "But why? When we met, you said you weren't looking."

"Well, I wanted to be prepared. And it's a good thing, too, because that changed when you came along."

Chuckling, he rubbed the nape of his neck. A very good thing, indeed.

She poured the last of the creamer in her coffee, gave it a slow stir. She put the spoon on the saucer and lifted the beige mug. For a moment, her eyes had a faraway look. Her lashes fluttered it away. "Do you ever feel like you missed out, having only been with me?"

A flinch shot through him. "No. Why would you think that?"

"It's silly, I know. It's just that I was married before. I dated. You didn't have all that. And I'm older than you." The sheepish tuck of hair behind her ear. "I just wonder sometimes, that's all."

The cash register opened and shut. Order Up! bellowed from the kitchen. The shop bell ting ting tinged.

Arthur rested his cigarette in the table ashtray. Slid out of the booth and slid onto the bench seat beside her. "I'm comfortable with you and you care about me. I care about you, too."

A bright blush as she drank. Contentment washed over him, a happiness he hadn't known he could have before being with her. In this diner, in this city, in this life. A life he couldn't have dreamed of in that high school bathroom stall, snotting all over himself and asking why don't I fit, why don't I fit, why don't I fit?

"You know what's changed?" he started, folding her into his side. "I'm not alone anymore. Instead of getting angry, I should've bragged about that."

Beaming, she angled to face him. "You'll have plenty of chances."

She brought the mug to his mouth. Though he disliked milk in his java and one sugar wasn't enough, he stole a quick sip. Then he kissed her, sipping from her lips to wash the bitter away.

~~~~~

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[mychlapci]

Booba hcs! So out of tfa Optimus, Sentinel, and Elita, Optimus has the biggest rack. Like, massive booba. Truly proportional to his chassis. How does he keep it all in? He wears a binder, obviously! (Bind responsibility kids.) Sentinel is jealous because of his little mosquito bites. And Elita is sitting at a comfortable c-cup.

Although there is something else I headcanon. Optimus is underweight. That tiny waist? Not good for a semi truck. Ratchet has been begging Optimus to eat something since they met. It isn't until Megatron notices that his little rival is basically a twig, and not a healthy one either, he starts bullying Optimus into eating more.

"You call that a truck? I've seen speedsters with more weight. It's honestly a little concerning, is the Council not feeding you little bots properly?"

Half out of spite, and partly because he knows Megatron is right, Optimus starts eating more, putting on weight, but it's not just water weight. He works out, builds his routine around his waist, hips, and thighs, he definitely doesn't skimp out on leg day anymore, and by the end of it, he's completely filled out. His hips don't exceed the width of his battering ram shoulders, but they come close. Toned abdominals lined with a healthy layer of fat, not the flabby, grisle kind, but the strong, jiggles ever-so slightly, best-part-of-the-meat kind. And those thighs? His hydrolics are strong enough he could crush a mech's helm (or pelvis) between them.

Best part? With the improvements to his frame came improvement to his confidence! His team listens to him more often, they see how much more happy he is (and can tell why he got the name "Optimus"), and it didn't hurt that he looked and felt amazing. When the Elite Guard saw his new look, Jazz whistled, Ultra Magnus nodded approvingly (he'd known and was always a little concerned about Optimus' weight), and Sentinel's jaw dropped.

As for Megatron? He was floored by the glow up his little Prime underwent. Absolutely smitten. Especially after Optimus used his weight to literally flip Megatron over and pin him down (if only for a few moments). He knew then and there that he had to have this little Autobot to himself. He wondered what Optimus would look like pregnant, mmm, that's a delicious thought. All round and swollen with his bitties, made him hard just thinking about it.

And with Optimus feeling so much better, his libido higher than ever. He can't help but imagine that big, brutish, warlord pin him down, pry open his panels and ravage him. He squirms thinking about it, his valve getting wet very quickly. It's been so long since he'd been properly fucked. Maybe a late night drive would help clear these thoughts.

Little does he know, a certain warlord was thinking the same thing. In the morning, or rather, late into the afternoon, Optimus comes limping back to base with dents in his pelvis, lubricant stains on his thighs, and a slightly bloated belly. (Megatron on the other hand has an almost mangled pelvis from how tight Optimus was gripping him)

Three weeks later, he's purging his tanks and a quick check-up reveals a sparkling or two in his forge.

augh... chubby tfa Optimus is such an amazing image i cannot stop thinking about it. He's always been a little too skinny in the waist department, and honestly it never bothered him, not until he starts filling out and realizes how miserable he was... Now he's stronger, has a sturdier core and he feels more attractive, somehow....

Now that Optimus fits into the decepticon ideal (although... he probably has a little bit to go), Megatron is very interested in pounding his fat little valve. That thick waist and those huge thighs are perfect for pregnancy <3

[brandwhorestarscream]

7- plug 'n play, wheeljack x ratchet?

You know what comes to mind for this?? Actual valve plugs

Wheeljack's been on Ratchet all night long: spike buried in his cute little valve and stuffing him so full over and over again. He's so full of transfluid his gestation tank is nearing max capacity, and he swears he can actually feel a slight change in weight. Palming his belly on the berth while they're snuggled together enjoying the afterglow, Wheeljack gets a diabolical idea. Slots a nice little valve plug into his partner, magnetized and locking in on his command. Ratchet is too sleepy and throughly fucked-out to protest, but come morning?

Oh, he is in for it

Wheeljack is already gone by the time he wakes up for his shift, already squirreled away in his lab cooking up his next disaster. Ratchet slides his legs out of berth and his knees nearly buckle when he tries to stand: the plug is still snugly fitted in his valve. Gently tugging on it reveals its still magnetized there, and he can't override the damn thing.

It feels filthy, going into work at the medbay with a sex toy nestled inside him. It's an honest effort not to waddle, especially when his traitorous valve starts to slick up. The plug goes pretty deep, meant to keep transfluid inside, and is rubbing and stroking the walls of his valve with every step. Grinding itself into sensitive nerve clusters, the first sparks of arousal start up in his lines and he knows it's going to be a long day. By the time he gets to the medbay, his valve is sopping wet and clenching as well as it can around the plug, trying to drag it in further to simulate the thrusting of a spike, and when that doesn't work, the calipers start whirring against his will, spinning and tightening and loosening to try and force an overload. He's biting his lips all day, knock kneed and constantly shifting on his pedes, desperately trying not to squirm. Its hard to concentrate, and by the time Wheeljack finally frees him, he's a mess.

Legs shaking and threatening to dump him on the floor, he doesn't protest when his mate backs him into a corner, grabbing his hips to lift him onto a countertop. Wheeljack spreads his thighs, optics glinting as the medic's interface panel snaps back eagerly. Ratchet moans and tries to cover his mouth, rocking back and forth. His valve is visibly swollen, biolights pulsing feverishly, leaking so much glowing lubricant its a miracle it hadn't started leaking down his thighs. Wheeljack deactivates the plug, pulls it out, and Ratchet immediately comes undone. Crashing overload he's been edged toward for his entire shift hits him like a bolt of lightning, electric, white hot ecstasy flooding his body and making him sob while his valve gushes all over the counter. Wheeljack kisses one thigh and leans in to start cleaning the wet, messy valve with his glossa, already looking forward to the next time

[fuck-customers]

I work for a call center that services water heaters and hoo boy, the stories I could tell you. 

First of all, you'd think it would be common sense that you have to actually be standing next to the appliance that you're asking for help with so that we can get the info we need to get started (No, I cannot help you with a water heater in Florida if you are calling from FRANCE), and they will find new and inventive ways to look everywhere except where you told them the serial number was located.  I've learned that I have to specifically tell them to bring the phone with them to the unit or they will put it down and walk away for several minutes leaving you in awkward silence.  And that's before we even get into the actual problems. 

Attempting to return the unit to the store despite the bold print label on the front of the tank that says "STOP!  DO NOT RETURN THIS UNIT" and lists our phone number and then will claim that the label isn't there when we bring it to their attention.

Not bothering to read the manual and then complaining when we tell them their electric unit needs a different breaker switch. 

We ask for pics of the exhaust venting and it looks like a 90's screensaver (gee I wonder why your carbon monoxide detector is going off). 

Customers who physically cut the tank open to prove that the leak isn't repairable and then complain when we tell them they've voided their warranty. 

I once got a person who called to complain that they didn't like the indicator light on the gas valve flashing to indicate that it was working properly. 

another guy stopped in the middle of installing his unit to turn the water back on and flooded his basement. 

Another one waited TWO YEARS to tell us that the part we sent him didn't fix his problem and then demanded a replacement. 

The ones that just go "yes yes yes yes" when you tell them to turn off the breaker switch and then complain that they got shocked when they open the panel on the front of the tank. 

They actually won't let me troubleshoot anymore, not because I did anything wrong, but because too many customers complained when I pointed out to them how they caused their own problems. 

It's not uncommon to get a caller who just goes "MY NIPPLES (the fittings where the pipes attach) ARE BURNING HOT AND LEAKING ALL OVER THE PLACE!  AND MY AY-NO (mispronunciation of anode) ROD IS MAKING MY WATER SMELL LIKE SHIT!  IT SHOT OUT LIKE A ROCKET AND GOT STUCK IN THE CEILING!"

Bottom line, there should be a mandatory government-subsidized class for new homeowners so that they know how to take care of their homes.

[whirligig-girl]

The S282 from the train sim game Derail Valley, interpreted as a prop built in the first two or three seasons of Thomas the Tank Engine & Friends.

I tried to imagine how a prop builder would actually put something like this together on a children's TV series budget. Like the other original props, this one uses kitbashed parts from Marklin model trains as well as plastic card bodies and sculpted faces. The chassis is taken from a Marklin BR55 0-8-0 and the pilot and trailing wheels, and cylinders, modified from a Marklin BR78.

There are some design changes to make it just look more Thomas, like the thomas style headlamp, the flat prominent buffer beam, and the blocky red-sided footplate. The geometry has been simplified as it needed to be made out of folded, bent, and cut plastic card.

More details and alternate versions under the cut:

The actual locomotive as it appears in Derail Valley: Simulator. Note the much larger cylinders. They could have built more proportional cylinders--they did so when they built Murdoch in season 7, but I wanted it to fit in better with Henry and Gordon.

The valve gear shown is accurate to the BR55, not to the BR78 Gordon and Henry use nor the game model (which has much thicker rods)

Other details, like the air pump (not needed on sodor, which seems to use vacuum brakes), bell, and dynamo (again, not used on sodor) have been removed. The ladder detail on the running board has been simplified. A cowcatcher is not needed, but i kept it as more or less the only obviously foreign feature of the engine. The electric headlamp on the top of the S282's smokebox has been replaced with a white

The S282's tender is a four wheel tender on a pair of freight car trucks. The thomas version is a six wheel tender based on Gordon and Henry's.

The livery was changed to make it feel more Sodor. The sides of the running board were painted red, and red lining was added to the boiler bands, cab, and tender. And 282 was given as a number on the tender, in red-lined yellow text. The wheels retain the red paint of the model that contributed their wheels, but dulled a bit by weathering. The game model has black wheels with white walls and red counterweights, but that didn't look right with the small counterweights on most of the wheels and the one single large counterweight on the number three axle.

With so many red accents, the loco bears more than a passing resemblance to Hiro from the cgi series, though this is only a coincidence.

Here's a variant with a game-accurate livery. No striping, and the wheel spokes are black with white walls and red counterweights.

Here are squeaky clean versions of both liveries.

and here are NWR green, blue, and red variants. I actually made a texture pack for the previous major version of Derail Valley, before they updated the model and the UV maps changed. (obviously my texture pack did not go so far as to add faces)

Final variant, the ES&DT version. [sniff sniff] can you hear a guitar riff slowly building tempo?