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jungkoode · 1 day ago

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5 SECONDS TO FREEDOM | prologue

˗ˏˋ debts unpaid ˎˊ˗

"In Tokyo's underground, there are only two currencies that matter—respect and reputation. When someone threatens to take both, you don't just race them. You destroy them."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 3.5k

content: street racing culture, debt collection, first meetings, midnight races, dangerous driving, Spanish endearments as provocation, the dynamics of Tokyo's underground scene, and your first defeat in nineteen months.

✧ author's note ✧

Soooo here we fucking go.

I've been obsessing over this story for months—I think we all know that lmaooo I think I posted the teaser like a couple months ago and I was devastated because it barely got 50 notes. But you know what, this was still in my head so I did write some drabbles—and I kind of shaped the prologue, which is what you’re gonna read below hahaha.

“But Kiki we just sent you 45 asks telling you to rest” AND I SAID SIKE??? No actually, I’m okay I promise! Usually writing different stories is what prevents me from burning out, because I get frustrated with the same storyline so it’s like… I write something else and my brain goes ‘yay thanks’. You know, ADHD—shiny new toy, mind dances to the music.

Anyways, so. I love this. I love this because as always I get to experiment with different personalities and psychological backgrounds and what I fucking love about these two is the masks they wear and how opposite they are. He’s cocky and arrogant, but in a different way FMU!jungkook is. She’s determined and ambitious, always pushing for more, but still very distinct from all my other Y/N’s because she’s handling different situations (you’ll see in later chapters).

And Hachiroku and Jaque aren't just racing personas—they're escapes. And what makes this delicious is that they're running from opposite lives. One from privilege, one from struggle. Both finding freedom in the same five seconds at the starting line.

And yes, the cars matter. They're not just vehicles; they're extensions of identity. The AE86 is legendary for a reason—not the most powerful, but perfectly balanced in the hands of someone who knows exactly what they're doing (sound familiar?). Meanwhile, the R34 Skyline is raw, unapologetic power held in check by someone who understands precisely when to unleash it.

AS ALWAYS—READ THE AUTHOR INTRO AND TW listed in the index post. This is a must before reading this story.

Fair warning: this isn't going to be a clean race. These characters are messy. They make decisions that will make you want to scream at them. They'll crash into each other's lives and leave debris everywhere, and the kind of attraction that feels like a guardrail giving way on a mountain pass.

But that's the point, isn't it? The most interesting stories happen in the dangerous curves.

So buckle up. We've got a long road ahead.

Ready? Light’s about to turn green.

Also. Notes for this one are pretty high, that’s intentional. Like I just wanted to post the prologue to have it out for a bit but I still need to work on the arcs and major plot points. So I don’t have the story fully shaped out for now, which is why I want this to rest and check for engagement and reactions. Seriously—don’t crash out, I know this one will take time and that’s absolutely my intention!

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Respect isn't given in Tokyo's underground—it's paid in cash or blood.

You roll the cherry lollipop against your teeth, counting seconds in your head like engine timing.

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since you left Kalo and his overpriced Supra in your rearview on the Hakone downhill, his taillights disappearing around the corner while you took the perfect line through the hairpin that everyone else brakes too hard for.

It's nighttime at Daikoku.

You cross one leg over the other, letting your heeled boot dangle casually off the edge of your AE86's hood. The mini skirt wasn't a random choice. Neither was showing up without your racing gear.

Because tonight isn't about driving—it's about collecting.

"Kalo's nowhere to be seen," Maya says, leaning against your car's hood, arms crossed. "Dipped hard."

You don't bother looking at her, just shift the lollipop to the other side of your mouth with your tongue. The neon from nearby signs reflects off the polished black and white paint of your 86.

"What?" Maya catches your expression. "I'm just saying. Word is he's been avoiding this spot since you embarrassed him."

"While still flashing cash at that club in Roppongi," you add, voice flat. "Buying drinks for anyone who'll listen to his bullshit version of what happened on the mountain."

You tug at one of the layered chains around your neck, watching the crowd that's gathered tonight.

The usual suspects are here—wannabes with more money than skill taking photos of each other's cars, veterans huddled around hoods talking suspension setups, scouts looking for the next race.

Everyone except the one person who should be here with your money.

"So what's the plan?" Maya nudges your shoulder. "Just gonna sit here looking pretty until he magically appears?"

You roll your eyes. "Since when do I just sit and wait for anything?"

"Fair point." She grins that wolfish grin of hers. "So?"

"So I track his ass down." You twist the lollipop stick between your fingers. "He owes me fifty thousand yen. But more than that, he owes me the respect of paying up and admitting I smoked him fair and square."

Maya snorts, exactly as you expected. "Called it. Knew you wouldn't let this slide."

"It's not about the money." You straighten up, adjusting your cropped leather jacket. "It's about the principle. You lose a race, you pay your debts. That's how this works. You don't just disappear like some amateur who can't handle defeat."

"Especially not when he talked all that shit beforehand," Maya adds, picking at her black nail polish. "What was it he said again? Something about how no girl could ever handle his—"

"'No girl could handle my power on the downhill,'" you quote dryly. "Right before I passed him on the outside of that corner everyone brakes for."

The memory brings a slight smile to your face.

The shock in his eyes when you appeared in his side mirror where no car should have been able to fit.

The desperate overcorrection that sent him nearly scraping the guardrail while you smoothly accelerated away.

"Exactly." Maya pushes off your hood. "So what's the first move? Hit his usual spots?"

You pull the lollipop from your mouth with a pop. "Already did. Club Seventh in Roppongi. The garage where his uncle works in Setagaya. That ramen shop he's always at in Shibuya."

"Stalker much?" Maya raises an eyebrow.

"Thorough," you correct her. "There's a difference."

A brief silence falls between you as you both watch a metallic blue GT-R roll into the lot, bass thumping hard enough to vibrate the pavement.

Not Kalo's crowd—these guys run with the Yokohama crew.

"Kenji might know," you say finally, referring to your mutual friend who somehow knows everyone's business in Tokyo's racing scene. "He mentioned Kalo's been hanging around some new spot in Meguro the past week."

Maya pulls out her phone. "Want me to text him now?"

"Already did." You tap your boot against the bumper of your car. "He's supposed to meet us here in—" you check the time on your wrist "—fifteen minutes ago."

"Typical." Maya rolls her eyes. "That guy couldn't be on time if his life depended on it."

You're about to respond when you spot a familiar face weaving through the crowd. Kenji, with his signature sunglasses despite it being well past midnight, making his way toward you.

You straighten up slightly, not wanting to appear too eager for information.

"Ladies," he greets with that irritating smirk of his, adjusting his sunglasses even though there's absolutely no need. "Looking dangerous tonight, Y/N. Someone's not here to race."

"Just tell me what you know about Kalo," you say, cutting through his bullshit.

Kenji leans against your car without asking—a liberty you allow only because he's useful.

"Direct as always. That's what I like about you."

"Kenji," you warn, patience already wearing thin.

"Fine, fine." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Your boy's been hanging at this new garage in Meguro. Place called Midnight Rush. Trying to get in with that crew that runs the Wangan on weekends."

You raise an eyebrow. "The twins' territory? That's desperate even for him."

"After what you did to his reputation?" Kenji shrugs. "Man's gotta find somewhere to start over."

Maya laughs. "Not how this works. You don't just reset when you lose."

"Exactly." You shift your weight, boot heels clicking against the pavement. "So he's there tonight?"

"Should be. They're prepping for some big run tomorrow. Word is there's serious money changing hands. He's trying to buy his way in."

The conversation halts as the distinctive growl of an approaching engine cuts through the night.

Not just any engine—something with a tune you've never heard before.

Sharp. Aggressive. Perfectly balanced.

Heads turn as a midnight purple Skyline R34 GT-R glides into the parking area, before coming to a stop under the harsh parking lot lights.

"Who the hell is that?" Maya straightens up, suddenly alert.

Kenji's expression shifts from boredom to interest in an instant—a rare change for him. "New player. Goes by Jaque."

You study the car, assessing rather than admiring.

Aftermarket body kit, but tasteful. Custom wheels. The stance is aggressive but functional.

Whoever built this wasn't just throwing money at it—they knew exactly what they were doing.

"Jaque?" you repeat, keeping your voice neutral despite your curiosity. "What kind of name is that?"

"Latino guy. Showed up about a month ago." Kenji lowers his voice, shifting into the gossip mode he lives for. "Been cleaning up. Undefeated so far."

Your eyebrow rises slightly at that.

Undefeated is a bold claim in this scene.

"Never heard of him," Maya says, voicing what you're thinking.

"That's because he's been running mostly on the Wangan line. Outrunning cops, taking stupid risks. The kind of shit that gets you noticed fast." Kenji's eyes remain fixed on the car. "Word is he beat Hayato's record on the C1 loop last week."

That gets your attention, though you're careful not to show it.

Hayato's record has stood for three years.

This guy has broken it in a month.

Who the fuck is this?

Your question is answered when the driver's door opens, and the crowd's murmur intensifies. A figure emerges, oozing the confidence of someone who knows they belong anywhere they choose to be.

Not tall, but with a presence that fills the space around him. Dark hair, sharp jawline, and a smirk that suggests he's already three steps ahead of everyone else.

"He drives like he's got nothing to lose," Kenji adds, a note of genuine respect in his voice that you rarely hear. "Like he doesn't care if he crashes or dies. It's... I don’t know man. Something else."

You watch as the driver—Jaque, apparently—leans back against his Skyline, surveying the crowd like he's taking inventory.

His gaze sweeps across the parking lot, until it lands on your group.

Or more specifically, on you.

He gives you a small nod, as if acknowledging territory.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Maya mutters, nudging your ribs.

You shrug, unimpressed. "Looks like another ego with a nice car."

But you don't look away, and neither does he. It's a standoff of sorts, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact.

You've played this game before with countless racers who thought they were hot shit.

You've never been the first to look away.

"Don't dismiss him so quickly," Kenji warns, surprising you. "I've seen him drive. I’m dead serious, it’s not normal."

"Nobody's unbeatable," you say, finally breaking the staring contest to look back at Kenji.

Just because you had to look back at Kenji.

"Maybe." Kenji shifts uncomfortably. "But this guy... he doesn't race like a normal person. It's like he's got some kind of death wish, but with the skill to back it up."

You scoff, though something about Kenji's tone—the genuine concern beneath his usual bullshit—gives you pause.

"Death wish or not, a car's a car, and physics is physics. There are rules to this game that nobody breaks."

Maya's watching you with that knowing look she gets when she can tell someone's gotten under your skin, even just a little.

"You want to find out, don't you?"

"I want to find Kalo and get my money," you correct her, though your eyes drift back to the Skyline against your will. "That's why we're here."

You scoff at Maya's knowing smirk, about to tell her to shut it when fragments of conversation float over from where the newcomer stands. One word cuts through the ambient noise of engines and chatter.

Kalo.

Your head snaps toward the source.

The Skyline guy—Jaque—leans against his car, talking to a small circle of racers. His hands move expressively as he speaks, gold bracelet catching the neon light.

"Kenji." You cut him off mid-sentence. "Who exactly is this guy talking to?"

Kenji follows your gaze. "Nobody important. Some Yokohama kids trying to get noticed." He adjusts those stupid sunglasses. "Why?"

"He just mentioned Kalo."

Maya straightens beside you. "You sure?"

No mistaking it. Not when you've been hunting that name for two weeks.

"Excuse me," you say, already moving.

Maya sighs behind you. "Here she goes again."

You don't look back. Your boots click purposefully across the pavement, moving slowly. Not rushing—you never rush. But determined.

Three guys surrounding Jaque glance up as you approach, their expressions shifting from interest to wariness. They know who you are.

He doesn't turn immediately. Keeps talking, voice carrying a rhythm unlike anything you've heard in Tokyo. An accent that doesn't belong here.

Only when you're close enough to count the stitches on his leather jacket does he acknowledge your presence.

And even then, it's just a partial turn. Forty-five degrees. Neck cradling slightly to look at you sideways.

Performative, if anything. Like he knew you were coming before you did.

You cross your arms, weight shifting to one hip. His mouth twitches upward at the corner, eyes traveling from your face down to your boots and back up again.

Not subtle about it at all.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this sight?" Velvet slides from his lips.

One eyebrow quirks upward, the slightest movement. His Japanese is fluent but different—consonants softened, vowels stretched in places they shouldn't be.

You narrow your eyes. "You mentioned Kalo. What do you know about him? What's your relationship?"

He studies you for two full seconds. Not answering. Just looking. Like he's trying to read something written in small print.

Then he chuckles, using two fingers to move a thin strand of dark hair that's fallen across his view. The movement is unnecessary. Theatrical. Done for effect.

"Why so serious, princesa?"

It’s Spanish, the last word. You know that much, know from the way the word rolls off his tongue, deliberate, inserted where it doesn't belong. Like he’s testing boundaries, hoping for a reaction.

"I asked you a question." You keep your voice unimpressed.

"And I asked you one too."

He turns to face you fully now, leaning back against his car with the casualness of someone who's never been afraid of anything.

"But since you came all this way... Kalo. The Supra guy, right? The one who races like he learned driving from a video game?"

The description is so accurate you almost smile.

Almost.

"I hear he owes someone money," he continues, watching your reaction carefully. "Someone who smoked him on the mountain course two weeks back. Embarrassed him so badly he's been hiding like a scared rabbit."

His three companions take subtle steps backward, no longer interested in being part of this conversation.

Smart.

Maya appears beside you, silent backup. Though her presence changes nothing in his demeanor.

"And how would you know about that?" you ask.

He shrugs one shoulder.

"People talk. I listen." His accent thickens when he adds, "Es lo que hago." (It’s what I do)

"Is that right?" You don't react to the Spanish. "Interesting that someone who just showed up knows so much about other people's business."

"I'm observant."

His eyes lock with yours.

"For example, I observe that you're not here to race tonight. That outfit? Those heels?" He clicks his tongue. "You're here to collect. To make a point."

Something cold slides down your spine. Not fear—you don't do fear. Something else.

Being read so easily isn't a sensation you're familiar with.

"What's your name again?" You ask it like you've already forgotten, though you haven't.

"Jaque." He says it with a slight emphasis on the second syllable. "And you're Y/N. The 86 driver who hasn't lost a mountain race in what, two years?"

"Nineteen months," Maya corrects automatically.

You shoot her a look.

Jaque's smile widens. "Nineteen months. Impressive."

"If you're done wasting my time," you say, turning slightly, "I have a debt to collect."

"From a guy who isn't here."

He pushes off his car, closing the distance between you by half a step. Not enough to be threatening. Just enough to make his presence unavoidable.

"And won't be. Not tonight," he adds.

"And you know that how?"

"Because I passed him on the expressway heading in the opposite direction. About twenty minutes ago." He taps his wrist where a watch would be. "Running scared, looked like."

You clench your jaw. If he's telling the truth, you've wasted your night. Another dead end in your hunt for the coward who owes you.

"So you just happened to recognize a stranger's car?" Maya asks, skepticism heavy in her voice.

"A white Supra with that terrible aftermarket body kit and the Rising Sun decal on the hood?" He makes a dismissive gesture. "Hard to miss. Hard to forget, unfortunately."

That description matches Kalo's car exactly; and the sick feeling in your stomach tells you he's not lying, as much as you'd like him to be.

"Well," you say, voice cooling by several degrees, "thanks for the information."

You turn to leave, disgusted at having your time wasted. First by Kalo's absence, now by this newcomer who clearly just wanted to get your attention. Another night, another waste.

"I'll pay you double what he owes you."

The words stop you mid-step.

You turn back slowly, measuring every movement.

"Excuse me?"

Jaque's expression hasn't changed, but something in his eyes has.

They’re gleaning.

"Fifty thousand yen, right? I'll make it a hundred." He says casually, like offering to buy a coffee. "If you beat me."

Maya makes a small sound beside you, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"And why would I race someone I don't know for money I don't need?"

You almost laugh. As if this is about the money. You were born into more yen than he’s ever seen—this is about respect. About principle. About owning your loss when someone beats you clean. No excuses. No saving face. Just bow your head and pay what you owe.

But he’s not done.

"Because you're curious." He says it like it's obvious. "Because you've been the best for nineteen months and you're bored. Because you want to know if I'm as good as they say."

"As good as who says?" You roll your eyes. "I've never heard of you before tonight."

"Then I must be doing something right." His smile shifts, becomes syrupy. "But if money doesn't motivate you, how about this—I win, I get to run with your crew. Race in your territory."

You can't help it—you laugh. Short and dismissive.

"That's not how this works. You don't just buy your way in." Your eyes flick to his car. "No matter how pretty your GT-R is."

"I'm not buying," he corrects, that accent slipping into his Japanese again. "I'm earning. Difference."

You narrow your eyes.

Maya leans close to your ear. "You're not seriously considering this?"

You should walk away. This guy is nobody. A newcomer with a nice car and too much confidence. The racing scene sees them every month. They come, they crash, they disappear.

But.

Something about the way he stands there, utterly certain of himself, gets under your skin.

Like he already knows your answer before you do.

And maybe it's the wasted night. Maybe it's two weeks of hunting Kalo with nothing to show for it. Maybe it's just the need to put someone in their place.

"One race," you hear yourself say.

Maya's head whips toward you in surprise.

"One race," you continue, "and when I win, you pay double what Kalo owes me, and you don't bother me again."

"And when I win," he counters, not missing a beat, "I race with your crew. Simple."

"If," you correct.

"When." He doesn't back down.

One calculated step closer brings his scent into focus. Leather, naturally, but beneath it something that doesn't compute. A scent that belongs to ryokan inns and meditation halls, not this arrogant foreigner.

Hinoki.

"You're awfully confident for someone who knows nothing about me or how I drive."

"And you're awfully defensive for someone who's supposedly unbeatable." His voice drops lower, meant for your ears only. "What are you afraid of, princesa?"

The Spanish word again. A barb. Challenging.

"Afraid?" You match his tone. "I'm trying to save you the embarrassment. And the money."

He laughs, so genuine that it catches you off guard. "So it's settled then. You and me. Tonight."

From the corner of your eye, you see Kenji approaching, drawn by the developing scene. Others are watching too.

Word travels fast in this world.

"Fine." You extend your hand, a formality in this world of verbal contracts. "My terms. My course."

He takes your hand. His grip is firm but not aggressive. Just right. His palm warm against yours.

"Your course," he agrees. "But I pick when."

You raise an eyebrow. "When, then?"

His smile widens, showing teeth. "Now."

Death has a rhythm.

Tonight, it sounds like Daddy Yankee.

The mountain is yours—every curve, every shadow, every inch of guardrail. You've memorized each crack in the asphalt like the lines on your palm.

Yet as you sit at the starting line, engine purring, the midnight purple Skyline beside you blasts "Gasolina" loud enough to vibrate your windows.

He's not even looking at the road.

Jaque's got hand on the wheel, the other tapping the window frame in rhythm.

Kenji stands between the cars, arms raised.

You grip your steering wheel tighter.

Focus. Calculate. This is your mountain. Your rules.

"Ready!" Kenji shouts.

You check your gauges, settle into position, drop your breath rate. Your 86 is an extension of your body.

"Set!"

Jaque turns to you—actually turns his head away from the road—and winks.

Winks.

What the fuck is his problem?

Your jaw clenches so hard you hear teeth grinding.

"GO!"

You snap into the first gear immediately, launching forward as your tires bite into asphalt. Perfect traction. Perfect release. Your 86 shoots ahead exactly as calculated, exactly as it always does.

The Skyline stays even.

First corner approaches—tight right-hander with a nasty camber that catches amateurs by surprise. You brake at the perfect moment, downshift, feel the weight transfer as you clip the apex.

Textbook. Flawless. The corner you've taken hundreds of times.

The Skyline mirrors you exactly, staying in your blind spot. The bass from his music is still thumping through the night air.

Second corner. Third. Fourth. Each attack perfect, each line immaculate. And still, he's there. Not gaining, not falling behind. Just... present. Like a shadow you can't shake.

"What the hell is this guy playing at?" You mutter, taking the next hairpin with a controlled aggression that should give you an advantage.

Should.

Doesn't.

The Skyline follows, its midnight paint swallowing the moonlight instead of reflecting it. Through the next three corners, it continues—you lead, he follows, neither gaining ground.

Until the straightaway.

The road opens up, and you floor it. The 86 responds instantly, pushing you back into your seat. This is where your lighter weight should shine.

But the Skyline surges forward, twin-turbo engine unleashing a growl that slices the night.

He passes you.

Not aggressively. Not dangerously.

Just... efficiently.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world.

For the first time in nineteen months, you're staring at someone else's taillights.

"No fucking way."

You push harder, finding speed you rarely tap into. The gap closes slightly on the approach to the next corner—a sharp left with a cliff drop on the outside.

No guardrail. No room for error.

Normal people brake early here.

Jaque, as it turns out, is not normal people.

You don't brake until the last possible microsecond, throwing the 86 into the corner. The tires scream, traction at its absolute limit. You can feel them searching for grip, dancing on the edge of adhesion.

You exit the corner a car length behind him.

"Come on!" You slam the gearshift, pushing for more.

The next section is technical—five corners in quick succession. Your territory.

It's where precision matters more than power.

You close the gap. Corner by corner, inch by inch. Three more and you're on his bumper. Close enough to see his fingers still tapping against the frame slightly to the rhythm.

The next hairpin is your chance. The inside line is risky—there's barely enough room—but it's your mountain.

You know exactly how much space you need.

You dive for the gap.

For one beautiful moment, you're alongside him. Equal. Your front bumper inches past his door.

Then he does something impossible.

Instead of defending the line—instead of doing what any rational driver would do—Jaque throws his car into a drift so aggressive it sends the back end swinging wide, nearly touching the guardrail.

The move creates an arc that cuts you off, forces you to brake or crash.

You brake.

The maneuver costs him speed, should give you another chance to pass on exit.

But before you can capitalize, he's already accelerating out of the drift, the Skyline's all-wheel drive finding traction where none should exist.

"What the actual—"

The move was insane. Suicidal. The kind of thing that ends with twisted metal and sirens.

And he pulled it off like he was parallel parking.

For the final stretch—three corners and the last straightaway—you throw caution aside. Push beyond limits you usually respect. The 86 responds, giving everything it has.

It's not enough.

The Skyline crosses the finish line two car lengths ahead. You slam your palm against the steering wheel.

The taste of defeat is metallic in your mouth, foreign and despised.

You bring the 86 to a hard stop, tires protesting at the sudden deceleration.

The music still pounds from his car. That same goddamn song.

You throw open your door, adrenaline and anger propelling you forward. The cool mountain air hits your flushed face as you storm toward his car.

Because that last move? It wasn't just reckless—it was deadly. The kind of stunt that gets people killed on these mountains.

Words build in your throat. Sharp words. Words about respect for the mountain and death wishes and arrogance.

His door swings open as you approach. The music blasts louder without the barrier of glass and metal. He slides out with that same casual grace you saw when he called you princesa, when he winked before accelerating.

And something stops the words in your throat.

He shakes his head slightly, dark hair falling across his eyes before he pushes it back with one smooth motion. His other hand remains on the Skyline's roof, some golden ring catching the moonlight.

When he turns to face you, there's no triumph in his expression. No arrogance.

Just... satisfaction.

Like he's found something he's been looking for.

His eyes meet yours across the short distance. That smile appears again—not the cocky smirk from earlier, but something more genuine. Lips curved just slightly at the corners.

"Thanks for the adrenaline rush, mami," he says, voice carrying over the pounding beat of Daddy Yankee.

You've never hated Spanish music more in your life.

goal: 500 notes

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @jkrailme @graydolan12

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vazaez · 21 hours ago

Text

It has come to my attention that someone has been shittalking me and twisting up My words to make me seem like a creep, so i'm here to defend myself.

Here's what they said:

Good job making me look like a piece of shit over a fic i read out of curiosity because people kept mentioning it under my art, here's the conversation in question we had on Instagram, because You didnt give three shits before sharing bits and pieces of out of context messages no one else saw, making up your own version, i don't feel bad not giving a shit about showing the whole thing because i got nothing to hide.

And since you were too much of a coward to be straight with me i'll respect your wishes and keep you anonymous too.

I will translate the conversation, word for word, and i want everyone to judge if it actually correlates to what the initial post says, get your own conclusions, i don't need to fight to defend my point.

-about the possible fanfic they're mentionin on tumblr was possibly by a usar named izosso, but that guy is a proshipper and all the other fics in the tag are really weird💀

Telling you here because my tumblr account doesnt let me comment

•i saw them lol and i blocked izosso, but theres another fic by someone else [literally the only one of the ship that wasnt posted by izosso] who isnt a proshitter [as far as i know] and the fic is relatively good

-send me the link

•some things didnt really sit right with me but over all it's pretty good, they describe the dynamic almost the same as i imagined it skhd

It has a lot of smut, i just let you know because maybe that content is not your cup of tea

-going into the wild kratts Tag in AO3 is like playing the Russian roulette

Just send it to me to see what it's about

•yeah 😭 that's why i found it so weird so many people talking about the same fic

(I send the link) Here it is

-ahh yeah i found this one but i found the food sex tag weird

(Replying to my prev message) Me too

• ah yes, but it's not that much, it was put there more like a caution but no one stuck any food down any holes fortunately 🙏(clearly joking btw)

Well, besides the mouth

-thank god lol

Lmao hey out of curiosity, can i know what about it was it that you didnt like? I found it weird to see Chris as a bottom because i can't imagine him like that

•oh yeah no i do see it, he's too much of a diva 💔 (also clearly a joke?? Are we serious??) what i dislike the most is that Zach acts super weird

And the fact that there is smut at all, because it's a topic that causes me a lot of debate because he's a self insert and all

So i don't know how to feel about it, but it is well written at the very least lol

-same, it's like a 50/50 , in any case i think the fandom is gonna to form a dispute because there's a Lot of artists who font like that and when that happens i'm gonna be like Italy during WW2 lol

And yeah that thing with Zach was really weird *proceeds to call the police*

•LMAO yeah, i just try to not touch that topic much because it could always cause problems

Now where did i ever mention that i consume that content because i like it? Where did i ever sound like "an average Fujoshi"? When i very clearly said that what threw me off about the fic was the fact that there was smut at all

If what made you nauseous enough to try to ruin me was that i jokingly said he was a diva then i don't even fucking know what to tell you ??

The same curiosity you had to come and ask me for the link was the one that caused me to give the fic a try in the first place, so am i really more to be judged than you when we did the exact same thing??

Im an adult, i don't appreciate you going around saying "she still has some years for her brain to develop so i'll have faith!!" Like i'm some sort of idiot, you're barely a year older than me so be serious.

And i don't need you to go to some rando's asks to shit talk me and confess you had plans to talk crap about me to my friends because you had your own conclusions from a very specific conversation, and act like i was the one who still needs to get her shit together

Like what even is your point-?

Check yourself

And to call me a hypocrite on top of it all,,, just unbelievable

Who really is the hypocrite?

#wild kratts #what even is the point of all this shit #im going to bed #this is fucking ridiculous

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reality-warp · 2 days ago

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A word from Rella concerning AI, binding and selling fics, and Book 3 of Rávamë's Bane

Hey folks,

I’m treating this post as a bit of a blanket PSA for all those who read my work and follow me here, but I’ll also be copying the message over to AO3 once Book 3 of Rávamë's Bane goes up. Before anyone gets spooked, all is well, I am well, and I’m still happily working on the first 5 chapters of Amabilis Insania. However there are a few glaring subjects that have sprung up in the fandom space that I can’t really ignore. The fanfic community as a whole has changed a lot in the past decade I've been part of it, and given some of the unpleasant stuff I’ve seen going on in just the past year, I wanted to cover some housekeeping points ahead of posting the next RB book.

1.) Please don’t ever bind and sell fanfics. Profiting from fanfiction in any way is completely illegal, and puts the entire community at risk. I’m lucky enough that I’m a relatively small fish in the fanfic pond, so no one has sold bound copies of my story specifically (that I know of). However, I know several folks who have had their work bound and sold without their knowledge, and have had to take their fics down completely to stop it happening (which royally sucks). If you see any fanfics being sold on sites like Etsy, please do report them — they are absolutely not supposed to be there. And if you want a bound copy of a fic for personal use, I'd really encourage you to learn to bind them yourself. There's a tonne of tutorials out there, it’s pretty fun and easy to learn (I picked it up in a couple of weeks) and it doesn’t take as many materials as you’d imagine. Side note: I have made typesets of LM and CM for myself and friends, but honestly, I’m reluctant to share them publicly now given all the above. That said, if you really want a copy of LM or CM for personal use only, you can message me directly on Tumblr and I can maybe look into making a watermarked version to share on request.

2.) In light of the recent news that AO3 was scraped to create a generative AI dataset, I’ve decided I’ll only be posting the final RB book to AO3 from now on. On top of that, all my fics will be restricted to users with AO3 accounts only. I really don’t want to do this as it cuts off guest users from enjoying the story too, but for now it’s the only way to protect my work from being scrapped again. I don’t believe this will be a one-time occurrence given how carelessly AI is being used right now, and I feel very strongly that no one’s work should be used in model training without their consent.

The vast majority of you in my comments, asks and kudos are genuinely wonderful, and I’m so damned grateful that you aren’t a part of the issues above. However, with all that in mind, let me be absolutely clear just for the public record…

!!TRLD: This Is The Important Bit!! You do not, and will never have my consent to: - use any of my writing in generative AI (this includes making AI-generated fanworks, or scraping my fics for training AI models) - bind and sell any of my fanfics (profiting from fanfiction is completely illegal, and puts it at risk for us all) - profit in any way from any of my work that I have publicly shared online (this includes putting my fics on recommendation lists behind paywalls, or selling my fics in the form of typesets or bound copies)

If you do any variation of the above despite knowing the risk it poses to the entire fanfic community, I respectfully hope you spend the rest of your life in clothes that smell damp no matter how much you run them through the dryer.

To the rest of you; a genuine thank you for making the community what it is. And thank you for making the RB comments section specifically such a joyful place to be.

I promise my next post/update will be less grim.

Until then,

Rella x

#rella loves her readers #mine #fanfic #ai #selling fanfics #i really wish I didn't have to post this #ravame's bane trilogy #ravamë's bane #lapsus memoriae #compos mentis #amabilis insania

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lachesismoonmist · 3 days ago

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I've Been Watching You - Chp 5

Furries, Hot Babe, Cheese Scrambled Eggs

Rating: Mature. Minors dni

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook / Reader

Words: Total: 73k

Status: Complete. 5 out of 26

Summary There's a hot new guy in the gym. You can't keep your eyes off him, and it seems he can't keep his off you either. What starts out as Friends-with-Benefits turns into something a lot more complicated as your past comes back to haunt you and you find out your best friend's long-kept secret.

Originally posted on AO3

MY MASTERLIST

Chapter 5 - Furries, Hot Babe, Cheese Scrambled Eggs

I woke up with a start, disoriented as to where I was. I saw moonlight stream in from some tall glass windows, and I felt a warm arm resting on my waist.

I shifted slightly to turn towards the source of the warm breath I felt on my hair. “Jungkook” I breathed, mesmerized by how beautiful and peaceful he looked in sleep. How deep his breathing was, and how he’d snore a little now and then.

It was so tempting to just snuggle against him and go back to sleep. But I knew I couldn’t. I gingerly lifted his arm off me and slid ever so slowly away from him till his tattooed arm rested on the bed. He let out a slightly louder snore and I froze. But when he settled down, I tiptoed around the bed to retrieve my dress. The small clock on his desk read 04:00. I found a small note pad on the desk, so pulled off a piece as I searched for something to write with. I found a purple marker that was grape scented and giggled softly to find such a kiddy item on this big man’s desk. I scribbled on the note, folded it in half and left it on Jungkook’s nightstand.

My purse was sitting on the breakfast counter, and I shivered as I walked past the kitchen counter where Jungkook had eaten me out late last night. Or was it early this morning. I let myself out, closing the front door slowly with a soft “click”.

On the drive back home, I thought about the night's events. Having to fend off a drunk date. Showing up at Jungkook’s apartment with him looking like sin. Having mind-blowing sex. Falling asleep in his arms. There was just something about him that made me feel safe. That made me want to open up and let him in. It’d been four years, but I was afraid to go there. Afraid of what I might find waiting for me.

When I got home, I stepped into my bathroom to remove my make-up. Or what was left of my make-up. My reflection told me my lipstick was totally non-existent, but then my eyes almost popped out of my head.

There on my neck, was the largest hickey I’d ever seen. I touched it experimentally and hissed when I felt how sore the area was. And… were those teeth marks? I quickly stripped off my dress, and sure enough, there was another angry hickey on the left breast, just beside the nipple.

What the hell! I stepped into the shower, gingerly touching the tender area on my neck, moving to the side so that the spray from the shower was hitting my other shoulder. I made quick work of washing up, then sat on my bed in my fluffy bathrobe, my hair wrapped in a towel. I snatched my phone off my nightstand.

[Sexy Vet] You gave me a humongous hickey! And I think I see teeth marks! You’re lucky I can wear a tee or shirt with a high neck under my scrubs! This is going to take more than a week to fade! You are SOOOO going to pay for this Big Boy.

All my tiredness came rushing back then. I dropped my phone on my bed, lay down, and fell asleep.

----------------------

Something was buzzing. Something nearby. I opened my eyes, saw my phone beside me, picked it up and blearily looked at the time. 10am.

[Hot Gym JK] Good morning to you too. Take it as punishment for not letting me try your cheese scrambled eggs for breakfast.

[Sexy Vet] The punishment is totally disproportionate to the crime! Besides, you did this before there was even any talk about breakfast!

[Hot Gym JK] Potay-toes, Potar-toes. Speaking of talk before breakfast, you left so quietly! Where did you go in the dead of night?

I racked my brain furiously for some kind of reason. [Sexy Vet] I had to go check on a patient of mine. The clinic is closed today since it’s a holiday. My staff gave me an update yesterday but I just wanted to go check.

[Hot Gym JK] Well, I woke up in an empty bed. I feel like the discarded boy toy, who only got left with a note that said “I had a great time, Tiger”.

[Sexy Vet] That is NOT what my note said!

[Hot Gym JK] Well, it might as well have been. ��Thanks for the orgasms, Big Boy' isn’t much better! You’re welcome by the way. You haven’t seen my best work yet. You only had two.

I giggled but felt bad about slipping away before he woke up. I extended the olive branch. [Sexy Vet] Are you doing anything today?

[Hot Gym JK] No plans. Was going to go through my photo equipment and do some spring cleaning. But I’d welcome any excuse not to subject myself to such mind-numbing torture.

[Sexy Vet] Wanna come with me to my clinic in the afternoon? I’m going back in to check on a few furries. Then if you don’t mind having eggs for dinner, I’ll make you my cheese scrambled eggs.

[Hot Gym JK] Whoa. Furries. Hot babe. Cheese scrambled eggs? It’s ON. What time?

[Sexy Vet] 4pm? See you at the clinic.

[Hot Gym JK] Got it. See you later sweetness.

-------------------------

Stepping into the clinic always gave me that feeling of coming home. The way the sunlight streamed through the huge glass panel at the front, warming the light-colored pinewood floors. The light smell of geranium and rosewater from the diffuser that sat on the receptionist’s counter. The teal and amethyst color scheme of the furniture. It was during these quiet moments in the clinic that I felt like this was where I was meant to be.

I walked past my office to the back of the clinic where the current patients who needed treatment were staying. The patient I had mentioned to Jungkook was a very old chihuahua. He looked to be sleeping soundly at the moment. The resident tabby, Ginger, meowed at me from her perch near the ceiling in the cat tree that took up one corner of the long room.

I went over to clean out Ginger’s litter tray, then changed the water in bowls of a Golden Retriever and a Mini Schnauzer. For the two rabbits I changed out their straw so that my assistant wouldn’t have to when she came in the next morning. We also had one fuzzy Malti-poo, who was running around in circles in his pen, jumping and barking at me for attention.

“Hey, slow down Coco. You’re going to open up your stitches”. I took a chew from the bucket near the window and gave one to him. “That should keep you occupied for a while”.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

[Hot Gym JK] Hey, I’m here outside the clinic.

[Sexy Vet] Be right there.

I walked back out to the front of the house, surprised when Ginger followed me. There he was, standing outside, looking yummy in a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and a pair of coffee colored cargo shorts. Caramel colored loafers completed his outfit. It was pretty windy out, so I watched as he ran his big hand through his hair in an effort to tame it.

He saw me just as I reached the front door and broke out into a smile which made his cute dimples appear.

“Hey”.

“Hey, Big Boy. Welcome to Artemis Sanctuary”.

“It’s so peaceful today. When I brought Bam in it was a hive of activity! But your staff were all very calm and assuring. Bam got a kick out of licking the face of one of your vet assistants”.

“That would have been Eun-Young”, I smiled. “She loves animals and is always more than happy to let the furries get a lick in or two."

“Were you here that day? It was two Thursdays ago?” Jungkook asked as he walked around the lobby, stopping at a huge cork board filled to the seams with thank you notes and photos of people with their furkids. He smiled widely, reading the happy messages.

“Nope, I don’t come in every day. There are two other vets who work here, and we have a good team of vet assistants. I do drop in for a few special cases.”

He nodded, as he moved away from the message board. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. “Is that…”

“Geranium. Yup. It’s my favorite scent. Always reminds me of fresh flowers after the rain. I take it you like too right, given all your bath products have geranium in them”.

He nodded sheepishly “Guilty”.

“That’s why you always smell so good” I blurted out, then covered my mouth with my hand, eyes wide, hoping Jungkook hadn’t heard me.

He looked at me with one eyebrow up “Is that right?” he walked towards me, crowding me against the reception counter. “You know, some say that if you like the way the person smells…”

Just then, Ginger decided to say hello, walking up to Jungkook, rubbing the side of her face on his leg, weaving in and out between his feet.

“Wow, Ginger must like the way you smell too. She isn’t always this friendly with strangers”.

“What can I say, I have a way with pussies” and he waggled his eyebrows suggestively at me.

I laughed and pushed him away, then led him into the backroom.

----------------------

Ginger padded alongside us and went back up to the top of her cat tree. I didn’t hear any barking, so Coco must still be busy with the chew I gave him.

I led Jungkook to the Chihuahua’s cage.

“This is my special case, Nuri.” Jungkook knelt down to take a closer look.

“He’s having renal issues, cataracts, is losing his hearing and is generally weak. He’d been with his family for 20 years. It’s been heartbreaking to watch them watch him deteriorate. We’d recently found a lump on his stomach, and the prognosis wasn’t looking good. They’d decided against surgery, wanting to give him as much quality of life as possible.”

“20 years is a long time. He must really be a big part of the family,”. Jungkook said quietly.

“Yes, he was there to welcome all the new additions to the family. He’s the proud older brother of a pair of twin boys, and a girl. They never go anywhere without him. When we first opened four years ago, he’d run around our little garden out front with the kids. Now he can barely walk”.

Jungkook looked up at me sadly, and to my surprise his eyes were shiny with what looked like unshed tears.

“How do you deal with the sadness? Seeing people losing their furkids? I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Bam”.

“I have to be strong for them, to help them come to terms with what their furkids are going through, and to help them find the courage to let go when it’s finally time. I remind them of the happy times they had together, and that they’ll be united again in the afterlife.”

I took a deep breath. “It hasn’t been easy. When my first golden retriever died, I was inconsolable for weeks. I’d wander around school with puffy eyes, bursting into tears at the slightest detail that reminded me of Hyeri.” I gazed into the distance, as memories came flooding back.

Jungkook reach up and held my hand, eyes soft with sympathy.

“It took me three years before I could even bear having another dog, or pet. It got easier over time. The first one is always the hardest”.

Jungkook stood up then and pulled me into his arms. He squeezed me, put his head on top of mine, tucking me into his shoulder.

“Well, I admire your strength and compassion. It’s hard to be so strong for other people all the time. No wonder Artemis is doing so well. People know that you really care”.

I smiled at his compliment, and his insight into the entire philosophy behind Artemis.

“It was a hard and bumpy road to get here, but we did it in the end”.

Just then, his stomach growled loudly, making us both burst out laughing.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I think I had half a rock melon after texting you, then I got lost in organizing my photography stuff.”

“Come on, I promised you a cheese scrambled egg”.

We turned off the main lights, leaving a few night lights on for the furkids. After locking the front door, I noticed my car was the only one in the carpark.

“You didn’t drive? How did you get here?”

“I got an Uber.”

“And how were you planning on getting home?”

“Well, I assumed I’d be riding with you,” he smirked.

I laughed “Ok Big Boy. You can ride with me. Let’s get you fed”.

Jungkook took my hand and swung it playfully all the way to the car. "This cheese scrambled eggs had better be mind-blowing, after all the hype."

“Don't worry, it will be. Even if they aren't, I can think of other ways to blow your mind".

Previous (Chp4)

Tag: @bhonbhon

#jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jk fanfic #jungkook smut #jungkook scenario #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction

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silence-ofthe-llamas · 2 days ago

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Had this locked almost ready to go since the last Prowl-focussed chapter but it really fought me, waahhhh

Aaanyway, Prowl's back, plus Sideswipe, Bluestreak, and discussions of sibling death~ Read here or on AO3!

The American base was… different. His base in Central Europe certainly had a different vibe to it. The camaraderie felt significantly less forced - they broke bread together, they smoked together, they drank together because they were all in the shitter together. It sucked, and they had to look out for each other.

The American base felt a lot like the idea he had in his head of Colleges (that’s what they were called, right?) that he’d seen in movies. With the houses and the Greek letters, the cliques that did not mix and formed strange alliances to go against another clique.

Prowl stood awkwardly in the break out room, wondering where was most appropriate for him to sit as he drank another coffee to reset his body clock.

“Petteri!”

He flinched and turned, tired heavy eyes casting around the room-

His younger brother was making a beeline for him. Prowl felt his feet moving before he’d thought about it, and he quietly ‘oofed!’ When Ville slammed into him, arms tightly wrapping around his midsection.

“I didn’t know you were coming!” The words in their native tongue spilled out, slightly accented. “What are you doing here? How long are you here for? Do you know where you’re staying - I can take you there, you must be exhausted. Oh, oh, come sit with me - there’s a free seat. A couple, actually. Have you noticed how weird they are here? It’s like we’re diseased.”

“Breathe, Ville.” Prowl brushed his hair back out of his face. “Your hair’s grown.”

Bluestreak dragged him over to their table and forced him down into a seat, dropping down next to him. Prowl did his best to pay attention to what he was saying - something about their mechs and how excited he was to see a European one.

That made him pause and suddenly snap into the conversation. The buzzing in his ears suddenly stopped as he came into focus.

“They’re different?”

“Would you like to see?”

Jazz dwarfed the other mechs. Prowl had the impression that this is what his mech must have looked like next to Vortex. Bluestreaks mech came up to Jazz’s hip. They were still nothing to sniff at, not by a long shot - but they still seemed small. Bluestreak had stopped to stare in awe at Jazz, eyes wide and sparkling. His friend - another pilot called Sideswipe - had tagged along with them. Prowl vaguely remembered meeting him at the pilots academy when visiting Bluestreak - him and an identical boy who always had a mean expression and dressed himself in gold. It was good that they’d managed to stay together - that he had a friend here. It made him feel much less guilty about accepting the post at the Northern European Shatterdome instead of finding a job that would have taken him to America and closer to his brother.

“Do you remember Koen?” Bluestreak gestured to him.

“Verstappen, yes? Like the racers.” Prowl held out his hand for a handshake. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Petteri, right?” Sideswipe loosely took his hand and shook it once, quickly shoving his hand back into his pocket.

“Where’s your brother? it would be good to say hello again.” He was just being polite. He didn’t really want to speak to him, but he wanted to keep up appearances and leave behind good impressions.

Bluestreak awkwardly chewed his lip and Sideswipe tensed.

“Uhm, Prowl?” Bluestreak quietly said, gesturing for his brother to lean closer so he could whisper in his ear. “Sun- Max died.”

“Ah.” Well. That was suddenly very awkward. He straightened and looked down at his shoes, far too shiny for a mech base. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sideswipe. I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine, it’s not like I sing it from the rooftops.” He scratched behind his ear in a clear show of forced nonchalance. “Kinda happens in this line of work anyway. It’ll be my turn eventually.”

He’d died in his mech, then.

“I understand. My husband died the same way.”

Sideswipe looked at him differently after that. Before, it had been with an air of uncertainty, of disdain. He was a figure of authority to them, an unknown variable. Suddenly, with a few exchanged words, he had become relatable. More human. He was tangible and dimensional. Their grief was a shared one.

He took much more interest in his mech after that. Jazz seemed to be delighted to have them, opening his cockpit with a bit more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary, beating Prowl to the punch on engaging the steps and moving closer to them without the pilots input. Bluestreak and Sideswipe had watched with awe, immediately putting it down to the mech’s programming, to the AI contained within pre-emptively assuming the next task. Prowl thanked his lucky stars that they didn’t know any better – he wouldn’t have been able to bluff his way out of it had they not been in America. The Europeans would have had the hairs on their arms raising instantly, visions of Vortex flashing behind their eyes.

But Bluestreak and Sideswipe didn’t know about Vortex. They didn’t know how the AI’s worked, what their scope was meant to be, how Jazz moving without pilot input should have been enough to have him shut down for examination and poked at with sticks, his code studied with a fine comb to find the discrepancy, the error that allowed it to override the safety controls – like they’d done countless times with Vortex after he destroyed a pilot, like they’d done when Jazz had suddenly stopped responding.

Bluestreak ran a hand over the armrest of the chair.

“What’s your mech called? Prowl, I assume?”

“Your callsigns are your mech’s names?” Prowl asked curiously.

“Yeah. You’ll never guess how Sideswipe got his name.”

“It was one time!” Sideswipe threw his hands up in annoyance. “I take out another pilot one time, and now it’s just my name forever!”

Bluestreak snickered into his hand, poorly disguising it as a cough.

“Our mech’s have code names that are assigned to them – usually single word descriptors. Mine is called Jazz.”

Bluestreak flinched, quickly glancing up at his brother.

“They didn’t assign it to you-?”

“No, they didn’t. This mech chose me.” Prowl quickly reassured him. “I was most compatible with the AI, and that was my reason for assignment. Nothing nefarious.”

Bluestreak visibly relaxed with a quiet sigh before his brain caught up with the new information.

“Wait, so the AI – you have to go through compatibility trials? So it’s like having a separate partner? That’s so cool – apparently they tried having two pilots here, but it caused too much drama, especially if they found out the other pilot was cheating on them or whatever – turns out these mechs are expensive. Who’d have guessed? They’d focus more on fighting each other than on the quintesson and that wasn’t exactly conductive to their job, so that’s why pilots are solo here. I heard they pair up in some places in Asia, is that true? I’d like to see that some day, it’d be really interesting to see how that all works.”

Jazz rumbled quietly, a low hum that gently vibrated the room. Prowl immediately recognised it as laughter, but it had Bluestreak and Sideswipe scrambling to clutch onto something.

“It’s not about to start moving, is it?!” Sideswipe demanded.

“No, he’s docked – he can’t go anywhere.” Prowl replied. He slipped into the pilots seat and feigned studying the readout on one of the small screens – total gibberish to all except those who knew the language it was in. “It’s just a slight recalibration of the climate control function – the cockpit doesn’t usually have more than just me in it.” He smoothly lied. Jazz trembled again.

“Oh, thank god.” The boy wheezed, clutching his chest. “This thing looks like it moves, and I did not want to find out whilst I wasn’t strapped in.”

The rumble bumped and jerked, Jazz losing the battle of keeping himself contained. Prowl gently squeezed the arm rest.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The roombas were misbehaving.

Prowl had to bite his tongue as he walked past a pair of engineers scratching their heads, a roomba disassembled on the floor between them. Apparently they’d started going off course – whilst the majority of them only had a short blip early that morning, there were a few that weren’t doing what they should have been and seemed to have totally forgotten their job. The roomba they were currently rooting around inside smelled strongly of coffee – Prowl suspected that it lived near the coffee machines in the cafeteria and was tasked with cleaning up the spills from tired pilots.

Jazz had a penchant for this. When Jazz had first gone offline, when he had arrived at the same Shatterdome, the automated drones and robots began to act a little strangely. Roombas would rush around like over-excited mice, chased by larger cleaning units. The maintenance drones would spin and dance and use their motors to sing. Prowl later realised it was Jazz – with no pilot, he was beginning to get bored and had turned to hacking into whatever he could to alleviate it. Not for evil, no, just pure-hearted fun. And apparently, he’d decided to do the same here – he’d probably already hopped onto the cameras too and was watching the engineers and mechanics try and put out the metaphorical fires he was starting with great delight.

At least he wasn’t having the microwaves sing a jaunty little jingle every half hour. Again.

He grabbed his coffee and turned on his heel, quickly walking to the mech hangar. His first lesson was the next morning and he still didn’t know how their mechs moved, how the pilots operated – Sideswipe was supposed to be in there for scheduled maintenance and he wanted to take the opportunity to run through some things with him. Bluestreak was still sleeping – he’d been on the night patrol. Jazz was almost comically huge in the light of a new day. The hangar doors were closed, leaving him illuminated by artificial light only, which only accentuated the shadows he cast. The lights weren’t quite at the right height for him, making him look very ominous indeed.

A roomba shot past them at speeds the roomba should not have been programmed to achieve. Prowl shot Jazz a withering glare. I know that was you. Stop that.

Jazz vibrated. A nearby engineer jumped, looking around for the source of the noise.

Prowl quickly drank his coffee to hide his laugh, promptly gagging and coughing. Did they put mud and ash in this? He spat it back out into the cup and grimaced.

Ugh. He’d been looking forwards to that.

Prowl confidently strode up the catwalk, brushing his hair back out of his eyes – he really needed to get a haircut, but Jazz had always liked it when it was long enough to play with so he’d kept it at an awkward length – and put his coffee down on the console before leaning against his chest, pretending to inspect the panels.

“Morning, Jazz.” Prowl rapped on the metal affectionately. “Have you seen Sideswipe?”

Two chirps came back, the sound of the oxygen test system. Yes.

Prowl looked around the hangar. “Here?”

One chirp. No.

Hmm.

“Thank you. I’ll be back later, okay?”

Three chirps. I love you.

“I love you too.” He quietly said. He quickly turned and grabbed his coffee, striding off with purpose so nobody would talk to him. Not that they did – Bluestreak had laughed as he told him that someone had already confessed that they’d found him intimidating and unapproachable. Prowl wondered if it was because he was a newcomer, someone in a position of authority over them, or if it was just his face.

On Bluestreaks tour yesterday, he’d showed him the roof. That had been where they’d left Sideswipe – apparently he liked to look out over the flats. Prowl hadn’t paid it much attention at the time – he was so tired he wanted to get the tour over with and into bed as quickly as humanely possible, so he’d just nodded and said how lovely it was to satisfy his younger brother until he was whisked away to the next location.

So, logically, if Sideswipe wasn’t in the hangar where he should have been, then he was likely to be up on the roof. Pausing by the cafeteria, he glanced at his coffee – he had barely touched it, it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever had the displeasure of passing his lips – and looked back up at the machine. Maybe a tea wouldn’t be amiss? Did Sideswipe even drink tea? He was about to find out.

He took the lift up. The doors opened, and the door to the outside was ajar – he pushed it open and peered out, wincing as the cold wind whipped at his face.

Sideswipe was at the edge, legs dangling down through the railing. His head rested against it, arms loosely looped round. He was deep in thought, thinking heavily about something, the dark circles under his eyes apparent and tinged with red.

Prowl knew he wasn’t the best person for this, but he was also the only one he had. So he sat down next to him, mirroring his position.

The warm cup of tea was placed next to him, gently nudged into his hand.

“I didn’t expect to find you here.” He said. “It’s breakfast with one cream. Sorry, I didn’t know what you liked.”

“I don’t like hot drinks.”

Prowl seamlessly removed the cup and pressed an energy drink into his hand instead. He had it in his bag for emergencies - for when drops went on for a bit too long, for when he started to flag. Apparently now was the time that called for it.

Sideswipe snorted in amusement. “Why do you even have this?” He asked as he cracked it open.

“Emergencies.”

“Thanks, Prowl.”

“You seem tired.” He probed.

“I’m not really sleeping.” Sideswipe admitted. “It’s around this time of year that Sunny died.”

Prowl remembered what it was like. The days blurring into one, the calendar being overwhelmed by one date. That time both stood still and flew by, intangible yet dragging roughly over bare skin like sharp gravel. It felt wrong for the time to pass without them, and yet you were powerless to stop it: the sun rose, and the sun set in perpetuity. The cosmos did not care that time had ground to a halt in one place; it simply continued on without them.

Eventually time began to move again, but it always ground to a halt like clockwork. Prowl found that the time for him hadn’t been the day Jazz had died, or even the anniversary of his funeral. It was his birthday. Grief was strange and he wouldn’t pretend to understand it, but he would do his best for the boy who had glistening eyes and a wobbling bottom lip.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Does it get any easier?”

“It does. Eventually. Lean on your friends, it helps.” He looked out over the view in front of them, the freakishly flat land and the distant sea. It felt weird to look out and not see a single hill, a single forest. It was all bare, totally alien to him. “You’ll have hard days, but the easier days will become more frequent.”

“I hope so.” He pressed his fist to his forehead. “Am I allowed to talk to you like this?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You’re a higher rank? My friend’s older brother?”

“My rank doesn’t seem to mean much here.” He couldn’t keep the bitter tone out of his voice. “And yes, I am Ville’s older brother, but doesn’t that remove a degree of isolation?”

“I guess so…”

“You seem to miss him a lot.”

“I do.” Sideswipe audibly took a deep breath, slowly releasing it. When he spoke again, his voice was thicker. “The last time we spoke it was an argument. We’d been constantly fighting for months, so it didn’t particularly stand out at all, but I wish it hadn’t been a fight. I wish I was nicer to him.” He rubbed at his nose with a sniff. “He said he never wanted to speak to me again. I mean, he got his wish, but I hate that it was that one. Why did it have to be that one?”

“What else did he wish for?”

“He loved art and making things with his hands, so probably something like that. I think he’d have made a killing if he went into mech design, honestly. He made parts for his mech, you know. Really cool. Stood out a lot.”

“What happened to his mech?”

He shrugged. “They couldn’t recover some parts of it. Apparently the cockpit was so compacted they didn’t realise what it was at first.”

Jesus Christ. Prowl felt a bit nauseous. That poor kid.

Sideswipe took a big gulp of the energy drink.

“Sorry. That got real depressing.”

“You’re fine.”

The hair on their arms suddenly stood on end. Sideswipe was up on his feet in seconds, gripping tightly onto the balcony and staring out over the flats.

Oh, Prowl realised as he slowly stood, they built the Shatterdome here so they could see the rip more clearly.

“There.” Sideswipe was pointing up at the sky, at the grotesque rip that was slowly forming. “Ugh. Just when I was about to go to bed, too.”

“How fast can you run?”

“Faster than you can, old man.”

Jazz was curious as they set off together. Prowl had been outpaced by Sideswipe at first, but he was a seasoned runner. They arrived at their mechs at the same time, and Jazz launched faster. Prowl was barely in the seat before his mech was off, Jazz remotely pinging the hangar doors to open before the alarm had even sounded.

“How’d you know, Prowler?”

“I was up by the roof with Sideswipe. We saw the rip opening.”

“Good timing. I wonder how these little guys get the job done?”

It was like watching small terriers hunting elk at first. They were so much smaller than the quintessons that dropped through the rip that he worried for a moment that they were going to be immediately crushed, but they quickly proved him wrong. What they lacked in size they more than made up for in speed and teamwork alone, groups of four immediately banding together to take them down.

Jazz wanted to join in, but Prowl was worried they’d crush them, so they kept at a distance to watch and observe, to see how they fought. It was what Swindle had sent him there for, after all. Training.

Arcee would have been the better option, but Jazz was already supplying him with helpful insights, so he’d have to just make the best of it and try not to be too mean. Bluestreak would be so upset with him if he made any of his classmates cry. It took him the same amount of time as it did to drop a quintesson for one group of four to get one on the backfoot. It took the same amount of time as it did for him to find another one that was far enough away from them to not accidentally hurt them and to dismember it for them to get it into a position to shoot it directly in the head.

Inefficient, he thought.

Inexperienced, Jazz replied.

He’d have to drill that out of them. They couldn’t afford to fuck around like this when they had extreme events again, when they were all that stood between the rip in the sky above them and the city ten miles behind them. One rough winter – he wondered if they’d have seen it in the same way, if it was only made rough from their ineptitude.

“Remember, be nice.” Jazz reminded him. “We were just as bad as they were when we first started.”

“I know.” Prowl sighed. “I’m such a bitter old man, aren’t I?”

Jazz’s hands ran over his shoulders, curling up his neck to tangle in his hair, flickers of sensation as the phantom hands played with the strands.

The final observation Prowl made was when the fight was over. They returned to the Shatterdome, and the mechs docked into their bays-

And a team of medics were waiting for him..?

For all of them, Jazz noticed. Every single pilot had a team of medics waiting for them. Prowl gently squeezed the arm of his chair and smiled at the camera in a silent farewell as he left, Jazz opening up the cockpit. Prowl curiously looked at the team waiting for him.

“Is something wrong? Were any of my vitals out of acceptable range?” He asked as he began to step down.

“Oh, please wait-!” One of the medics rushed forwards to stop him. “Don’t worry, we’re here to help you readjust-”

“I’m sorry?” Prowl asked as he hopped to the floor, perfectly co-ordinated as always. The medics froze, looking at each other as if unsure of what to do.

“How do you feel?” The shortest one asked.

“As usual.” Prowl frowned at them. “Is it usual for pilots to be disorientated after a drop?”

“Yes, they usually experience severe dysmorphia for the first hour or so – more if it’s been a drop that’s extended past the usual limit.” They replied.

Prowl frowned harder at that. Nobody had thought to mention that to him. A difference in the pilot system, then? He knew that they didn’t use AI’s here – the initial pilots didn’t trust the AI to make good decisions. The models they used had been flawed, making assessments and judgements that wound up getting them killed. The AI’s were constantly ignored and overridden and it wound up cheaper to just cancel the contract with the companies, remove the requirement for an internet connection in the mechs, and just have them pilot it alone with a very basic system that would recommend courses of action.

No wonder they’d panicked. He’d strolled out of Jazz as if he were walking off of a plane.

He looked to the left, down to where Bluestreak was. He was being carried out – they all were.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Sideswipe liked Prowl. He liked him a lot. His face was worn with the same lines of grief that his was, something that had aged them both beyond their years.

He’d lost his husband. Sideswipe would never know that pain – and he hoped he never would. He didn’t think that type of grief would suit him.

He’d lost his twin, though. It wasn’t a pain easy to explain. It wasn’t like losing a sibling, even though that’s what it was – it was like losing a part of yourself, but still remaining whole and intact. A bit like if you had an extra spare limb and someone decided to chop it off one day. There was a corpse staring back at him every time he looked in the mirror. There was a voice he’d had with him since the womb that he’d never hear again. He’d link his fingers together, feel the slide of skin against skin, to preserve the memory of his brothers hand against his own. He couldn’t watch certain movies without a profound sense of sadness, without sobbing through the ending credits even if it was the most joyful thing he’d ever seen, because it wasn’t his to enjoy. So it wasn’t just like losing a sibling, it was a bit like losing something and not being able to find it again despite it being right in front of him, too. And worse. So much infinitely worse.

They hadn’t been identical. Sideswipe doesn’t know what he’d have done if they were – probably mutilated his face somehow, anything to set them apart, to make it look like he wasn’t looking back at Sunny every time he saw his reflection or was caught in a photograph. Even now, he didn’t like getting caught smiling – the smile wasn’t his, it had been Sunstreakers, he’d just started. Doing it. For some reason. He didn’t know why, but Bluestreak always smiled wider when Sunny smiled so. Maybe? It was for him?

He didn’t know. He just didn’t know.

Sunstreakers bunk remained empty. They’d reassigned someone to take it the week after he’d passed, but Sideswipe and Bluestreak had unsettled them to the point that they transferred almost immediately. Sunstreakers posters remained pinned to the wall. Scraps of paper that he’d scribbled on, his calendar with the days crossed off in red pen, photos and a pinboard and his notebook and that random paint that had dripped down his bunk frame – it hadn’t been touched. It still remained as it was, as if he was going to be coming back. It was a museum and a morgue in one.

The therapist had said that it wasn’t healthy and that he’d need to take it down. That he was clinging onto a memory and he needed to let his brother pass on. But Sideswipe didn’t see how leaving his bunk as it was kept him in this world. His twin was dead. Gone. Mashed to paste inside of his mech as a quintesson crushed him to death with an audible pop. He’d heard it. He’d never told anyone, but he heard it – the bang as the frame of the cockpit gave in, the squelch of tearing muscle and crunch of shattering bone. It had echoed between his ears and he didn’t know what he’d heard until he got the call – or maybe he did, but he didn’t want to accept it? He’d heard pilots be crushed to death in their mechs before. They were so small that when a real big one came, it was a known risk that they’d get stepped on. And this one had been big, and Sunstreaker had been picked up by it and stared it in the eyes as its fist closed tight.

Sideswipe rubbed at his eyes and stared up listlessly at the bunk above him. His alarm had gone off twenty minutes ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to get up.

Don’t be lazy, his brothers rough voice said. Get up. Show them you’re worth something for once.

Fuck, he hated him so much.

He brushed his teeth more roughly than was strictly necessary and shrugged on his uniform, taking care to pull on his thick woollen socks properly and to grab his hat, gloves, and scarf. The weather was still cold, the warmth of spring not quite there yet. Bluestreak was already up – he was probably with his brother again. Apparently Prowl was going to train them.

Ha, good luck with that.

He sat in the classroom – the first one there, he may have been a poor student but that didn’t mean he was tardy – with his feet up on the desk and a large coffee in hand – full of whipped cream and sour cherry syrup and lots of chemicals he couldn’t be bothered to read the names of. Some of them had numbers in – who the hell was going to bother reading that? Not him!

Videos played through his headphones, scrolling aimlessly through social media. He stopped to watch footage of fights with quintessons – he loved watching them get punched in the face

Twenty minutes passed, his coffee cup sat on the floor forgotten as he was enraptured by the video on his screen.

A big mech – a huge mech, bigger than Jazz, fighting like they lived for it. Dark grey and covered in long blades that sprung from their back like wings, a bright red mark on their shoulder – the quality of the video wasn’t good enough to see what it was – they gutted through everything that stood in their way.

Jazz was in one of the videos, in the background. Sideswipe wondered if Prowl was piloting it then – Bluestreak had mentioned to him that Prowl wasn’t its first pilot. The door opened, making him jump.

Prowl stood in the doorway, looking at him in shock.

“You’re here early.” Prowl commented in surprise. “I thought you’d come with the others.”

“Who’s this?” Sideswipe showed Prowl his phone screen. “Do you know them?”

Prowl leaned in, squinting slightly at the poor quality footage. His eyes brightened in recognition, and a wry smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

“I do. That’s Vortex.” He replied.

“They’re huge.” Sideswipe didn’t realise how wide his eyes were until he blinked and it hurt. “Do you know them? Have you ever piloted it? I’d love to take it for a ride, my god.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Prowl swiftly replied. It didn’t seem like he’d thought about his reply very much, that it was a knee-jerk reaction. “I know the AI, I know the pilot, and I’d never get inside it.”

“Why not?” Sideswipe curiously asked.

“Classified.” Prowl curtly replied. “His current pilot is a man called Felix, he was a medic but the AI chose him. That’s all I can tell you.”

“All you can tell me, or all you want to tell me?”

The door opening and more of the junior pilots coming in saved Prowl. Prowl turned to greet them, walking back to his desk.

Sideswipe narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously and turned back to the video.

Vortex was a beast of a machine, slicing through the aliens like they were nothing. He could only watch in awe, wondering how they’d designed it, how the pilot had been trained – was this the medic? Why did the medic know how to fight like that?

He’d have to interrogate him, to whittle away at him until he got his answers.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The invitation came randomly on an unseasonably sunny day, the temperature finally peeking up above five degrees Celsius. One of the scientists wanted to speak to Prowl – something about his mech. An explanation of understanding that he couldn’t give away the secrets, but that Trepan, the mastermind behind their AI system, was a friend of his. That he had a professional curiosity in his work and with the pilots who utilised it, who allowed it to become what it was today. That he’d wanted to know a little more about Jazz, to see what he could do to improve their own designs.

Prowl had been curious enough to go down to the labs, to see what he wanted.

The conversation had been normal enough to begin with. It was all pure interest – the usual dry questions enquiring how old friends were, Prowls admission that he’d never met him. The sharing of mutual acquaintances to break the ice. Tarantulas had been very interested in Jazz, and he seemed to lament the non-disclosure policy around his design. That he wanted to know how they could make their mechs so powerful, so fast – apparently they were so small because they had to be made cheaply and quickly. They didn’t have the time or resources to go big like they did on the other side of the world – the USA had the highest number of rips per capita, and each one had to be guarded.

It was only when Prowl had excused himself to leave – he wanted to prepare materials for the next days class – when Tarantulas suddenly asked him a strange question.

“Would you like to see him again?” Tarantulas asked. Prowl froze, feeling the hairs on his arms raise.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your husband.” Tarantulas replied. “Would you like to see him again?”

Prowl scoffed in disbelief, feeling his voice shake and head spin as he replied. “What on earth do you mean? My husband is dead. Your question is beyond cruel. Of course I would, but I’m not a fool – he’s long gone now.”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

Prowl was preparing to yank open the door and storm off in anger, but his hand froze on the way to the handle. He caught his reflection on the metal, shocked and pale. He slowly turned to look at him, the man's hands neatly folded behind his back, and swallowed, Adams apple bobbing uncomfortably.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He tried. His voice sounded weak, pathetic – to anyone else it would be the distraught and exhausted voice of a widower. To Tarantulas, it was the sound of a man trying to lie. The scientist strode forwards, placing his palm flat on the door over Prowls shoulder.

“Why don’t you stay for a proper chat?”

#llama writes #tf mecha universe #mecha pilot au #tf prowl #tf jazz #jazzprowl #teehee #YEAH I'M STILL WRITING THIS DON'T LOOK AT ME

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theongp · 2 days ago

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JJ Maybank/Rafe Cameron fics rec

*Note: My mind before I made this post was like, from "you don't need to it, they are rarepair RARE FREAKING PAIR no one care, especially on this platform" to "NO I have to, for the "paper ship" with almost 20 fics on my bookmark and so many good works on ao3, I am probably gonna explode if I can't get it out I don't even care if no one gives a shit" (to lovely people who care I love you), so here we are I guess 💀

No Murders, No Gold, Just Vibes (multi-chap, finished, rated E)

One of the first fics of this ship on ao3 and still lives up to its title as the most hits fic so far. It's the most read not only because it's one of the first but also because it's just TOO GOOD. It has angst, has hurt, it has fluff and comfort, all of them is so nicely balanced. The characters development is not too quick, it wasn't really feel like canon in the end but still not being ooc, and that has my deepest appreciation. Also the most important (to me at least lol) we have verse!Jafe, we even have the build up for Rafe to bottoming (the author is an angel my gawd), every fics that have bottom!Rafe is automatically good to me because it's rare af I need MORE. Oops it's gotten too long now but one last thing, there's one small part in the fic I really love related to their kiss, I will stop here to avoid spoiler so you should read it to know what i'm talking about yeah?

i'll take the risk if you are the reward (multi-chap, on hiatus (?), rated E)

The fic I talked about before, still one of the craziest, wildest fic i've read and i've read A LOT on ao3 for more than a decade. A thick book of spice is already unhinged enough? The plot has also the same level of craziness. Imagine The Bear tv show with all the screaming except the main couple is h0rny all the times and everybody always thinking about "dextering" everyone (I use the exact word the author used lol). Also why 180k words of corn is good? Because it still made me feel hot inside even tho there was no penetration for half of the fic (and that is almost 100k words, wild I know lol) 🔥

Lost at Sea (multi-chap, finished, no rating)

Best Jafe AU fic to me. Another nicely balanced hurt/comfort, and one of the most wholesome fic i've read of the pair. It's not fluffy but very lighthearted and emotional. The idea of JJ and Rafe becoming a team of two (forcefully lol) and slowly realizing their feelings for each other through hardship on an unknown place is sooo appealing. Only them, no other characters appeared for most of the fic, like a breath of flesh air I LOVE it. Now I'm having the feminine urge to translate this fic to my first language and haven't translate any fic for a very long time (when you love a fanfic too much *sob* 🥺)

The Enemy of My Friend Is My Lover (multi-chap, finished, rated T)

There it is my first ever rated T i've bookmarked. If you want to read a fic where therapy actually worked, it's the one for you (therapy session in fanfiction often treated like nothing yk, that's why this fic is important). The character development of all the characters is so good because the writer planned it out so well, so detailed, with structure. Rafe's relationship with all of them is so sweet especially with JJ and Sarah, made my heart melt <3

Sounds Good (oneshot, rated E)

This fic has 2 things I love most checked out: post canon?✔️ bottom!Rafe?✔️ Good freaking food 👏 Corn with plot more like delicious corn with delicious plot. I read many fics by the author and she can write really sexy pre slash and dialogues, and JJ in her fics is always so horny for Rafe, freaking LOVE that. And I have to point out that Rafe in this fic has hearing difficulty and has to use hearing aid, that made the plot so much more interesting to me.

All the fics's links will be in the comment, remember to check it out 🙏

Note 2: Phew, I still have more fics I want to recommend, blessed the fanfic God for bringing us a tiny ship with so many good fics. I definitely will be crazy about this couple for a long long time, bc they were nothing in the show (the reason why I don't watch and will never watch), are the smallest ship of the fandom, but still has quite good amount of great fanfics with talented writers, also seeing my dad Drew together with Rudy is really f-ing great for my poor eyes, gawd i'm such a pathetic masochist I should stop. Bye ✌️

#jj x rafe #outer banks #obx #rafe cameron #jj maybank #jafe #jj maybank x rafe cameron #jjrafe #jafe fic recs #ao3 fic recs #my hyperfixation for jafe is closed to a month now i can't believe it

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azriona · 1 day ago

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Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 71

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 1.2k ~ Total Story count: 157k ~ Chapters will be posted every Tuesday and Friday until the story is complete.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which cavalry arrives.

The suit zooms, its arms wrapped around Helen, who screams. You can’t blame her; the Iron Man Express isn’t fun even when you know to expect it. When it’s all over, she can join you and Pepper in the Express Trauma Victims’ Drinking Session. It’s a quick ride to the chasm, and then the suit zooms upwards to the surface. Your ears pop, your back aches with the force of your ascent, and you burst out onto the surface, landing headlong in the snow. There’s no controlled, graceful three-point superhero landing; just a crash and a roll, but the suit brings you up to your feet, spitting you out before closing up again. “No!” you shriek, trying to sprint back to it—but your stomach is too big, your back aches, and you don’t make it two steps before the suit is back up in the sky, zooming away. “Fuck!” you scream. “Get back here!” The suit breaks open again—and for one moment, you think it’s actually heard you, and it’s coming back to gather you up… Except it’s not you it encloses. It’s Tony.

Oh whew. Tony will fix everything. Or Steve. Right? RIGHT? Cause there's like, four chapters left, and the author promised a happy ending. RIGHT??? Find out on AO3.

Don't want to read on AO3? Don't worry, I gotcha. Or I will.

Once I'm done posting NAFTK on AO3, I will start cross-posting the chapters here. I'd do it now but trying to track that many chapters will make my head explode. Simultaneous cross-posting of future x Reader and NAFTK stories will be the rule. Let me know if you have questions or concerns; my main goal is to make reading easy, accessible, and not spam the tag. Chapters will use the tag #not a fairy tale kiss verse.

Thanks!

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kybercrystals94 · 2 days ago

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The Defender (ch.12)

Febuwhump 2025 | Day 12 | Prompt: Used as Practice

Read here on Ao3

<< Previous Chapter | Master Post | Next Chapter >>

Rated: G | Words: 2635

Character Ages

Omega (8)

The Batch (Chronological: 4.5 / Biological: 9)

A/N: hello…it’s been awhile 🫠 But I’ve missed this story! (And I’ve missed the Febuwhump deadline, but we won’t talk about that…) I am excited to jump back in…maybe incorporate some Summer of Bad Batch prompts when the time comes 😉

“Cross wouldn’t want ya to do this,” Wrecker says, breath still hitched and wobbling from crying.

Hunter hates that he hesitates, hates that he wants to use what Crosshair would want as an excuse not to go through with it. But Crosshair isn’t here to say what he would or wouldn’t want. No, Crosshair is in a medical bay somewhere on Kamino, maybe dying, and no one is giving them any information. When they went to medical and asked, they were sent away, ordered to stay in their barracks until their scheduled training or meals dictated otherwise. They’d gone back to their barracks to come up with another plan, another solution. Wrecker had begun crying again, the same awful sobs Hunter had walked in on when he returned from training to find Crosshair missing again.

That is when the idea had formulated in Hunter’s mind, so quickly and so clearly that Hunter knew it would work. It had to work. “I’m going back to medical,” he’d announced.

Tech had regarded him critically, pushed his goggles back up. “I do not believe you have the ability or authority to make them change their minds, Hunter.”

“I won’t be going back as CT-9901,” Hunter said with a grin. He reached up and raked his fingers through his hair, pushing the thick curls back demonstratively. “I’ll go back as a reg.”

Tech’s frown deepened and Wrecker had choked out, “You’re gonna cut your hair?”

“It’ll grow back,” Hunter said, trying to sound dismissive; however, the regret chased by shame snuck in just then as he let go of his hair, letting it fall back into place.

“Surely there is another option,” Tech argued.

“With a regulation cut, I look just like a reg,” Hunter said. “It’s the perfect disguise.”

“Yeah,” Wrecker agreed, sniffing and wiping his sleeve across his nose, “but that’s why you grew it out in the first place, isn’t it. It just seems sad to mess up all your hard work.”

It had been hard work, convincing authority figures around him to let him skip getting his haircut at his scheduled time. The Kaminoans strove for uniformity and suffered variation when necessary. The experimental clone units had been that necessity with Wrecker, Tech and Crosshair; however, they prided themselves that at least one of the units had met nearly all their specifications. Hunter leaned into the fact that his enhancement made getting his head sheared regularly caused him physical and emotional distress. In a rare display of empathy, Nala Se had permitted Hunter to let his hair grow out and be kept presentable with scissors instead of a razor. And at last, Hunter could stand apart and together with his brothers.

“What about the voice?” Tech asked. “Perhaps they can help us as they have before.”

“Yeah!” Wrecker agreed. “The voice’ll help us.”

“And what if they can’t? What if they don’t?” Hunter asked, crossing his arms, even as relief cooled the warmth of apprehension under his skin.

“Then you’ll get a haircut,” Tech said simply.

They gave the voice one hour to check in. They waited next to the comm unit, sitting as they’d done that night Crosshair was sent to Nala Se for his injuries. They waited quietly, the only sound Wrecker’s occasional hiccup of a sob. The comm waited quietly too. When the hour was up, Hunter stood and started for the door.

“Cross wouldn’t want ya to do this,” Wrecker says.

Hunter turns back with a forced grin. “He never liked this mop anyways. He’ll be glad to see it gone for a while. A little ‘welcome back to the barracks’ gift, huh?”

“He just says stuff to say stuff,” Wrecker tells him. “He wouldn’t want you to get rid of it because of him.”

“I’m doing it for us,” Hunter says. “Because we need to know if Crosshair is alright. We need to know where he is. And this is the best way we can do that.” Hunter walks out of the barracks.

Hunter hates how the electric razor feels against his scalp. The metallic, thrumming whine and vibration makes even the nerves in his teeth ache. But Hunter pushes discomfort aside, sets his jaw, grips the seat of the chair he sits in, and bears it. The worst part of it all, though – the most selfish part, he thinks with an awful twist in his thumping heart muscle – is the soft, whispering sound of his hair falling in large, unforgiving clumps to the floor. What if Nala Se decides to retract her decision to let Hunter grow out his hair once she sees he has it cut of his own volition? Hunter bites the inside of his cheek. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t.

Hunter distracts himself with thoughts of Crosshair, lying somewhere on a medical cot just out of their reach. Maybe it’s just a simple migraine. Those can be excruciating, Hunter knows, but not life-threatening. However, the Kaminoans didn’t take clones away to medical for migraines. It had to be something worse than that, and Hunter doesn’t want to think about what worse is. Tech probably knows, probably has a theory.

Hunter startles when the clone cutting his hair puts a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

Hunter frowns, but resists the impulse to duck his head, keeping his back and shoulders straight. “Fine.”

The clone isn’t like the other older clones Hunter has seen around the city. He’s not just older, he’s old. Face creased with lines and wrinkles, body deformed with age. Hunter has seen the clone plenty of times in passing, but they have never spoken. Tech speculated once that the clone was the first clone ever created from the host Jango Fett, and since none of them had any better theories, it was the one they’d adopted.

“You seem worried about something,” the clone continues when Hunter doesn’t say anything else.

“I’m not,” Hunter lies.

The clone steps into his vision. Half the clone’s face is drooping and unresponsive to the grin that tugs up at the other side. It might be the kindest smile Hunter has ever seen…except for Wrecker’s, that is. “You’re one of the little enhanced boys, aren’t you?”

While being called “little” stings a bit, Hunter nods.

“And what do your brothers call you?” the clone asks.

“Hunter.”

The clone’s smile deepens. “That is a good name. I’m called Ninety Nine.” Hunter wonders if it is because he looks like he’s ninety-nine years old; however, the clone adds before Hunter can wonder for very long, “Because my CT number is nine nine zero zero.”

It takes a moment to register the number. “That’s the number before mine,” Hunter says.

Ninety Nine chuckles. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

“You’re an enhanced clone too?” Hunter asks.

“Oh, that was probably the idea,” Ninety Nine says, moving back to his place behind the chair, “it just didn’t work out.”

The electric clippers rev back to life, and the dreaded haircut continues.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter says.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Ninety Nine says. “I might never be useful as a soldier, but I find my purpose in other ways.”

Purpose. Hunter rolls the word around in his mind, the syllables sturdy and striking. He’s heard the word before in training. A soldier’s purpose…the purpose of clones…this unit's purpose… But the way Ninety Nine says it is different. Like something desirable and worthy and discoverable.

“What is your purpose?” Hunter asks.

Ninety Nine does not hesitate a moment to tell him. “Taking care of all my brothers in any way I can.”

That’s my purpose.

Hunter hesitates on the next question he asks, desperately hoping he already knows the answer. “Am I your brother too?”

“Of course you are,” Ninety Nine replies like it is oh, so obvious.

Hunter didn’t know until now that he’d always wanted an older brother.

There is only one cadet in the sterile white waiting room when Hunter steps into it. The cadet watches Hunter for a moment, and Hunter watches him, surprised at how different he looks. He has light hair, but not like Crosshair’s. It’s spun with yellow warmth, like the rare day of sunshine that manages to slip between the weeks of storms. His hair is also longer than regulation, not as long as Hunter’s was before, and brushed back, showing off a silver pendant that rests in the middle of his forehead. He isn’t wearing a normal cadet’s uniform either.

By the way the cadet sits, shoulders slumped forward, familiar brown eyes dull and weary, Hunter thinks he has been in this room for a long time, which means he could have seen something. Hunter is mustering up the courage to ask when the cadet looks away.

Hunter swallows. “I’m looking for my brother.”

The cadet’s eyes flicker back to him. “I haven’t seen anyone,” he says cooly, but then adds, “I’m sorry.” His gaze drops to his lap, fingers wrung together like Wrecker does when he’s nervous.

“Who are you?” Hunter asks. “I’ve never seen a cadet dressed like you.”

The cadet sniffs, and it sounds like what Tech does when he’s about to reveal some sort of information that Hunter should have already known. “I’m not a cadet. I am a medical assistant. Please, I cannot talk to you. Nala Se would not like it.”

For the first time in his memories, Hunter’s heart leaps for joy at the mention of Nala Se. “You know Nala Se?”

The cadet glares at his lap and nods.

“Then,” Hunter starts, swallows, and starts again, “Then do you know CT-9904? Do you know where he is?”

The cadet’s head snaps up, eyes wide. He searches Hunter’s face for a long moment, like he’s trying to figure something out. And then, impossibly, he asks, “Hunter?”

Hunter takes a step back. How? How could this random, strange, not-cadet know? But then, he is with Nala Se…but Nala Se only ever uses their CT numbers. Does Nala Se even know their names? “No,” Hunter tells the cadet, and his voice shakes before he can bite back the fear and disappointment that bubbles up. His cover has been blown. All this to get nothing at all.

“You cut your hair,” the cadet says, and the way he says it is reminiscent of the voice coming through the comm unit in the supply closet, in their barracks. The kind way the voice had said, he’s going to be okay…

“You’re the voice,” Hunter says.

The cadet glances back at the door just behind him, then back at Hunter. He puts his hand on the chair next to him. “Do you want to wait with me? I’ll tell you everything I know.”

But Hunter's feet stay planted where he stands. “Is Crosshair alright?”

“I don’t know,” the voice admits. “Nala Se told me to wait for her here and that Crosshair needed surgery.”

“Why would he need surgery?” Hunter asks, “He just hit his head! He was getting better.”

The voice shifts in his chair. “I don’t know.”

“What do you know?” Hunter demands and then regrets it.

The voice’s lower lip trembles, and Hunter hates to think he’s made the voice cry again. “I know that Nala Se is doing everything she can. I do know that.” And even though the voice looks like he might cry, his voice is firm and sure. Maybe even a little angry.

While Hunter doesn’t apologize, he walks forward and climbs up into the offered chair. The not-cadet looks at him, eyes still shiny. “I’m sorry I don’t know more,” he says.

“You can’t know everything, I guess,” Hunter says, grinning a little – hoping it is enough to smooth the harsh words over. “You are just a medical assistant after all.”

The voice blinks, surprised, then offers a tiny twitch of a smile back.

“Do you…have a name?” Hunter asks, “Or should we just keep calling you the voice?”

The voice shifts in his chair. “Omega.”

“Don’t you have your own batch? Why watch us all the time?” Hunter asks next.

Omega frowns and looks away. “Kind of…Nala Se moved them out of the lab.”

“So why not watch them instead?” Then it hits him. “Wait…you mean us?”

Omega’s eyes go back to the door again then return to meet Hunter’s. “No one can know, Hunter, that I’ve interfered. If Nala Se finds out…” Omega sucks in a breath, cutting the sentence off. When Omega speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper, but Hunter hears him clearly, “I just can’t lose you all again.”

Guilt coils up in Hunter’s stomach. Forgetting one of their own seems impossible, and yet…how can Omega remember them, but none of them remember him? Did Nala Se do something to their memories? Had they been reconditioned? But why would Nala Se do that to them and not Omega? Maybe Omega’s enhancement is more useful in the labs than as a soldier?

“How–” Hunter begins, stops, scowls at the floor. It feels awful to say out loud that he doesn’t remember the cadet sitting next to him when he so clearly cares about and remembers him. He tries again, “Why would Nala Se separate us?”

“Well, I’m not exactly a normal clone,” Omega says.

“Neither are we,” Hunter shoots back.

Omega tips her head. “True…but I’m more different. I’m an unaltered female clone.”

Hunter gapes. “Wait…you’re a girl?”

He’s relieved when Omega smiles instead of looking offended that he’s thought she was a boy all this time. How could Hunter forget he has a sister of all things – what had the long necks done to them?

“It’s okay that you don’t remember me,” Omega tells him softly. “You were really little when you left the lab.”

It’s like she can read his mind. Maybe that’s her enhancement? Is that possible? Tech would know…

“But you remember us,” Hunter says.

“I’m an unaltered clone. I don’t have accelerated aging. I was older than you when you left the lab, even though we look the same age now. It’s strange. Nala Se had me study a module about it.” Omega shrugs. “But it’s still strange anyway.”

Hunter can think of a hundred more questions to ask, but the words that come out are, “I’m still sorry we don’t remember you.”

“It was for the best,” Omega tells him. “That’s what Nala Se says. But now I’ve ruined everything.”

Before Hunter can ask what she means, the door slides open. Omega and Hunter startle, Hunter jumping to his feet. Nala Se steps into the room, looking down at them with an all-too familiar reproachful gaze. “Omega, what is the meaning of this?”

Omega glares at Hunter. “This cadet sat next to me and said my uniform looked funny,” she tells Nala Se.

Hunter tries to think up something to say, an excuse to give, but Nala Se does not give him the chance.

“You should not be here. Return to your unit immediately,” the Kaminoan hisses at him.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hunter says. He keeps his eyes down, careful not to look back at Omega, and turns to walk out of the waiting room. He is halfway across the room when Omega speaks up.

“Is CT-9904 alright?” Omega asks Nala Se.

“His condition is stable. He will be monitored for the night and returned to his own unit. Come, we will finish my rounds.”

Hunter keeps his pace steady. Through the waiting room, out of medical, into the main halls. He wants to run as fast as his legs will carry him. His brothers have waited long enough. But drawing attention now might hurt Omega. He doesn’t know what Nala Se would do to her, but he won’t risk it. He has another sibling to protect now.

And protecting them is his purpose.

Up next...

Prompt: “I don’t trust anyone else.”

Let me know if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Tag List: @arctrooper69 @groguandthebadbatch @ezras-left-thumb @maeashryver @laughhardrunfastbekindsblog @omegafett99 @heidnspeak @fionas-frenzy @dreamsight73 @royallykt @blackseafoam @skellymom @griffedeloup @dreamie411

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f0rs4k3nbyth3sp4wn · 2 days ago

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making a post about how the fandom characterises elliot bcs ts pmo icl 🥀🥀🥀

(small cw for mentioned attempted murder towards a child [fictional ofc]. but this is the forsaken fandom so i dont think most people will care. oh also this is a REALLY long post so. beware)

sooo im pretty new to the fandom but after having browsed almost every sfw 7n7 fic on ao3, its safe to say elliot's characterisation (or, well, mischaracterisation), is becoming a HUGE problem. a lot of people make him pissy around n7 and c00lkidd, which, to be fair, he has a right to be pissy! but the way they execute this is where things go wrong.

this is a more extreme example, but here's the gist of an au my friend found on tiktok (not linking for the creator's sake, which, speaking of, if you've seen this au and know the creator, please don't harass them. i mean i shouldn't have to say that but im still putting it out there):

honestly i agree with the last sentence he said, even i know this is bs even though i've only been a forsaken fan for like a week or smth 😭😭🥀🥀 to show you why, let me break down what we do know of how elliot's personality, how he feels about n7 and c00lkidd, and how he expresses it:

he is generally portrayed as a sweet and kind person, who always wants to help wherever he can.

he 'hates' n7 due to what c00lkidd did to the pizzeria (according to the fanmade wiki), though nothing has (canonically) ever been said about his feelings towards c00lkidd himself (to my knowledge)

he is not openly hostile towards n7, and has never canonically said anything 'mean' to his face, only acted passive aggressive (e.g. "...just get going").

i do disagree with his feelings towards n7 being 'hate' rather than just 'strongly dislike' (trust me, theyre VERY different things), but i digress. even if we were to say elliot hated n7, some people portray him as not even hating, but loathing him (this is an even bigger problem in pizzaburger fics/aus imo). if you want to write a complicated/negative relationship between two characters who are not your own, it's vital to know the difference between dislike, hate and loathe (as seen below).

(via langeek.co)

the reason i say elliot strongly dislikes n7 as opposed to hate is because hatred is often accompanied with a sense of hostility (while dislike is more avoidant, which fits elliot more imo when we look at their canon interactions). if you hate someone, you will not want to help them, and to be fair, i've read a handful of fics where elliot straight up refuses to give n7 pizza, or is at least hesitant. i dont think that's how elliot would behave. yes he is mad at n7 for not controlling his son, and has a grudge against him, but at his core, elliot is a kind guy. even if he wasn't, he'd never leave someone to die, no matter how temporary.

but continuing on the whole 'elliot loathes n7' dynamic, it becomes even more jarring when you apply it as an 'enemies to lovers' pizzaburger dynamic. even more so if you don't do the work to make it well paced. here are some tips on how you can do that:

pay heed to the rest of this post and do NOT make elliot too aggressive towards 007n7 in your fic. otherwise, it may feel too forced, especially if you don't want to go through the slowburn route. feel free to let the guy be passive aggressive though, just don't make him feel uncontrollable hatred every time he sees 07 (i prefer to think he feels manageable disdain, though i think you can tell by now).

on the other side of the coin, do NOT make n7 too pathetic. im all for him being a soggy wet cat, but at the end of the day, that's a grown ass man that was once very similar to c00lkidd. at the very least, i don't think he'd be crying left and right, considering this is a former terrorist, lol.

this is more me telling you guys to be creative than giving tips on pacing (since im not very creative myself, so i dont have many tips myself rn) but if you want to write the exact moment elliot began to like and respect n7, i don't really like the idea of n7 achieving that by bodyblocking for elliot?? like. it's not typically executed right bcs again. it often does what i advised against in the above two points. if you wanna do smth like that in your fic/comic, try comprimising by making it a clone block instead, and letting n7 be a REALLY good distractor like those aggressive n7 main. (i left this incomplete on accident when i posted this lol)

just overall make sure elliot is respectful to n7 during the late pining and post establishing the relationship stages!! it's perfectly fine if you want him to say 'mean' stuff to him that he doesnt mean (think of how siblings, friends, and again, sometimes partners, joke with each other. tough love or wtv), but don't make him have a hate boner for the guy lol. unless youre writing smut where there are actual hate boners involved, i aint getting involved in allat.

anyways, idk how to end this post off, so on a more positive note, go check out this pizzaburger yaoilicious peak rn !!! and feel free to add your own opinions, idm having a discussion as long as youre respectful, and am likely to add more to this post if you remind me of smth i might wanna say (im not the best at articulating myself lol) !!

#also i may have accidentally left some sentences incomplete. oops #patched these where i could but there r still some i mightve missed #spawn's testament #character analysis #elliot #forsaken elliot #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken 007n7 #007n7 #forsaken c00lkidd #c00lkidd #f0rs4k3nbyth3sp4wn #pizzaburger #cw child death #tw child death #<- tagging those bcs of the aforementioned au

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licorishh · 4 months ago

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no way she's alive ?? yea those mental health breaks because social media makes people suck are wild huh

#star wars #clone wars #star wars fanart #ahsoka tano #captain rex #anyway i bring you this a) because i'm going back to my tcw roots of late and b) because i miss them terribly #as you can see because i can't handle reality i put her in the novel design #cause wdym they split up after order 66 haha what no that didn't happen you're crazy #read it however you want idc ^^)b any interpretation of their dynamic is the best one i think #yea anyway in this amount of time i've gotten a lot better at anatomy and i don't really care about social media anymore #but i have like nowhere to put my art now so *shrug*#star wars the clone wars #artists on tumblr #i've wanted to do one of those post-type drawings and i am .-+ too lazy +-. to color it sooo #signature got cropped sigh. whatever #if you see a mistake no you don't. you know the drill #also i finally watched bad batch season 3 around christmastime and hewiutgeh.#singlehandedly took the show from a 4 to a 10 for me so thx dave filoni we love u as always >>>#lowk kinda missed it here *gazes fondly at the bot spam and screaming and cursing in my feed*#btw i have never used instagram in my life so if this is formatted wrong it's your fault. bye #someone tell me whether or not i should tag this as rxsk because i am very much debating #does tumblr even like them anymore ?? i know ao3 does they're still going crazy over there (>1k works God bless)#“bro's first post back and she's yapping her head off” cmon you know me by now anyway can we talk about season 7 ahsoka #i find no fault in her. she is perfect. she is the greatest version of any star wars character ever at all #no i will not be thinking about whether or not anyone told her about fives. no i will not be thinking about whether or not anyone told echo #ok that's enough bye i'll wait for this to get four notes at most and three of them being comments screaming at me #one more thing uhh suspend your disbelief since anakin liked the post. rots didn't happen and everything is fine !!#my art

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inkyrainstorms · 3 months ago

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Martian Stan AU - Aftermath & Discovery

The Beginning (1), Aftermath (2) (here), The Journals (3)

Extra! (The Apology)

Ford didn’t know how long it took for him to pry himself off the floor, but it felt like hours later when he managed to trudge his way upstairs, eyes burning and throat raw. There was new blood on his knuckles, and Ford couldn’t remember if it was Stan’s or his own. He’d tried to scrub the blood off of the portal, but most of it had been too high and Ford was so tired.

He couldn’t fall asleep in the basement, he chanted to himself, again and again and again and it only occurred to him once he stood swaying at the top the of the stairs, that is didn’t actually… matter, anymore.

It didn’t matter what Bill did, or didn’t do.

The portal was broken beyond repair. His brother was dead.

The journal is gone. his mind whispered insidiously, and he couldn’t remember if he’d always been so cruel to himself, or if it was a byproduct of Bill. You got what you wanted, Sixer. How does it feel?

Ford hobbled to the bathroom as fast as he could manage, and hurled his guts out into the toilet. When all that came up was acrid bile, though, and Ford wondered idly when we he last ate. It didn’t matter.

None of it mattered, Ford decided firmly, hands clenched on either side of the porcelain bowl so hard that they looked bloodless in the harsh white light. It didn’t matter what he felt, or didn’t feel.

Not anymore.

The journal was gone. That was a good thing, it meant that the portal could never be rebuilt again. Stanley made an honorable… he. He’d made an honorable sacrifi—

Ford hunched over the toilet and heaved again. Nothing came out.

Impossibly, time kept moving.

Ford was left drifting in the current, from room to room, machine to first aid kit to paper to specimen to paper to circling the door of his lab again and again like an anxious sentry. He didn’t process any of it, and eventually, the door was the only thing left in the house that felt truly real. It was the only mystery left that Ford could pay any real mind to, and most of the time he wanted nothing more than burn the whole thing to the ground.

Sitting against the door, head leaned back and staring at the ceiling, Ford searched his mind for something. Anything.

A plan, a goal, fuck, he’d take the will to actually get out of the house and get groceries despite the constant chance of being watched at this rate. There was near nothing left to eat in the cabinets that wasn’t rank with age, and Ford knew he was wasting away like this.

But there was nothing. No part of him cared.

He knew he’d always had the wildest aspirations as a kid and as a young man, that he’d never stop reaching for bigger and better heights, but the light had blinded him with its promise, and now he’d fallen. He’d fallen so far.

He’d said Icarus didn’t flap hard enough, when Fiddleford tried to warn him of his own hubris all those weeks ago. Now he was just glad he wasn’t an English major, because it had taken him all of this just to realize that Icarus had found the sun, been embraced by the promise of warmth, and burned for it.

Trust no one.

Ford traced an idle finger against the freshly bandaged burn on the underside of his hand.

And no one should ever trust you.

…

The worst part, Ford thought to himself as he brewed another pot of coffee and searched for a clean mug, was the uncertainty of it all. There was a grief in loss, of course, but not knowing could be so much worse.

Stanley could still be alive out there, among the creatures of the Nightmare Realm, all alone. He could be dying. He could be dead. He could be sitting on the other side, waiting, hoping Ford could open the portal and bring him home—

Ford slammed down the sole clean coffee cup he had left hard enough to startle himself, and then sighed.

He’d have to go clean up the remains of the portal, eventually. Before he fell asleep and Bill…

Ford poured out the coffee and leaned heavily against the counter as he took a sharp swig. It burned the whole way down.

What did he have left that Bill wanted? What reason did Bill have to keep him around if his research was beyond saving, if he couldn’t be threatened or tortured into complying anymore?

The next time he fell asleep…

Ford didn’t know what’d happen to him, and despite everything, damnit, Ford didn’t want to die. He couldn’t let Bill win, couldn’t become another footnote in the history of the world because he was just another one of the poor schmucks who fell for Bill Cipher’s lies.

Taking another gulp of liquid courage, Ford pulled his coat tight around himself and marched to the door of his lab before he could talk himself out of it.

Forget not sleeping in the lab. Ford couldn’t sleep at all until he found a way to sever Bill from his mind for good. Project Mentem had been a bust last he’d checked, but it was worth another shot. What else hadn’t he tried? There was something… a protection spell? A charm?

Ford contemplated his options all the way down the stairs, one hand keeping him steady on the wall while the other held his mug.

He still wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted yet, or what his next step was, but Ford could do this. He just had to secure his mind, like he’d planned, and then get rid of the blasted portal once and for all. Nothing had changed.

Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Nothing, nothing, except that Ford felt hollow where there must’ve once been something warm and vital in his chest. He didn’t know if he’d ever feel warm again. He didn’t deserve to.

Ford remembered a detail about sleep deprivation, as the elevator neared the basement level again and his heart dropped in time with the doors hissing open. Hallucinations were a common byproduct of the resulting sensory overload and exhaustion. They could take auditory or visual form, though visual hallucinations were a more common symptom by over 52%.

That was the only explanation he could conjure for the faint singing that echoed through the dark, cavernous sub-level before him.

“It’s not real,” Ford whispered to himself, hands a vice around the coffee mug. He felt cold. “Auditory hallucinations are an expected and well documented symptom to experience in conditions less dire than these. Focus on your intellect, Stanford. Focus, focus, it is not real.”

For a long stretch of time, seconds, or perhaps minutes, Fords feet were glued to the floor of the elevator. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what he said or did, the singing, or the static, remained steady and quiet.

It wouldn’t go away unless Ford made it.

Finally, Ford forced himself to creep into the basement, and then the control room to set his mug down on the desk. The music was louder now, more distinct here than it had been before. Had Ford left a radio on down here? Was that it?

Holding his breath, Ford crept around the trashed room, checking behind spare sheets of metal that had been propped up against the walls, kneeling to look under the control panels, and then behind them too. All the while, the music droned on, buzzing and humming and settling under his skin like an itch.

-any- wind blows—

It got louder as he neared the very back of the room, the words filtering through the humming static and becoming clear. Ford couldn’t deny it anymore. That was a voice. He shivered hard, jolting like ice had been pressed to the back of his neck, and hurried forward.

-really matter to me… To me.

There was a pile of debris, in the back of the control room, farthest from the door where he’d entered. Stanley must’ve crashed into it, when Ford and him had been… when he’d…

-just killed a man —a gun against his head…

Ford slowed his pace, staring down at the dented metal plates and machinery that had fallen loose in a heap on the floor, the stray wires and screws jutting out of the mess every which way. Slowly, Ford sank to his knees and pressed his aching palms onto the cool floor beneath him.

He could hear the singing now. Warbling, staticky. Familiar.

-Life had just begun, and now I’ve gone and thrown it all away.

Ford choked on his next inhale, thin and trembly as it was, and searched through the wreckage with wide eyes.

There. Nestled between a dented panel with half its screws undone, and a jumble of wires and smaller panels of sheet metal, was the source of the sound.

For a long, long moment, all Ford did was stare.

Oh mama… oh ohh oh. Didn’t mean to make you cry.

If I’m not back again this time tomorrow…

Ford’s hands trembled as he reached out, carefully prying the radio out of the scrap heap and holding it up in the dim light.

Carry on, carry on…

As if nothing really matters…

The voice faded out. Static.

Ford set the radio down on his lap, gently, as it would shatter into a million pieces otherwise, and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth.

“Stanley?” Ford choked out, and it was like trying to breathe glass. But he had to know, he had to, because— because…

He sat there, dully staring down at the radio Fiddleford had cobbled together months ago, when they’d still been in the implementations stage of the data and blueprints they’d collected, when the preliminary tests had begun. A device to send and collect waves and other information from beyond this dimension without actually opening a rift.

And here it was. In Fords hands, dented and scratched and still whole despite everything. Ford had turned his sights completely to the portal before the it’s completion, since Bill had deemed the entire endeavor a waste of time and energy and an ineffective outlet for his genius.

Fiddleford must’ve completed it, back when he was still just as enthralled in the project as Ford was. He missed his old friend, but Fiddleford was likely back home by now, in California to try and reconnect with his wife and child. As bitter as Ford was, he hoped Fiddleford was successful. His old friend deserved as much and more.

There was no reply to Ford’s question, except, Ford brought the radio to his ear and strained to listen through the faint static. Was that… humming?

Doo- doo doo, yeah, no poindexter, I‘m done, man. That’s the last song of the evening, I’m not paid for overtime.

Moses, wish I were getting paid for this.

Ford jumped, wincing at the sudden burst of noise loud enough to make his ears ring, then processed what Stanley, because that had to be Stanley, had said.

“Stanley! Where are you? Are you in the Nightmare Realm? You must be… what sort of method did you find to transmit your signal? Are you al—“

But Stanley continued speaking as though he hadn’t heard him. A thrill of irritation went through him. Was Stanley ignoring him? Was this some kind of petty revenge tactic?

When’d that song come out anyway? ‘75?

He hummed.

Sounds about right.

Ford shook the radio and bit back a growl, before he remembered that the technology in his hands was damaged and sorely in need of a repair and upgrade, and loosened his grip again. He set it down in his lap.

“Stanley, I need you to take this seriously, please, for once.”

Wow, that song was everywhere back then, wasn’t it? I remember thinkin’ Ford probably liked it when it came out, wherever he was. The nerd was probably in college.

“Stanley?” he tried again, but he wasn’t expecting a reply anymore. Stanley soldiered on, rambling about everything and nothing and Ford could almost hear the smile in his voice if it didn’t sound so tired.

Hell, where’d I first hear it? Must’ve been over at a gas station in… eh, Kansas? Somewhere over there, the big ol’ middle states.

We sure aren’t in Kansas anymore.

Ahh, those were the times. Me, the open sky, and so, so much dirt in my hair. Seriously, where did the dirt come from. I roll around in one haystack and suddenly i’m fishing filth out of my hair a month later.

Stanley went quiet again, before he laughed.

Aw man, I actually like this story. Buckle in folks, and I’m taking us back to that weirdly cold summer day in Kansas, where I had to steal 5 prized chickens. For some reason.

Look man, when someone pays you a hundred bucks and tells you he wants chickens, you don’t ask questions.

Anyways, I’d been-“

For the past few… well, it had to have been days since Stanley fell through the portal by this point, if Fords state was anything to go off of, Ford’s mind had been eerily blank. He’d been a hollowed out shell of his former self, a ghost in his home and life that held onto the living plane by only the barest threads and pure spite.

It was like a switch had flipped. Ford’s fingers drummed on the outside of the radio as he forced himself to his feet, mind whirling at a hundred miles per hour and making calculations and theories and discarding some and contemplating others, and he was nearly jittering as he walked out of the control room entirely. He’d need to find a way to secure this side of the portal from Bills influence, recollect his journals, and then, he was bringing his brother home.

He stopped just before he got into the elevator and turned around to stare down the wrecked portal that loomed overhead. The once perfect inverted triangle, now ruined and warped nearly beyond recognition.

He grinned in a way that was more just like baring his teeth.

“You may be a god, Cipher, and you may think you can control me, but never forget. I am a scientist.”

The portal stood dead as it had been, but Ford didn’t care. He whirled around and stalked into the elevator. He felt more awake than he had in days. And he had research to collect and a demon to banish.

Stanley was still talking, as the elevator began to shudder and rise, and Ford’s adrenaline shot began to ever-so-slightly wane. Something about… attack pigeons?

-And when I finally think I’m in the clear, I duck around one of the hay bales and come face to face with, and I’m not kidding here, a cow wearing heavy duty armor, like a helmet and shit the guy in ‘Nam would wear. It even had holes for the ears!

There was a strange sound then, and Ford realized with a start that it was coming from him. He was laughing. It wasn’t even than funny, really, but something about Stan delivery made Ford wheeze.

When was the last time he’d laughed? It must’ve been before this whole thing started, when he’d been with Fiddleford or B—

The laughter died in his throat. Oblivious to Fords inner turmoil, Stan kept on jabbering.

And there I was, 5 chickens smuggled into my coat and in my bag —and if you’ve never tried to carry 5 chickens, never do, it’s hard as hell and not worth it at all— staring down ol’ Bessie.

And then, because this fucking farm couldn’t get any weirder, the cow started moo-ing like it was setting off a tornado siren, and all the other cows in the whole place started mooing in sync too. It was fucking terrifying man.

They must’ve been calling the attack pigeons, because those suckers came back, and they started dive-bombing my sorry ass, and really, that was when I reached my limit.

I dove into the hay bale like a damn football player going for the end line, and even though it was by far the itchiest thing to ever happen to me, it saved me from death-by pecking so I’ll take take it.

The itchiest, of course, save for my stint in Albuquerque.

Ford could almost imagine Stan shaking his head as he paused again. With a start, he realized he was still smiling.

Just. Don’t try selling pillows in Albuquerque is all I’ll say.

Stan gave an audible shudder.

So many feathers… And itch powder. The itch powder didn’t help.

Ford couldn’t help the chuckle that slipped out of him at that.

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