#Lined Check Valves

[pathetic-gamer]

me, an hour ago: "fuck, the stove is on! what do we do?" [immediately does all the wrong things]

PSA: What NOT to do when you smell gas

In this situation, we got home to a smell of gas throughout the house and discovered our gas stove was on without a flame. it was only a tiny stream, and everything turned out fine, but here's a brief list of everything we did wrong:

NOTE: this is for if you smell significant amounts of gas, not a blanket list for all possible gas situations. (If you aren't aware, the methane**/natural gas used in houses smells vaguely like sulfer, or rotten eggs - this is an additive, since it has no natural smell. It's a very recognizable smell, once you've smelled it once. It's not the same smell as gasoline.)

1. If your stove has an electrical/spark ignition, do NOT turn it off.

Spark ignitions often spark when turning on *and* off. Spark + Gas = Boom. Boom is bad. Avoid boom.

Instead, turn off the gas at the source, i.e. the physical valve at the meter. There may be a smaller valve near the stove. If you don't know where the shutoff is, the fire department will find it.

2. Do NOT turn on (or off) vents or fans.

In fact, don't flip any electrical switches - that includes lights, plugging in or unplugging appliances, etc. These cause sparks. Spark + Gas = Boom.

Also, don't start your car. obviously.

3. Do NOT open windows

counterintuitive, I know. This is mostly because you want to prioritize your exit, but it's also to keep the fumes from spreading outside, where you should be waiting for the ~professionals~ to come handle it.

4. DO take all people and pets outside.

Do this very first!! (one thing we actually did right - go us!)

This is obviously because you don't want to go boom, but you also don't want to suffocate. Gas is poison!

NOTE: the gas from your stove is probably methane (natural gas); carbon monoxide is what you get when methane burns, which is why your kitchen needs to be well-ventilated and the stove shouldn't be left burning for long periods of time, but the natural gas itself is *also* potentially deadly. Carbon monoxide detectors dont detect natural gas, so that's what the odorous additive is for.

Inhaling natural gas causes nausea, headaches, dizziness, and makes you just generally woozy, and eventually causes you to lose consciousness and potentially suffocate, just like carbon monoxide does. We don't want that.

5. DO call the fire department/emergency line

They'll check for other leaks, shut gas off if needed, then test for air quality and eventually clear your house for reentry. It takes like 1-2 hours for the gas to dissipate, generally.

Yay, you survived! Congrats!!

NOTE: if you find the stove has been left on with a flame, or it's on with no flame but you don't smell gas, then you should be safe to just open windows and turn on vents and fans to air it out.

idk, this was actually pretty scary, especially when we realized how much of our immediate response was wrong and could have turned a dangerous situation into a real disaster.

tl;dr: If you smell gas when you shouldn't be smelling gas, just get all the people and animals outside, shut off the gas line, and call the fire department or gas company. don't fuck around with gas. you're not overreacting, you're taking the proper safety measures.

**CORRECTED FROM ORIGINAL VERSION. Original said propane, but it's very much not propane, it's methane. too much Hank Hill on the brain, clearly.

[secretmellowblog]

The thing is, Jean Valjean’s “nineteen year prison sentence for stealing a loaf of bread” from Les Mis isn’t actually unusual….not even today! I see people talking about it as if it’s strange or unimaginable when it happens every day.

In modern America — often as a result of pointlessly cruel (and racist) habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws— people are routinely sentenced to life in prison for minor crimes like shoplifting or possession of drugs.

The ACLU did a report in 2013 detailing the lives of various people who were sentenced to life in prison without parole for nonviolent property crimes like:

•attempting to cash a stolen check

•a junk-dealer’s possession of stolen junk

metal (10 valves and one elbow pipe)

•possession of stolen wrenches

•siphoning gasoline from a truck

•stealing tools from a tool shed and a welding machine from a yard

•shoplifting three belts from a department store

•shoplifting several digital cameras

•shoplifting two jerseys from an athletic store

• taking a television, circular saw, and a power converter from a vacant house

• breaking into a closed liquor store in the middle of the night

And of course, so so so many people sentenced to life without parole for the possession of a few grams of drugs.

And we could go on and on!

Gregory Taylor was a homeless man in Los Angeles who, in 1997, was sentenced to “25 years to life” for attempting to steal food from a food kitchen. He was released after 13 years. The lawyers helping to release him even cited Les Miserables in their appeal, comparing Taylor’s sentence to Jean Valjean’s.

And there’s another specific bit of social commentary Hugo was making about Valjean’s trial that’s still depressingly relevant. He writes that Valjean was sentenced for the theft of loaf of bread, but also that the court managed to make that sentence stick by bringing up some of his past misdemeanors. For example, Valjean owned a gun and was known to occasionally poach wildlife (presumably for his starving family to eat.) . So the court exaggerates how harmful the bread theft was—he had to smash a windowpane to get the bread, which is basically Violence— then insist the fact that he owns a gun and occasionally poaches is proof that he is habitually and innately violent. Then when Valjean obviously becomes distressed traumatized and furious as a result of his nakedly unjust sentence and begins making desperate (and very unsuccessful/impulsive/ poorly thought through) attempts to escape…. the government indifferently tacks more years onto his sentence, labels him a “dangerous” felon, and insists that its initial read of him as an innately violent person was correct.

And it’s sad how a lot of the real life stories linked earlier are similar to the commentary Hugo wrote in 1863? Someone will commit a nonviolent property crime, and then the court insists that a bunch of other miscellaneous things they’ve done in the past (whether it’s other minor thefts or being addicted to drugs or w/e) are Proof they’re inherently violent and incapable of being around other people.

A small very petty fandom side note: This is also why I dislike all those common jokes you see everywhere along the lines of “lol it’s so unrealistic for the police to want to arrest Valjean over a loaf of bread, there must have been some other reason the police were pursuing him. Because the state would never punish someone that harshly and irrationally for no reason. so maybe javert was just gay haha”. (Ex: this tiktok— please don’t harass the creator or poster though, I don’t think they were intending to mean anything like that and its just a silly common type of joke you see made about Les mis all the time so it’s not unique in any way.) because like.

As much as I don’t think Les Mis is a flawless book or that its political messaging is perfect….the only way that insanely long unjust sentences for minor crimes is “unrealistic” is if you’re operating on the assumption that prisons are here to Keep You Safe by always only punishing bad criminals who do serious crimes. And that’s just, not true at all. Like I get that these are just goofy silly shallow jokes, and I’m not angry or going to harass anyone who makes them. but it feels like there’s an assumption underlying all those goofy jokes that “this is just not how prison works!” “Prisons don’t routinely sentence people to absurd laughably unjust pointless sentences!” “Prisons give people fair sentences for logical reasons!” When like…no

Valjean being relentlessly hounded and tortured for a minor crime in a way that is utterly ridiculous and arbitrary in its cruelty is not actually a plot hole in Les mis. It’s a plot hole in …..society ajsjkdkdkf. And the only way to fix that is to fight for prison abolition or at least reform, and (in America) stand up against the vicious naked cruelty of habitual offender and mandatory minimum laws.

But yeah :(. I hate how Les Mis opens with a prologue saying the novel will be obsolete the moment the social issues it describes have been resolved— but two hundred years later, the book is still more relevant than ever because we’re dealing with so many of the exact same injustices.

[zarla-s]

I just read your TF2 bot post and I’m fascinated. It has left me with a few questions though. Why/how were bots a problem for so long? What was the main incentive for botting (is it botting or boting??) Was it just to be an asshole? What’s your favorite baked good? Have a lovely day and don’t worry about answering my questions if you’re not in the mood :]

The bots were a problem for so long because Valve just didn't care, sorry to say. They just let it happen. I'm not sure when they started coming in in force, maybe after the Jungle Inferno update like six years ago? But they just kept pouring in and Valve just ignored it. It's really shameful how bad they let it get, honestly. They just kept putting out community updates like nothing was wrong.

Eventually after a lot of community pressure a year ago (#savetf2) they tweeted saying they were aware of the problem and then nothing happened. Then there was ANOTHER community movement this June (#fixtf2), and THEN at the end of June they ACTUALLY did something, which is why everyone was so shocked and skeptical at the time. Like the bots got so bad, it's hard to get across just how bad it got if you weren't playing at the time. It was bad. To suddenly go from that to totally bot-free was unbelievable. Frankly I'm still shocked they're gone! No one knows why Valve's acting now or how they're doing it (personally, I think they must have been working on these anti-bot measures for a while... maybe even since their initial tweet, but no one knows), but I hope they keep it up. I can finally teach people how to play in peace!

As for why they'd do this, yeah, it's just to be jerks. They just want to make people miserable. They have websites on Neocities you can find under the tf2 tag (I was looking through it for sites to link to my tf2 site) and they state themselves that they just like making people mad. I don't think they actually hate TF2 so much as they love the power rush from destroying something so famous that so many people love. Kind of a power-trip/control thing, with a dose of being desperate for attention. A lot of the more notorious bot hosters had twitters or youtube accounts where they invited people to rage at them uselessly, they loved it. They've also formed communities around botting and trolling people, so they have kind of a social investment in it (although they were quick to turn on each other when they suspected someone was a mole). Some of them sell their bot software or "bot immunity" for money but I think that was just pocket change, I don't think that was a real motivator.

After having free reign for so long, they reacted violently to the community movement in June. They were positive that nothing would happen to them, so they kept doing more and more outrageous things to prove it. They DDoS'd and DMCA'd the site for the petition multiple times, they doxxed and swatted one of the main bot fighters, they impersonated figureheads and posted illegal links to things, like they were really stepping over the line and gloating about it. They were extremely confident and to be fair, who could blame them? Valve's negligence let them get away with it for years. To suddenly have that power taken away from them without warning made them absolutely furious. They're still seething about it right now and plotting ways to get back in, but they haven't found one yet. It's a matter of pride for them at this point I think, that and a childish tantrum about not being able to ruin other people's fun anymore. Them targeting a baby game version of TF2 (TC2) also points to it being a power trip. If they can't ruin TF2 anymore then by god they've got to ruin SOMEthing!

Even now I'm not sure Valve can hold the line and I keep checking TF2 Casual every now and then to look for bots, haha. It's just hard to believe! I greatly enjoy hearing about bot hosters raging about it and suffering though, they deserve nothing less. Die mad about it!!!

In terms of baked goods though I like all kinds, although right now I'm thinking about brownies so I'll say that. |D

[dayacakrawala]

Όπτιμους ἀνέστη! Happy Easter. I will burn in hell.

TFP Optimus gives a messy egg-birth. Ratchet is here too.

Flying into the Well of All Sparks, Optimus was ready to sacrifice himself, or at least what he's grown used to think of as himself, his frail, mortal form of metal and wires. He was prepared to merge with Primus. Apparently, Primus had other plans.

It started with warm airflow embracing him near the end of the Well, permeating his armor like it was paper thin, overwhelming him, igniting and soothing at the same time, and finally carrying him lightly back to the surface. It continued with his friends' confused happiness. And this new fuzzy feeling, and Ratchet's concern, and a discovery. Oh, the discovery. Optimus Prime not only came back alive. He came back full of eggs.

Living, precious sparks, nested in their vacuoles and soft, translucent shells, were growing inside his gestation tank. The organ designed to incubate one to several eggs has expanded to embrace the holy gift. Ratchet tried to count them but failed. There were just a lot, mostly blue, but some green, pink, and yellow.

Ratchet's medical fascination mixed with religious awe. The more he observed and studied the unique case of his Prime, the deeper it got, even though he had to face things that had to be left out of the equation for others. Medical confidentiality was a thing when it came to Optimus' increasing sexual appetite, to him constantly being on the verge of arousal due to being stuffed in a quite pleasurable way, to his gestation tank pressing on his waste reservoir and making the messiah of Primus visit the waste receiver twice a day. Optimus' increased energon consumption was less of a sensitive issue, yet he was still uncomfortable drinking this much openly, so Ratchet had to watch him fuel in private to control his ration.

So much stayed behind the closed doors of the medbay during Optimus' daily scheduled check-ups. So many little… inconveniences.

When Ratched had Optimus in the examination chair once again, everything seemed noticeably more intense. Optimus seemed more nervous and tired, and he told Ratchet about feeling so full that he was afraid to move. Even his waist plating looked slightly pushed from the inside. He lubricated copiously, letting out oily pink droplets, and the valve visibly throbbed so hard Ratchet called for all his medical professionalism not to growl in frustration and want. He was lying to himself about it being just fascination and awe. Fascination and awe never leave you with your spike in hand after your friend's and leader's daily check-up, moaning and thinking about his heavily pregnant tank.

Ratchet prepared the endoscope, and Optimus tensed. "It's going in," Ratchet informed him, trying to sound calm.

When the head of the endoscope touched the eagerly unfurling petals of Optimus' valve, there was a sound of a small piece of armor retracting. Ratchet tried not to stare at the spike pressurizing, instead focusing on Optimus' frantic apologies. It's alright. They'd been there. No need to feel ashamed. But holy Primus, fuck, how big this spike was, and how big the valve below was, and how smoothly it took the endoscope.

"Ratchet, please, stop." He complied immediately, detecting almost pleading undertones in the strained low voice. Optimus growled, and his hips jerked uncontrollably, grinding on the probing device. "I'm sorry, but I feel like my waste tank may give. The sparks are pressing on it."

"Then we should empty it before it's damaged," Ratchet told him, the phrasing felt odd and ridiculous but was aimed to comfort Optimus, highlighting him being aided and taken care of. The endoscope slid slowly in and out, stimulating the nodes where the tube connecting the waste tank with a small nozzle next to the valve lay close to the inner interface equipment, intertwined with its tubing and energon lines.

Optimus shuddered, and moaned, and started pouring the floor before the examination chair with periwinkle blue fluid. It arched between his legs, soiling Ratchet's hand still holding the endoscope. It wasn't the first time a patient voided the doctor, damn, they've been through the war quite horror-rich, but it was the first time Ratchet didn't really mind.

"I need a sample anyway," he said, grabbing a test tube from a tray and catching the stream with it. It did little to dispel Optimus' embarrassment, but at least it was true and gave Ratchet his pitiful excuse to watch closely his Prime peeing with, with the endoscope inside, open, ready to lay his blessed eggs.

Oh yes, he was ready. As soon as he stopped emptying himself and Ratchet took his hand away to clean it alongside the tool, his body spasmed like it was welcoming a long-denied overload. "Ratchet, I feel my destination almost…" He groaned, not from pain. "They are coming, I cannot hold them anymore."

"No, damn, Optimus, w-wait a minute!"

Ratchet rushed to the shelf, where awaited the basket, voluminous enough to accommodate a prime clutch and padded with soft material. Two seconds later, he found Optimus mindlessly stroking his spike, trying to distract himself and relieve the tension at the same time. His plating noisily rattled against the chair, his broken whimpers made Ratchet's mind dizzifyingly spin and Ratchet's panels open, but Ratchet was left with little time to care. He saw Optimus' valve squirting a jet of lubricant, his whole body contracting, and a first butch of divine eggs falling wetly into the basket.

They were magnificent. Glowing, warm, colorful, fertilized by Primus, and coming from Optimus' overloading valve. Ratchet didn't hear his own praises and prayers, only Optimus' powerful engine roaring, his cooling fans whirring, his shaky in-vents, and beautiful strangled grunts escaping his voice box.

With his own spark pulsing and his spike throbbing, Ratchet held the basket with one hand, using the other to touch the seam between Optimus' thigh and hip plating to draw attention to himself. "You alright, Optimus? Any pain now?"

"I am fine, my friend. How are… they?"

"Perfect, you… You are doing wonderful," Ratchet reassured, the container in his hand was getting heavier and heavier. Optimus' hand never left his own spike, and Ratchet surrendered too. Powerless before the spectacle of life and pleasure and how badly it aroused him, he placed the basket on the floor, right in the puddle, and quickly stroked himself until the blinding overload made him moan and grab Optimus' leg.

It took a couple minutes more and two more small overloads for Optimus to tense in a final one, his spike spilling intensely, his frame using every output to dump the charge. He was crying.

The basket was full, the eggs piled in it, glowing. Each spark was visible inside, each had its own unique song. Ratchet and Optimus, both calming down, could already sense their energy and life.

A gift, a treasure. The future.

[woongisi]

Drum Line Dream // Song Mingi

dom!Song Mingi x sub!gn!Reader // SMUT

WC// 2.1k

Synopsis// Things went a bit off kilter with your college marching band crush. Turns out, all you needed to fix it in the end was some bad luck and deep fried food.

Warnings// semi-public, grinding/dry humping, pet names (baby)

Author's Note// Written in one sitting and definitely not proofread. Nothing too crazy this time but I HAD to get this very self indulgent idea out of my mind. This one's for you former and current band kids, I get you. ☺︎

---------

College marching band. One of your worst decisions, yet one of your best. There was no shortage of drama to be had but at least you'd met some of your closest friends.

You played the trombone, it was large and it was loud. Your type of instrument and coincidentally your type of man. Maybe you'd smacked a few too many people in the head with your slide or emptied your spit valve on the shoes of those you disliked. Regardless, you considered it revenge for how the wind instruments would sneak up on you and blow air into their reeds as hard as possible just behind your ear.

As far as instrumental squabbles went, you found the drum line to be the most tolerable. Sure, some of the snares made it a point to play as loudly as they could, but they kept it localized within their section. You had a hard time admitting it, but you may have held a bit of a bias toward them.

That bias was Song Mingi. Song Mingi played the bass drum. The kind that you had to pull over your head, two heavy straps bracing your shoulders on either side. The kind that burned through far too many expensive wool felt mallets. You never were sure how they beat them up so quickly.

You met Mingi your freshman year and got acquainted with him rather quickly, you never had much time to spend with him as your show for the year had you in separate areas for most of it. The same followed your sophomore. Now, you found yourself in your junior year.

Earlier in the year you'd ushered Mingi over and haphazardly told him he was hot, and that if he didn't kiss you, you might cry. There you shared a kiss high up in the bleachers, hiding behind the row of bass drums. Since that moment things had become a bit awkward, you apologized, claiming you'd been overly emotional and didn't want things to get in the way of your friendship. What you didn't know was the conflict that caused Mingi.

Song Mingi was one of your best decisions yet one of your worst, just as joining the band was. Something about him was addicting. Perhaps it was his deep voice, his tall and slender figure, his bright smile that lit up the room no matter where you were.

Away games were always your favorite. You may not be able to perform at halftime as often, but cheering on the football team was enough. Besides, there was something exciting about wandering the stands of school stadiums previously unknown to you. Some schools, like the one you were visiting this night, had fancier concession stands than others.

Halftime finally hit, you stayed in place for a few minutes to take a look at the opposing team's band and judge their uniforms before meandering your way to the least busy concession stand.

You greeted the student manning the stand with a smile and a nod, taking a moment to skim over the dodgy whiteboard that served as a menu. You settled on a thing of fried oreos, 3 pieces to a boat. You handed the worker some amount of cash and told her to keep the change. It was pointless to try and find somewhere to sit so you settled down a matter of feet away, leaning against the brick wall of the buildings.

Before you could even take your first bite, a familiar voice caught your attention. Mingi had approached the booth, somehow evading being noticed by you up until that point.

“Ah, I'm sorry. We just sold the last of the oreos for the moment.” The student sighed and briefly checked her watch. “There'll be more ready in about 10 minutes… but you seem to be part of the band.”

Mingi nodded with understanding. “I'll have to be back in the stands by then. I'll just take a coke. Thank you!”

Now was your chance.

“Psssst, Mingi!” You half yelled, half whispered and motioned eagerly for him to come toward you. Mingi was quick to approach, fumbling with his bottle of soda.

“Yeah? What's up?”

“That was me… sorry. You wanna share?” You held the boat of fried oreos out as an offering.

“No, no! You spent your money on those. You should have them.”

“I insist.” You stared down at his gloved hands for a moment. “Would you… like some help with that?”

You had removed your black wool gloves and bulky gauntlets before heading to find food. A foresight that Mingi apparently lacked. He nodded shyly, almost embarrassed, and thanked you.

“Here, open.” You grabbed one of the oreos, using your other hand to hover underneath it to guard against crumbs. You leaned inward, allowing Mingi to take the cookie into his mouth. “I've already got my gloves off, don't wanna make you mess with yours.”

Those lips. Forever your greatest weakness. All he'd done was take food from your hand and all you could do was try not to stare. The kiss you shared a year before lingered in the back of your mind. Soft. They were so very soft. Pillowy and normally faintly flavored by whatever chapstick he'd managed to dig out of his bookbag. You couldn't forget the feeling and even now you regretted how fleeting the moment was.

“Hey,” Mingi awkwardly shifted his weight to one side. “Can we talk for a minute?”

You felt like your heart fell to your ass, suddenly

worried about the conversation that was yet to come. Was he angry, upset, confused? You didn't know.

Mingi led you to a corner he'd spotted when the band arrived on the field. The bright lights didn't quite reach through to dispel the darkness and the area was sparsely populated compared to the concessions.

“U-uhm…” It was unusual, the way Mingi was so seemingly anxious. Your typical charismatic musician that so confidently backed the drum line had disappeared, replaced by someone far more vulnerable.

“Your face is seriously red. You sick? Need me to tell the director that you need time out?” You cocked your head to the side with concern.

Mingi shook his head frantically and grabbed one of your hands. Forcing himself to hold your eye contact, he finally continued. “Iwannakissyouagain-”

“What…?” Whatever he'd said was spoken too quickly for you to process.

“I… want… to kiss you again.”

That was when you learned it wasn't one sided, the memory haunted him just as well. Though you didn't expect simply sharing your snacks to lead to a confession, you certainly weren't about to complain.

You gripped Mingi’s hand back, urging him to follow you as you hurried to hide under the home team’s bleachers. Not a word exchanged in the meantime. This side of the stadium housed the press box, meaning there was more solidity to the structure and more places to hide beneath.

Pressing your back against the wall, you snaked your hand up to rest on the back of Mingi’s neck.

“I missed you, Song Mingi.”

Any hesitation that plagued his mind was erased in an instant. Mingi's lips collided haphazardly with yours, his hands holding your waist. This, you thought, is what you'd needed for a year's time. This kiss was unlike your first, already starting intense. Mingi had no problem taking charge, chasing your lips whenever you pulled away like a man starved.

“Mmn,” You tapped the nape of his neck. “Need to breathe.”

Mingi was undeterred, fumbling with the zipper on the back of your uniform jacket. You shrugged it off of your shoulders, leaving it to drape off of your elbows and grant Mingi access to your neck.

“Shiiiit,” You whined against him. You had never given the uniform jacket design any thought but presently you couldn't be more relieved that once you put it back on, the mock neck would cover any marks. “Needed this so bad.”

Mingi's ministrations were sloppy, hungry, sucking and nibbling lightly on your sensitive skin. A shiver shot its way up his spine, leading him to let out a quiet moan. That was a sound you decided you could get used to.

“Can't take it, wanna touch you.” Mingi growled, becoming painfully aware of his growing erection. “I'll make it quick. Promise.”

“Mmk, anything, I'm yours.”

You rushed to remove your jacket entirely, discarding it to the side. You'd just have to handle the dust that undoubtedly covered it from the gravel layer. Mingi's jacket was soon to follow.

Your mouth gaped slightly, taking in the shape of Mingi's waist. Bibbers were tight, form fitting but so often hidden beneath your black and red jackets. You never realized just how slim his waist was but, now, you'd never forget it.

“Damn things.” Mingi grumbled, undoing the velcro and pulling down the zipper to his marching pants before assisting you with yours. There was no bothering with removing them entirely. Black tees and black shorts that laid just above the kneecap were standard for underneath the band's uniforms.

Mingi grabbed you firmly and flipped you around so that you had to brace yourself against the brick wall chest first. His strong arms held you tight against him, one around your waist and the other reaching over your chest and keeping you steady.

In this position, you couldn't see Mingi… but you could surely feel him. His breath was ragged against your neck with his hips grinding against your ass.

“Mingi, holy shit-” You didn't need to look to understand the considerable length of his cock. Four layers worth of fabric was too much, but at the same time so perfect.

Mingi’s arm situated on your waist slid downward, a gloved slipping beneath your waist band and swiftly finding your arousal. The sensation of the woolen gloves against your bare skin was almost cruel, too good and complemented by the unexpected skill Mingi possessed with his hands.

Low moans tumbled from deep in Mingi’s throat, sending shockwaves straight to your core. You'd heard him whine and groan plenty of times whenever he screwed up a formation for the nth time and on hot summer days when you were finally allowed a water break and moment in the shade. It was different to hear his familiar sounds in this manner. Despite the similarities, something felt more primal now.

Mingi was losing his control by this point, grating his aching cock hard against your figure and mumbling incoherently.

“I'm gonna cum, baby.” He nuzzled his face into you, resting his chin on the area just next to the back of your neck.

“Me too, keep going, cum for me.” You sacrificed one of your arms to muzzle your desperate moans. To be caught was one of the last things you needed.

Mingi broke first, a deep and drawn out whine tearing from him. He continued to rub himself despairingly into you, riding out his own orgasm while trying to keep up with you.

It didn't take long for you to follow in his wake. The building coil of pleasure building in your stomach finally snapped, drenching Mingi’s hand in your fluids. Your moan caught in your throat leaving you to choke back a cry.

For a moment, everything was quiet but the buzz of the nearby breaker boxes and the sound of your heaving chests.

“Fuck, thank you. Thank you so much.” Mingi praised and guided you both to rest on the cold ground. He grabbed your hand with his clean one and smiled brightly as if he hadn't just rocked your world in the midst of a football game. “Can we never keep ourselves away like we have been again?”

“Of course. You have no clue how long I've been yearning for you.” You cleared your throat. “Well, I suppose you do now.

Only after kissing Mingi’s cheek did you scurry to gather the estranged components of your marching uniform. The game was back on, your bandmates wondering where in the world you could be.

“Mingi.” You whispered with realization, “Your glove.”

“Whatever,” He sighed. “Here's the story, ok?”

Mingi cobbled together some cover up. Some mostly coherent story about how you slipped and fell, dropping your drink leading to him accidentally putting his hand right in the puddle on the concrete. He only hoped they didn't question why your uniform was largely devoid of any liquid.

Reaching the away team's stands, one of the snares crumpled up a nearby napkin and flung it at Mingi’s face with expert aim.

“Dude, where the fuck have you two been?!”

If only he knew.

[mychlapci]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[shuttershocky]

Shutters I vaguely remember you talking in a post about the topic of good humorous writing or something along those lines, and I think among the examples cited was Gunpoint and/or Heat Signature? Did I dream this up, 'cause it's the whole reason I was gonna check those games

Oh yeah! Gunpoint and Heat Signature are part of the Defenestration Trilogy, a series of indie games about kicking people through windows. The third game, Tactical Breach Wizards, is coming out in August (and has a demo up!)

Gunpoint is the indie game that made me decide to be a gamedev. It was made by a first-time dev that was a fan of Deus Ex, but the thing about immersive sims is that their scale is way too large for a solo project, so instead the developer Tom Francis made a 2D sidescroller about rewiring the electricity in a house to link different appliances together to form reactions, and in a worst case scenario, you can push your enemies through windows.

But what really stuck with me in Gunpoint (and which returns in Tactical Breach Wizards), is that its quippy humor isn't written like it's trying to impress you with snappy responses nor is it trying to lampshade how absurd it is. The sense of humor in these games is written like a Valve title from the 2000s, it's absurd because it's really trying to make you laugh, but in the universe of Tactical Breach Wizards for example, the doctor's wizardry is necromancy because simply shooting your patient in the head and resurrecting them into a fresh body really is a clever way of doing instant surgery for literally anything.

[my-naughty-writings-and-musings]

Starscream x Skyfire

NSFW, Size Difference

I recently came across this absolutely amazing animation by @fuccerito and I just had to write something for it!! Please enjoy Starscream being shown a very good time by his much larger lover and check out their amazing art when you're done <3

Skyfire always managed to be both lovingly gentle and completely in control every time they interfaced, and for all of his expansive intellect, Starscream had yet to figure out how this perfect balance was accomplished. In his defense, his only opportunity to study the phenomenon happened to be at a time when he was usually incapable of complex thought. Now was a perfect example of the processor deadening effects of Skyfire's spike, but as always, he didn't have the capacity to recognize it. There were far more engrossing things to focus on as the larger mech held him aloft over his exposed lap.

Already quite heated and eager for the massive spike below, the Seeker could only whimper in need as Skyfire maneuvered him into position, lining up his sopping valve over the throbbing tip of his length. Starscream let out a much needier sound as the heat pressed against his entrance, and he tried in vain to push his hips downwards to get it inside. The action made his lover chuckle affectionately, and he brought their helms together for a tender nuzzle before  bringing their lips together. A soft whine into his mouth compelled him to give the smaller mech what he wanted.

With only one arm needed to hold his delicate frame aloft, Starscream was lowered swiftly but smoothly onto the eager spike below, and he gladly spread his legs around Skyfire's chest to accommodate the stretch. Despite having taken it countless times before, he still let out a high pitched keen at the penetration, helm rolling back and optics squeezing shut as he felt the broad girth filling him up. There wasn't an ounce of resistance from his slick and eager valve as he took the girth with experienced ease. Rather, he clamped down on his mate the moment he felt him hit his maximum depth, wanting to feel that glorious fullness forever in his lusty haze.

Skyfire chuckled again, then secured his grip behind the smaller mech's back and got to work.

As always, he was careful in the beginning, using his greater strength to effortlessly slide Starscream a short distance up and down his length in a series of cautious, restrained thrusts. Each was met with a delightful, gasp of pleasure and not a trace of resistance, which told him he was in the clear to turn things up. Bracing his other arm against the floor, Skyfire gave no warning before he started to pound, sliding Starscream up and down his spike without a trace of effort. It was just the way they liked it most. 

Red optics went wide and stars burst before them. Moaning without restraint, Starscream ventilated hard and fast as the massive spike slid in and out of him at breakneck speeds, their hips loudly clanking together every time he was dropped back down to engulf the spike below. Were his arms free he'd have grabbed a hold of his lover for stability, but with them pinned he merely leaned into Skyfire and quivered from helm to pede, wings fluttering without his knowledge as euphoria made him steadily lose control. Colors continued to swirl in his vision each time he was thrust downwards, his frame so weightless in Skyfire's massive hand he was practically being used as a toy. 

Skyfire couldn't pretend to be completely in control as his overload started to build, the tight, wet heat of his mate's arousal bringing him to the start of a swift conclusion. Ventilations growing haggard and desperate, he paid close attention to the way his lover increased his volume, going from gasps of delight to cries of desperate ecstasy as he closed in on his own overload. The already tight valve around him began to pulse and flutter, forcing the larger mech to fight against the urge to blow his load then and there. Never once had he finished before his tiny lover...

Ever unknowingly merciful, Starscream didn't make him wait very long for release. Shaking so hard he rattled his armor, the Seeker flushed hot pink as the wave of release crashed into him without warning. Lube flowed down into Skyfire's lap as his valve spasmed in white hot ecstasy, milking the spike inside of him for everything it had and filling his frame with a dizzying rush of euphoria like no other. Skyfire allowed himself to truly let go once his lover started to come undone.

Tightening his grip, he pushed Starscream all the way down, fully sheathing his spike just as his own overload finally claimed him. Moaning into the smaller mech's audial, he came in ropes of transfluid so thick and hot his lover felt them squirting inside of him, the excess gushing out between them as Skyfire lightly bounced his hips. At the peak of his own ecstasy, Starscream was reduced to pitiful, breathless sounds of helpless delight as he took every last bit of his lover's load. Skyfire dropped his gaze to admire how much of a mess he'd made of the high class scientist.

Wings pinned down and twitching at the overwhelming pleasure tingling through him like an electrical storm, the tiny Seeker was reduced to a whimpering mess by the time the release inside of him slowed, his valve so stuffed it overflowed all over the berth below. Tilting his gaze upwards, Starscream went from helpless gaping to a dazed smirk of satisfaction as their optics met, and he allowed himself to go limp in the other's grasp. The heat of ecstasy cooled into the comfortable warmth of the afterglow.

Skyfire let out a deep vent as he too shifted into the bliss of gratification, so completely content he could have fallen into recharge on the spot. Keeping his lover supported effortlessly, he smiled as Starscream began to purr against him, compelling him to nuzzle their helms together with a returning sound of affection. The smaller seeker made no effort to move as the spike inside of him softened and retracted, allowing Skyfire more time to sit and enjoy the moment. It was obvious they'd both need a shower after this, but with the two of them so tired yet comfortable, neither was in a rush to get that started. For now, they were quite content to rest together in the privacy of their bedroom. The whole world could wait forever for all they cared...

[noisyquokka]

I know this is a very vague request and im really sorry in advance 😭… do you think you could write some headcanons/reactions for wayv? I noticed that most nct content is for dream, sometimes 127, and rarely my wayv boys and i LOVE them 😮‍💨, i dont really have a concept in mind i would prefer if it was made with a female reader in mind but gender neutral works just as well, and idk maybe a little bit suggestive if youre in the mood for it?? Idk anyways thanks for listening and im sorry im not giving you much to work with :)

+ OMG OK I JUST SENT IN A VAGUE REQUEST FOR WAYV BUT I THOUGHT OF SOMETHING NOW, idk if you’ll see this but do you think you could do wayvs reaction to a female reader whos more dominant, not necessarily in the bedroom sense (although that too) but just someone who looks more feminine but automatically takes on more masculine gender roles in a relationship like being big spoon, or bringing home the bag, or being the one to take care of things and fix things? Again i don’t necessarily mean in a sexual way just more in a general relationship because i know you said you werent confident/comfortable writing nsfw stuff, but if you wanted to take a more suggestive route too i wouldnt be mad, youre the writer here, im just here to support 💗, thank you again!

A/N - Not me having a whole-ass brain fart on gender roles as I wrote this🤪but ohhhohoo I love this idea!!! I'm sorry it took forever :( also some of these are longer than others, I apologize. But I still hope you enjoy 💛 Thank you for the request, Love!

WORDCOUNT - 1,165

WARNINGS - F!reader, suggestive if you squint from the other side of the galaxy??

Kun

you had told him that you were quite independent from the beginning of your relationship

perhaps you hadn't been persuasive enough, or it didn't register in Kun's head...

because when he comes home from tour, he doesn't expect to find you in the kitchen, cursing under your breath with your head ducked beneath the sink

it appears you're too busy groveling at the plumbing to notice his presence, the clanking of metal on metal hitting his ears

"What... are you doing?" is followed by a thud! and another hushed curse as you emerge from the cabinet, rubbing at the crown of your head with a grimace

you're met with warm hands and a concerned gaze as you straighten up, adjustable wrench in your grip

"The shut-off valve for the cold water failed," you wipe the sweat from your brow, eyeing the small space you have to work with under the sink, "so I went and picked up replacements for both."

and Kun's just standing there like 'woah, babe, go off'

but also a little worried

cue the "shouldn't we call a plumber", and the "are you sure's"

it's not that he believes you're incapable, far from it!

he's just got no clue about the tricks of that trade lmao

asks if you need help

will literally sit by and watch like a curious Retriever whether you need extra hands or not (without being in the way, of course)

he has no idea where your confidence comes from when it comes to these types of things, but it's kinda... 😏

you finish the job in two hours, checking for any leaks after you turn the water back on and let the water flow through the pipes to clear the air in the lines

after this, he quickly adapts to you taking lead around the house with similar things

he's so used to being the leader/taking lead on so many things that it's so refreshing for him.

you're just the type to say "Hey, I've got it!" with no expectations

he's gonna find his ways of thanking you for the things you do btw

cooking you dinner, cleaning the entire house, buying you something you've been eyeing for forever.

also lives and breaths you cuddling him

back hugs, waking up to you pulling him back into your arms before you're both falling asleep again

this man is so content being little spoon if it means you're right there

Ten

totally into it!

I'd bet that this man goes full doting boyfriend

probably the most curious out of all the guys

would be super invested if you were an HVAC technician or something just because of how physically demanding the job is

asks you if he could tag along to work one day like an excited child

to which you tell him that it's not as exciting for him to watch considering most of the job is you crawling into tight spaces

like you'd literally be in some dusty attic, sweltering as you work

it happens anyways, because you find that your HVAC unit is outdated, so naturally, you choose to update it yourself

cue a sneaky head peeking around the corner every chance he gets because, contrary to what you had said, Ten is very entertained

the man has the biggest heart eyes for you through the entire process - which is roughly 6 hours

"your attention to detail is beyond admirable!"

"I'd say it's necessary when I'm working with electrical, Babe."

wants to learn how to do whatever it is you're working on

doesn't matter what it is you're doing

soaks up whatever you teach him

mans is a whole sponge istg

at the same time he's absolutely gonna tell you to keep being the boss-ass bitch that you are

WinWin

supportive but a lil insecure :(

like he loves you loads, supports you 100% in all that you do

but sometimes it'll make him feel like he's not doing enough in terms of your relationship

I don't see the insecurity coming from your confidence of taking on a more masculine role, but more out of worrying that his time is so limited with you and around the house so when he is home, he feels like it's not enough

feels like he shouldn't tell you at first

like it sounds a little like an excuse to be an ass

but eventually thinks it's the best thing for your relationship

y'all take communication so seriously so why start holding back over something like this

you're quick to reassure him that he does more than enough

like sir, sit down and kick your feet up, you literally do so much for me, I will write you a whole list rn

it works to a certain extent, so you offer him some options "to make up for it" cough I'll leave this up to interpretation💀

fair to say that all is better with a little communication

Xiaojun

I say this solely for his safety and benefit

do not, under any circumstances, let this man know you can do some of the things that you're capable of!!

boy is too petty and competitive to have this knowledge

I feel like he'd be the type to see you so confidently take care of yard work and the next week turns into a competition of who can complete said tasks better

he wouldn't do it to make you feel less than, or to put you in your place (as if you wouldn't set his ass straight)

he's just a little dramatic

a lil competitive

he loses almost every time 😔

either makes excuses for it ("I didn't know there were levels to the lawn mower", "the handle on my rake was broken") or stays quiet

will be whiny for a few days afterwards

you have no issue giving him something to whine about-

Hendery

full cheerleader mode!!

he literally grew up with three sisters, ain't no way he's gonna be against a strong and independent woman doing her thing

is the best assistant when you need an extra set of hands

literally the kid that holds dad's flashlight while dad fixes the car except you don't have to remind him to hold it steady

he's on top of it, baby 😎

mans takes this as seriously as performing open-heart surgery

I'm talking brows set in concentration and hands as steady as my granny threading a needle (that woman was so talented)

tools are in your hand before you've even finished telling him what you need

bro is just that good

loves helping you to the point that when you don't need his help, he's just a pouty boy in the corner

like Kun and Ten, he'll just watch and cheer you on in those instances

he is the ultimate ally

YangYang

I could see him drawn toward a woman who takes initiative in a relationship

probably finds it attractive as hell

at the same time, I could see him not caring much about traditional gender roles

sees it as a social construct that is meant to be broken

he digs how dynamic you can be in any situation, definitely!

that said, he is the reason you fix so many things 🧍🏻‍♀️

listen, him being your boyfriend does not guarantee your safety from The Menace™

feels bad about it sometimes

but like... you never complain

YangYang swears he's a magnet for finding patient people that can tolerate his antics

which is exactly why he's wrapped around your finger

MASTERLIST

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

Zora Arkus Duntov saw a huge problem for GM, due to their lack of participation in the Hot Rodding community in the early 50's.

Check out this letter he wrote on the subject:

TO: Mr Maurice Olly, ADDRESS: Research & Development Section

FROM: Mr Z Arkus-Duntov, ADDRESS: Research & Development Section

DATE: December 16, 1953

SUBJECT: Thoughts Pertaining to Youth, Hot Rodders, and Chevrolet

The Hot Rod movement and interest in things connected with hop-up and speed is still growing. As an indication: the publications devoted to hot rodding and hop-upping, of which some half-dozen have a very large circulation and are distributed nationally, did not exist some six years ago.

From cover to cover, they are full of Fords. This is not surprising that the majority of hot rodders are eating, sleeping, and dreaming modified Fords. They know Ford parts from stern to stern better than Ford people themselves.

A young man buying a magazine for the first time immediately becomes introduced to Ford. It is reasonable to assume that when hot rodders or hot rod-influenced persons buy transportation, they buy Fords. As they progress in age and income, they graduate from jalopies to second-hand Fords, then to new Fords.

Should we consider that it would be desirable to make these youths Chevrolet-minded? I think that we are in a position to carry out a successful attempt. However, there are many factors against us:

Loyalty and experience with Ford.

Hop-up industry is geared with Ford.

Law of numbers: thousands are and will be working on Fords for active competition.

Appearance of Ford’s overhead V-8, now one year ahead of us.

When a superior line of GM V-8s appeared, there where remarkably few attempts to develop these, and none too successful. Also, the appearance of the V-8 Chrysler was met with reluctance even though the success of Ardun-Fords conditioned them to the acceptance of Firepower.

This year is the first one in which isolated Chrysler development met with successes. The Bonneville records are divided between Ardun-Fords and Chryslers.

Like all people, hot rodders are attracted by novelty. However, bitter experience has taught them that new development is costly and long, and therefore they are extremely conservative. From my observation, it takes an advanced hot rodder some three years to stumble toward the successful development of a new design. Overhead Fords will be in this stable between 1956 and 1957.

The slide rule potential of our RPO V-8 engine is extremely high, but to let things run their natural course will put us one year behind – and then not too many hot rodders will pick Chevrolet for development. One factor which can largely overcome this handicap would be the availability of ready-engineered parts for higher output.

If the use of the Chevrolet engine would be made easy and the very first attempts would be crowned with success, the appeal of the new RPO V-8 engine will take hold and not have the stigma of expensiveness like the Cadillac or Chrysler, and a swing to Chevrolet may be anticipated. This means the development of a range of special parts – camshafts, valves, springs, manifolds, pistons, and such – should be made available to the public.

To make good in this field, the RPO parts must pertain not only to the engine but to the chassis components as well. In fact, the use of light alloys and brake development, such as composite drums and discs, are already on the agenda of the Research and Development group.

These thoughts are offered for what they are worth: one man’s thinking aloud on the subject.

Signed,

Zora Arkus-Duntov

December 16, 1953

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐥𝐮𝐣𝐚𝐡

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon, corruption, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You find a stranger at your door, a visitor you can't make leave. (Part of the Illuminate AU)

Characters: Yelena Belova

Note: I enjoyed this very much. I hope you do too.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The bluster of winter wails outside the walls. The whistling wakes you, your eyes snapping open but the rest of you rousing slowly. Your muscles ache with the chill creeping up from the floorboards and through the aged plaster of the house. The smell of frost drifts in around the loose panes of the window, deterring you from emerging from the warmth of quilt and flannel.

At last, you find the strength to get up. You make the bed before you find your housecoat and tuck your feet into a pair of fleece-lined slippers. The house creaks around you as you open the door on whiny hinges. The single-floor holds several stories of memories; your own and others’.

You check the thermostat. It shouldn’t be so cold. You swear you can see your own breath. You shiver and rub your hands together as you enter the kitchen. You put the kettle on the burner and light it. You linger for a moment to bask in the warmth of the low flame of the gas stove.

You leave the kitchen, the click of the burner sticking in your head. You enter the back entryway of the house and pull open the old splintering door to the basement. The stares are steep and swathed in darkness, the wraiths of your childhood fears waiting at the bottom. 

You flip on the light switch and take your first step down the groaning wooden stairs. Each foot down feels like a descent into hell. You get to the bottom, even colder as no warmth can be found in the cement floors or painted brick walls. The old dryer and washer loom, the only sentinels in the cobwebbed space.

In the corner stands the rusted old furnace. You near with trepidation, shaking as you see the fog of your own breath waft out from your nose. The meter is limp and lifeless. As you near, you realise the old utility is silent.

You’ve had this problem before, it’s nothing new, just like everything else in this house. You go to the cabinet above the washer and dryer and take out the box of matches, checking to make sure they haven’t been dampened by their time in the mildewed basement. You return to the furnace and get down on your knees, close to the back. 

There you reach for the gas valve and give it a twist. You press down the red button and strike the match, putting it to the pilot light. You let go of the button and stand to turn the furnace back on. You hear the old barrel-like utility begin to hum.

You head back upstairs, the racket of the furnace building behind you, muffled as you shut the door behind you. As the handle clicks into place, you hear something closer, something louder. You pause and listen, hand resting on the cold metal knob. You fear it comes from where you just were but when it comes again, you realise the noise is from outside.

Before chasing your curiosity, you go back to the kitchen as you hear the kettle begin to quake. You move it off the burner before it can whistle and twist off the dial, the flame wilting to nothing. You shuffle into the back hall and near the back door, listening to the wind still whistling.

You hesitate to open the door, even as you’re certain it’s nothing. You look over at the old cross hung over the rack where you keep split logs for the fireplace. You slide back the lock and twist the handle, easing the swollen door from the frame.

As you pull the door inward, a weight pushes it against you. You step back and let it fall open completely, something collapsing by your feet. The shock blows over you with the winter gale, blustering in through the door. There, her head between your feet, is a woman smeared in dirt and something red. 

Her blond hair is filthy with dry mud and a stick is caught in a tangle. There are scratches on her face and neck, her clothing barely in tack as it exposed her raw and bloodied skin. You stare, uncertain of what to do. 

Any sane person would shove her back out in the cold and lock their door. But any decent person wouldn’t leave anyone out in that condition. You know her face, not as well as her reputation, but you do not doubt your eyes. 

You look out over the expanse of snow littered across the backyard. A touch of yellowed grass peeks through still as the winter has not yet made its full advance. It feels desolate and frigid even as you spy the top of the next house just above your fence. You can’t help but wonder how she ended up back there.

You bend, unsure of how to approach the woman. You fear waking her as much as you worry she may not be able to wake. You slip your hands under her shoulders, turning her flat and hooking your arms under hers. 

You haul her past the doorway, dragging her across the rough floorboards. You bend her legs as you go to close the door and stand facing it for just a moment as you process reality. You step back and over the woman, leaving her in the hallway as you try to decide what to do with her next.

It is just as Father Harvey read from the pages, ‘If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?’

You’re not sure you’ll be able to maneuver her further on your own, and you’re just as nervous of going near her again. The thought of a call to the cops crosses your mind but you know it’s futile when it comes to those ones.

You take the kettle off the stove and pull out a mug and some tea to steep. You ponder a second cup but it would probably be cold before she comes to. If she does.

You sit at the table, a glimpse of her dirty blonde hair visible through the doorway. You turn your attention to the window instead as you watch the snow start to fall. You could try to find her brothers or whoever they are. The other ones you don’t speak to.

As you contemplate your fate and the strange woman, you blow over your tea and take your first sip. A small comfort amid a very uncomfortable situation. You empty half the mug before setting it down, your stomach churning with anxiety.

You put your head in your hand and close your eyes. It could be a nightmare. You might wake up and find the house as you left it the night before.  You cradle your forehead, keeping your other hand against the warmth of your mug. You hear the vents start, a gush of heat blowing in from under the table as the house thrums.

You hear the clatter of the furnace kicking up. You look up to the thermostat but something else catches your eyes. The figure standing off-kilter in the doorway, watching you as you gape back in shock. Realising it was not the furnace making so much noise, but her.

She doesn’t say a word, instead letting her lips slant and dragging a limp leg over to the stove. Without looking back, she opens a cupboard and takes down a cup of her own, perusing the other wares within. She shuts it with a snap and scoffs, pushing her head back as she rubs her neck.

“Do you have any damn coffee in this shit hole?” She sneers as she drops her hand.

You blink dumbly, put off by her demanding tone and the presumption of her search through your cupboards. As she opens another, you get up and near her, pulling over the canister of coffee against the wall. You hold it up but she doesn’t take it.

You glance over at her bloodied, broken nails. You’re too polite, honestly too afraid, to ask what’s happened to her. Whatever it was, it hardly seems to faze her.

You turn to load the coffee machine, the small single serve you rarely use yourself. Not since the woman across the street disappeared. She used to come now and again for coffee when her husband worked. You always prayed for her and her husband, he wasn’t a nice man.

You shut the lid and tap the brew button. Your mind wanders to the burnt foundation of the neighbour’s house. They found his body but not hers. You hope she was still out there, somewhere, alive. More than a month though and even your faith threatens to falter.

The machine’s grind quiets and you back up, startled by the woman’s reach as she drags the mug off the drip tray. You press yourself to the adjacent counter and look at her. You slide open a drawer and grab a teaspoon, offering it to her.

“I have sugar–”

“Black is fine,” her eyes flash at the silver utensil as she lifts the cup. Her greenish bluish irises carry a tint of yellow, “put that away.”

Her harsh snap surprises you. You put the spoon back and close the drawer. She staggers back, balancing the cup over her uneven gait. She puts her coffee down before dropping into a chair, barely keeping it from turning over under her.

“Close these fucking curtains,” she demands as he bends her head and shields her eyes, “the sun’s always a bitch after the moon.”

Her words don’t make much sense. You obey and pull shut the curtains above the sink, closing out the winter sun. There’s no reason she should be so affected, the sun is trapped behind a pillow of cold clouds.

“Good girl,” she praises and takes a loud slurp. 

You spin to face her, crossing your arms as you watch her. Your hand wanders up to your throat but finds only the nook of your collar bone. You’ve left your necklace in your jewellery box. A habit you’ve rarely broken.

‘Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. Give, and it will be given to you.’

You remind yourself of the passage as wariness nips at your mind. You do not know this woman, you only know what is said of her. And as the Lord bids, one may not judge without first first accepting judgment themselves.

“What happened to you?” You finally muster the question from the maelstrom of fear and shock.

Her thick brows rise and she tilts her head. She sits sideways in the chair and leans back to look down at herself. As she takes in the shredded flannel hanging from her figure, she lifts her hand to touch the twigs caught in her hair. She laughs, greatly amused as she smothers it with a swig of coffee.

She pops her lips and wipes them with her filthy hand, “well, looks like I had a good night.”

She smiles, her teeth eerily long and white. The expression fills you with unease. You clasp your hands together over your stomach.

“Well, I could run you a bath and you could take some of my clothes. I have a bag I was going to donate at the church–”

“Oh, you are a good girl,” she winks, “you go to church?”

You nod, “every Sunday. It’s an open service.”

“Ha,” she guffaws, “I appreciate the invitation but it isn’t for me. I like the Catholic girls more than the Catholic rites.”

You slowly part from the edge of the counter. She is crass in a way that makes you uncomfortable, in the same way as the drunken men who come out of the old bar on Tilbury. She has no shame or it seems, sense. She is as unbothered by her torn flesh as she is by her similarly shorn clothing.

“I’ll get the tub going. The pipes will take time to heat up–”

“Ah ah,” she tuts as you turn on your heel, “what kind of good Christian does not offer a name?”

You face her again. You didn’t realise. You didn’t think to give it, somehow, it felt like giving more than just that. As if you were handing over something precious. But she is here in your home and the Lord treasures gracious hosts. So you say your name, feeling it leave your tongue like a vow.

“Beautiful,” she praises, “I am Yelena, or whatever you like me to be.”

You have nothing to say to her last remark. You leave her to your coffee and forget about your tea. You’re certain it’s already cold as ice. You head down the hallway and let yourself into the bathroom. You turn on the light as you enter and cross the small patchwork of tile to the tub.

You pull back the curtain and bend over the brim to twist the four-pronged faucets. The water spills out and you splash it up the porcelain to rinse it off, turning off the flow to let it drain before starting it again. You put the stopper in place and push yourself straight.

You take a deep breath as you leave the building humidity in the bathroom and stop short as you find the woman, Yelena, just outside. She smirks at the cross stitch in its round frame, reaching to touch the embroidery; Rejoice in the Lord, the threaded cursive reads with the wreath of flowers.

“Quaint,” she muses as her eyes list over in your direction, “your husband must love you. Blessed be the meek and all that.”

You shake your head and look down at your left hand. If your mother was still around, she’d be certain to loudly proclaim your lack of suitors. The woman hums, taking the hint. She surprises you as she claps her hand on your arm.

“Who needs em? Men,” she scoffs, “trust me, they are…” she pauses, considering her next words carefully, “useless.”

She releases you and you step aside, pointing her into the bathroom. She enters, limping still. You notice how her foot drags, her leg entirely limp. You step forward, lingering at the threshold.

“The towel is clean,” you instruct, “and the hot water will probably run out by the halfway mark–” you voice catches as she strips away the remnants of her shirt. Shamelessly, she pulls down the strap of her bra, the other one snapped, and bares her chest, “oh, but uh, I’ll leave you–”

She snickers, “I am not ashamed of how the Lord made me, feel free to admire his work.”

You gasp and latch onto the doorknob. You swallow and quickly swing the door shut, clinging to it as you blink at the peeling paint. You look down at your hand, feeling as though you can’t let go. You see her body still, her pert tits and knowing smile stir your stomach cloyingly. A sinful sensation that tingles down your spine.

You snatch your hand back and nearly stumble into the wall. You must pray and cleanse yourself of these feelings. Let the Lord forgive you.

🌔

You dig out a pair of jeans and a wool sweater from the box, adding a pair of socks and underwear to the stack before scooping it up. You hug the clothing as you head down the hall, listening to the stir of water through the door. 

You clear your throat and place the pile on the square table set against the wall. You lean in, voice catching as you try to make the words come out. You feel as if you’re being choked.

“There are clothes out here for you,” you call through at last.

“Mm,” you can hear her sultry hum, “thank you, sweet one.”

You back away, retracting as if scalded. You shudder and continue on to the kitchen. You take the mugs from the table and go to the sink to wash them. The house is still cold though the furnace has softened the nip in the air.

You dry off both cups and put them back in the cupboard. You empty out the filter in the coffee machine and push the canister of grinds back against the wall. Restlessly, you pace, contemplating what comes next. It is unkind to ask a guest to leave but you must. There’s something festering about this woman being in your home.

You should’ve left her in the cold. The thought brings you to a halt and you’re mortified by your own cruelty. You shake your head and trace a cross through the air with your fingers; forgive me, lord.

You go into the living room and sit on the couch, teetering on the edge as you lean forward, elbows on your knees and hands clamped together. You press your lips to your knuckles and close your eyes. 

A silty fatigue grits under your eyelids. You are suddenly very tired. You’re still hoping this is just a dream.

“Ah, there you are,” Yelena’s voice brings your head up, your head swelling dizzily.

You look over your shoulder as she struts across the room. She wears only the wool sweater, her legs naked as the hem hovers tenuously just below her pelvis. You gulp as you watch her, stunned by her speedy and complete recovery.

The cuts across her neck and face are gone, her legs show no blemish or scar, and she walks unimpeded. Her blond hair is damp but shiny, and her cheeks are rosy and full. You’ve never seen anyone look so enthralling.

“I feel much better, darling,” she declares as she combs her fingers through her hair, the sweater rising up her thighs, “oh, but you look less than… what is the matter, sweet one?”

“N-nothing,” you go to stand but she’s quick to meet you, blocking you as she stands before you, putting a hand out to keep you at bay, “I…” you gulp, your mouth dry and pasty, “I was going to make breakfast. Are you hungry?”

She looks down at you and turns her hand to cradle your chin, “I am ravenous.”

You stare up at her, hypnotised by the heat of her touch and the yellow flecks seeming to glow in her irises. She slips her hand down to your neck and leans her weight into you, urging you to sit back. You let her, trembling as your body surrenders against your will.

She brings herself down to her knees, moving to insert herself between hers. Her hand crawls down and she hisses as she clutches the silver cross hung around your neck. He yanks and snaps the chain, bringing a yelp from your lips. She flings it away and shows how the pendant left its shape burnt into her palm. You gape as her skin slowly fades back to normal.

“What…” you breathe.

“Shhh,” she presses her finger to your lips, “I will not hurt you. The moon has gone and my hunger has changed.”

Your eyes round as you squirm. Lord, give me strength. 

Her hand falls again and she gropes you through the cotton of your sweatshirt. You murmur as she squeezes and you feel it pluck deep down inside of you. You look down at her hand as she fondles you, her other creeping up to raise the bottom of your shirt.

Your mind screams for you to stop her. You know you should, you know what she’s doing is wrong, but you can’t. It’s as if your body is no longer your own. As if she’s possessed you with her touch alone.

She rolls your shirt above your chest, peeling down the cubs of your wireless bra as she leans forward. A glaze of shock paralyses you as you watch her press her lips to the curve of your tit. He kisses the flesh, teasing it with her tongue, then her teeth, nipping so you squeak.

“Delicious,” she purrs, as her thumb twirls around your hardened nipple.

Your hands ball against the cushion, the most you can muster as your muscles lock up. She keeps one hand on your chest as she trails down your stomach with her mouth. She dotes on your soft belly, her other hand edging around as she guides your hips forward. Her fingers curl around the top of your pants.

Her other hand brushes around your ribs and down your back. She grips the elastic of your pants, guiding them down, tugging them under your ass as she jolts your body. You groan as she pulls both underwear and pants down your thighs in a single swoop. 

A crack forms in your trance and you bring your hands together to shield your nakedness. You hid your cunt behind as she strips the fabric past your ankles. She tuts and lays a kiss along your calf. She makes a path up to your knee, then switches legs, kissing along your quivering thigh.

“Don’t be shy,” she growls, “the lord gives us all a purpose. He would not make anything so beautiful if he did not mean it to be admired.”

She leans back and reaches behind her hand. She tugs the sweater up over her head, disposing it on the floor as she presents herself to you. Naked and built like a statue, muscle hewn perfectly.

She pulls your hands away from your pelvis and leers between your legs. She pushes your hands down beside you and drags her own down your thighs. She lifts your legs, one at a time, opening you to her.

She bends as you shake, detached from your mortal shell as he bows her head over your lap. She reaches up grazing over your chest and to your neck. She stretches her hand across your throat and holds you in place as she pokes her cool tongue against your slick heat.

You’re just as surprised at the mingling of hot and cold as you are by your own arousal. She laps you up eagerly as your body responds, falling apart in an instant. You moan through your tight throat, wrapping your fingers around her wrist as you drop your head back. Your voice gristles out as you tilt your hips in welcome.

The scald of your repentance fades into that of your delight. Her tongue delves between your folds, dissembling you with each slow swipe, each swirl around your tender bud. Her fingertips tickle along your thigh, edging the crease of your pelvis and dipping down to your entrance. She prods, wiggling just inside as she eases into you little by little.

You gasp and gulp, rocking your hips in time with her. You can hear how much you want her, you can feel it flooding from you, dripping down her hand and spreading on her tongue. She buries her face against you as she devours you, urging you on as she builds her pace, jamming her fingers deeper and deeper.

You reach down without thinking and latch onto her head. You push her down, smothering her face in your cunt as you rut against her face. You feel the swell crest and your body quakes as the tension shatters and sweeps over you. Your orgasm gushes out around her fingers as your voice fizzles to a creaky whine.

She feels along your hand, carefully drawing it away as she raises her head. Her chin drips with your juices as she snickers, baring her wolfish teeth. Her eyes glimmer as she slips her fingers out of you. You squirm with the sudden emptiness.

She grabs the backs of your calves suddenly and stands, pulling you so you slip down, your shoulders on the cushion. She grips the front of your bunched shirt and hauls you onto the floor, bringing you to your knees. She lifts her leg over your shoulder, planting her foot on the couch behind you.

She pushes your face into her pelvis and you open your mouth. You taste her, tilting your head back as she stains your tongue with her desire. Your eyes roll back as she holds you there, her hips rolling as she grips a fistful of your hair.

“Kneel in worship of me, sweet one,” she cradles the back of your head as she brings you closer, “leave your false god behind.”

All doubt, all dread, dwindles away as you’re swallowed by the heat of temptation. The strength of your spirit succumbs to the weakness of your flesh. Forgive me, lord, oh please, forgive me for how sweet it is.

[valvesandthings]

Ok...you seen idw shockwave, because DANM

I NEE HIS VALVE GETTING STUFFED UP BECAUSE HE NEEDS IT, BRO I NEED HIM WHIMPERING

COULD I GET A FIC ABOUT HIS VALVE G3TTING STUFFED BY HIS MALE CYBERTRONIAN S/O????

AND SHOCKWAVE GETTING PRAISED BY US???

(I am very worried on how I am about him, also i forgot to check if requestare open, sorry pookie, also am sorry if this is too much to write)

Sorry it took a while for this bad boy. Feel free to freak out over him, this is a horny safe space lol.

Shockwave stared at his lover’s spike, so astoundingly large and much too wide. “That won’t fit,” he stated. 

His mate grinned. “With as much as I’ve stretched you already, it better,” he said. Gentler, he added, “Don’t worry, I’ve got lube.” He was already lathering some onto his spike. He lined it up to Shockwave’s dripping little valve and rubbed the tip in his mess. 

Shockwave keened when he nudged the tip inside. It didn’t matter how much foreplay they did, this was still going to be one hell of a snug fit. His lover pushed in and pulled back out every few inches, and Shockwave felt rightfully stuffed. By the time he hilted, he was quivering and on the cusp of an overload. 

His lover grabbed his thighs and lifted them, hooking Shockwave’s knees over his shoulders. “Look at you,” he said, “doing so well for me.”

Shockwave whimpered when he finally thrust fully, striking the back of his valve. He didn’t take long to start a quick pace, fucking Shockwave into a simpering, whining mess. 

“Frag, you’re tight,” he groaned. “I don’t think I’ll be letting you go any time soon, Shockwave. Such a good little pet you are.”

Shockwave tried to speak but all that came out was a staticy cry for “more” and more did his lover give. They fragged well into the night, and Shockwave was a limp, sloppy mess, his valve aching from the stretch and his nerves tingling from so many overloads. 

[rayclubs]

Vastly in agreement with your mischaracterization post. If things are truly this dire I might have to write some tf2 fic. I did have a question though. You mentioned heavy doesn’t say da. I thought remembered a voice line were he does say that, and with a quick check there are 5 in-game voicelines where he says da, which is why it sounded so natural in my head. I’d be curious if you had a thought here, and hope this doesn’t come off as contrarian.

I'm glad you asked, cause I really should've explained that better.

"Da" is Russian for "yes", Heavy definitely says it. I was making a joke there. The joke is that in a lot of instances in which he says it, it's at the end of the sentence, most often in questions. Like here:

If you do that in real life Russian, someone will probably respond with "pizda", which rhymes with "da" and means "cunt". It's very... How do you say this in English?

"What?" - "Chicken butt!"

But for grown-ups. So, yes, Heavy probably says "da", but not in the way Valve makes him. There's also a linguistic argument to be made here - "yes" is a simple word that he would not have trouble remembering and would not need to substitute with Russian. But the original post was definitely just making a joke about pussy, I'm sorry.

[iamthecomet]

Okay. Headcanons. Bear with me (I'm really high ily)

(COMING BACK FROM THE FUTURE TO SAY THIS GETS TURNED INTO OMEGA ANGST IDK LMAO))))

Ghouls.

What are they? In this essay,

I hc them as lower-level service creatures when they're Below more than anything else, at least the ones contracted to the family Emeritus. As such, they have no elemental alignment when they're down there. They have more of a...passive compatability, let's say, with every element. Their main alignment is assigned upon summoning. (Multi/hybrid ghouls are a lot more common than a lot of people think, but majority of them can only truly channel one of their elements.) Because of this, no Papa is ever quite sure what he's going to get when he summons a new ghoul.

Except, of course, for his very first summoning.

Every Papa, from the beginning, has first summoned a quintessence ghoul. They act as a metaphysical link between realms, Above and Below. A direct line of communication to Lucifer's court itself, so their Dark Lord can check in and make sure his Word is being spread.

In my head, the breakdown is (summoner->ghoul):

Nihil->Special

Primo->Omega

Secondo->Aether

Terzo->Cowbell

Copia->Aeon

The quintessence ghouls are deeply connected to their summoners, tend to attach themselves at the hip to their respective Papa for the first few months of their time Above. Even when power shifts - like when Omega started reporting to Secondo instead of Primo, or when Aether took over in the middle of all the upheaval - they remain close and loyal to their summoning Papa. Always reporting back with news of goings-on around the abbey, even long after their bodies are entombed.

Omega is, perhaps, the biggest exception to that rule.

When Primo was alive they would eat lunch together every day. Since his death, though, Omega has only been back to see him...well, not enough times, he's sure. Not that the old man is alone, Omega has seen Mountain visit him on a regular basis, but he really should be better about it.

Because look, it's not like Omega had planned to have Terzo get all smitten with him. Being the right hand of the eldest brother Emeritus had come with exposure to the family, though, and Omega knew from the moment he saw Cardinal Terzo that he was done for. It had taken exactly one midnight mass for Terzo to corner him in a confessional booth, to taste sin and humanity on his lips, and, well, that was that.

So, every evening, he visits Terzo in his black marble mausoleum. Accented in gold and rich purple, lit by eternal candlelight courtesy of the fire ghouls. He tells him about his day, reads a book out loud, or sometimes sings. Just breathes a little life into the space. Just for an hour or two, after his shift in the infirmary. He used to stay longer, but he's so tired these days.

He knows why. Knows why there's new streaks of white in his jet black hair, and why his horns are starting to crack. He can feel it in his bones, his vessel starting to give. He's seen it before, of course. Many ghouls before him have passed like this. It just feels too soon, like he should have more time.

Some part of him, though, feels grateful. Especially when he visits Terzo. When he can lay a hand on that glass casket and imagine he's touching his face instead.

Omega knows that he's down there, Below. He's known it for years, since the day Special shoved that needle into his throat. He felt it in his chest, like a little ball of ice caught between the valves of his heart. He knows he's down there, knows he's waiting - or perhaps that's more of a hope - for Omega to join him again. The family Emeritus is well cared for downstairs, kept happy. Omega still gets regular status reports long after Aether and Aeon come to be, and selfishly he hopes that will earn him some sway. That it won't have to be a fight to see Terzo's handsome face again, his sparkling eyes and cheesy grin. That all it'll take is a few choice words for Omega to have him again.

He supposes he'll find out soon enough.

.........anyway this was supposed to be about why I think the ghouls should be able to have sick magickal powers but HAVE THAT I GUESS

MIASMA. MIASMA I LOVE YOU AND YOUR BRAIN. I'm not going to add anything to this because it is beautiful and sad and you all just need to read and appreciate it as it is because AHHHHHHH and WAHHHHHH. Oh, Omega. I'M SO GLAD YOU SHARED THIS WITH ME. but also yes, ghouls should be able to have SICK MAGICKAL POWERS.

[nyehilismwriting]

dressed for leanna 🥺👉👈

“Check your tether every three minutes.”

“Got it.”

“And stay on the radio.”

“I will.”

“And don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Neither am I.”

She slides the bulky glove over your hand, gives you a meaningful look. You flex your hand, feel the heavy fabric shift, your fingers stretching under the smooth inner lining. You can’t feel her skin through the glove: miss it already, even as you watch your fingers, three times as wide as normal, closing over her wrist. Her eyes dart back up to you as she does up the seals, the old spacesuit creaking as she tightens the valves, tugs the strap over the top to cover the edges.

“Stay on the radio.”

“I will.” You don’t let her hand go as you lean in, press your lips to her cheek. “It’s a space walk, not a suicide mission. I’ve done this before.”

She makes a face. “Not like this. This suit’s old, and you’ll be doing maintenance out there - real work, not shooting people. You can’t afford to get distracted.” Leanna presses her lips together, shakes her head slightly when you laugh. Her hand grips your wrist, fingertips white, pressing dimples into the suit. You can’t feel a thing. You lean forwards, nudge her cheek with your nose.

“And if I fuck this up, Ki-Ha won’t let me back on the ship?”

There’s a soft snort from behind you.

“Correct.”

“Don’t be a dick.” Leanna scowls over your shoulder at him - then at you. Turns away, scooping up the other glove. “I’m being serious. I don’t want to have to rescue you.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, hold out your other hand. She slides the glove on, and you’re cut off entirely from the warmth of her skin. “That could be fun.”

Leanna doesn’t laugh. Her eyes are wide and dark as she closes the seals, her hands lingering on yours.

She picks up the helmet, next. Hesitates, holding it close to her chest.

“Please be careful?”

You take the opportunity for one last kiss, gloved hands clumsy against her waist. Her skin is warm and soft against yours, a coil of hair brushing your cheek.

“When am I not?”

[mychlapci]

Okay wait I had an idea for the TFA broodmare thingie

What if in Autobots, when a miscarriage or still birth or infant death overall happens it's always seen as a result of the broodmares? No matter if it was, like, unviable, or if it was a sickness that couldn't have been avoided. It's always the fault of the broodmares. Their job was to produce viable offspring. And they only have their sires sick, half deformed abominations- they had to of done it intentionally. No other reason or logic.

But in the Decepicons, it's seen as the fault of the sire/donor. They've been through war and then some- they should know how badly stress can affect sensitive little bodies. They should know the proper sterilization methods, and the proper care for their broodmares to check for deformities and birth defects. And there are just some things they can't control- sometimes no matter what you do it just isn't meant to be.

Anyways, imagine Bee (youngest, least experienced carrier) having a miscarriage and being terrified. He did it wrong. He was going to be in trouble. Someone was going to beat him, or maybe he was going to be starved, or executed, or, or, or-

But it doesn't happen. The Decepicons just double and triple check that he didn't tear any of the mesh or linings of his valve and get him cleaned up and keep him comfortable. They're gentle as they talk and quiet when they bring up options for burial. Even in the war forged cultures, a proper burial is required, and it must be attempted no matter the cost if the recently deceased was a bittie.

Anyways, Bee has a breakdown sobbing and he talks about what happened and how he was "prepared" for his role and all the things he was told and saw and victim to and the Cons are PISSED. First the Autobots send broodmares to the far end of the system with no proper medical care or nesting materials or even adequate transfusions or donors, AND they don't even have the decency to recognize loss of bitties and carriages as something that is probably THEIR fault from the atrocious care standards?!

Megatron would be furious. He'd get the stories from the rest of the team before trying to piece together what to do. It might even be a situation where they go looking for other broodmares in similar situations, because there's no way in hell any half-decent mech will just let carriers stay in such cruel and unusual situations.

Once Megatron learns that autobots blame their broodmares in case of a miscarriage, his distaste for autobots grows even larger, and that’s coming from a guy who waged war with them for 4 million years. On his ship, a miscarrying broodmare means the studs or sire are to be punished, not the poor carrier. They’ve gone through enough, poor little thing, Blitzwing’s favourite, he’d be ready to rip the triple-changer’s helm off of his body for putting such a toll on his broodmare that he couldn’t carry to term, if Blitzwing wasn't threatening to do the same to the rest of the ‘Cons. 

Of course, perhaps no one was rough with him, it could have just happened… A little accident. Bumblebee gets a little break from his duties so his system can reboot.