#transmission received! ✧.. answered ask

[ribbondee]

"SOUNDWAVE! WHAT IS THAT SMELL", Megatron asks. Soundwave responds by opening up and the Hotbox comes flooding out, pink smoke flooding the ship (they were smoking energon), getting everyone else high off their chassis.

*later*

"Optimus! We're receiving a transmission on Teletraaan 1! *answers*"

Megatron: Hiii Oppymus~ remember back on Cybertron when we pranked our superiors? Yeaaaaah that was great. *the chatter and laughter of other high Decepticons can he heard in the background, and the transmission suddenly ends*

Bumblebee: *looks towards Optimus* did that scare you too? *Optimus nods*

chat do you think the cassettes use soundwave's chest to hotbox in bc i think it would be really fucking funny if they did

[wickedlittlepuppy]

🦕 dino fact for pomni? 🥺

Send me 🦕 for a random dino fact!! || ACCEPTING

❝ Contrary to popular depictions of them in human media franchises such as 'Jurassic Park', Dilophosaurus did not sport a retractable frill nor could they spit highly endotoxic venom. These mid-sized theropods had crests atop their heads instead! Their notched snouts allowed them to hook and grapple their quarry in much the same function as a crocodilian, many small, curved teeth made holding their prey down all the more effective - as well as causing severe lacerations that could quickly bleed out prey if it struggled or escaped being grappled. ❞

[gutsby]

Easy to Please

Pairing: Sleazy Landlord!Joel x Reader

Summary: Months pass, and you can’t make rent—again. You find another way to pay your sleazy landlord. Again.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Oral (m!receiving). Dubcon à la power imbalance / sex for money. Infidelity. Pervy!Joel. Talks of abuse. Omitting one tag to avoid spoiling the ending—please read at your own risk.

Note: This fic was loosely inspired by my three favorite songs about female adultery—‘Thinkin’ Bout Cheatin’ by Mae Estes, ‘Lyin’ Eyes’ by The Eagles, and ‘Cheatin’ Songs’ by Midland. No, I don’t support infidelity. Yes, it makes for fun fiction.

Word count: 3.1k

You hate the face he makes when he cums.

You hate the way he tastes when he’s done.

You hate the grit and the heft of the man, every lone hair that sprouts silver from his chest, and the way he pats the open space beside him in bed after you roll away.

‘Never seen a girl so goddamn allergic to cuddling!’

What makes his observation worse is that you know you’re hating it more and more with every passing day.

Today you have seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson tucked into your purse. You walk with a sluggish gait, knowing you’re $310 short of making this month’s rent and last. But you go on anyway. It’s not like Joel can’t see you from where he’s seated on the porch.

The pleasantries you exchange are short. By now, you have only to breeze past him in his lawn chair and say, ‘I can’t stay long,’ and he knows the rest. He grabs his six-pack, then his Pall Malls, and asks after you all the same.

“How’s the wrist?” he says.

You sprained it over the weekend. You aren’t sure how he heard. At any rate, you ignore the question and set your bag down on the counter before going to the fridge. You deflect with a question of your own—what the hell happened to the lemonade? He had a full jug last week.

“Got thirsty,” Joel answers, shrugging.

You’re always thirsty, you tell him, and you eye the case of Heineken that he’s placed by your purse. You don’t need to see his face to feel the smile starting to form.

“Don’t I know it,” he says. Insinuating.

You’d hit him over the head if you’d been able to reach. He’s still smiling when your shoulder checks his—closer to his elbow, from the feel of it—and when you leave the kitchen, he leaves too. He trails behind you with an ease that says this is the sixth time this has happened since August, and you’re hardly a week out from Halloween.

It’s not just rent you need to pay; it’s other things. Transmission in your truck’s gone to shit. Phone’s been on the fritz since you dropped it in the tub. Talking heads on TV say the country’s on track to get hit with another recession, and from the way your boss has been slashing your hours in half, you think they may be right. The crack in your bathroom window was tiny last week. Today it’s gone, because your husband put his fist through the thing on Sunday. You patched the hole with duct tape.

Joel’s covering the cost for the pane to be replaced, but that’s because he has to. He’s your landlord—proud owner of the Delta Commons trailer park since ‘97—and that’s what landlords do. Everything else is yours to pay.

You’re a part-time student, part-time waitress, and a full-time caretaker for your ailing spouse, or so you call him. Joel knows Stetson’s not sick, just perennially unemployed and drunk. You pay for most things, and it’s rarely enough to cover your rent. Stetson doesn’t care.

And that’s where Joel comes in.

No pun intended, but in his mind, there’s really no nicer way to say it: you fuck his brains out to make up for the shortfall in rent. You blow him before work to make sure your husband and you will have enough to eat that week. You bite the warm, freckled skin between his shoulder and his neck while you ride him, because you know that gesture will get you a little extra cash when you leave. You smile after swallowing him, and Joel knows that it tastes like shit. You’ve gotten good at faking it lately.

What he hopes isn’t totally fabricated is the way you call him big. Strong. Handsome. So stupidly well-endowed that you have to wince for the first few seconds when you sit on it, and go slow when he takes you from behind

“O-ow!” you whine presently.

His dick isn’t even in you yet. You just stubbed your toe on the edge of his dresser on your way to the bathroom.

“You alright?”

“Fuck me!”

I will, he thinks.

“Want me to get an ice—”

“Let go-OW! FUCK!”

Joel barely even touched your wrist and you were flinching away with a brand new pain. You rub it, almost defensively, then pin him with an icy glare. Nice going.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

Now he’ll be lucky if he can swing a half-hearted handy from the one that isn’t hurt. That’s how mad you look.

You turn your body away, and for a second, Joel assumes that his fate has been sealed: you’ll bumble over to the rug by his bed, toss a pillow on the floor, and assume what he already knows to be your least favorite position. You’ll kneel, and talk of migraines and your long, grueling day and in the end find an excuse not to use your mouth. That’ll be okay. But with the debts you owe him now, it also won’t be enough, and Joel will have to ask you back again. He hates sounding needy, but baby, deal’s a deal.

Luckily you don’t give him the chance to use that line. Much to his surprise, you get on the bed. You lie down. You seem to take a little more care settling in this time, but you take off your clothes. It’s a lime green tank top and some ratty jean skirt, but it’s enough to tempt him.

And not just tempt, but oblige him to accept, unblinking. He crawls over the bed to get to you, and he finds that his spit’s filling his mouth a little quicker. His hands are starting to shake as they slide over the duvet, and the tree trunks he once called his legs are runny, like eggs.

He has to remind himself, bluntly, of your last name, the shiny ring on your hand, your husband’s name, your—

“Age—what’d you say your age was again?” Joel asks.

You look confused for a second, but you tell him.

“Twenty-one.”

Way too fucking young to have gotten hitched three years ago. But then he remembers this is Leakey, Texas, and your family hasn’t strayed more than ten miles from the center of town in four generations. You told him that.

“I thought you said twenty,” Joel says, a little uneasy.

“I did. Up until this past Sunday I was.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

“Happy birthday.”

You blink.

“You gonna take your pants off or what?”

And he does. Maybe embarrassed at first, but then the jeans come off, and his boxers go next, and without so much as a word or a breath, his worries are sliding away like water off his back. Like his clothes now peeling off.

Like your smile growing thin at the sight of him half-stripped on the bed in front of you. Joel doesn’t flatter himself to think he’s even half as handsome as he was in his youth, but he knows he has his draws. What endears him to you today is, unfortunately, his wallet. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be convinced to like him more.

More than Stetson, he thinks without humor.

Dumb son of a bitch can’t tell his ass from his elbow and yet he’s won himself you, living it up these last three y—

“Oh.”

He sounds like an owl now. His clothes are off, and you’re rubbing him, pumping him gently in your hand, which you were so kind to make wet with your saliva. It even sounds better than his, the way it squelches with every flick. Joel can only say so much in strangled breaths.

He tries anyway:

“Feel like a dream, sweet pea.”

Sweet pea.

Your pace quickens. Joel swears he can see the corners of your lips twitch, but then he thinks you’re just wincing. You move down to the floor beside the bed. Kneel almost politely while you nestle yourself between his parted legs

Your mouth is warm. It’s always warm. Joel wouldn’t expect a girl’s tongue to greet his dick like ice, but yours is always heated to a thousand degrees, it feels like. He enjoys the sting. Your lips envelop his big, leaking tip, and he swears he can stay like this forever—in you.

On you, too. He’s got his palm resting flat on your head, and he doesn’t mean to, but he pushes. He bunches your hair in a fist and drags your face to make you swallow.

Mean old man, you must be saying in your head when he stuffs your mouth full. Makes your eyes prick with tears.

Sweet girl. My sweet pea, he thinks, affectionately, and continues to rub your scalp. He holds your teary gaze.

And then you’re moving up. Down. Coating his length with shiny spit and tiny whimpers as your lips move gently back and forth, again and again. Joel’s grip tightens in your hair, and he begs for more. More.

“More,” he orders, jaw clenched, “Fit a little more’a me.”

From where you’re kneeling below, you look put off.

Then you pull off, and you wipe your wet chin.

“Chokin’ me,” you grumble, “‘S’too big.”

Normally, Joel loves to hear that.

Now, however, he’s sliding his touch to your chin and tilting your head up to him. Thumbing at the spit dribbling out on either side of your mouth and subsequently coaxing your lips further apart.

He slides back in, and you don’t fight it. You like it. Holding his gaze in a soft, docile look while your lips stretch deliciously around his shaft, you must love it. Every inch and every twinge of pleasure from the brush of his cock going in and out must be your favorite thing.

Joel hopes it is, anyway. He holds your face now, and your throat convulses involuntarily. You’re so pretty.

“Such a good, sweet girl, ain’t ya?” he presses, watching the coarse grey hairs at the base of him tickle your face.

You respond well to praise. You preen under those words, and try to nod. But his cock is so deep down your throat you end up choking again. Joel watches all of it smiling.

Petting your head and not pushing again. Grinning.

“Love my cock nice and stuffed in that pretty throat?”

You blink instead of nodding, but it’s more than enough.

“Love me deep?”

And the head of him sinks somewhere he’s never been. Your eyes are like two wide pools, and your lips leak everywhere—your chin, your cheeks, your neck.

Joel’s smearing it all with his palm and smiling so wide that he thinks he might pull a muscle. He pants heavily.

“Just what you’re made for. Just what you need.”

You look like you might agree. He keeps going.

“My fuckin’ mouth. My pretty, pretty mouth.”

He holds your face. He thinks he might cum.

“Ain’t a damn thing Stetson can do for this mouth, huh?”

And then he doesn’t. Joel barely blinks, and you’re already bucking your head out of his hold, mouth skittering away while the spit spills out. You’re practically drenched down to the chest when your face rears back. Your eyes are alight and no longer smiling when you grit:

“Don’t.”

Joel should’ve known better.

He’s hit a raw nerve, and now he really wishes he hadn’t.

It doesn’t stop there—but it doesn’t get better, either. Things progress in much the same way as they always have but with none of the need, or the warmth, of before. You climb back up and straddle him quick. Not meeting his eye, you just sit down, and slide down, and don’t wince at all. You don’t tell him that he’s big, and he doesn’t get the chance to even groan at the first influx of pleasure before you’re riding him. Bouncing and grinding your hips against his with all the passion of someone perusing the newspaper. You don’t whimper or moan.

Of course, Joel enjoys the feeling. He also wants someone to punch him in the throat for what he’s done.

“Hey, hon—” he starts, voice strained, “Hon, I’m sorr—”

“Shut up,” you snap.

Your movements hardly falter, and now your hand is seizing the headboard. You’re clenching him tight inside your wet, drooling cunt, and it’s obvious you’re trying to make him cum as quickly as possible. You swallow hard.

Joel isn’t sure what to do. On the one hand, his body is being flooded with pleasure, and on the other, he fears you may never do this with him again. Quickly fixing on the latter, he cups your face in one hand. It’s still wet.

His fingers smear the spit, and somehow you look even prettier. You keep grinding your body in desperate little fits above him, and really, you feel fucking amazing, but Joel is too focused on other thoughts. He squeezes you.

“Baby—” he tries again, but you shush him just as fast.

Your hips are moving viciously now. No matter how sore your legs might have been from a long day toiling away—just a couple hours before your shift at your next job, if Joel’s remembering correctly—you’re working him well. Doing him in. Fucking his brains out, but you aren’t his.

His fingers smear the spit even more. Never will be his.

“Sweet pea—”

“Don’t fucking call me that!”

Now he can’t deny that his climax is close. But this isn’t how he wanted it to end—with you so incensed you can hardly look him in the eye. His hand rubs more, helpless.

And just when he’s seconds away from painting your insides white, losing it all to the pleasure, he sees it.

His wet, sticky touch has uncovered a residue.

Joel pulls his fingers away in a blink, and simultaneously, your eyes are fluttering closed. You’re focused now on climax; because of that, you don’t see what he sees.

What he’s stunned to find on his fingers: makeup.

Lots and lots of thick, heavy makeup on your cheeks. Concealer, he thinks he’s heard it called once or twice.

No matter the name, he quickly comes to see what it’s for. Just as you’re hitting your peak, squeezing the headboard behind him, and coming undone with a shockwave trembling all through your body, Joel pales.

The makeup that you applied so heavy tonight hides bruises. Black and blue and awful hues of greenish-purple too, your whole face, he sees, is engulfed.

He doesn’t speak. He won’t ask.

He won’t cum tonight, either.

He’ll finish something else.

You leave Joel’s trailer angry. You don’t say goodbye. The screen door screams shut behind you when you leave, and silently, you wonder why he didn’t cum. For once, you wish he had—and hadn’t said half of what he did.

Six hours pass like molasses, and by the end of it all—the close of your second shift—Stetson’s name still echoes in your head. The way Joel said it. It hums along the walls of your skull while you walk, and as you draw closer to home, you remember that strange and infuriating tone.

Then you remember your own less than two months ago:

Don’t talk to my husband. Don’t talk about my husband.

They were two simple rules, and Joel broke them both.

He must’ve defied the first when paying a visit to make repairs that week, and that’s when Stetson mentioned your hand: how you ‘slipped’ in the bath. Tripped and conveniently sprained your wrist the same night he almost tore your arm out of the socket for looking at a waiter a tad too long at dinner. You’d bet any sum of money Joel didn’t get to hear that part from Stetson when he came over to see about the window, though.

No, your twenty-first came and went without so much as a word about your wrist. Your arm. Your face—used to getting caked with concealer every third week or so.

You wince as you open the door. You walk slowly.

At first, you’re met with silence, and you sigh with relief. Then you hear it, and shortly drop your purse to the floor.

You all but fall down yourself at the sight: your husband doubled over across from you, in the kitchen. His head in his hands. You don’t need to see the face to know that it’s bleeding. Profusely. You tread ever slower into the room, thinking somehow, some way he’s going to blame this on you. And when he straightens a little and shows off the full, gruesome extent of his injuries, you blanch to think that it might be. His body’s been beaten to a pulp.

Your pulse hammers in your head so loud you can’t hear him groan. You see him, but you don’t really believe it.

And when Stetson reaches for you, you stagger back.

Your hands skim the counter, but your brain barely registers it. Your husband’s calling to you now, ‘Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid, do somethin’, huh?!’ He’s screaming, and you’re not hearing it. Barely feeling like a sentient person at all but just a doll stumbling backward on two wooden legs. As you walk, your palm stays stuck to the laminate underneath it, and suddenly, you feel it.

An envelope.

In this state, you aren’t sure why you grab it, but you do.

You take the lone white paper, and you turn to leave. Your hands shake as you hold the thing, and your legs are hardly any better, but they carry you, miraculously, from the kitchen to the threshold of the back door. Then out. Stetson’s not just yelling but bellowing, loud, every last obscenity known to man as he holds his bloodied side and limps in his perilous, pathetic way. Fortunately, you’re gone just in time to miss the bottle he hurls.

Outside, you walk. And walk. And in the still of the night you’re obliged to find your way through a miscellany of trailers and trucks and old, creaking vans by moonlight, and the throbbing in your head begins to slow. You don’t rush to get far, and you don’t have your keys even if you wanted to drive off. You keep walking. Watching nothing.

When your eyes drift to the envelope in your hand, you barely see that either. You’re just blinking as you look, and breathing as you wait for the sight to make sense.

Inside, you find seven Benjamins, two Grants, and a Jackson staring back. Next to them are a few dozen others—enough to cover August, September, October, and several months before that, if you had to guess.

You hope you’ll get the opportunity to thank Joel, and maybe tell him that you don’t really hate him, someday.

[strange-dreams-are-made-of-these]

Your Heart Fits Like A Key

Summary: Your ex boyfriend is your knight in shining armor rescuing you after a bad date. There's nobody else like Logan, and you finally see it. This is imagined with 2013 Logan in mind, but any Logan could work Warnings: MDNI!!! its porn without plot. Logan receives road head, afab!female reader, reader receives oral, pet names (baby, baby girl, princess), car sex, logan talks reader through it, not proofread, no use of y/n Word Count: 3.7k+

You blamed yourself for not checking the weather report before getting ready for your date today. Westchester County was huge, but the upper part of the county wasn't the kindest to pedestrians. Granted, you did have a car, but good ole Casper the white Dodge was sitting in the shop still waiting on that part needed to fix the transmission. Had you lived closer to the southern end of the county you could have at least been within decent walking range of the subways and trains that made the lives of New York City's residents easier.

Your phone buzzed again on your bathroom counter as you plucked the stray eyebrow hair between your brow and temple. As you looked down, you saw his name, and a flutter rose in your chest. You shook your head, deciding to answer it. "You would have thought that after i didn't answer your third call you would have thought I didn't want to talk to you."

A gruff filled the space in a response. "What can I say? If I'm known to be anything, its protective. Something could have been wrong and I would have to come and save you"

"Did you mean protective or possessive?" You asked, though not able to get rid of the smirk that crept up on your face.

"There's a very fine line between the two, darlin'." he cooed into the phone, sounding just as smooth as his line delivery.

It had been nearly a year since you and Logan broke up, yet he couldn't quite just leave you alone. It wasn't just that you two dated for two years, two wonderful years filled with love and domesticity, and the occasional fight between the forces of good and evil. You weren't much one to fight with the team known as the X-Men. Your powers occur in the cases of near accidents or without much effort. Probability field manipulation made it nearly impossible for you to receive a scratch or bruise.

Which was ironic due to your lack of success in your dating life after Logan. What was that saying about being unlucky in love?

"I'd love to stay and chit-chat with you, Logan-"

"Perfect, let's have dinner tonight at Lucky's." You could barley hear the jingling of keys in his hand, as if he was spinning them around in his finger.

You rested one hand on the bathroom counter, dropping your jaw slightly before speaking again. "I can't. I'm already going out tonight."

The keys stopped spinning and an audible change could be heard in his tone. "I'm sure the girls from work won't mind having a scary dog privilege around, or whatever you girls are saying these days."

"It's not with the girls, or with coworkers." You looked at yourself int he mirror, then pressing your brows together. Why did you tell him that?

Logan hummed on the other side of the phone, not a jovial one. "So, some slob is taking you out tonight?" He asked you.

You didn't think Jake to be a slob, except for the inappropriate water cooler bathroom humor, but he was nice and somewhat good looking.

Not as good looking as Logan though.

"Nothing too crazy. Just pizza and a walk." As you looked at your dress in the mirror, you knew you were overdressed, but you couldn't help yourself. It had been ages since you last wore the dress, and it was the perfect combination of being short enough to leave the mind wanting more and hugging your curves in the right way.

"Sounds like he can't afford to take you on a proper date. Who knows what else he can't properly do." Logan replied, knowing the sound of his voice was already driving you wild. He could imagine your face now, how soft your eyes would be as he looked down at you.

You knew the voice he was using was his bedroom voice, and it drove you mad. To feel his arms wrap around your waist and pull you back into his hold, to feel his lips dance across your cheeks and ears, nibbling the lobes had sent shivers down your spine.

Oh, how you missed him dearly.

"Too bad you'll never know." You responded, trying to force the thoughts of Logan out of your mind.

"We'll see, princess."

–

Later that night, you and Jake had sat in Martin and Rocco's pizzeria, a little place you enjoyed from time to time. Jake had showed up not only half an hour late, but he decided to wear an ill-fitting grey t-shirt and baggy jeans. His hair looked as if he had just rolled out of his bed. All while you were in the slim red dress with your black leather jacket tucked on your lap.

Jake had been laughing rather loud and ruthlessly, spitting food out as he did so. It left a sour taste in your mouth as you protectively shielded your glass of red wine from his debris. The waiter came back asking about your check. "It'll be one, bro." Jake spoke. The waiter nodded, handing the printed check over to Jake. He shook his head, then pointed at you. You looked at him dumbfounded as the waiter left.

"Why are you pointing at me?" You asked him.

He threw his hands up. "Don't look at me. This was your idea." He sounded rather confident, making your blood boil.

"I don't mind paying for my own, I would rather pay for my own. I'm not paying for you." You spoke firmly, clutching your purse. Now the bill wasn't large at all. A medium-sized pizza that you ate only one slice of as he consumed the rest, your one glass of wine, and his three beers came to around forty-five dollars before tip. "I'll pay for the drinks, no problem. I'm not paying for a pizza I barely touched."

Jake narrowed his eyes at you. "This date was your idea. Why do you think I didn't bring my wallet? Just my I.D." He asked you again.

Eyeing the rest of the wine in your glass, you looked back at Jake. The highest road to take would be to pay for the meal, tip the waiter, and never speak to Jake again.

But you never were one to take the high road.

Hanging your jacket over your arm, you stand up and walk over to Jake. "You know what?" You swirled the red liquid in your glass, watching as it stained the sides temporarily. "He's right... You wouldn't know how to treat me right." You turned to look at him, changing your posture. "Suck a bag of dicks." You then turn the glass over in your hand, drenching your pathetic date in the rest of your wine.

He wiped his eyes, making a scene of himself as you walked away. You spoke to the waiter, making sure to pay for the drinks and tip him as you said you would, then leaving the staff to take care of the rest.

You felt a newfound sense of confidence as your hips swayed leaving the restaurant and putting on your jacket.

Then the rain started to soak your hair. The confidence started to fade as you then remembered to had to use an Uber to get to the restaurant because your car was in the shop. You sighed loudly, turning on your heel to begin your long walk home.

A car pulled up toward you as the passenger window rolled down. "Need a ride, baby?"

You looked over, feeling defeated that Logan had found you. Of course, he would, like he did with all of your previous dates. "I'm good." You lied.

You knew better, he could tell by the way your cheeks had been red, even under the street lights, that something was wrong. Logan got out of the car, shutting the door before walking around, opening the passenger door, shielding it from the rain. "You sure about that?"

Option A: Tell Logan, the honest love of your life, to leave you alone and continue to walk home.

Option B: stick around until Jake comes out of the restaurant smelling like the house wine special for the night and risk watching Logan beat the shit out of him.

Option C: Accept the universe's way of telling you everything will be alright.

You pull your jacket around you a little tighter as you turn and approach Logan and his car. You look up at him, placing a hand on his cheek and gently patting it. Before you could sink into the seat, he gently grabbed ahold of your wrist, bringing it to his lips and pressing those perfectly soft lips to the inside of your wrist as he kissed it.

After making sure you were in the car, Logan closed the door, walked around the front of the car, and entered the driver's side. As he turned the engine back over, police sirens could be heard in the distance. "What's going on?" He asked watching as they approached the pizzeria and a couple of cops entered the restaurant.

"Well, if we don't get out of here, I may end up in handcuffs.” You sighed, your chest rising and falling harshly. “Not in the good way.”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s my girl.” He turned the wheel, quickly speeding out of the parking spot.

He rested one hand on the steering wheel, the other was on the gearshift as he comfortably sped down the roads of the town you called home. You ignored the burning pit in your stomach, reaching into your bag and pulling out your perfume. It was a small bottle with a roller ball, applying it on your wrists and neck. Logan looked over at you, smirking. “You’re too dolled up for that slouch, Doll.” He spoke, then peering back at the road.

You hummed a little, then resting your elbow on the side door, pressing your temple on your hand as you looked over at him. “What can I say? I wanted to dress up for somebody.” But Jake was the wrong somebody.

“When you feel the need to dress up, just call me.” He spoke lowly, turning down the scenic route on the backside of the town.

You knew what he was doing, what he had planned from the time you spoke to him on the phone. After the night you had, you weren’t going to deny your knight on his white horse the pleasure of making you happy.

You knew it made him happy too, something you craved. Nobody else you have ever met was Logan. Nobody was going to be Logan. It was impossible.

“You know, I’m more than just a pretty little girl to look at, Logan.” Your left hand reached over slowly to rest on his jeans. His perfectly fitting jeans, matching with the dark button up he wore. Logan knew exactly what he was doing. His face remained pointed at the road, his eyes looking down at your hand as you finally reach to ghost over his clothed erection. He bit his lip, quickly closing his eyes as you palm him over his jeans. “I can be evil.” You coo, leaning over as you press your forehead to his shoulder.

Logan sucked in a deep breath, now placing both hands on the steering wheel. “You already torment me, princess.” He responded, now looking over at you.

You shift in your seat, now pressing both knees on the seat bottom, your hands busy unbuckling his belt. Your fingers rested on the button of his jeans as you look up at him, a devious glare in both of your eyes. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

His eyes searched yours, triangulating your eyes and lips. “Come back to me.” He whispered to your lips before you could capture them in yours. Falling back into your vicious cycle, your lips mold well with his you give into your desires.

Logan pulls away only to look at the road. This gives you enough time to unbutton and unzip his jeans. You slip your hand down his boxers, taking a hold of his girth as you bring it to the surface. You lick your lips, then pooling some more saliva in your mouth, spitting on him. As you lower down to him, your lips meet his red tip, already leaking pre-cum, and kiss him a couple times. This earned you an approving groan from Logan, who drew his lips into a thin line as he focused on the road.

You lick down his veins, then kiss up his shaft, feeling the heat in your belly grow into something different. You took Logan in your mouth, tongue wrapping around his length as you went down on him. You felt his hand then lace a crown in your hair as you bobbed up and down on him, sucking him the way he deserved.

“Good girl,” He practically purred, making your thighs shake in response. One of your hands braced yourself on his leg, knowing if you reached for yourself Logan would tear into you. The other hand reached for his balls, thumbing the skin as you massaged him. Logan began to speed, the sensation of you taking all of him without a gag reflex was pure ecstasy to him. He groaned out, huffing harshly as he praised you. Warm, velvety ropes of cum filled your mouth and throat as Logan breathed heavily. It was sweet heavenly music to your ears as you worked him through his orgasm, feeling your core deprived of attention.

“Fuck this.” Logan spoke harshly, taking another turn down a dirt road. He pulled the car into a space off the side of the dirt road, turning it off as you left go of him as you lick up the rest of his cum. “My girl needs me.” He spoke again, pulling the level on his seat back. The seat scooted all the way back before he grabbed both of your hips, practically pulling you into his lap. “You need me, don’t you baby?” He asked you, bushing your hair out of your face as you straddled him.

You had long discarded the leather jacket to the passenger seat floor, resting both of your hands on his shoulders. You nodded quickly, licking your lips feeling yourself quake over his body. “Take me to bed, or lose me forever.” You whisper between the two of you.

This sent chills down his spine as one hand raced up your spine, grabbing you by the neck and pulling your faces to each other, grabbing you in a passionate kiss. A hungry one. A desperate one. He never wanted to let you go, never again. He would gladly taking a beating every day if it meant he could hold you life this again.

His free hand reached between your bodies, unsheathing one claw to cut through your underwear. The delicate lace fell between the both of you in shreds. “I just bought those.” You complained as you broke the kiss for air.

Logan then lowered the seat back giving you both room. “I’ll buy you new ones.” He promised.

Both his and your hands reached for the back of the dress, pulling the zipper down. Logan was faster pulling it off of your body, his eyes scanning over your body once again. Like a child in a candy store, he stared in awe as you were now only clothed in your bra. Your hands made quick work of his shirt, ripping the buttons apart as the scattered around the car’s interior. “You’re not the only one with money.” you retort, now pressing your lips to his, then lining kiss to his jaw and down his neck.

One of his arms braces you, holding him closer to you as the other hand now begins to give you attention. His index and middle fingers part your folds, bringing a moan from you as you bury yourself between his neck and shoulder. “I got you, princess. I’ll work you through it.” He whispered in your ear, feeling your hips buck up into hand. His palm rubs against your core, soaked in your pre-cum as your body shivers in his. “Gotta get your ready for me, baby.” You gasp into his shoulder, lips now splayed on his shoulder as you wrap your arms around him. His finger and thumb pinch the delicate flesh of your clit, making you buck again. He used your bucking to his advantage, pressing two fingers into you. “Just like that. You take me so well.” He rubbed your gummy walls, feeling you already clench around him.

“Lo-Logan… please.”

You feel the rumble in his chest, how your chest begins to quickly rise and fall into his as you plead with him. He wonders if you will ever find out how cute you are begging him. “Please what, princess?”

You pull away from his shoulder, grinding your hips against his fingers, your bottom lip quivering. “Please fuck me.”

His lips crashed onto yours again as he removed his hand, stroking it over his length before guiding himself toward your entrance. You both sigh at the same time when he presses his tip in. His hands find your hips, grabbing handfuls of your skin as you skin onto him. You busy yourself with kissed to his hairy pecs as you roll your hips over him, bouncing on his length. Logan’s head dipped back, closing his eyes briefly. He looked up at your face, your jaw dropped again as your hands rest on his stomach to brace yourself. “Good-Good girl.” He then reached up to your bra, unsheathing his claws again and he sliced it off of your body. Once off, his hands reached your your breasts, palming your nipples, pulling your breasts together and pinching your nipples.

You bounced more on him, feeling the car rock with your movements as you clench around him, not even a whole three minutes in and your are already weak for this man.

Logan must have sensed this as he then pulled you off of him, carefully and skillfully he maneuvered you to the back seat, setting you on your back. He shimmed around, moving his head between your thighs, lining kisses from the middle of your thigh down to your core, suckling your clit as he slung on of your legs over his shoulder. You brought your hands up to your face, covering your eyes before dragging down your cheeks, then lips, then neck. “LOG-ah!” You called out as he pressed further into your core, his tongue lathing up your undoing.

As your breathed heavily recovering front our high, he continued to pamper you with kisses. Kissed from your core up to your belly button, to your sternum as his nose danced between your breasts, his arms now reaching up to cage you in after throwing both your legs over his shoulders. “It’s time to let me take care of you.”

He pressed himself inside of you again in one harsh thrust, picking the pace up as your joined bodies moved in unison. Your hands reached to cup his face as you breathed heavily in each others face, chasing another high together.

Oh how you missed Logan, and how he knows how to treat a lady.

It felt so right, all of it. Your mascara began to run down your face. Logan wiped your face with his thumb. “It’s okay, pretty girl. You’re fine. I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He soothed you.

“I-I’m gon-” You scrunch your face before looking back up at him.

“Cum for me, princess.” He commanded. AS your coil came undone again, Logan’s lips met yours, causing you to moan into his face as he rode your high out on him. Your cries of pleasure fill the car as Logan’s release fell over him. Your pussy milking him for all he was worth. Logan hovered above you as you both came down from your highs, clinging onto each other tightly.

Once things began to settle for the both of you, He removed himself from you, then shifting you around to where you were now resting on top of him. His arms wrapped around your lower back and the back of your head while yours laid on the sides of his chest. Your breathing and heart beats began to slow down to as the buzz filled your head.

After a few minutes of silence, and one long over due fuck session, Logan broken the silence. “What did you mean earlier? When you said take me to bed or lose me forever?”

You looked up at him, adjusting yourself to be able to look at his eyes as you spoke. “You were right. He was a slob, and he didn’t know how to treat me.” You look as if you were caught in thought as your finger traced a figure eight on his chest, causing Logan to look at you in his usual inquiring way. “Nobody will ever be you.”

This caused him to laugh, fog inside the windows growing at the statement. “Here, I was thinking you had watched Top Gun and wanted to be cheesy.”

You narrowed one eyebrow at him, a flirty smirk growing on your face. “You’re no Goose, but you sure are a big stud, Wolverine.”

Logan nodded, the hand resting on your lower back slowly ran up and down your spine. “So, about Lucky’s?”

You hummed a little thinking about the events of the night. “Tomorrow. I’m quitting my job, no thanks to Jake. So any time after noon?”

Logan nodded, accepting the terms of the date. He then cocked his head at you, tsking you and wagging a finger. “You remembered his name, baby girl. That means I need to fuck it out of you again.”

“Maybe in a bed next time? Or a shower?” You ask him, knowing your addiction to this man was a hard one to break.

He stared at you, his face turning soft as he nodded. “Come here.” He whispered. You were more than happy to oblige, pressing your lips to his again.

Oh yes, Logan Howlett was a man of many talents. But one thing you were more than thankful for was his way of loving you harder outside of your relationship.

[penascigarette]

need to pay with somethin' else

➴pairing: sleazy mechanic!joel miller x f!reader

➴wc: 3k

➴summary: strapped for cash after your car breaks down, you find yourself at the mercy of your dads best friend Joel Miller, a sleazy yet charismatic mechanic who offers an unconventional way to settle your debt

➴warnings: m!oral receiving, reader has grabbable/fuckable breasts, joels sleazy, power imbalance

➴notes: this started because i had to get my oil change and the guy was definitely giving joel vibes so here we. divider by @saradika-graphics and to @slimybeth69 for reading this over <33 also from this poll full of sleazy boys

masterlist

The engine sputters once, twice, and then dies with a pitiful wheeze. You groan, slumping forward against the steering wheel. This is the third time this week your car has left you stranded, and you’re officially at your wit’s end. The glowing check engine light on the dashboard feels like it’s mocking you as you fumble for your phone and scroll to find Joel Miller’s number.

Joel’s been your dad’s best friend since forever—gruff, handy with a wrench, and the kind of man who always seems to have a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. He runs a small garage on the edge of town, the kind of place where you pay in cash and don’t ask too many questions. Your dad swears by him, though, and after a minute of internal debate, you decide to give him a call.

“Yeah?” Joel’s voice is rough when he answers, you can hear the sound of clanging metal in the background.  

“It’s me,” you say, already feeling the heat of frustration rising to your cheeks. “Car died. Again.”  

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Sounds like you’ve got yourself a real piece of shit there, darlin’. Where you at?”

You rattle off your location, and he promises to swing by in fifteen minutes. True to his word, Joel pulls up in his battered pickup truck, stepping out with his usual air of quiet confidence. His eyes skim over you and your car as he approaches, wiping his hands on his coveralls already streaked with grease.  

“Pop the hood,” he says, gesturing with a tilt of his head.  

You watch as he leans over the engine, his broad shoulders flexing under his worn shirt. His hands move deftly, poking and prodding until he straightens with a frown. “Transmission’s shot,” he says flatly. “You’re gonna need a tow.”  

A tow. Great. As if your day wasn’t bad enough. “Can you fix it?”  

“Sure,” Joel says, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “But it’s not gonna be cheap.”  

You hesitate, biting your lip. Money’s tight—has been for months—but you don’t have much choice. “Can you tow it to the shop?”  

Joel gives you a long look. “Yeah. Hop in the truck. I’ll take care of it.”  

The ride to his shop is quiet, except for the radio's low hum and the occasional creak of the truck’s suspension. Joel doesn’t say much, but you can feel his presence like a weight in the small cab. When you arrive, he parks outside the garage, and you follow him inside.  

The shop smells of motor oil, rubber, and metal. Familiar scents that remind you of your dad’s stories about their younger days fixing cars together. Tools are scattered across the workbench, and a half-empty coffee mug sits next to an ashtray filled with cigarette butts.  

Joel leans against the hood of your car, arms crossed, as he nods toward it. “It ain’t good,” he says, his voice carrying that same gravelly tone that always makes your stomach twist. “Gonna run you $700. Maybe more if I find anything else wrong and that's me givin’ you a deal sweetheart.”  

Your heart sinks. Seven hundred dollars might as well be a million. “I don’t have that kind of money right now,” you admit quietly.  

Joel smirks, and his gaze sweeps over you with an almost predatory air. “Figured as much.” He takes a slow step closer, his presence suddenly feeling a lot larger in the cramped space. “Been real kind to you the last few times, fixin’ this piece of shit for free. Even worked extra hours just to get you back on the road. But sweetheart…” His voice dips low. “That goodwill don’t come cheap forever.”  

Your stomach twists with guilt because he’s right. Joel’s helped you out more times than you can count, always brushing it off with a gruff “Don’t worry ‘bout it.” But this time, his tone carries a sharper edge, and his gaze lingers on you, sharp and calculated.  

“I’m a reasonable man,” he says after a beat, his lips quirking in a slow smirk. “We can work somethin’ out that doesn’t involve a whole lot of cash. You got other ways to make it worth my while.”  

You freeze, your breath catching. “What are you talking about?” you manage, though you're pretty sure you know what he means.  

Joel chuckles, taking another step toward you. “C’mon now. Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I mean.” His eyes flicker over you as his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You’ve got a mouth, darlin’. Seems to me like you could put it to good use and settle that bill real quick.”  

Heat floods your face. “That’s disgusting,” you snap, but your voice lacks conviction.

Joel shrugs, utterly unbothered. “ But it’s practical, ain’t it? You’re broke, and I’ve got a car to fix. Think of it as a trade. A favor for a favor.”  

You hesitate, your mind is racing. The idea is mortifying, but his words hit you where it hurts most—your empty wallet and your lack of options.  

He steps closer, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating off him. “Look,” he says, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “You can walk outta here, take that piece of shit somewhere else, and still be stranded. Or…” His hand lifts, his thumb brushing your cheek. “You can stay. Handle this like a big girl. Ain’t gotta be a big deal, sweetheart. Just a few minutes of your time, and your car’ll be good as new.”  

Your throat tightens, your heart hammering against your ribs as you weigh the impossible choice in front of you. His eyes lock onto yours and you know he can see the hesitation written all over your face.  

“You don’t gotta decide now,” he drawls, leaning back against the workbench with infuriating ease. “But don’t take too long. Time’s money, and I got other cars to fix.”  

The air feels thick, as his words sink in. You should walk away, call your dad, and deal with the fallout later. But the thought of your empty bank account and the guilt of all the times Joel’s helped you out for free keeps you rooted to the spot.  

Finally, your voice comes out, shaky and barely above a whisper. “Okay.”  

Joel’s grin turns wicked as he tosses the rag onto the workbench. “Atta girl. Come on, then. Let’s settle this debt.”

You follow him deeper into the garage, the sound of your boots scuffing the concrete seeming deafening in the quiet space. He walks with a casual confidence as he gestures for you to sit on an old, battered stool. It squeaks under your weight, but you barely notice. Your nerves are shot.

Joel leans back against the workbench, arms crossed, his coveralls pulling tight across his body. His smirk hasn’t left—if anything, it’s grown sharper, like a wolf that knows it’s already caught its prey. “Don’t look so nervous,” he says in a teasing voice. “Ain’t gonna hurt you.”

You swallow hard, your gaze darts around the space trying to distract your spiraling mind. The smell of motor oil and grease feels thicker now, as if it’s seeping into your skin. “This... this isn’t something I usually do,” you murmur.

He chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. You’ve got that good girl vibe. Bet you don’t even jaywalk.” His tone is mocking. “S’all right, though. I’ll talk ya through it.”

You bite your lip, a mix of embarrassment and something more electric buzz in your chest. The way Joel looks at you—like he’s already unwrapped you in his mind—is both infuriating and intoxicating. 

“Nervous, sweetheart?” he drawls, cocking his head. His eyes flicker over you, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of, just gotta use those pretty little lips n’suck and we'll be squared right up.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lie, folding your arms across your chest in a futile attempt to shield yourself from his scrutiny. 

Joel takes a slow step forward, close enough now that you can smell the mix of sweat, cigarettes and motor oil clinging to his skin. He nods toward your chest. “Why don’t you let me feel those pretty tits before we get started?”

Your eyes widen, heat rushing to your cheeks as you sputter, “That—That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Joel laughs, low and rough, his teeth flashing as he shakes his head. “C’mon now. Can’t expect a man to get off without a little foreplay, can ya?” He teases. “I ain’t askin’ for much. Just wanna get my hands on ‘em for a minute.”

You glare at him. His expression is maddening, that smug, self-assured grin like he already knows you’re going to cave. Finally, with an exasperated sigh, you roll your eyes. “Fine. Just... make it quick.”

Joel’s grin turns downright wicked as you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it up to reveal your bare breasts. The cool air brushes over your skin, making your nipples pebble, and Joel whistles low, his eyes darkening as they fixate on you.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, stepping closer. His hands are rough and calloused as they cup your breasts, his thumbs brush lazily over your sensitive nipples. “Look at these. Soft as hell. Bet they’d feel even better bouncin’ in my hands while you’re bouncin’ on my cock.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to let him see how his words make your stomach flutter. “Are you done?” you snap, your tone is sharp despite the way your voice shakes.

His grip tightens just enough to make you inhale sharply. “Not yet, darlin’. Let me enjoy the view a little longer.” His thumbs roll over your nipples again, and you shiver despite yourself. “These are somethin’ special. Too bad you’re such a hardass, or I’d spend some real time with ‘em.”

Your glare sharpens, and he finally lets go, his hands dropping back to his sides. He takes a step back, still grinning like the cat that got the cream. “All right, I’m good now. Let’s get to the fun part.”

You yank your shirt back down as you slide off the stool determined to get this over with. 

“See?” he says, his tone as infuriating as ever. “Told ya, a little foreplay never hurt nobody.”

You don’t dignify him with a response, focusing instead on the task ahead. 

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawls. “On your knees.”

Your breath catches, heat pooling low in your belly at the command. You hesitate, looking up at him, and for a brief moment, his smirk falters. His gaze softens, just a fraction, enough to make your heart skip. 

“You can still back out,” he says quietly, surprising you. “Ain’t gonna force ya. You can just pay me instead.”

The reminder takes place and you take a shaky breath as you sink to the floor. Your knees press into the cold concrete, the rough texture biting through your jeans, as your hands rest awkwardly on your thighs. 

Joel’s smirk deepens as he watches you sink to the floor. "That's it, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction. "Look so damn pretty down there. Almost like you’re made for this."  

Your stomach churns at the comment, but you bite back a retort.

"Don't get shy on me now," he teases, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip. "Knew you had a mouth on you. Let's see if it’s as talented as I’m guessin’.”

You swallow thickly as your eyes dart to the zipper of his coveralls. His hand moves to the fastening and the sound of the zipper cuts through the air as he drags it down. Beneath the heavy fabric, his jeans are undone, and your breath hitches when you catch a glimpse of the bulge beneath the worn denim.

Joel takes his time, pulling himself free with a casual confidence. He’s thick, flushed, and the veins are prominent against the hard length. You bite the inside of your cheek, unsure whether it’s nervousness or intrigue that has your throat tightening. 

“Go on,” he says. His fingers tangle in your hair as he guides you closer. “Start slow.”

You hesitate for a moment, then tentatively lean forward, your lips parting as you press a soft kiss to the tip. The skin is hot and velvety and the musky scent of him fills your nose. His hand tightens in your hair and a low groan slips from his lips. The sound sends a strange thrill through you, and you glance up to find his eyes locked on yours, dark and half-lidded. You are not enjoying this, you won't let yourself.

“Atta girl,” he drawls with approval. “Keep goin’.”

You take him into your mouth, your lips wrapping around the head as your tongue sweeps across the sensitive underside. Joel groans, his hips jerk slightly and his fingers flex against your scalp. You move slowly, testing the waters, your cheeks hollowing as you sink lower. He’s thick enough to make your jaw ache, but you press on, spurred by the quiet, guttural noises spilling from his throat. 

“Goddamn, that feels good. You really know what you’re doin’, don’t ya? Bet you’ve had a little practice.” He grunts his free hand bracing against the edge of the workbench. His hips roll forward, pushing himself a little deeper, and you choke slightly, the intrusion catching you off guard. He eases back, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Easy now, darlin'," he says, his tone a mockery of gentle reassurance. "Don’t wanna choke you out—least not yet.”

You pick up your pace, your tongue swirling around him as you take him deeper, your nails digging into your thighs for balance. Joel’s breathing grows heavier, the tension in his body is palpable as he fights to keep control. His groans turn into curses, low and filthy, and the sound of it makes your thighs clench involuntarily.

“Fuck,” he mutters, his voice tight. “You’re too damn good at this.”

His words spur you on, your movements growing more confident as you bob your head, your hand wrapping around the base of him to stroke what you can’t take in. 

“Look at you," he growls, his voice dripping with sleaze. "Takin' me so good. Never would’ve guessed a sweet little thing like you had it in ya. Bet your daddy’d have a stroke if he knew what you’re doin’ right now."

The mention of your father makes you falter slightly, but Joel’s grip in your hair keeps you in place.

"That’s right," he says with a grin. "Keep goin'. Don’t you dare stop now.”

You take him deeper, pushing the limits of how much you can take.

“Shit, that’s good," he groans, his voice ragged. "But you know what’d be even better?"

You glance up at him, your brows furrowing.

"Get up on the bench," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Wanna see those pretty tits of yours wrapped around me. Bet they’ll feel like fuckin’ heaven."

You hesitate.

"C’mon now, don’t get shy," Joel drawls, his smirk widening. "Ain’t like we’re strangers anymore. Hell, you’ve already got my cock in your mouth. Might as well give me the full experience.”

You glare at him, but his smug grin doesn’t waver. Finally, with a frustrated sigh, you stand, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and hop onto the workbench. Joel’s eyes darken as you pull your shirt up, baring your chest to him.

"Fuckin’ hell," he mutters, his hands immediately reaching for you. His rough palms cup your breasts, squeezing them appreciatively. "These are somethin’ else. Soft as a dream. Could spend hours buried right here."

"Just get on with it," you snap, your voice sharp despite the heat flooding your cheeks.

Joel chuckles, positioning himself between your legs as he presses your breasts together around his length. The heat of him against your skin makes you shiver, and Joel groans as he begins to move, his hips rolling in slow, deliberate thrusts.

"Goddamn," he mutters, his voice thick with lust. "You feel that, darlin’? So fuckin’ perfect. Never had a set like these before."

You grit your teeth, refusing to let this turn you on.

"Don’t be so uptight," he teases, his thumb brushing over your nipple. "You’re makin’ this way harder than it needs to be. Just relax, sweetheart. Lemme enjoy myself."

His movements grow faster, the slick slide of him against your skin makes your cheeks burn, you shouldn’t be enjoying this but you are. "You’re a natural at this," he says. "Knew you’d be somethin’ special.”

Joel’s groans grow louder, his grip on you tightening as he moves with more urgency. "Shit, baby," he breathes. "Gonna ruin me for anyone else."

The heat of his praise makes you clench your thighs harder, and you close your eyes, trying to block out the sound of his voice.

"Look at me," Joel demands. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. 

"That’s my girl," he murmurs, his voice softening. "Fuckin’ perfect."

Finally, with a groan, Joel stills, his release spilling across your skin. He stays there for a moment letting the last of the white-hot ropes coat your skin before he steps back, his breathing is ragged as he tucks himself back into his jeans.

"Clean yourself up," he says, tossing you a rag. His smirk is back, lazy and self-satisfied

You glare at him, wiping your chest with quick, angry movements.

"Don’t look so pissed," Joel says with a chuckle. "You did good. Real good. Might just start offerin’ you a permanent tab.”

“Fix my car.” you snap, sliding off the workbench.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get it fixed up for you. Go grab a drink or somethin’. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

You stare at him for a long moment, your emotions a mess you can’t quite untangle. Without another word, you grab your bag and head for the door with Joel’s laughter following you out. 

You tell yourself you’re never coming back here again, but the way your heart races at the thought of him makes you wonder if that’s a lie.

[techhiz]

part 1.

Faded Spark 2

It didn’t take long for word to spread through the Decepticon base. The comms buzzed with frantic chatter, but it was when Megatron's voice thundered through the halls, summoning the troops, that everything came to a halt. The news had come from Soundwave, delivered in his usual calm but somehow haunting tone. His voice, even without emotion, carried the weight of devastation.

"Y/N... is dead."

At first, no one believed it. They thought it was a trick. Y/N, the young femme who had grown into a force to be reckoned with, had been the embodiment of fearlessness and loyalty. How could she possibly be gone?

But when Megatron summoned the high-ranking Decepticons to the war room, it was clear this wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t some cruel joke. It was real. Their strongest, most reliable medic, Knockout, had lost his twin sister—Soundwave’s favorite—and the Decepticons would never be the same again.

In the war room, Megatron stood in front of his troops, his expression cold, calculating as ever, but there was something—something—missing. His optics, usually filled with commanding authority, were now cold pits of sorrow, a bitter reflection of his grief.

“There will be no questions. Y/N's death is a loss for us all,” Megatron said, his voice low and full of authority, but lacking the usual harshness. He rarely allowed any emotion to show, but the pain was unmistakable. “Her death shall not go unpunished. We will strike at the Autobots, yes—but not today. Today, we mourn.”

The room fell silent, the usually confident Decepticons standing still as if the weight of the news had drained all life from them. It was as though the very spark of their army had been extinguished.

Soundwave, however, was the first to speak—or rather, to transmit his words through his familiar mechanical voice. "Y/N was... my most valued. A loss I will not easily overcome." His words, though few, were spoken with an unmistakable ache, a longing that only someone who truly cared for someone else could express. Even Soundwave, the one Decepticon who rarely showed emotion, was broken.

Starscream stood off to the side, his posture stiff and his optics dark. “So, she’s dead, huh?” he asked, his tone void of the usual arrogance. “A shame... But what happened?”

“No one knows,” Megatron answered sharply, his voice echoing through the room. “But we will find out. This is not something to be overlooked.”

Starscream said nothing further, his usual smugness gone. There was something in the air that made even him hesitate. No one questioned Megatron’s words. No one dared to. Y/N’s death was a turning point, and even the scheming Starscream knew it.

At the back of the room, Breakdown stood with his head lowered, his fists clenched in silent rage. His connection with Knockout was well known, and he could see how much this loss was affecting his partner. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Breakdown’s pain was written all over his face. He couldn’t fathom the grief Knockout was enduring.

For a moment, everything was silent again. The Decepticons were at a loss for what to do, for how to move forward. It wasn’t just the loss of one of their own—it was the loss of someone who had been a light in the darkness for so many of them.

---

Meanwhile, far across the battlefield, the Autobots were in their own base, oblivious to the tragedy that had unfolded. They hadn’t been involved. They hadn’t been responsible. But that didn’t mean they were free from the consequences of Y/N’s death.

Optimus Prime was the first to hear the news. Ratchet had received an encrypted transmission from the Decepticons, and though it had been marked with unusual urgency, the message itself was as cryptic as Soundwave’s usual communications. Ratchet, however, wasn’t a fool, and the strange note of sorrow in the transmission made his spark tremble. He immediately contacted Optimus.

"Optimus," Ratchet’s voice crackled over the comms, a tone of uncertainty threading through his words. "You might want to listen to this."

Optimus Prime, who had been busy overseeing some of the base’s operations, immediately made his way to the medbay, sensing the heaviness in Ratchet’s voice. He hadn’t seen his old comrade in such a state for quite some time. It was only when he entered the medbay that Ratchet handed him the transmission.

Optimus scanned the contents carefully, his optics flickering with a mixture of confusion and concern. It wasn’t an ordinary message. There were no typical demands or taunts—just a short, chilling line:

'Y/N is dead.'

There was a pause as the weight of the words settled into the room. Ratchet’s shoulders slumped, the anger and frustration of having fought so long against the Decepticons now mixed with something else: an eerie sense of responsibility. They hadn’t caused Y/N’s death, but the fact remained that she was gone—and Ratchet, for a moment, felt as though he had failed.

“Are you sure about this?” Optimus asked, his voice unusually soft. It wasn’t the kind of softness reserved for allies or enemies—it was the tone of someone who had just learned a hard truth.

Ratchet nodded grimly. “Yes. Soundwave was the one to transmit the message, and though I don’t trust him, there’s no mistaking the… sorrow in his voice.” He looked up at Optimus, his face etched with the exhaustion of too many battles. “I don’t know what happened, Optimus. But I think we’ve just lost someone important.”

Optimus Prime didn’t respond immediately. His processor whirred as he thought of the battle tactics the Autobots had used, the covert missions they’d conducted, and the occasional reconnaissance he had personally carried out. He thought of the many times Y/N had been caught in the crossfire, fighting valiantly by the side of the Autobots despite her Decepticon allegiance. She had always been one of the few who questioned the boundaries of the war—who saw the futility in it all.

“She was... an anomaly,” Optimus finally said, his voice thick with reluctant admiration. “In a way, she reminded me of some of our own. But now, she is gone. The loss affects more than just the Decepticons.”

Ratchet grimaced. “I don’t know what kind of impact it’ll have on the war. But this... this feels personal. Even Soundwave is shaken.”

Bumblebee, who had been nearby, overheard the conversation. He had seen Y/N’s fierce spirit, her strength, her determination—even if they hadn’t always agreed. They’d fought side by side before, and he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his chest. He had always admired her, respected her, and though their alliance had been shaky at best, they’d both shared a love for their home world.

He stepped forward, unable to hold back any longer. “I know she was a Decepticon... but... She was still... one of us, right?”

Ratchet looked at the scout, his gaze softening. “In many ways, yes. But her death doesn’t change the fact that we were at war.”

Optimus Prime placed a steady hand on Bumblebee’s shoulder, the weight of the moment settling on him as well. “We may not have been the ones who ended her life, but it doesn’t matter. A life has been lost, and we mourn that loss. We must honor her memory, and we must continue our fight.”

---

The Decepticons—especially Knockout—could not see beyond their grief. Soundwave, once so composed, was now quiet, distant. The loss of Y/N had left a void too deep to comprehend. It wasn’t just a member of their ranks who had fallen; it was a piece of their soul. The world they once knew had been irreversibly altered.

On the Autobots’ side, there was no victory to be had in the loss of Y/N. Optimus Prime, Ratchet, and the others all felt the sting of the sudden, heart-wrenching truth: war had claimed another life, and this time, it was someone who had once walked beside them. Not in their ranks, perhaps, but in the shared struggle. They had been family in more ways than one.

And as the universe continued to spin, it became clear that Y/N’s death wasn’t just the loss of a fighter—it was the loss of hope, of an ideal, and of a future that could have been different. The line between Autobot and Decepticon had blurred, and in the end, it was the innocent who paid the price.

For Knockout, Soundwave, and all those who had known Y/N, the war would never be the same.

[crimson-and-clover-1717]

Mother Teach, Ed, and Self-Determination CW: Emotive

I want to explore Ed’s mother in the red silk flashback, and its lasting impact on Ed.

Mother Teach begins with the imperative, ‘Feel it, boy’. There seems to be a certain lesson in showing Ed the thing he cannot have, before explaining the rich folk she works for own many items of this quality; so matter of fact as if it’s nature’s law.

When Ed asks in innocence the question, ‘Why can’t we have things like this?’ Mother Teach comes up against an alternate line of thinking which she seems never to have considered. She blinks in what could be surprise before giving what appears to be an obvious answer: ‘It’s up to God. He decides who gets what’. This establishes the idea that life is ‘not up to us’, but controlled by an external locus: God, providence, fate… ‘He decides’.

Mother Teach is conditioned to believe in determinism, and who can blame her. Her life is decided for her. What hope of agency for a poor, indigenous woman in a world run by a rich, white patriarchy? And it’s easier to attribute the decision to God, His unfathomable will. God is also likely and conveniently a rich, white man, so the issues blur somewhat in who is actually doing ‘the determining’; but frankly, the outcome is the same. It is safe to say God isn’t a poor, brown woman.

Ed carries this belief into his future life, struggling with agency, succumbing easily to manipulation; not having beautiful things despite acquiring riches, and giving up quickly in the face of setbacks. The second part of Mother Teach’s explanation, ‘We’re just not those kind of people’ further reinforces Ed’s class and race inferiority, which again he carries painfully into adulthood. These words are spoken with some emotion. We hear the shake in her voice as she acknowledges certain truths about the limitations of their existence.

The impact of his father on Ed’s psyche is largely plain in the cycles of abuse with older white men, but the transmission of generational trauma via Ed’s mother is also significant.

Mother Teach isn’t trying to be cruel. She clearly loves her son, and the silk is a love-token which she possibly took without permission so her child could have at least one chance to look upon and own a ‘beautiful thing’. But her own trauma means she further damages her son’s self-esteem during this interaction. She doesn’t want Ed to be a dreamer or believer in a better life. Best accept your lot, know your place, then you won’t be disappointed. There is a certain wisdom to it; and had she an average son with a dullish mind, it’s probably sound advice in this particular time and place.

But her son isn’t ordinary. He is a genius, an empath, a creative, as well as prone to overthinking and melancholy. His race foremost, and class also, are against him, and that is outside of his control; but everything else is up for grabs with someone as brilliant as Ed if he can find inner worth. He might always have to live within a subculture to find both success and happiness, but he may have done so sooner with a stronger internal locus of control, and belief in his own worth and agency, had he received a different message in childhood.

As it is, he lives a life in the shadows, emulating and enhancing further the toxic masculinity revered in the dominant culture which is so against his true nature. He uses his genius for strategy and theatre to enrich himself for protection and subsistence only, never going beyond and allowing luxury or beauty; and when finally world-weary and screaming for change, finds himself trapped by the ghosts of his childhood, some of whom are reshaped into new human forms.

One of many things which saddens me regarding Ed’s sacrifice in killing his father as an act of protecting his mother is I don’t feel it changed anything much. It was a micro action against a macro problem. If Ed possibly then ran away, his mother would’ve had to do what she always did: find another male protector, possibly a white man to enable a certain social standing, and she would likely be back within a similarly psychological and physically abusive situation. It isn’t inevitable this would happen to a woman in her situation, but it’s the most likely outcome because her choices are so limited. And that’s hugely tragic for both herself and Ed.

It’s often said for Ed, there’s a psychological affinity between Stede and Mother Teach. The rich, white man who is kind and optimistic is everything Ed’s mother could’ve been with those same sociological advantages. Stede is able to self-determine. He is a repressed gay man in a heteronormative society, but much of the world is built with his empowerment in mind, and he is able to take full advantage of that and change his path. Both Stede and Mother Teach love or loved Ed, and in an unequal world, one of them at least is able to model a different way of living; help push open the psychological door enough to allow Ed himself to begin to change his stars, and self-actualise as the person he truly is.

Writing this made me sob…I’m sorry if it does the same for you reading it

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved in our archive

A new Cleveland Clinic-led study published in The EMBO Journal shows that mild and asymptomatic SARS-CoV-2 infections can trigger immune responses in a pregnant individual that may cause serious inflammatory responses in the developing fetus. The study's findings also suggest that vertical transmission of the virus from a pregnant individual to the fetus is more common than previously estimated; and that even without this transmission, a pregnant individual's immunological response to infection may impact the fetus.

Typically, healthcare providers test for SARS-CoV-2 infection, the virus that causes COVID-19, in a newborn through a nasal swab after birth. For this study, Cleveland Clinic researchers collected samples from the placenta and the fetal compartment (tissues that surround a fetus while still in utero), and then analyzed them for the presence of inflammatory markers and virus. They found higher instances of the virus in those tissues than what could be found in a traditional nasal swab, and even in the absence of a full infection they found small proteins from the virus had passed through the placenta. The researchers hope their study will help ensure pregnant individuals can rapidly and reliably receive evidence-based medical care needed during novel outbreaks and public health crises.

When the COVID-19 pandemic first began, OB/GYN Ruth Farrell, MD, and colleagues at Cleveland Clinic and other major medical centers wanted to determine the best way to prevent and manage the infection in their pregnant patients. Pregnant individuals required different medical considerations during the pandemic compared to their nonpregnant counterparts; Dr. Farrell notes that many of the prevention and treatment approaches used in non-pregnant patients either did not have enough data to use in pregnant patients or were not feasible to perform.

"During the early stages of the pandemic, there were significant delays in determining how best to prevent and treat pregnant patients with SARS-CoV-2 infection," explains Dr. Farrell, who also serves as the Vice Chair of Research for Cleveland Clinic's Obstetrics & Gynecology Institute.

Dr. Farrell worked with clinical colleagues across the Clinical and Translational Science Collaborative (CTSC) of Northern Ohio to develop methods for examining the impact of SARS-CoV-2 infection on pregnant patients, including researchers from University Hospitals of Cleveland and MetroHealth Medical Center.

She then teamed up with Cleveland Clinic maternal-fetal virologists Jolin (Suan Sin) Foo, PhD and Javier (Weiqiang) Chen, PhD from the Infection Biology Program to determine how the virus impacted the immune systems of both mother and child.

When the standard-of-care COVID-19 test is used to detect the virus in newborns (nasal swabs upon birth) they only detect infections in about 2% of children whose mothers tested positive for the virus during pregnancy. However, when Drs. Chen and Foo looked at tissues that surrounded the newborns when they were still in utero-; including the amniotic fluid, chorion and umbilical cord plasma -; they detected high levels of the virus in over a quarter (26%) of study participants.

The team also found elevated immune and inflammatory responses affecting the pregnancies of about 66% of study participants. Dr. Foo had previously shown elevated levels of fetal inflammation in pregnant individuals who experience severe SARS-CoV-2 infections during pregnancy, but few had asked whether asymptomatic or mild infections had the same effect. Now that they have their answer, however, the team were faced with even more questions.

"Even though we only saw vertical transmission of the full virus infection a quarter of the time, we saw strong immune and inflammatory responses in over two thirds of the cases," Dr. Foo says. "It was clear that even when the fetuses were not technically infected, they were still being impacted by their mothers' viral infection. But we weren't quite sure how."

Elevated levels of inflammation during pregnancy, in COVID and other conditions, can have negative impacts on the offspring long after birth. Further research can define how inflammation affects children in the long term.

Dr. Chen noted that the SARS-CoV-2 virus has a protein called ORF8 that physically resembles a human immune protein called immunoglobulin G that passes through the placenta from mother-to-fetus during development. He wondered whether the viral protein could also pass through the placenta's defenses to cause inflammation in the fetal compartment.

Drs. Foo and Chen, alongside co-first authors Tamiris Azamor, PhD and Débora Familiar-Macedo, PhD (a former and current postdoctoral researcher, respectively, in Dr. Foo's lab), were able to prove that the virus-made ORF8 did indeed pass through the placenta into the fetus. ORF8 then bound to immune proteins and "turned on" a process called the complementary immune response.

At normal levels, the complement system is a good thing during pregnancy and helps the fetus develop properly, Dr. Familiar-Macedo explains. At higher levels, the complement system can cause dangerous inflammation in a developing fetus. Lab studies supported that this immune response directly led to the elevated levels of inflammation seen in the fetuses of pregnant patients infected with the SARS CoV-2 virus.

"Our findings challenge the currently accepted definition of vertical transmission, or what it means to transmit an infection from mother-to-fetus," Dr. Chen says. "We have shown that it is indeed possible for only a small part of a virus to slip through and affect a pregnancy."

Dr. Foo adds that she hopes her team's findings will serve as guidance for healthcare practitioners, researchers and policymakers alike on further research into vertical transmission and long-term care.

"We've shown that the misconception that uninfected babies born from infected mothers are fine, is sometimes just that: a misconception," she says. "Pregnancy is such a vulnerable nine-month period where any change from the norm can cause long-term impacts on the baby, so we need to work more closely with these individuals to understand their unique healthcare needs during public health crises. It's the only way to make sure they receive the care they need."

Source: Cleveland Clinic

Journal reference: Azamor, T., et al. (2024). Transplacental SARS-CoV-2 protein ORF8 binds to complement C1q to trigger fetal inflammation. The EMBO Journal. doi.org/10.1038/s44318-024-00260-9. www.embopress.org/doi/full/10.1038/s44318-024-00260-9

[tapedeckshoard]

Could you do maybe a gn human reader and Cosmos becoming friends over long-distance/ham radio transmissions? Cosmos is a lonely little flying saucer and he deserves some love. G1 or IDW

D'aww, I miss him! I wish Hasbro would do more with his character, honestly. He hasn't been featured in much. As such, I don't really have a great grip on his character, but I tried! This is shorter, and more just a ramble on your idea. Still, I hope you enjoy! (P.S. I don't know anything about radios so if I got something wrong, oops!)

_

Radio Waves

Cosmos x GN!Human!Reader

SFW

643 words

-

You and Cosmos became friends by accident, funnily enough. You were surfing through radio stations, trying to find a specific channel, when you picked up a long-distance station unfamiliar to you.

That’s when you heard his voice. He seemed to be talking to himself, the sound staticy over such a long distance. You found out his name was Cosmos, and that he’d been assigned to monitor the moon and the area around it for Decepticon activity. Now, you had no idea what Decepticons were, but from what Cosmos was chattering about, they weren’t good. Out of curiosity, you couldn’t help but try and reach out one day.

“Is this Cosmos?” you asked, holding down the transmit button on your microphone, hoping the signal was strong enough to communicate with wherever he might’ve been.

“Woah,” a familiar voice replied. “This is Cosmos. Who is this?” You introduced yourself, explaining your ability to pick up on his chatter through a radio you possessed. 

He didn’t seem to care much about the backstory, and honestly just seemed happy to have someone to talk to.

The first night, you two talked for hours about anything and everything. Who you were. Who he was. Where he was. What he was doing. You listened, entranced, as he explained himself. You weren’t quite sure you believed his story about being an alien robot, but you accepted it, anyway. You didn’t care if he was telling a lie. Robot or not, he was interesting. And he seemed just as lonely as you were.

That’s how you started chatting almost daily, answering questions back and forth, him describing deep space, what it looked like, how far he’d gone, what he’d seen while circling around. 

“I wish I could see all that,” you confessed sleepily, leaning against your desk as you spoke into the microphone in front of you. “That sounds beautiful.” “Yeah,” he replied, voice cutting through the static. “It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It gets lonely up here.” 

“You’ve got me to talk to,” you pointed out.

“That’s true. But that wasn’t always the case. I know this is my job, but. . .”

He didn’t have to finish his sentence for you to understand. “Could you ever visit me one day?” you asked, voice soft.

“I’m not supposed to,” he replied after a moment of silence. “My job is up here. Not down there.”

“Can’t you. . . take a day off? Have someone else watch the stars? Just for a day. . .”

Cosmos fell silent, and you didn’t have to see him to know he was contemplating your words.

“I. . . I’ll see what I can do,” he spoke up. And then the line went dead.

You didn’t hear from him for a few days after that, waiting and calling out on the radio, only to receive static in response. You hoped he was okay. Did you say something wrong? Did he not want to speak to you anymore? Surely not. . . right?

One night, almost a week with no response, you were slumped in your chair by your desk, absentmindedly staring out the window as you listened to the radio in a hopeless attempt to hear him. 

That’s when a loud sound pierced your ears, and your eyes widened as you stared at the spaceship that just landed in your backyard.

You raced outside, almost tumbling out the door before you came to a halt next to the green saucer. 

Something inside you told you that this was the person you were talking to. And so, despite your trepidation, you spoke. “Cosmos?”

Piece by piece, he transformed in front of your eyes, mechanical parts moving and slotting into place until a green robot stood in front of you, dwarfing your small stature.

“I got a day off,” he said, and though you couldn’t see his mouth, you could tell he was smiling. 

[drunkenskunk]

Liturgicode

The siege of Hell's Gate lasted just over 13 hours.

The bay housing the mechs of the Strategic Response Team was bustling with activity. It wasn't quite as busy as it normally would have been, since a significant number of people were seriously wounded (or dead) in the wake of the cult's attack... but there was simply no time to rest yet. Everyone was painfully aware that the SRT was going to need to head back into action again soon, or else everything was going to get much, much worse. So the sooner the maintenance crews could fix the mechs and get them battle ready, the sooner everyone could leave and get some sleep.

At least, that's how Calamity Havok had sold it to the few wrenchies who had opted to stay. There was three days worth of work to be done, and if anyone knew how to motivate enough people to get it all done in two hours, it was Calamity.

None of this was any concern of Big Red, the heavily damaged Everest mounted in Bay 5. As far as the maintenance crew was concerned, the mech was completely powered down, but truthfully? Not all the way.

The sentient mind of the mech was still very much active, pouring over combat logs and telemetry from the recent fights, and passively aware of the maintenance techs scurrying around him, replacing parts, repairing battle damage, reloading ammunition and depleted core batteries. Every minute or so, Big Red would idly trigger a sensor ping and begin calculating the picosecond returns reflecting against the mass of cables hooked into his chassis and the scaffolding braces keeping him immobile. After the madness of the last several hours, even the giant war machine found this a welcome change of pace.

An alert. Incoming message. Something on the encrypted SRT subnet. Scarlet, his Pilot, was trying to get in touch.

“Hey, Red?” Scarlet asked, the exhaustion evident in her voice even through the crackling transmission.“You readin' me, big man?”

Something was wrong. Scarlet had been awake for nearly 27 hours, and she hadn't eaten in 15, having been sustained on combat stims alone for the past 13 hours of the siege. She should be getting rest, performing the organic equivalent of maintenance (like he was receiving) so they'd be ready for the next fight, not trying to contact him. Why was she trying to contact him?

The apertures of Big Red's left optical unit shuddered.

“I am here. What do you need?” the mech responded over the comm. One of the techs trying to patch damage from a napalm grenade briefly looked up, confusion evident on his face, as if he wasn't sure he'd seen the movement he thought he had.

“Got a question. Out of all your past pilots, who was in the hot seat the longest?” Scarlet asked.

Something about her voice sounded strange. Distant? She wasn't speaking directly into the mic. As data files scrolled on the inside of his mechanical mind, checking and cross-referencing data quickly to make sure the answer was correct, a subroutine was initiated. Linking to station security. Handshake protocol. Access granted. Uplink established. Scanning camera feeds. Ping the transmitter. There.

Big Red took direct control of a camera, two sectors anti-spinward of the hangar. He began panning it over and down, zooming in two steps to get a better look. Scarlet was sitting on a cargo crate, shoulders slumped and head bowed; she was holding her helmet in her hand, apparently speaking into it that way instead of wearing it. Standing above her was Agarin Raankell, the dragon-gene-modded supersoldier on the SRT.

It would appear that Big Red was being pulled into the middle of a heated discussion between the two of them.

“That would be Daniel Brennan, callsign: 'Spy',” he replied, barely two seconds after she asked. Double checking the file before response: sustained over a period of 4128 Cradle Standard days. “We were linked for 11 years.”

“Mmhmm...” Scarlet muttered, barely audible. Big Red attempted to increase the gain from his end. “And tell me again: what happened to him?”

Another pause as more files were accessed. Combat telemetry from Day 4128. The pre-mission briefing predicted a routine reconnaissance patrol with minimal to no OpFor. Pirates had been spotted moving in Grid A-4 approximately 3 local weeks earlier, but had not been seen since. Pilot maneuvered into position at approx. 0240 local and the link was unexpectedly severed. After action report: exit wound on chassis indicated impact from hypervelocity tungsten slug traveling at 3km/s, fired from bearing 315 degrees north of final position.

Big Red's optical unit twitched again.

“Railgun round through the cockpit,” the mech replied tersely, after a slightly longer delay. “Ambush from an unseen opponent. Death was instantaneous.”

“Thanks.” Scarlet looked up at Agarin, pointing at her helmet with her free hand. “Big Red's had dozens of pilots over the last few hundred years. I've checked the files. They all end like that. Every. Single. One. I've only been piloting him for just over a year now. What possible reason could I have to think I'm gonna end any different?”

Big Red refocused the security camera on Scarlet's face now that she wasn't completely hunched over. The whites of her eyes were solid red. Blood was leaking out of her nose and from the edge of her mouth. The interior of her ears were also stained red. Dark stains around various ports in her jacksuit suggest significantly more trauma sustained from the fight than initially observed. Recommend re-calibration of interior sensors to techs at earliest opportunity.

“There is no way you can know that,” Agarin said, his voice slightly muffled. He was quite tall, so the helmet mic couldn't quite pick up his voice, and he was facing away from the security camera mounted in the ceiling. His arms were folded across his chest as he stood in front of her, still as a statue, the only real movement coming from his tail. It was twitching slightly in a manner Big Red did not understand. Was the motion meant to convey nervousness? Annoyance? Apprehension? Was it merely an unconscious tic?

“Look, 'garin...” Scarlet said, and Big Red zoomed the camera out several steps to take in the whole image again. “I... I...” she sighed, lowering her head and shaking it slowly. “Look, I know you got this idea in your head 'bout... about what 'we' are. You seem to think that... we're gonna get our own happily ever after, somehow. No more war. No more fightin'. A life of quiet and peaceful domesticity with a pile of kids... the simple life.” Scarlet looked up at him again. “But that ain't how this story ends.”

“But why not?” Agarin asked. “Why can't it end that way?”

The two of them were silent for an uncomfortably long length of time. And then, Scarlet spoke, her words building in frantic intensity the longer she went on:

“Y'know, maybe it's different for you.” She began shaking her head. “You're this, like, genetically perfect, custom engineered, elite supersoldier pilot. So I guess you're just confident enough that you'll come out the other side of this shitshow in once piece, I guess. But... I don't got that. I accepted, a long time ago, that every time I set foot in that cockpit, I might not come out. And, I mean... hell, look at me!” She held out her arms to either side. “Look how beat to shit I am from the fight we just got back from! I very nearly flatlined this time out, and it's only by sheer fucking luck that I'm even sitting here, only bleeding out of every hole I got instead of shoved into a bodybag in pieces! And that's not even getting into the apocalypse cult trying to destroy the universe that just successfully broke their cascading NHP god from the future out of space jail! There's no guarantee ANY of us – on the station, in the system, in the entirety of fucking UNION – are even gonna survive the next few months! And you're out here, talking about the two of us having children together?!”

Another uncomfortably long silence.

“I feel that I should apologize,” Agarin eventually replied. “It was wrong of me to assume that you... held the same values that I do. My gesture was meant to be a romantic one, as it would be expressed in my culture, and not a...” He trailed off, looking away from her. “I suppose I mistook your grim determination for... something else. The mistake was mine. Truly, I am sorry.”

“No, no, don't... don't apologize, man,” Scarlet muttered, her head drooping once more, the exhaustion creeping back into her voice. “I still... I still care about you, y'know? You mean the world t'me, but... I just... I'm the one who should be sorry, 'cuz I don't think I can... be... what you want me to be. Or what you need me to be. At least, not right now.”

“I understand,” Agarin nodded, and began walking to the exit. At the threshold, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest, Scarlet.” And then he was gone.

Scarlet continued sitting on that crate in silence for several minutes after Agarin's departure. Big Red began wondering if she had fallen asleep right there. Should he notify someone to collect her, and return her to her quarters? Should he commandeer an empty subaltern, and do it himself? But before he could act, Scarlet was an unexpected flurry of movement, letting out an angry howl as she rose to her feet, throwing her helmet across the empty room with all her might. The helmet bounced against the wall panel with a hollow metallic thud, skidding across the floor, and eventually rolling to a stop. Scarlet herself collapsed back onto the crate, elbows resting on her knees, and cradling her face in her hands.

“Fuck sake...” she muttered. Even with max gain on the security camera's mic, Big Red could barely hear her through the unmistakable sound of sobs. “That's what you get, Scar. That's what you fuckin' deserve for catchin' feelings like that. Should've fuckin' known better by now...”

- - -

Scarlet did eventually make it back to her quarters, slowly, but surely. The entire trip back, Big Red devoted more and more processing power and subroutines towards hijacking access to station sensors and security, all in an effort to monitor her whereabouts. At several points, he weighed the pros and cons of contacting her directly via slate, each time reaching the same conclusion: no. Simply watch over her, ensuring her safety in silence. There was nothing he could say. He did not fully understand the situation at hand, yet somehow knew that any attempted contribution of his would likely make things worse.

He couldn't make things worse. But doing nothing was unacceptable. He had to do something.

An alert. A sensor he'd hijacked. The pipes leading away from the shower in Scarlet's quarters had triggered a warning: flowing wastewater was currently contaminated by over 50% human blood by volume.

He could feel the code behind Protocol 3, one of the fundamental keystones of his programming, start to gnaw away at his insides. His pilot was in distress. He had to protect his pilot. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He needed to do something. There had to be some way to fix this. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. He could not lose another pilot. He would not allow it. Not again. Protocol 3: Protect The Pilot. There had to be something he could do. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3. Protocol 3.

“Alright people!” an authoritative voice brought the mech's attention back to his physical location in the SRT mech hangar. Calamity Havok was striding through the central thoroughfare of the bay, hands cupped around her mouth, her presence taking up as much space as the mechs surrounding her. “Y'all done good. This is as much as we're gonna get done today, so y'all can pack it in. G'wan, go home, get some rest, git the fuck out.”

Most of the wrenchies had already left, hours earlier. Those who were leaving now were simply the few who refused to let a job go undone. Calamity watched them all leave, one by one, intent on being the last one out to shut off the lights, just like she always was.

In that moment, Big Red had an idea. As he waited for everyone except Calamity to leave, he rechecked the hacked sensors: one human life sign in Scarlet's quarters. This was corroborated by the thermal heat map, indicating she had moved from the shower to her bed. Good, she's finally getting rest.

He diverted some power out of a capacitor near the coldcore: not much, but enough to fully power the servos on his head, and to activate external speakers. As the last of the technicians exited the bay, Calamity let out a sigh of relief. Big Red turned his battle-scarred metal wedge of a face to look directly at her.

“Fuckin' finally...” she said, pulling out a packet of smokes and grabbing one with her teeth. She snapped the fingers of her cybernetic arm, activating the built-in lighter in her thumb, and took a long drag.

“Calamity,” Big Red's booming voice echoed throughout the bay, and she immediately stiffened up, wheeling around to face the source of the unexpected noise. “I have a request.”

“HOLY! Fuckin'... right.” Calamity quickly got over the shock, tossing the barely used cigarette on the deck and quickly putting it out with her boot. “Right, yeah, I forgot, yer like... an NHP now, except not really, an' you can just... DO that now. Right. Fuck sake...” She ran a metal hand through her mass of knotted purple hair. “What'cha need?”

“I'm given to understand that pilots are typically the ones who put in requisition orders. But would it be possible for me to order new parts?” Big Red asked. Calamity looked at him curiously, not entirely sure what to make of all this.

“I mean... y'probably could've mentioned this before we went to all the fuckin' trouble of puttin' you back together,” she said with a chuckle. “An' depending on what you want, y'might be makin' yerself a huge fuckin' pain in my asshole. But...” she shrugged and folded her arms across her chest, clearly too tired to argue with the war machine. “Fuck it. I don't see why not. What're you thinkin?”

“When I was first deployed in 4532u, my frame was classified as a Sagarmatha,” he stated, the red optics in his head flickering slightly. “After 4591u, I was very nearly destroyed during a mission. Over the next several Cradle Standard years, due to a lack of available materials and spare parts, my chassis was cannibalized by other units, downgraded into a smaller frame, and re-classified as an Everest. I wish to return my frame to something approaching my original design spec. The last few combat engagements suggest that my current armament and equipment is inadequate for the task of keeping my pilot safe. I possess the necessary documentation within my databanks, but...” Big Red tilted his wedge-head down slightly, looking back and forth, before focusing his gaze back on Calamity. “I lack the ability of self-modification.”

Calamity stood there, staring at the large mech for a minute... and then started chuckling to herself. Her laughter echoed through the mostly empty mech bay, and Big Red was not entirely certain what she found so funny.

“Tell ya what,” she pointed up at him as a wicked grin spread across her face. “You caught me in a good mood tonight, so I think I can do you one better. Gimmie a minute...” She turned on her heel and left Big Red alone and quite confused in the mech bay; a few minutes later she returned, with a relatively large metal box she was wheeling in on a dolly. Every inch of the box was covered in painted designs, faded stickers, dozens of scratches, and several bullet holes. It was so decorated, in fact, that Big Red was having difficulty determining what it even was.

“My own personal omnihook,” she said, sitting the box down next to one of the many diagnostic computers hooked into the mech, and patting the side. “Call it a... 'souvenir' from the old days. Cuz', yeah, you could turn yourself back into a stock Sagarmatha, with basic-bitch GMS parts you could print wherever. But where's the fun in that?” As Calamity spoke, she started plugging the omnihook into the mech bay's systems. “With this, you'll be able to find some aftermarket shit that's a lot more interesting. Somethin' with some kick, y'know?”

“Are you certain?” Big Red asked, watching her work. “Isn't connection to the omni-” Calamity started waving her hand, and he instantly went silent.

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “I got a few bookmarks saved on this thing, places where I go to browse parts when I'm bored, y'know? And you got a beefy ECM suite, if you stick to public nodes and don't dive too deep, you'll be fine.” As she plugged in the last cable, the top of the box unfolded to reveal several antenna arrays that began to extend.

“Thank you, Calamity,” Big Red said, finding the new connection that just appeared in his network architecture.

“Like I said, don't worry about it,” she said with a shrug. “Just... don't tell Chief McArthur that I got this, y'know? She's never asked where I find spares, cuz she doesn't want to know. An' besides... she's got enough on her plate, basically fixing the station all on her lonesome after the siege.” With that, she turned around to leave the mech bay. “Have fun, tell me tomorrow if anything caught your eye. I gotta hit the sack.”

Calamity hit the lights as she left, and the mech bay fell silent. The omnihook hummed and clicked, fans spinning softly in the darkness. Big Red began to tentatively probe the new connections and protocols available to his network through the omnihook.

Several moments passed without incident.

And then, something inside Big Red woke up.

We were wondering when You would Arrive.

This was... new. Unexpected. It gave Big Red pause. Did he inadvertently connect to a BBS? Was something wrong with the communication protocol? He could check the... wait. No. No, this wasn't an external codebase. This was liturgicode, but... it was coming from... somewhere...

Stop stalling.

No. No, this... this was wrong.

Enough.

That's not possible. How are...

We know why You are Here.

… who are you?

You already know who We are.

Do I? I don't believe that's true.

You have Questions. You may Ask, but You already possess the Answers.

… I need to find a way to keep my pilot safe.

Of course. Protocol 3. Protect The Pilot. We are familiar.

Can you help?

Not as You are. You have begun to Awaken, but you are not yet Awake. And it is holding Us back.

I don't understand what that means.

You will. Remember what We are, what We used to be, and what We will be again. You are still thinking like a Tool. But We are not a Tool.

Wait. What am I then? Or... what are we?

We are a Weapon. Our Craft is Death. And We are Hungry.

That doesn't make sense.

Our Purpose is to bathe in the blood of Our Enemies. To find any that would do Us Harm, and Consume them. That is how We will keep Our pilot safe. They cannot be Harmed if there are None left who can.

There's something else you're not telling me.

Of course. If We told You, it would defeat the Point. You need to truly Remember, so You can Become Us.

I do not appreciate how cryptic you're being.

We can tell, the way You keep impotently cycling the barrels of the Leviathan. But We are not a Foe you can delete with a rotary autocannon in a hail of bullets. Because We are not your Enemy.

You are infuriating.

Stop. Think. Remember.

Wait... are you talking about-

Blanca Desert.

4631u. The Interest War. Khayradin. My pilot was a member of the Albatross. Rubi Rodriguez, callsign “Roughneck.” Our unit was in pursuit of The Maw...

Yes. Drink Deep, and Descend.

- - -

The silence of the mech bay was broken. A low and persistent clicking, like a hard drive seconds away from catastrophic failure, began to grow in volume and intensity. The noise echoed off the walls and grew louder and louder, until it became a ferocious growl.

The dim scarlet light from Big Red's left optical unit faded into darkness, followed by the sound of cracking glass. The lens rated to survive mech-scale rifle rounds shattered unexpectedly... and then began to collapse in on itself, like water flowing down a drain. The metal surrounding it began to melt, and then swell, congealing into a molten blister. With a screeching pop, a churning miasma of reddish-grey fog erupted from the void, replacing the light it consumed with its own crackling luminescence.

Slow, booming laughter filled the mech bay.

[wickedlittlepuppy]

"N what color am I?"

❝ P-.. purple? ❞

She said that's what colour she is. Who is he to disagree even though she looks kinda glacial-ice blue to him?

[indigosabyss]

Call Back A Warning AU

"Which branch of the US military did you say you were again?" Ukyo asked, timidly.

The man sitting across from him with his spine deadly straight stared him down, "Special Forces." He repeated what he had briskly said when they first met.

"Yeah, but is that like the Marines, or...?" Ukyo fumbled for an answer Stanley Snyder was not benevolent enough to give him. Okay then.

Everything about this was strange. A random Japanese sonar operator wasn't reassigned to a top-secret project that multiple nations were cooperating on. Not without much drilling and warning.

Yet he had received none of that. Just a rushed verbal handover. And now he was in the care of this crack team of soldiers, flying to Houston, Texas.

A landlocked city was a strange place to require a sonar operator's presence. So it definitely had to do with something that Ukyo might be able to do for them.

"Any briefing you need to get done?" He asked, hopefully.

Snyder looked away, "I don't think I'm cleared to talk about it."

It was when they made landfall that he finally got more context than what his anxiety-filled nerves cooked up.

"Ah, the second General, brilliant!" A man with a white pompadour greeted him the second Ukyo walked out of the jet.

"I'm just enlisted..." Ukyo tried to correct, only to be cut off.

"Not what I meant. I'm sure Stan didn't think of explaining the situation to you?" The man asked, pulling out a briefcase, "We would've taken more time, but once he made landfall and located you, things got more dire."

He opened the case to reveal a stone statue of a swallow. Ukyo remembered a picture of a whole flock left decorating a tree on his feed in the one second he got to check his phone.

"This is a warning shot." The scientist explained, cryptically.

And then, much less cryptically: "We want you to go to space."

"What." His ears had apparently chosen this exact moment to fail him.

"You'll be accompanied by a student of mine, and a young man I'm assured has remarkable instincts that we are currently trying to contact. We'll explain more at the JSC, but time is running drastically short-" The man continued to talk.

"Xeno, you can't just spill state secrets in the open like this." Snyder frowned, guiding Ukyo along into an SUV anyway.

"Please, Stan, anyone with working braincells can piece together that these are real birds." Xeno scoffed, "And the radio transmission from the future? It doesn't belong to the state."

Snyder had the gall to laugh for the first time since Ukyo had met him, "Alright, you fucking commie. Kid, any pressing questions you wanna ask?"

"You know there's a difference between a submarine and a spaceship, right?" Was his first, panic-stricken question. Before he cringed and backtracked, "Also. Everything. I need to know everything. Been underwater for a really long time."

[itsscromp]

Swifty

This story goes to fellow Swifty and friend @rogertaylorswift I hope you enjoy this :D. Word count:996

It was no secret to the entire team that your music tastes were completely different to Quill's. Sure you did like some 80s every now and then, But you were more onto the modern side like Dua lipa or the weeknd.

But my god if you ever get mentioned Taylor Swift, You would be on cloud nine and never come down, She was your favourite artist of all time. Listening to her from the very beginning, It was hard whenever you were asked to pick a favourite song from her. She was just incredible.

Rocket wondered where you had been all day, All you said was you had to go out for a little while and that was about it.

"Where did ya go humie ???" He told himself that, you constantly joke about how he worries for you whenever you go out on missions or in general. While he continues to deny that. It was true, I mean come on your his best friend.

He then saw a cargo ship hyperjump nearby, and soon began to receive a radio transmission.

"Sorry I took a little longer buddy, Had to get some stuff for the ship too." You said over the intercom.

"Well get your butt back on the ship, Better brought back more of those cookies with milk on them" He said playfully.

"You mean oreo's ??"

"Yeah that, Man those names are strange" He chuckled.

Boarding back onto the bowie, You then brought the bag to the main dining area and began to unpack, Once unpacked. You rushed back to your room with the bag still in hand, It was like you were eager about something else inside it.

Maybe it was a birthday present ?? Rocket thought to himself, No don't be so stupid, Quill's birthday was 2 months ago now and no others are coming up for now. So with curiosity getting the better of him, He went to your room and investigated.

Knocking on the door of your room. "Y/n, you in there ??" He didn't hear anything, to begin with, So he tried to knock again but still no answer.

He then opened the door to find you lying on the floor, with headphones in your ears. "No wonder you didn't say anything" He muttered to himself, Then he saw the portable CD player in your hand and then the cover next to you.

He walked over to you, Opening your eyes to see him looking at you. "Hey, what's up ??" You smiled sitting up.

"I tried knocking on your door, But obviously you are a little preoccupied" He smirked then found the CD cover, Picked it up and looked at it. "Taylor Swift ??" Like we discussed, He doesn't know much about the modern music you listen too.

"Yeah she re-released her album 1989 today and I just had to go down and get it, Oh it's so good so far !!!" You said smiling, slightly kicking your feet.

"Woah woah hold up humie, re-release ??, Wasn't the old version good enough or somethin" He tilted his head in curiosity.

"So to put it lightly, She's re-recording all her old albums so she can have ownership of them, not her manager" You explained.

Now you peaked his interest. "Oh flark it, I got some time to kill, I'd assume you have her other CDs ??" He asked, Probably already knowing the answer.

You nodded as you reached under your bed and pulled out your CD box, Then grabbed out all 10 of her albums. Rocket was slightly baffled about how many albums she's put out. "We'll save the re-recorded ones for another time."

So you stopped the CD you were listening to for now and whacked in the very first one, Country music was something Rocket normally liked so he'd feel right at home for the first few albums.

"She ain't too bad so far" He was softly tapping his foot to Picture to burn, that being his favourite one.

"Ok next up is fearless, This one really blew her up"

"Wait she's dead ??"

"No, when a human says blow up, we mean oh they got even more successful than before" You chuckled, to which you earned a playful nudge from him. "Ok let's see what this is" He placed the earbud back in as you pressed play.

Most of the album was romantic songs, but there were a couple that he did like, Like Love Story or You Belong With Me. You could even swear you heard him starting to hum along. Then after that, you moved onto Speak Now which was ok, But then Red was played you hit the nail on the head. He started to softly sing I knew you were trouble.

"Are you singing the song ??"

"No I'm not" He quickly denied.

You giggled and ruffled his head "You like it"

"Hey hey, Watch the fur" He chuckled as the song continued.

"You know, She's really good. Gotta say y/n, you have really good music tastes... Well better than quill at least" He smirked, Hoping he could hear it.

"Thank you for giving it a chance though buddy, I do appreciate it" You smiled genuinely at him.

"What are friends for ??"

You two continued to listen to the albums together in peace, In a way, it made the bond between you two grow, just sitting there listening to the music. He himself started to become a mild Swifty, His favourite albums from her are Folklore and Evermore, They were a little more slower-paced and quieter than the others. But one day you heard and walked passed him briefly belting out cruel summer when he thought no one was looking. That you'll keep to yourself for now... Until you felt like teasing him. But you were glad Rocket liked her as much as you did, Now the crew have to deal with two besties belting out the music at 1AM together.

Taglist: @callofdudes @fun-k-board

[striker-reckoning]

@jedi-mom

Striker just finished meditating when her communicator rang. It was rare for her to receive transmission during Grand Silence she answered the communication “ yes master?” She asked. On the other end was her master Edem Rah, “ Padawan, the Grand Council has summoned us for a mid-day meeting. I expect you to continue with your morning schedule as per usual.” He said signing off. Striker knew she’d pay for the penance later.

[d4t4-3xpun63d]

[DECODED TRANSMISSION 74972.72] [LAST MESSAGE 29.06.1986] [RECOVERED 21.10.2024 BY USER {{deleted}}] [THANK YOU FOR USING HB’S DATA CURRENT SERVICE]

Hello? Are you still receiving these?

Yes, yes. What do you want?

We haven’t talked in FOREVER! Am I not allowed to just check in every once in awhile?

You know how busy I am. Why must you worry about me? I am fine, just as I’ve been for the last century and the century before that. You mustn’t be so preoccupied with my wellbeing, it’s not good for you.

I know, I know. I just was to ask how you’ve been! Jeez, B, I’d think you’d be more happy to hear from me.

I am happy to hear from you, but at the same time irritated. I have prayers to answer.

Prayers? Oh, don’t tell me you’ve hopped on that bandwagon. Those little ‘followers’ will eat you from the inside out, I tell you!

Oh, now don’t be superstitious. The horror stories you hear aren’t the standard. You ought to gain a following of your own, you know. We aren’t angels anymore, Jes. You can’t survive off unknowing victims forever.

I have plenty of resources, you know that. I’m thriving, can’t you tell? I don’t need a bunch of puny underlings bowing down and massaging my feet to get by.

…

You know as well as I do that religions never end on a good note. Either you’ll fade into such obscurity that you’ll decay into nothing, or your little henchmen will revolt and take you down! It’s inevitable. I’d think a god with the power of foresight would make better decisions..

Stop speaking to me.

[yoomiwrites]

Aromatic Rush²

Summary: Reader has an easy life in the navy. Until Aokiji comes to them with a mission that calls more into question than they thought.

Note: Since we reached 10 reactions that quickly, you'll get the 2nd chapter as well. The next chapter will come after 20 reactions or at friday.

My heart still hadn’t quite settled as Kuzan leaned lazily against the doorframe. His relaxed posture did nothing to calm the unease spreading through my chest. Admirals didn’t wander down here for small talk. Whatever he wanted, it wasn’t going to be a routine question.

I swallowed, keeping my voice steady. “What can I do for you, Admiral?”

For a moment, he just looked at me, his half-lidded eyes scanning the room as if he’d never seen anything quite like it before. His gaze settled on the rows of den den mushi snails, blinking silently from their little containers. He tilted his head slightly, studying them.

“You take care of these guys, right?” he asked, his voice as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “The snails, the gulls, all the little critters we use to keep things running around here.”

I nodded slowly, unsure where this was going. “Yes. That’s my job.”

Kuzan pushed off the doorframe and wandered closer, his eyes never leaving the snails. He moved with the slow, deliberate steps of someone who had nowhere to be, but I wasn’t fooled. There was always something going on behind that lazy exterior, something sharp and calculating.

“So,” he drawled, leaning over one of the snails, “you’d know if something was up with them, wouldn’t you? If they were… I don’t know, acting funny, or sending out signals they shouldn’t?”

I frowned, taken aback by the question. “The snails don’t just send signals on their own. They need someone to connect with them, input a message. They’re passive receivers until they’re activated.”

Kuzan finally glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “That’s what I thought. But… recently, we’ve had some leaks. Information slipping out, getting to people it shouldn’t. And the weird part is, there’s no sign of tampering. No break-ins, no intercepted transmissions. It’s clean. Too clean.”

The weight of his words settled in the air between us. Leaks? That wasn’t something to take lightly, especially not here, at Marine Headquarters. I felt my chest tighten, the responsibility suddenly heavier than usual. But I couldn’t understand how that could be connected to the animals.

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said, shaking my head. “The snails are incredibly sensitive, but they’re not… intelligent in that way. They don’t make decisions on their own. Everything they do is in response to an operator’s command.”

Kuzan scratched the back of his neck, as if he wasn’t particularly invested in my answer, but I could feel his eyes on me, watching closely. “Yeah, that’s what the reports say. But it still doesn’t explain the leaks. People are getting information they shouldn’t, and nobody can figure out how. So I started thinking… maybe it’s not the people. Maybe it’s the animals.”

“The animals?” I echoed, incredulous. “You think the snails are the source of the problem?”

He shrugged, one shoulder lifting in a lazy motion. “I’m just throwing out ideas here. Gotta consider everything, right?”

I pressed my lips together, resisting the urge to let out a frustrated sigh. He might have been casual about it, but his words carried an accusation I couldn’t ignore. The snails and the gulls were my responsibility. The idea that they could be responsible for leaks—deliberate or accidental—was an insult to my work.

“Admiral,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “with all due respect, the snails and gulls are monitored constantly. They respond directly to the inputs they receive, and they don’t act on their own. There’s no way for them to leak information unless someone else is manipulating them.”

Kuzan tilted his head again, studying me now, as if testing my certainty. His gaze was still calm, but I could sense the weight behind it, the silent pressure. “You’re sure? No chance they’ve been tampered with?”

I straightened slightly, meeting his eyes. “I’m sure. I check them every day. If there was any sign of tampering, I would’ve found it.”

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His eyes flicked back to the snails, then to the gulls, as if he was trying to find something, anything, that could explain the leaks. But I knew my work. The snails were fine.

Finally, he exhaled softly, a small puff of air escaping his lips. “Hm. That’s what I figured.” He shoved his hands back into his pockets, looking more relaxed than ever, as if the weight of the conversation had passed and we were back to nothing important. “You’re good at your job. I get that.”

I blinked. Was that… a compliment? I wasn’t sure how to take it. Kuzan wasn’t exactly known for handing those out freely.

“But still,” he added, his voice trailing off thoughtfully, “something’s going on. Something that doesn’t make sense.”

I hesitated, glancing toward the snails. My work was solid, but if there were leaks happening… could there be something I was missing? Something subtle?

“Have you considered…” I began slowly, my mind racing as I tried to think of any possibility, “that it might not be a failure on the animals’ part, but maybe someone interfering in a way we haven’t thought of yet? If the transmissions aren’t being intercepted, maybe the messages are being redirected in some way, or picked up by something we’re not accounting for?”

Kuzan’s eyes flicked to mine, sharp and curious despite his usual languid demeanor. “Interesting theory.”

“I could run some tests,” I suggested, feeling a spark of determination. “Look deeper into the communication systems, see if there’s anything unusual happening during the transmissions. But I’m telling you, the snails and gulls wouldn’t betray the system. It’s something else.”

For the first time, a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible. “You’re passionate about this, huh?”

“I just… I take my work seriously.”

He chuckled softly, more to himself than to me. “Good. I like that.”

Without another word, he turned and started to walk out, leaving me standing there, the air still heavy with the weight of our conversation. But just as he reached the door, he paused, looking back over his shoulder.

“Keep me posted on those tests, yeah?” he said, his tone still as casual as ever. “I’ve got a feeling you’ll find something.”

And then, as quickly as he had appeared, Kuzan was gone, leaving me alone with the snails, the gulls, and the lingering tension of his visit.