#transmission received! ✧.. answered ask

[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.

[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. 

[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."

[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.

[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

[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?

[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.

[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

[apesoformythoughts]

«Question: Why is Carl Sagan so lonely?

(a) Sagan is lonely because, as a true devotee of science, a noble and reliable method of attaining knowledge, he feels increasingly isolated in a world in which, as Bronowski has said, there is a failure of nerve and men seem willing to undertake anything other than the rigors of science and believe anything at all: in Velikovsky, von Daniken, even in Mr. and Mrs. Barney Hill, who reported being captured and taken aboard a spacecraft in Vermont.

(b) Sagan is lonely because, after great expectations, he has not discovered ETIs in the Cosmos, because chimpanzees don't talk, dolphins don't talk, humpback whales sing only to other humpback whales, and he has heard nothing but random noise from the Cosmos, and because Vikings 1 and 2 failed to discover evidence of even the most rudimentary organic life in the soil of Mars.

(c) Sagan is lonely because, once everything in the Cosmos, including man, is reduced to the sphere of immanence, matter in interaction, there is no one left to talk to except other transcending intelligences from other worlds.

Thought Experiment: You are Sagan and you are monitoring the Cornell University radio telescope at Arecibo, Puerto Rico, when, after years of reception of random noise, you receive a signal which can only be interpreted as representing the prime numbers, 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23… Communication is established! The source of the transmission must be Alpha Centauri because of the direction and the transmission time: four years. Years pass. A code is agreed upon. But time is running out. You are growing old. What with the difficulties of encoding and decoding and the period of transmission, there is only time for five simple questions. Which questions would you ask, and how would you answer these five questions from Alpha Centauri?

Are you in continuity with other organisms on P-3, S-G2V (third planet = earth, star G2V = our sun)?

If not, what is nature of discontinuity?

Are you in trouble?

If so, specify.

What information do you need? (E.g., what can we do for you?)»

— Walker Percy: Lost in the Cosmos

[ask-the-cosmonauts]

>RECEIVING TRANSMISSION…

welcome one and all to ask the cosmonauts !!! an ask blog revolving around my ocs and the wacky shenanigans they get up to :)

this blog was created and is currently run by @spongie-pancakes, all art is also made by me (pancake) unless stated otherwise

GUIDELINES & OTHER STUFF

please nothing nsfw, even though all these ocs are adults I’m still a minor.

please do not flat-out insult my work, constructive criticism is appreciated, but insults will not be tolerated

do not spam or self promote please

I apologize in advance if I get anything about space or spaceships wrong, this blog probably won’t be taken too seriously by me and is more just a place to have fun and express myself creatively :)

as a disclaimer I’m still in school so asks getting answered might be a bit slow at times

LINKS (wip)

THE CAST

HOW DO I ASK A QUESTION?

click on the ‘send in a transmission’ button at the top of this blog, write in whatever you wanna ask, make sure to say who it’s for or someone else might pick it up and answer, then send it in !!

ASK BOX: CLOSED

(for now !! while I finish setting this thing up, comms will be up soon ;) )

>CONNECTING…

>CONNECTION ERROR. NO COMMUNICATIONS TO DESIGNATION [C.S. ZENITH] REGISTERED AT THE MOMENT. COME BACK LATER.

[alteregozowie]

I. L. O. V. E. U. ♡

NSFW meme

That made his day!

But now he has to answer the questions....

"Alright, darling, because that was rather adorable, I'm going to try to answer....as truthfully as I can...."

I.) Intimacy:

"........I don't know....I might get caught up in the moment. I really do try to not...make it awkward."

L.) Location:

"The bedroom, of course. Sheesh. Definitely hasn't happened in the radio tower."

O.) Oral:

"Why would you ask me this one.......I'm not going to.....put my mouth down there...." He's never even attempted it. "But I guess......receiving is okay......"

V.) Volume:

"I....I don't know how loud I am...I know I tend to....well, there's a lot of transmission feedback I assume, but in the moment I'm...not going to know..."

E.) Experience:

"You all know damn well and good I don't know what I'm doing out here."

U.) Unfair:

"I like to tease, and it probably does get on nerves."

[lets-try-some-writing]

The Grim Dark Archives

Welcome to the Grim Dark Archives! My newest series that focuses on world building and rewriting TFP into something that appeases my world building desires. I've been sitting on this idea for a while and decided to finally get it out there. If it actually goes somewhere, fantastic. If not, then so be it.

I've always had a bit of an issue with how Cybertronians are portrayed in media. They are aliens, and while they are indeed very good at blending in, they are not us, they are something... other. Thus to satisfy my desire for some more in depth and darker lore, I have created this series which will follow the statements of [Redacted] speaking on the matter of Cybertronian culture and behavior after the Autobots arrive to earth.

This series is set in TFP and will loosely follow the main story line. However a majority of the focus will be one these statements from [Redacted] as they discuss how Cybertronians work and make it abundantly clear that while they play at being humanoid well, they most certainly are not anywhere near humanity in mentality. There will be additional commentary from military personnel as [Redacted] reveals more and more of the darker truth regarding Cybertronians and their nature.

I will continue to answer requests and work on other things, but this series will also be running in the background for a while if all goes well. So if you are interested in seeing a darker rendition of Cybertron and its people, I think you might like what I have to offer here.

Now for a small taste of what is to come, I offer this:

Transcript #001

[Recording taken May 15th 2004 in response to transmission from unknown source. This transcript was originally digitized, however to keep all information secure from the Autobots and their foes, it has been transferred and re-recorded on tape.

[Redacted] made their presence known suddenly during a storm that ensured the Autobots were sequestered away in their new base of operations. They communicated with us through the use of a private channel and immediately requested everything said be kept away from any and all alien life forms on the surface.

This request was adhered to and [Redacted]'s message was recorded for future review.

Transcript begins.]

══════════════════

[Secure channel #0289] [New message received] [Unknown source] [Redirecting to moderator] [Moderator 'Agent Witwicky' connected]

[Redacted]: Can you hear me? Agent Witwicky: Who are you and how have you accessed this channel? It is reserved for military personnel. [Redacted]: I will explain momentarily, but please, is this channel secure? Can they hear us? Agent Witwicky: Yes, this channel is secure. I do not know who you are talking about, however I will once again ask who you are and how you accessed this channel. It is not for civilian use. [Redacted]: It does not matter how I accessed this channel. I need to speak with your leaders immeditely. Agent Witwicky: I can't give you anything before you tell me who you are. [Redacted]: I am [Redacted], a former [Redacted: Classified data] and [Redacted: Classified data]. My kin have landed on your world have they not? I know you house the Prime and his ilk. Agent Witwicky: That is very sensitive data... what do you want? [Redacted]: I want to warn you and keep you safe from both the Autobots and Decepticons. You don't know what you are dealing with. [Redacted]: If you think they are kind, you are sorely mistaken. The Autobots do not mean you harm for now. But once they are done with their war, the victor will come for you and your people next. Agent Witwicky: Those are bold claims. [Redacted]: And yet they ring true. My kin are not like me or you, they see you as useful for now. However the moment your use ends or you become more than an interesting pass time... you will be roped into their games. Agent Witwicky: ... I am an agent of [Redacted: Classified data]. Meet with me and my organization at [Redacted: Classified data] and we can discuss this further. [Redacted]: Only if the Autobots remain unaware. They cannot know I am here, they will do unspeakable things to me if they know of what I speak. Agent Witwicky: Your safety will be assured. The Autobots will not be made aware of your presence. [Redacted]: Then... very well. I will speak with your people. But know I do this only to warn you, I have no ulterior motives... I just don't want to watch another innocent world be destroyed in the battles of my people. Agent Witwicky: I understand. We will meet you at 21:00 at the previously listed coordinates to discuss this further. [Redacted]: Primus spare us...

[Message stream ended] [Channel closed]

══════════════════

[Transcript ends.

[Redacted]'s discussions with us at the meeting point were not recorded for security reasons. However [Redacted] has since agreed to speak to us and give us further data on the Autobots in exchange for safety and enough energon to survive on.

[Redacted] appeared genuinely terrified of possibly being discovered by the Autobots. This has been noted and since led us to believe that [Redacted] may perhaps be a draft dodger or some sort of outlaw. They have said little in regard to the specifics of their position.

Let us hope that what [Redacted] has to say does not confirm that we signed our own death certificate by letting these aliens seek refuge on our world... not that we could have really stopped them anyway.

Agent Witwicky signing off.

Recording end.]

[umbrify]

Wip Wednesday! Today, I’ve got our fWhimmy space au (as always, AU created with my good friend @made-nondescript )

“This is Commander Jimmy, transmission regarding the emergency distress signal received from planet ANC-19.”

“This planet is lost, and so are we. Do not send a rescue mission. This planet is sick, it cannot be saved. I repeat, do not send anyone else here. They will die. There are no survivors. There is nothing of value left here.”

Jimmy lets out a shaky sigh, turning off the transmission radio. It’s done. They’re both doomed. He leans back in the chair, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

What now?

His co-pilot is outside still, for some reason. They both saw that message, in the lab. You are doomed, this planet is sick, you’re already infected, it’s too late.

He saw it. They both saw it.

Jimmy’s not sure why that guy is still out there, breathing in the death spores— or whatever it must be, Jimmy’s not really sure. Regardless, he doesn’t see why anyone would want to spend more time outside, what with the way those sickly blue plants create an ever present blue pulsating light, blocking out the entire sky. It’s just… uncanny.

He blinks rapidly, breath hitching. Is this really it?

Surely not… right? This can’t be it. Isn’t there anything they can do?

Glancing around the ship, there really isn’t much— a few notebooks, various pencils and pens, some basic cleaning supplies, as well as their supply of food. There’s the transmission system built into the main console of the ship, and a few different types of monitoring equipment that his co-pilot schlepped outside a few hours ago, but other than that… there’s not much he can do, in here.

Besides, whatever that guy took outside, it’s probably covered in… space-gunk, or whatever, and Jimmy’s not sure he’d want it to be brought back inside anyway.

He leans forward, burying his head in his hands.

The door clicks open and shut again. Heavy boots step into the main cabin, before being tossed aside, as his co-pilot returns. He glances up, taking in the grimace etched into his ginger companion’s face.

“And how did it go?” Jimmy asks, as if it matters.

“I’m… not sure yet,” the man replies, hesitant. “They just seem like weird plants, I can’t tell…” he trails off, unsure, settling himself down at the table. “Need to do more research.”

Jimmy hums. “I mean… we saw the thingy,” he says, “maybe we shouldn’t be going out there.”

The silence that follows feels like a telling reply. “You can’t be serious,” Jimmy says.

“Well! Am I supposed to just sit around and twiddle my thumbs?” His co-pilot snaps. And… Jimmy can’t quite come up with a good answer to that.

Yes? He wants to say yes— stay inside, see if maybe— if maybe they don’t get sick. If maybe they’ll just… be okay, if they can just go home and move on and act like this didn’t happen. Maybe they won’t get sick. Maybe there’s still a chance. Maybe…

“Maybe we just… wait it out?” Jimmy offers.

“I don’t know about you,” the man says, “but I feel like I’ll go a bit insane if I stay in here all day.”

It would be safer if we did, though…

With nothing else to say, Jimmy leans back in his chair, eyes wandering back to the metal ceiling of their cabin, squinting as his eyes readjust to the bright overhead lights. He hears his co-pilot begin writing something, the rhythmic scratching of pencil on paper slowly blending into the ever present white noise of machinery.

The constant blue light outside makes it a bit… hard to tell when it’s supposed to be night? It feels like it’s been a long time, but he’s pretty sure it’s only been maybe half a day, at most.

Does this planet even have time? He stands, peering out the front window. It doesn’t look any different outside, from when they got here. At least, he doesn’t think it’s different?

“Do you know what time it is?” He asks idly, half expecting to be ignored.

“Uhh, y’know, I’m not sure,” His companion muses, “it’s hard to tell. It didn’t seem like there was any noticeable… sun.”

Jimmy nods. “I reckon I’m gonna keep track, then. Count the days.”

His companion hums a noncommittal note, which Jimmy chooses to see as approval. He steps over to the table, sitting across from the man as he takes one of the many composition notebooks piled on the table— a yellow one, with a shimmery cover— and begins writing.

Day zero:

We’re trapped on this planet. There’s no way to tell what time it is, so I’m writing this to keep track of the days. And for something to do. Like a journal of sorts, maybe.

My name is Jimmy Solidarity, I’m here with my co-pilot—

Uh. Hm. He doesn’t actually… remember this guy’s name. Jimmy glances up at the man across from him.

“Hey, uh, I guess— since we’re stuck with each other and all that—“ he starts, stilted, “my name is Jimmy— or Jim, whichever you prefer. In case you forgot.”

His companion glances up at him. “Oh, yeah. I’m fWhip,” he says, “I guess we’ll be getting to know each other.”

“I guess so,” Jimmy agrees.

—fWhip, who seems a bit flippant about this whole thing. I’m worried he’s not taking this seriously.

This whole place is covered in these huge blueish… plants? Like weird vines maybe? Big vine thingies, and they’re covered in dark spots, and they seem to almost glow a little bit. They’re everywhere, like they’ve replaced all the other trees and bushes and the like that were here before, probably. I don’t think it was always like this. We found a lab, of sorts, that told us that this planet is… sick. And that we’re sick too, now that we’re here.

I hope we don’t get sick. I think we should just stay inside for a bit. I don’t think fWhip agrees though.

I’m gonna go to bed soon, I reckon. Time doesn’t seem to really pass here, in any meaningful way? But it feels like it’s been a really long day. Hopefully tomorrow will be better.

Hopefully we’ll be okay.