#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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[rabotimagines]

"HARMLESS" GN BOT! Reader x Optimus, Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide, light Yandere! Scenario

Summary: He'd been walking down one of the ark hallways when he'd heard a noise that drew his attention down one of the more secluded pathways. He'd followed the sound to figure out who was back where they shouldn't be only to find you self servicing.

Warnings: Noncon Voyeurism. Noncon recording in Jazz's section. Smut ahead. Minors DNI 🔞

Genre/Theme: Light Yandere/More Obsessed vibes tbh, catching crush/Obsession masturbating. Smut.

G1! Characters included: Optimus, Prowl, Jazz, Ironhide

Notes: Jazz is the only one here whose accepted the fact that he's a freak. The others are in varying stages of denial. Autobot reader. Valve and Spike are used since BOT reader.

Pronouns: You, your, yours

Optimus isn't trying to sneak anywhere he was simply- curious. Honestly, he was expecting to maybe find the twins up to some pranking or something of that nature. The wall is thick and tall enough that Optimus is just hidden naturally. He smiles to himself at the thought of spooking one of his friends or comrades, so he let's himself- indulge in the little fun. It was harmless, after all. He's up against the wall, ready to interrupt whatever tomfoolery when his optics catch on an opening before the turn. Optimus peers in curious when a sound happens again- and almost stumbles backwards and lands on his aft.

You- panting, optics bright, servos readily stroking over your plating. Array popped open with spike and valve on full display for anyone to see. You were self servicing right here almost in front of Optimus. Heat hit Optimus's fuel lines so quickly he was half worried he'd risk actual sudden ignition. Optimus knew he shouldn't even feel this way about you- it wasn't even- he was your leader for Primus sake! He was the prime he wasn't supposed to be- a pervert! But something- something about you just made his systems lock up and his mind wander in places it hadn't gone in vorns. Made Optimus think in a way he shouldn't. In a way, he couldn't-

The soft sound of you groaning at your own administrations violently locked Optimus back to what he'd unknownly just walked into. Optimus watched stunned as two of your digits slipped into your valve rather easily. Your other servo lightly trailed along your spike, which was twitching in the air and leaking lubricant all over yourself from want- Optimus had to force his engine not to loudly rev in anticipation The sound urged to reverbate through his own frame at the sight.

Optimus knows he can't but- but with you like this right in front of him for his optics, he can't not think about it. Optimus wants to spike you - he wants to so bad. He'd have to stretch you. Optimus was admittedly rather large- overall. (You could even be in his frame size class, and he'd still have to prep you-) He wonders if your optics would brighten like that one time he'd praised you for a battle decision. He'd fold you in half, using his servos to drag you back down his spike in time with his own thrusts. He'd praise you over and over again if you reacted so sweetly. Regardless of how much of his spike you'd actually be able to successfully take.

Optimus knew the more responsible course of action would be to take your spike in his valve instead. But Optimus startlingly finds he doesn't want to be responsible with you. He wants to spike you so badly- your noises getting louder cut his own quick fantasy short, Optimus's attention zeroed in on you. You started bucking your hips against both your working servos desperate for Overload. Optimus has the very fleeting thought of revealing himself and offering assistance before he watches you spill transfluid all over yourself with a full frame shutter.

You gasped in vents of air as the charge trickled over your plating in fits- and Optimus lately realizes his smoke stacks were puffing smog when the smell of ozone hits his olfactory. Optimus has to force himself to move, but once he does, he leaves so quickly he's worried you might've heard him. This leaves Optimus plagued by what he should not have seen in the first place. His entire day is filled with the imagery of you- panting, optics bright, servos on your array- and he has no clue how he manages to finish the little amount of paperwork that he had. Optimus doesn't let himself self service. He can't- he won't- it was so wrong. You didn't even know Optimus saw the whole thing- that he saw you so- indecent.

He's plagued by one more thought of you taking his spike- your hips bucking against his, and Optimus gets up and forces himself to the washracks. It was rather late anyway there shouldn't be any mech using it. He walks in and promptly stops because there is someone using it, and Primus, it's you! With solvent running down your frame casually washing yourself with no worries. He mets your optics (after his optics had trailed much too long on your frame), and you casually greet him, then go back to your rinse. Completely unaware of what offensive imagery had just barreled through Optimus's proccessor.

Optimus didn't wait to promptly step under the closest washrack and turn the solvent on the coldest possible setting. Not even flinching when his frame is doused in a freezing temperature. Optimus finds he has to exert his will to keep staring at the wall and not steal any other glance at you.

... Primus, he needed to get a better hold of himself.

-

Prowl following the sounds in the off-limits area had come with purpose and indent. He'd been readily prepared to scold any of the usual troublemakers for getting up to something they shouldn't have. Clearly, that's what this was, with whoever trying and failing to keep entirely quiet. There was certainly an attempt, and Prowl would not have noticed if he were any of the usual autobots. But Prowl was always alert, and now he's here slowly trailing along the wall. He'd known there was a small indent hidden from the hallway for someone to hide or lean against. Prowls optics catch on a small opening in the wall that allows him to spy who-

Prowl stops dead in his tracks when he sees you- he almost walks the last two steps and reveals himself to you when he actually processes your expression. Optic ridge tight, mouth open panting, optics bright- Prowls line of sight trails down your shuttering frame before they widen when they land on your pressurized spike. His gaze snaps farther down instinctively when he catches movement and sees your valve.

He also sees the false spike in your valve.

His doorwings hike so high so quickly that Prowl can feel the snap of air on his own neck cables. He can feel his own optics burn brighter and his logic centre suddenly goes rouge and attempts to calculate subduing measures on you- Prowl wasn't going to subdue you- you weren't a threat- just as he dismisses the calculations you groan rather loudly. The action triggers the subduing success calculations to turn back on, and Prowl watches you hilt the false spike back in your valve. Valve stretching to accommodate it and hard spike leaking lubricant at your own heightened arousel.

Prowl- Prowl needed to leave now. It had to be you of all mechs. If it was anyone else, Prowl would be able to rightfully interrupt this debauchery. But the fact that it's you- You softly panting with your array on full display and demonstration- Prowls processor is stuck, and he feels like if he stares too long, he'll risk a minor circuit crash. Prowl still doesn't know what it was about you that made his system stutter like it does. But Prowl knew that whatever it was- it was unhealthy. It wasn't  harmless- it was far from it. Prowl shouldn't think about you like this- He has to force himself to look away from your array again. Prowl had barely managed to push you out of his proccessor the other day, and now he's seeing you like- you groaned, and Prowls door wings vibrated a touch at the sound.

Prowl takes one long last look at your pleasured faceplate before promptly turning on his pede and briskly walking away. Prowl makes his way back to his office and sits, and finishes his entire daily paperwork log so quickly he's stuck sitting in his office staring at a blank datapad. Now, the other problem he had to solve. How is Prowl to... inform you that you're not allowed to self-service outside of your habsuite.

Prowl knows you have that false spike in your subspace. He knows he could call you in right now and make you empty your entire subspace on his desk for him. Say some of the autobots were smuggling... contraband. If you didn't drop it, he'd frisk you for it. Regardless, it would be put out on his desk, and Prowl would scold you and properly punish you. Prowl would use it on you. Force that false spike in your valve again and again and watch you fall apart while his own spike ached against his modesy panel. He'd make you overload all over yourself until all you could say was his designation.

His proccessor supplied the image of you sitting on his desk, with your legs splayed open on either side of you. Transfluid all over the front of your chasiss from your overworked spike. With Prowls own spike sitting heavy against the mesh of your valve...

Prowl has to force himself to turn and go on break. Which leads to him walking like he's on his way to kill a mech and subsequently scaring anyone out of his way as he makes his way to his habsuite. Prowl overloads into his fist so hard his battle computer resests itself from the heat. When it turns back, his logic centre started by running through the success he'd have getting himself alone with you and your potential routes of travel around the ark... It takes a shameful amount of effort to dismiss the promt...

The stasiss cuffs Prowl always keeps in his subspace feel absurdly heavy.

-

Ironhide is like Prowl, he'd come expecting to have to drag a troublmaker or two out and lay into them. He's not usually light on his pedes, but he'd had to learn to be after this many vorns at war. So he makes his way over ready to drag an autobot out like a buzzing scraplet if he needed to. But he stops when he hears a sharp invent that could have been pained? The sound sets his plating shifting the wrong way, and he gets even quieter and reaches a tentative servo against his subspace. Ready to pull his blaster out if he had to blast like pit as soon as he turned that lil' corner.

Ironhide's optics catch movement, and his gaze is drawn to the little broken patch of wall that gives him a small but wide enough gape to easily pear in and see what was on the other side. Ironhide stops and actually focuses on it only to recognize just who's plating that was- You failing to stifle a moan sends Ironhides plating ruffling for an entirely different reason. Oh, sweet slaggin- Ironhide has to bite his glossia so he wouldn't curse a storm under his own vents. Really? Here? Now? You were actually doing this?! You little pervert!

Ironhide- Ironhide knew whatever he felt about you was- well, fragged to put it lightly. He'd been online for frankly too damn long, and he'd never felt like this before. (And that only made it freak him out even more.) Yeah, he'd loved and crushed and fantasized, but whatever you were doing to his systems was something else. The blasted amount of feelings you were giving Ironhide was a pain in his aft on a good day. On his bad days, he couldn't focus on anything else, but his proccessor conjured charged fantasies- like he was a fragging youngling who'd just learned what interfacing was.

Ironhide sure wasn't about to let that stop him from doing his job, though. He was gonna drag you out and put you on chore duty for a week for this- You failing to stifle a groan that only turned muffled halfway which made Ironhide focus back on you through the gap and Ironhide swallowed hard. You had your digits shoved into your own mouth, thrusting them in again every time you thrust your spike into your other servo. You moaned against your own digits, your own desperate servo sending a bit of oral lubricant down your chin.

Arousel spiked in Ironhides frame so damn fast he didn't even have a chance to deny the HUD prompt before his array snapped back of its own accord. Ironhide bit his glossia, glaring at his now suddenly very fully ready to go spike. Ironhide cursed hard in his proccessor at his own frames utter betyral. You whined around your digits, and Ironhides will shattered like glass. His servo cupped and immediately started stroking his own spike. Fine- fine! Ironhide would let you have this harmless dirty little secret. Even if he shared it a little bit with you-

Ironhide took the sight of you in- Optics bright, mouth making a mess all over yourself with your own digits, Spike hard and probably aching- Ironhides spike throbbed and he made sure to match the pace on his spike with your own servos speed. Ironhide pressed slightly against the wall, imagining it was you. Instead, he could press into the ground. Pit- Ironhide could take two the last two steps and do it right now- (He wouldn't- he couldn't.) Just two easy steps, and he'd scold you for being a pervert. (With his own spike already dripping-) Ironhide could punish you for it- he should punish you for it.

Ironhide would make you get on your knees and he'd have you swallow his spike. Put something better in there than your own desperate digits- you groaned on your own digits, and it was scarily easy to imagine you on his spike instead. Ironhide overloads to the sound of your own overload- he has to set his jaw tight, so the heavy groan that wanted to roll out of it wouldn't give him away.

Ironhide then realizes he's made a mess on the wall with his own transfluid and quickly grabs the rag he keeps in his subspace for oil. He wipes his mess up as quickly as he can before turning and making his way back to the main hallway. Ironhide might not get you for self servicing- but he can definitely scold you for slacking when you're supposed to be on the job. So Ironhide waits around the corner for you to come out on your own accord. 

... Ironhide realizes he can't deny this much longer before some other part of him breaks.

-

Jazz is naturally light on his pedes after vorns of making sure he stays that way. He doesn't even have to stop before he's leaning up against the wall instinctively when he hears another soft set of sounds trying and failing to stay quiet. So Jazz does what he does and sneaks over to find out what's what. He half wonders what he's gonna interrupt so he leans to peak between a gap to see a peak of whatevers being hidden from him- and Jazz almost immediately gives himself away like some kind of rookie at the sight of you with your interface array popped open.

Jazzs spark stutters and arousel starts pumping through his system like it was his function. As soon as he realizes it's you- You self servicing- a delighted smile curls on his face, and he leans farther against his little gap to get a better view. Oh, Jazz is lucky! he's so lucky-

Jazz had long accepted the admittedly almost obsessive hold you had on his spark and processor. After a few internal debates, he'd elected his feelings for you while wild were also genuine. So Jazz just needed to squash down the more- intense urges, and he should be fine. Jazz was never the type of mech to shy away from vices. Whether it was a harmless perversion or the unsavory things he needed to be or do as the head of special operations. Jazz had no objections in indulging in his romantic desire for you. (He just needed to make sure it didn't consume him whole while he tried to woo you properly.)

Jazz could interrupt and scold you teasingly and offer a servo, but Jazz knew you wouldn't be likely to want to keep going after being interrupted doing what you thought was private...

So he decides he'll take the harmless- (what you didn't need to know wouldn't hurt you.)  opportunity and activate the record function setting on his visor. He didn't want to miss this- Your servo stroking along your twitching spike, other servo running along your frame touching and grasping at the gasps in your plating. Giving Jazz a proper show of you tentatively touching yourself. Jazz wonders what your spike would feel like in his valve when you buck your hips against your own hold. Jazz then has to bite down on his bottom derma so he wouldn't groan at the sight of you spreading your legs unknownly, giving him an optic full of your obscenely dripping valve.

Jazz reigns in the wild urge to jump you- to offer to help because he knows the act would ruin any process he'd made getting closer to you even just as a friend-Jazz leaned even closer, focusing on your digits teasingly brushing against your own mesh and anterior node. Jazz found himself wanting to burry two digits down to the knuckle in your valve and hear what sound you'd make. Would you manage to stay quiet like you were now, or would you moan for him? You panted out quick vents and noises that were still so restrained due to where you were. Your servo jerked your twitching spike quicker, causing more soft and barely audible sounds.

Jazzs own digits started to dig into the gap of his inner thigh armor. Moving to run along there against the dips of his own array panel. He'd pop his aching spike out, but Jazz didn't want to even chance ruining any little sound you might make with his own noises. Or the sound of his own lubricant- this was all you, baby. All for him-

Jazz has to dig his digit pads into his own thigh- scratching the paint right off when he watches you overload. You looked so good- So perfect. So sultry. So perfect for him-

Jazz has to force himself to hit end on the recording when you start to rise and move to quickly clean up. You'd be coming his way in a moment, after all. So Jazz casually stalks his way back to the common hallway he'd started at and moves to finish that report he'd originally been filing. He's definitely just going through the motions, though. His proccessor replaying his new prized recording over and over for him behind his visor.

He's self servicing to it as soon as he tucks into his habsuite for scheduled recharge. Jazz is already making notes about how you touched yourself and how he could keep that little information tucked away for later. Jazz, let's himself imagine spiking you in your little area and giving you a proper valve overload, making your optics bright and your vents shaky. Jazz then imagines riding your spike and filling him up like he'd filled you up. He imagines sucking your spike- tasting your valve. Jazz had already accepted that he wanted you in every way you'd let him, so he has no problem indulging further and further.

Jazz overloads hard watching you overload a second time. And Jazz has to bite down on his own knuckles to not set Red alerts hallway sensors off. Maybe... Jazz could adjust your work schedule and give you just slightly more free time than you have right now. Would be a shame if your little hiding spot went... unutilized

Jazz just hoped he'd be quick enough to catch you next time, too.

[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~”

[transformers-spike]

autobots turn >:)

i did the decepticons i really like and how they would feel, time for the autobots i really like; wheeljack, arcee, and ratchet.

out of everyone, wheeljack would be the one to most likely find human porn, if it wasn't, ratchet trying to look into human anatomy to keep up with what affects a fleshy body. he would not be ashamed to say that he has indeed masturbated to it, too. it is once he is with his human that he is told how porn is mostly faked and a lot of things are used for money and not genuine sake.

especially discovering how his human partner feels about themself. emotions are hard, but he can understand. he lets them be vulnerable and holds them when they feel like they will be judged when they won't be. he adores them, no matter what they look like. outside or inside. this doooooes mean he is asking questions how sensitive everything else is. which leads to the best mind blowing orgasm the human has from his glossa alone.

with arcee, she learns through her partner rather than porn. i do not think she would be all interested as she has a human in front of her that she always was sporting for. (before, it was june until they came along but shh.) interfacing isn't on top of her priority list, but when her human wants to learn more about her equipment, she gives them time with each other. it means she also gets to learn about her partner's and adores how large their anterior node is. always in sight and their valve so cute, however a lot smaller than what she heard from the human "fetishists" (cough cough magnus and wheeljack cough cough).

it is a tight fit, but she can mass displace if it is hard. if her spike can't fit, they can always resort to scissoring, her digits, or glossa. either way, she gets to watch all the faces they make. and there is a lot of cuddles afterwards.

then with ratchet... oh, he has knowledge on the different kinds of intersex there is. once his own human partner tells him about themself biologically before a checkup is done, he just tells them straight up that it doesn't change his view on them. it actually helps better with an exam/checkup to see what he is looking for. a normal checkup... that is what would have happened if his large digits just didn't rub against them so deliciously.

they try to keep still, be as silent as possible, but when you have a doctor staring at your valve while it is leaking lubricants is.....a bit hard. the doctor in him tries to keep everything in line, but when he hears a whimper, his glossa is slipping into that wet heat and just enjoying his human's whines and moans. they will forever be beautiful to him, no matter what.

I am so giddy reading this ueifieiofeoefi It's a joy to have other folks talk about these experiences with bots, especially since I don't have enough knowledge to tackle this. Anyone can send me their headcanons on x thing, especially if they have insight I lack. Always an absolute delight to read. Also - why is Magnus also a human fetishist? You can't just drop this and run - I'm begging to hear more about it

[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.

[dragqueenstarscream]

alternatively for a break from screamer 2 8 10 16 for knockout. my favorite homosex man

yesssss, i love this bot! i don't write about him a lot, but his faggotry is off the charts.

off topic, but have you ever heard the song "take a slice" by glass animals? i think of him whenever i hear that song. the porno-esque intro music just fits him. anyway.

2 - knock out absolutely has a thing for lingerie, both on you and himself. to him, lingerie is like wrapping paper on a birthday present, teasing him with what lies beneath. whether he slowly unties each pretty little bow and knot or just rips it right off, it'll be on the floor by the end of the night. if he decides to wear lingerie for you, however, that's a real treat, as he only does that every once in a while. don't rip it off him, though; cybertronian sized lingerie is hard to find.

he's also got a wicked praise kink. he loves being told how hot he is, how handsome he is, how good he is in the berth, etc. feed his ego, and he'll treat you right.

8 - that was right after one of his crazed street races. he has a thing for showing you off, and with you in the driver's seat dressed all handsome, just for him... well, that combined with the rush of a good race drove him wild. he may have had to play dirty, but he ended up winning that race, and the night ended in him doing donuts in the parking lot (to show you off even more) before finding a nice, secluded spot to fuck you silly. he's not usually on top, he's more of a pampered princess who likes having his valve played with, but sometimes, an adrenaline rush gets his engines revving in more ways than one.

10 - he has a thing for when you're fresh out of the shower. sure, he finds your ostensibly human post shower wet hair amusing, but he also enjoys how fresh you are, how nice you smell. on a similar line, he likes when you're wearing an outfit that not only looks good on you, but makes you feel good as well. considering he himself enjoys always looking his best, it makes sense that he enjoys that on you, too.

16 - you know those little fins on the sides of his head? the ones that look like elf ears? right there. run your fingers along them, kiss them, lick them, and he'll start making noises he didn't realize could come out of his mouth.

on a similar note, his chest grills are crazy sensitive. slip your fingers in there, play with them a bit, and his whole body turns to putty in your hands.

[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.

[sakanoshitaa]

By Your Side

Synopsis: timeskip!Aone Takanobu x reader. Aone needs to make it home to you to watch Team Japan take on Team Argentina in the Olympics, but the universe has other plans! 

WC: ~1.8k

Warnings: Fluff!!! Food is mentioned but not central to the story. Gender neutral reader, their hands are briefly described. One reference to an irl man

Notes: This is a very belated piece for @tetzoro’s Olympics Collab! I am sooo sorry this is so late (,,>﹏<,,) … Banners by @/cafekitsune

Despite it only being 11 am, the July sun beats down oppressively as Aone steps outside to haul another two bags of concrete to the threshold of the framed apartment building. He’s been at work for four hours already, and when he glances at the cloudless sky, he sighs. No respite in sight. Not for another five hours—when he gets to go home to you, sequestered away in frigid air conditioning all day long.

He approaches the shell of the building and deposits the bagged concrete next to eight others. Standing up, he gazes down at his palms, hands large with wide fingers and thick calloused skin. He smiles to himself thinking about yours: palm to palm your fingers aren’t much shorter, but your hands are much more elegant: narrower fingers, softer skin. 

Turning around, he heads back to the box truck to restock, hauling two 25-kg bags at a time. Humidity is thick against his skin, drenching him in sweat that gives little relief. Normally he handles tasks that require more skilled labor. But, concrete is heavy and everyone on site knows he’s pure strength (hauling twice as much as Sakunami), so he agreed to lend a hand. Stoic as ever despite the discomfort, he wipes his brow on the hem of his t-shirt as he drops this round of concrete mix. 

As he returns to the truck, his mind wanders to you again, directing his thoughts away from the heat. He reminds himself he has to work efficiently today in order to leave early—he has to get home to you. He made a promise, never something to be taken lightly. Luckily, he was able to arrange with his supervisor to leave a little early today, in order to make it home by 4 pm. 

The day drags on under the searing sun, abruptly interrupted by a scraping noise that emanates from below the mini excavator, followed by a pop and a hiss. Despite being across the job site, Aone immediately starts running over with an idea of what just happened. The newest contractor on their team, operating the Hitachi, had ruptured the water line leading into the apartment building. The organic, metallic smell of wet dirt fills his sinuses as he drops to his knees to crank the shutoff valve closed. 

His lunch feels shallow in his stomach as a wave of dread washes over him. He knows it typically takes four hours, minimum, to repair a service line break. It’s work that would need to be done before he leaves the site, yet he’s supposed to, no needs to leave in just three hours.

Wiping his brow, his focus narrows as he starts to work on the repair. After having his colleagues dig a trench around the broken section for better access, he begins to saw. Aone is never one to get frantic, but he is a little frazzled at the thought of being late to your date. Unnoticeable to anyone except himself, his hands tremble, just barely. Luckily muscle memory takes over: he cuts and cleans the pipe, installs a new fitting, and checks his work. 

Striding across to the site supervisor, he gently places his hand on his shoulder to wordlessly beckon him over. After making sure the shutoff valve has been reopened, his supervisor inspects the repair, before declaring, “Nice work. You’re free to go,” with a soft, knowing smile. Aone bows, then wastes no time in gathering his things, waving to everyone else, and marching off. 

He squeezes himself into the driver’s seat of his Daihatsu Hijet van and putts away towards your apartment. You always got a kick out of seeing him in his tiny van, but it was a practical choice. It allowed him to haul tools and materials, but not struggle with parking like he would with a full-size pickup. 

Arriving at his destination, he unfolds himself from the van, stretching out to his full 1.93 m self. Typically a little self-conscious, this afternoon a determined Aone is less aware of the weight of his steps and expression on his face. He struts down the sidewalk, oblivious as people give him an even wider berth than usual.

He ducks as he crosses the threshold into your favorite takeout place, a family-owned restaurant a short walk from home. The owner greets him, and as Aone bows in return, she rattles off your usual order in the form of a question. He meets her eyes with a single nod as he pulls out his wallet to pay. He knew you had called in an order earlier in the afternoon, and given that this order includes your two favorites, nasu dengaku and veggie gyoza, he knew it must be yours. “Thank you Misaki-san,” he says, nearly a whisper, as she places the bag of food into his hands. 

Walking past his van and nearing the apartment, he notices with a frown that because he was late, the food isn’t quite as warm as usual. He shakes his head, ridding it of the thought of the burst pipe before reaching for his keys, dangling from a carabiner attached to his front right belt loop. As soon as he opens the door, the familiar smell of home washes over him, and he’s greeted by the sight of your radiant smile.

“Welcome home sweetheart!” you exclaim, having logged off of your work laptop early and burrowed into a pile of blankets on the couch. The TV murmurs behind you, interrupted by your silhouette, already on the channel set to air the match. Aone gently sets the food down on the coffee table in front of you, and leans in to give you a quick peck. Digging in his pocket, he produces his phone to check the time: 3:55 pm. 

He places a firm hand on your shoulder as he leans in again. “Gonna rinse off real quick,” he sighs into your ear, kissing your cheek in the process. You respond, “Sounds good sweetie,” as you look up at him through your lashes, giving him a small smile and nod. With a contented sigh, he takes one last long look at you, relishing in the comfort of being home—with you—before he strides down the hall towards the bathroom. 

Faintly, you hear the shower turn on, but it quickly blends into background noise as your focus returns to the broadcast. After the conclusion of the previous event, the channel starts airing highlight reels from Team Japan’s previous match against Italy. Despite having grown up playing the sport yourself, you’re still enraptured by the sheer athleticism and talent of the men on your screen. Their movements are so familiar, yet so fluid and exaggerated, it’s like poetry in motion. 

You’re so enthralled that you don’t realize Aone is out of the shower until he pads his way around the corner of the couch and into your peripheral vision. Donning one of his many pairs of teal athletic shorts, a white t-shirt, and white crew socks, he slowly lowers himself down next to you on the couch. Quietly, the national anthem plays in the background, familiar faces lined up on the screen. 

Shifting your body towards him, your eyes meet, and an unspoken exchange takes place. He reaches forward to remove the food containers from the bag, opening them and placing them on the table. He knows to put the nasu dengaku in front of you. After you unravel your arms from the nest of blankets, he places a pair of chopsticks into your hand. “Eat,” he says gently, handing you one of the appetizers. 

You gaze at him with a smile, warmth spreading into your belly, as you place a piece of agedashi tofu in your mouth. The tips of his ears pinken in the slightest before the broadcast grabs the attention of you both. 

Before you had met Aone and his friends, you had no idea how small the world of volleyball really was. Sure, you had played as a teen, but attending a rural high school meant that your weak team never made it past the first round of prefectural qualifiers. He tangentially knew a good portion of the team from his high school days, and had regularly played against several of the members. He and Hinata even continue to exchange texts a few times a year. 

Your eyes are glued to the screen as the camera zooms in on who you know as Tsukki, conspicuously dressed in all black, having a conversation with Yamaguchi, wearing a Japan jersey. As the shot zooms in closer, it’s evident that Tsukki knows what’s happening. He locks eyes with the camera with annoyance, looking exasperated and a little disgusted.

There was nothing he resented more than the spotlight, and yet the cameras always seemed determined to seek him out. Tobias, a German national team member, had spent several seasons on MSBY. Through Hinata, he met and started dating Tsukki, and after the press caught wind, Tsukki became a frequent target at matches. 

Aone lets out a small huff of laughter after the director finally relents and the shot switches to an overview of the court. You curl up into him, placing your knees onto his lap, and he wraps his arm around your shoulders to pull you even closer. As the broadcast switches to a commercial break, you angle your head to look into his eyes, unable to stop a grin from spreading across your face. A pale pink has already settled across his cheeks when he smiles back at you. 

He wraps his other arm around you pulling you close, and murmurs in your ear, “Missed you.” 

“I missed you too, ‘Nobu. Glad you were able to make it home in time for the match.”

“Had to make it home for you, I made a promise.”

You squeeze his arm in response, giving him another saccharine look as player introductions start. Familiar faces flash across the screen: first Tobias, then Kageyama, Bokuto, Hyakuzawa, Hinata, Sakusa. Bringing a piece of eggplant to your mouth, nestled into the warmth at your side, you settle in. The match ahead is sure to entertaining and hard fought, and you’re glad you get to watch it with your favorite person at your side.

✧ Bonus ✧

After Japan wins a tight first set 29-27, the broadcast switches to a view of the raucous home crowd. The camera pans for a moment, then zooms in on a couple. They stand with arms around each other and they’re cheering loudly—the man looks a little rabid with excitement.

“And there’s Kuroo Tetsuro, recently promoted to Chief of Marketing for JVA! And of course, by his side, is his lovely wife Aims!” the commentator explains. Recognition flashes across Kuroo’s upturned face as he sees he’s on the jumbotron, then the next moment he has his lips squished against Aims’s cheek. Flustered, she pushes on his chest and he separates himself with a huff before smirking directly at the camera.

Closing notes: Thank you so much for reading!! I would love to hear your thoughts, any interactions are much appreciated :3 

If you aren’t familiar with Tobias Krick, he’s a current player on Germany’s national team. This summer, a video was making the rounds where he talks about how much he likes Haikyuu… he says Tsukki is his favorite player and shows off a plushie of him that he carries around. Idk I think Tsukki would hate it and I want to torture him so in this world they are dating! Hope you enjoy that lore

[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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[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.