#oc: uptick

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later -- Part I

Hello and welcome to the start of Six Cycles Later! SCL is an OC fic based in a bit of a G1/IDW continuity soup. It will feature TF OCs, but there will be a few canon character mentions and appearances. Mostly, however, it will focus on original characters, so if that is not your thing, you probably shouldn't read this fic.

SCL takes place after the 1984 movie. Optimus and Megatron are dead, Unicron is vanquished, and Rodimus Prime has stepped up to lead the Autobots, while the remnants of the Decepticons hide on Chaar, awaiting the return of their leader. But what about the two Cons left behind on Earth?

This fic will follow those left behind, but not just on the Decepticon side. A lost ship has crashed onto Earth, and the single bot inside of it has been missing for the past four million years. Worse still, he wasn't alone when he disappeared...

This is the first chapter, and thus contains two perspectives: that of Invert, a Seeker eager to prove she's worth something to her cause, and Luster, a mysterious Autobot stuck in a world he doesn't belong in.

If any of that sounds interesting to you, feel free to read on! Trigger warnings will be placed at the beginning of every chapter if it contains any. Chapter below cut! If you want to read the whole hulking fic in it's original state, not fucked by Tumblr, you can find it here. If you're intrigued and liked this start, the next chapter can be found here.

If you like these characters, art was done for Luster and Uptick by the amazing @scarlettaagni! Now go follow her!

Word Count: 7494

Orbital cycle: 6.3. Approximately 182.5 solar cycles since initial launch for attack on Autobot City. Diagnostic report: no structural damage detected. Energon levels: 27%. Energon levels of 50% recommended for full functionality. Defense systems: offline. Offensive systems: offline. Cloaking systems: online. Communications: partially online. Power saving mode recommended at Energon levels of 25%. 

She records the report in her datapad down to the final recommendation, which really was not necessary, considering any proper engineer would have understood that by now, the ship should have entered power saving mode eons ago. If it had been placed in that mode when the other Decepticons had initially left, the current Energon levels would sit comfortably at the recommended 50%, and she would still have the long distance communications beacon up. But that was in the past, where they were supposed to have returned after a few solar cycles. 

It had been dozens now, and Invert was starting to wonder if her brethren were going to return. A far more patient bot like Shockwave would not have felt any doubt up to the first double digit million years–how else had he held down Cybertron for so long? By comparison she was young, having barely lived for over a million. The hundreds of solar cycles that had passed as she was left alone on the Victory were now starting to seep into her processor, bringing with them questions of uncertainty.

The raid was supposed to last barely a few days. They’d brought everyone in the local system with them. The greatest warriors the Decepticon cause had were deployed. With all of them attacking at once, even the heavily fortified Autobot City should have been leveled in under a deca-cycle. 

And yet there was silence. No cries of victory. No chaotic messages on the airways calling for aid. No declaration of retreat. Just silence. 

They couldn’t be defeated. If they’d been defeated they would have retreated back to Victory. If they’d gone back to Cybertron on Astrotrain, then surely Shockwave would have contacted her on earth. He knew her name. He knew he’d sent her there orbital cycles ago. He’d know they’d left her behind to hold down the fort. 

There was, of course, one other option. Silence was begetting of only a few characteristics when it came to the living. The Autobots, surely, wouldn’t. They were too soft-hearted. But if the attack had truly gone so badly, and they’d deigned it necessary–

Total obliteration. Total razing. Total loss. 

She pushed the thoughts swirling in her processor aside and focused back on Victory’s main computer, typing in a few commands. 

“Victory, run an internal scan. How are your habsuits looking?”

A map of Victory’s internal structure appeared on the screen before her. Dozens of rooms were selected and zoomed in on, each of which specifically served as living space. One by one they started as black, then turned white as they were provided the all clear. 

Structure: stable. Living conditions: adjusted. Doors: unlocked. 

“Alright, that’s good…” she muttered to herself, swapping to the cameras on the outside of the ship. They revealed an empty sea around her, dark and creeping with small organics. Their crude forms made her cringe, even in the restricted view she had of them. “Gross…Victory, illuminate your external hull.” 

Victory obeyed, revealing a vast expanse of metal currently covered in the earth version of space barnacles. The white-shelled creatures had opened their filthy maws, extending forth feelers characteristic of some kind of horror show. Invert grimaced and swapped the camera views, checking instead on the door to the airlock. It was immaculately clean unlike the hull, though a few many legged organics crawled across it. 

She checked the back of the ship, its thrusters, its scope, and finally its body. Making a note of each location that needed proper cleaning, Invert tapped the information into her datapad and closed the camera system before issuing another command. “Victory, check the wavelengths for any signs of communication.” 

The screen before her went black, turning to a single unmoving flat line. She stared at it in silence, waiting for a peak, a leap, a blur, a single beat to indicate that anyone was out there. 

Nothing happened. 

Frowning to herself, she tapped a button on the keyboard before her–the one for “broadcast”. 

“Fellow Decepticons,” she said, “if any of you are out there, I am Invert of Cybertron, broadcasting from the Earth base Victory. I am alone here and have been so since the attack on Autobot City. If you are hearing this message, please respond.” 

Her servo left the button and she waited. And waited. And waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

And nothing came, as it never did. 

She vented and focused back on her datapad, the frown perched upon her face seemingly eager to make it a permanent home. There was her chore list, plain and simple. It would take her several megacycles to complete: clean the habsuits, clean the storage vault, clean the weapons vault, clean the hallways, feed Victory, scrape away the organics on Victory’s hull, manage the outside of Victory, air another message after seven megacycles, spy on the Autobots if possible.

If possible. The last one was becoming an increasingly harder task to pull off. She was no Soundwave, and Victory’s listening equipment had been down for a while now to preserve power. Furthermore the equipment in Soundwave’s habsuit was either completely foreign or off-limits to her. He may not be here now, but he would return, like the others would, and if he found out she’d been messing with his items, well. She was only a lowly foot soldier, and he was the head of communications of the Decepticon cause. 

She’d be lucky if only her wings were broken off and used to decorate his sparsely covered habsuit. 

Speaking of her wings…she cast a glance down at the inverted things, which pointed towards the ground as opposed to the air. They would do her no favors in navigating the outside of the ship and certainly no aid in reaching the higher spots in the larger habsuits. Her boosters were functional, but the Energon they’d consume to keep her airborne would drain her at twice the levels of a normal Seeker. 

She’d have to use them sparingly if she wanted to continue her present consumption rate of only one Energon cube a day. If she offlined from low power, that was fine; eventually her brethren would return, find her, and bring her back. But without her, no one would feed Victory, who would eventually offline from low power. Victory had to stay online, no matter what. 

Where else would the Decepticons go when they came back, if they didn’t have Victory? 

“I’ll keep you going, girl…” she whispered as she left the control room, reaching a hand out to run along the walls of the ship. Victory, as usual, was silent. It always was. 

Perhaps none of the other Decepticons had shared her sentiment, but Invert had always thought of The Victory (Victory for short) as a fellow ‘con. It was a crashed ship, yes, but it was alive and functional, and it provided them a home within its body. Victory could respond to commands and hold conversations if it so wished; just the majority of the time, it preferred not to. For all she knew Victory was just trapped in permanent stasis lock, and would perhaps free itself one day. 

As such, it was important to take care of Victory, for more purposes than just maintaining a Decepticon earth base. Victory was an ally with much greater might than her. If it fell, everything was lost. 

That was why they’d left her behind when the entire cause had prepared for the assault on Autobot City–it had to be. Someone had to take care of Victory and it was for the better that that someone was her. Perhaps it had been said to her in a less kind way, but the others had had a point when they said that someone who couldn’t contribute properly to a fight would be better off staying behind. 

Okay, they’d said it a lot less kindly. More so, they’d chided her that a flightless Seeker was utterly useless on the field despite whatever “special talent” Shockwave had promised she possessed. And for the battle of Autobot City, they needed soldiers who were functional, powerful, and wouldn’t prove dangerous to their allies as well as their foes. Besides, for swelling their numbers, they had the Insecticon clones. So someone like her, broken, glitched, and more of a liability than anything else, would only be good for ensuring that Victory didn’t somehow miraculously break while they were gone. 

Because really, if Victory was invaded, it wasn’t that big of a deal. The ship was equipped to deal with invasions. Its defensive systems were more than adequate for dispatching invaders both inside and out. Invert was only present within it to mop up the Energon remains of whoever was fool enough to try. 

No one had been–but that could also be attributed to the fact that the Autobots didn’t seem to know where the Decepticon base was. That, or they just didn’t care. Invert preferred the former. Why would it be inconsequential to know where the enemy’s base was, where they were likely to crawl back to and lick their wounds? And surely they were licking their wounds somewhere out there, weren’t they?

So why hadn’t they come back?

She pushed the thought away again and threw open one of the few cleaning closets the ship possessed, grabbing all the equipment she’d need to properly clear out all the habsuits. Nowadays it was more dusting than anything else, but she still brought along a mop and bucket, just in case. 

The habsuits would start with Starscream’s, of course, because if she cleaned anyone else’s first and he found out, he’d throw a fit. And a fit from her commander was not something Invert wanted to sit through. He always treated her with more vitriol than any of the other Seekers, no matter how inconsequential her mistakes might be compared to theirs. She had an ounce of resentment towards him for it, countered only by the fact that, no matter how awful Starscream could be, he was deserving of respect for his flight abilities. 

But that was a low bar. Any winged Decepticon could fly circles around her while all she could do was watch and seethe. 

She vented and tapped the passcode to his habsuit’s door into its keypad, the double doors opening to reveal a pristine and lavishly decorated room. Starscream was nothing if not dramatic and narcissistic. All the valuables and self-care items stored in his habsuit spoke lengths to just what he’d do for a decent polish. Cleaning it was always a nightmare, even after all the times she’d done it before. If even one item was an inch out of place, she’d hear about it later. 

A tiny chuckle escaped her at the thought–when was the last time she’d heard Starscream’s voice for any purpose? Be it admonishing her for attempting even once to be a proper Seeker, bossing her around, treating her as his personal slave, or verbally abusing her to let his Megatron-induced anger out, it had been so long she almost found herself forgetting how cruel the insults had been. 

Almost. She entered his habsuit with her cleaning gear and checked everything over–berth, vanity, table, overly expensive one of a kind statue in his image, all the data-pads he pretended didn’t contain failed plans to assassinate their great leader, full length mirror that somehow hadn’t been broken, each and every one of his polishes and maintenance equipment, and of course, the additional weapons he kept on the wall. 

There wasn’t a speck of dust on anything nor any indication of water damage. The berth was made perfectly.. The floor was clean save for her own pedeprints. And the metal of the walls gleamed like it’d been treated with the same care as Starscream himself. 

There was nothing to clean, but she still gave everything a dust off, just to be safe. Giving everything one final look over for rust, Invert confirmed there to be no contamination on any of Starscream’s immensely precious belongings and left his habsuit, locking it behind her.

One down. At least fifty more to go. She vented again and moved to the next.

—-----

Maintenance was finished by the time the Earth’s sun moved high into the sky. Her internal clock read 16:23, a new method of telling time that had been adjusted for her when she’d arrived on Earth. The planet operated on a twenty-four megacycle basis, working around when the sun would orbit to the other side of the planet. The absence of the sun was named “night”, and could occur anywhere from 17:00-21:00, sometimes later. Having spent much of her time on Cybertron, she had been unaccustomed to Earth’s time, and figured it to be useless for the majority of her stay on the planet. 

“Night” had its benefits, though. Its darkness concealed well, and most organics chose to enter recharge when it came on. It was the perfect time to enact plots, schemes, and occasional terrorist attacks on Autobot City. 

The season Earth was presently in was dubbed “summer”. That meant night would not come until 21:00. She had time. After finishing with the habsuits, Invert focused on maintaining Victory. 

At 16:28 she scraped away the organics on the outside of the hull, using her thrusters to properly climb up onto it. Finishing the front at 17:34, she headed to the side, then the back, ending at 18:20. Once back inside, she accessed the Energon vault and took stock before feeding Victory. 

92 cubes left. Victory sufficed on ten per day. Power saving mode was beginning to look tempting now, if not for the risk that it would cease cloaking. And considering how often she had to transmit, the loss would be nothing short of catastrophic. 

More Energon was needed, then. She’d have to ration herself more. She fit eleven cubes in her arms and brought them to Victory’s engine. As they were tossed in she held the one extra up. 

“To another cycle, Victory.” It was brought to her dermas and promptly consumed. 

Victory gave no response, as always. Invert stared at the empty cube in her servos for only a second before turning to take it back to storage. 

At which point Victory’s system suddenly lit up. The screen turned on behind her, displaying a map of the planet and pinging a specific point somewhere in Asia. Invert looked back and raised her brows. 

“SOS signal of Decepticon origin detected,” Victory stated in its monotone voice. “Displaying coordinates on screen. Incoming message. Playing now.”

Before Invert could even brace herself, an unholy buzzing suddenly sounded through the speakers, so shrill and constant that she collapsed to one knee, instinctively slamming her servos over her audials. Gritting her dentas she opened her hub and turned her audials all the way down, which made the buzzing just tolerable enough for her to reach Victory’s main computer and slam her fist on the OFF button. 

The sound stopped so suddenly it left her processor ringing. She blinked several times, then knocked a fist against the side of her helm, shaking it a few times to properly orient herself. 

Victory had gone silent again, but continued to display the ping and its coordinates. Invert looked up at them, transcribing them in her memory. What kind of distress signal had that been? Victory’s audio systems must be going, perhaps from too much time spent under the Earth’s water. An SOS signal usually captured the sound of blaster fire, of desperate voices crying for help, of bitter regret as whatever ‘con was on the other end laid aside his pride to admit he needed back-up. 

That thought made her uneasy. Buzzing. Why have an SOS signal that was nothing but buzzing? 

“Victory…” she paused, winced, and told herself that it wasn’t going to hurt as badly the second time. “Play the SOS signal again. At a decreased volume!” 

It complied, the loud, painful buzzing sounding over the speakers once more. Invert increased her audials this time, even though the sound made her want to rip them out of her helm. Listening closely, she focused on differentiating corrupted audio from what might be beneath, be it voices, blaster fire, or the sound of fleeing pedesteps. 

But the clip ended without any differentiating sounds. She found that odd, and replayed it in her processor again and again, trying to filter through it. Nothing. Just buzzing.

“Victory, run a diagnostic on your audio systems,” she ordered. The screen changed as Victory did just that, then returned several cycles later with a clear report: nothing was wrong. 

The Energon she’d consumed sat uneasily in her tank. Invert grimaced. “Display the coordinates again,” she commanded, though they were already saved to her memory. Seeing them on the screen solidified her doubts. 

Bali. There was a ship in Bali that she knew about, one that had harbored several unsavory occupants of the Decepticon cause. They, too, had disappeared after the attack on Autobot City. 

Insecticons. Members of the cause notorious for how untrustworthy they were. She hadn’t been around for all the cases where they’d proven themselves to be nothing but hassles who only cared for endless consumption, but she’d read reports of actions and abilities. They were a self-contained group and stuck to their own–why would they call for help now, several orbital cycles after their last appearance in Autobot City?

Buzzing. Their entire signal had just been buzzing. She frowned, thinking it over. Their alt modes were based off of filthy organics, and as such, carried some characteristics of the ugly things. Was the buzzing a possible side effect of that? But they could speak, so why wouldn’t they?

Unless they weren’t able to, for some reason? During an SOS signal? 

An SOS signal from a self-contained, proud group, perfectly capable of surviving on their own, that contained an off-putting buzz likely made to avoid speaking.

Just what were they facing out there that would cause such behavior?

“Victory, open a comm to the Insecticon ship,” she said, leaning over the control panel. “Insecticons, this is Invert, speaking to you from the Decepticon base The Victory. Come in Insecticons.”

Silence. 

“Come in Insecticons.”

The ping repeated itself again and again. SOS. SOS. SOS. 

No one was going to answer. Her frown deepened and she stepped away from the control panel. The only Decepticon here was her, the last on Earth, for all she knew. If they weren’t answering, they could be offline for all she knew. Or worse, it could be an Autobot trap, and she’d be playing right into their hands. 

But if it wasn’t, and someone was there on the other side, waiting for help, desperately trying to reach any other Decepticon on this planet…

Even if they were gross Insecticons…

Rescue would fall to her. And though she would be taking a huge risk, with no guarantee for results, with the possibility of capture or permanent offlining…

It was, finally, something to do. Something beyond just maintaining Victory. Something that was a real mission. Something that could get her honor, respect, and maybe even a friend!

Her frown gradually gave way to a grin. Her first real mission. Her first real rescue. Her first chance to make a decision on her own, with no one ordering her what side to choose. 

Oh, she was excited. It didn’t matter that her jet mode struggled to fly and that she’d need to pack away six cubes of additional Energon for the journey and her weapon–she was getting out, and she was going to rescue those Insecticons. 

“Victory, open the weapon’s vault,” she eagerly commanded, taking off down the hall. “And prepare the hangar for take-off.”

—------------------

“I think you’ve had enough, bud.”

He raised tired optics from the glass currently gripped like a lifeline in his servos, the pink Energon within rippling from how his arm shook. Upon the bartender, a shorter mech with a white and yellow paint job, did his gaze land. Whatever was in it seemed enough to cause them to flinch, but they held their ground, clearly experienced in dealing with the far more unruly. 

“Seriously. You’ve had five of those in the past Earth hour. How you’re not horrendously overfueled by now, I dunno, but you’re on your way to an early grave if you keep that up.” They gave him a hard frown, narrowing their optics behind their visor. “I’m not havin’ it on record that someone died at my bar because of my negligence.”

Luster didn’t answer them at first, letting his gaze drift back down to the Energon swirling in the glass he held. How it hadn’t cracked yet spoke to its quality, or perhaps how weak he’d become. Either worked. 

The glass was half-drained. It hadn’t tasted like anything in particular. He never ordered for the flavor, since anything they could provide him would be irrelevant. His glossa didn’t taste like it once must have, even if the memories of what had been felt like they existed just beyond a fog barrier. And besides, no matter how much he drank, his tank never felt full. 

Not anymore. 

He pulled up a report on his tank capacity in his hub–93% capacity. Ignoring the bartender, he brought the glass to his derma and promptly chugged, feeling his frame protest against more. Another tank report came in–100%. If he consumed anymore, he’d have to purge. 

There was still a drop at the bottom. He forced it down despite the warnings and slid the glass forward, looking just past the bartender, never at them. 

“One for the road,” he rasped, venting harshly. “Please.”

“Absolutely not. If you’re not at capacity by this point your sensor’s faulty.” They took the glass with what almost seemed like disgust. “Aren’t you supposed to be here with your guardian, anyways? Where is he?”

Guardian. He coughed at the word, not because he wanted to, but because it reminded him of what his life had become. The motion jarred the Energon inside of him and he felt sick. Swallowing down the urge to purge, Luster moved to shaky pedes, gripping the bar for support. 

“I don’t need him,” he grumbled. “I’m not a Sparkling. I’m not a protoform. I’m…I was someone, before, I don’t need a guardian.” 

The bartender grimaced. “Luster…look, buddy. I didn’t know you before the war. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of your work. I know Magnus says you did somethin’ important before the retreat from Cybertron. But all that’s in the past now, aight? This is Earth, not Cybertron, and we all know whatever it is you were lookin’ for, you…”

They paused as his cold optics finally focused on them, reconsidering their words. 

“...We all know you had some tragedy while you were out there. Real sad. No one here wouldn’t feel bad for you. But you can’t keep drinkin’ yourself to death over it. And I know you’re a grown ‘bot, but considerin’ the memory problems and all…well…course we all think you could use a guardian.”

A low rumble escaped from somewhere deep within him. Tank capacity at 99%. He needed more Energon. 

“One more for the road,” he asked again. “Please. I’ll pay you double for it.” 

Their frown tightened. “I’m calling Uptick.”

“No.” It came out harsher and faster than he intended, sounding like the warning growl of a tiger. His optics widened and he closed them, the gentle lighting of the bar suddenly too much. “Please. No. Don’t call him.”

They had their hand to their helm as they grimaced at him. Luster growled and turned away, almost falling over as he did. His balance equilibrator was off courtesy of overfueling, and focusing on what was normally a clear beeline for the door was difficult. One pede in front of the other. One pede in front of the other. 

“Luster! You’re not goin’ out alone?” The bartender called after him. He ignored them, turning down his audials to focus on walking. 

Spilling out of the bar, he stumbled for the nearest wall and rested a hand against it, leaning on it for dear life. His head was spinning. Standing was becoming increasingly difficult. 

Tank capacity at 98%. 

It wouldn’t stay there long. He needed to be back in his habsuit before that happened. Which way to his habsuit? He focused on his internal map, pulling it up in his hub and searching the coordinates. A small box lit up on Metroplex’s form, his tracking systems illustrating a path for him to take milliseconds later. 

It was late. Autobots didn’t sleep, not really, but it was likely that, due to the time of the planet, he wouldn’t run into anyone. Luster vented again, feeling warm Energon slip out from between his lips as he did so, and began the journey back to the place he was temporarily calling ‘home’. 

The path his systems had picked took him through some of Metroplex’s tighter corridors. On Cybertron, back before he had launched on the fateful mission that took his memory from him, he would have once felt nervous. Now he felt nothing, nothing besides urgency, urgency that did not originate from fear of being attacked or robbed. 

No, it was urgency that sprouted from the deepest recesses of himself, telling him to hide for his self-preservation, for if he did not, the symptoms would soon manifest, and in his present state, he didn’t know if he could take them. 

He made it about halfway before his proximity sensor went off. With his audials turned so low, he realized he hadn’t picked up the voice of whoever was calling to him, and they’d approached, their presence now close enough to seemingly reach out and touch him. 

He turned his helm, uncaring, for whoever it was could not be worse than–

Him. 

Uptick was following within grabbing distance of him, his dermas moving as he ranted on about something Luster was glad he couldn’t hear. He paused in his movement and Uptick did the same, though he didn’t once stop talking. Of course he didn’t.

Slowly, Luster turned his audials back on, just enough to make out the slew of Uptick’s commentary like the gentle, cooing sound of a cyber pigeon. 

“--and furthermore you are in direct violation of your curfew, which states you aren’t to be out beyond the Earth hour of 21:00; it is presently 01:20 and here you are wandering the passages of Metroplex like a lost turbofox!” He put both hands on his hips, glaring Luster down. “This is your second warning. You know what happens if I have to issue a third.”

He shuttered his optics and stared blankly just beyond Uptick. “You lock me up in the clinic until I’m completely fixed or I don’t function anymore?” 

“What?” He sounded incredulous. “No! I’m not here to–do you consider this some kind of torture? Luster, I’m trying to help you!” 

“Then can you leave me alone?” He grumbled, turning away and continuing on his predetermined path. “I’ll be fine…I just need to go back…”

Back to where? The habsuit? The ship? The planet of fog in his memories? Back, back. Always back. 

“You need to stop drinking,” Uptick scolded, grabbing his shoulder and bringing him to a halt. “And stop these late night wanderings. Everyone’s concerned for you because of them.”

He let his shoulders slump. 

“That’s a lie and you know it. The only ones who still care about me are the medics who want to poke my processor. Now can I please go back home?”

The buzz was starting to fade. He didn’t get that nice warmth from Energon overfueling for long anymore. Balance was restoring. And worst of all, the reports were coming in. 

Tank capacity at 95%. Fuel proficiency at 20%. Uptake at %$^&&*^# levels. Seek alternate methods of refueling. 

Uptick let out a long sigh. “Let me walk you back. There’s no point in you getting lost and scaring others again.”

He didn’t fight the offer. There was no point in it. Once Uptick was convinced of doing something, he wouldn’t stop until it was done–especially if that task regarded protecting someone else. 

So he trudged along, the ‘bot slated as his “guardian” trailing just behind him. “Guardian”. “Caretaker” was more like it. Uptick followed him everywhere, kept an eye on how much Energon he was consuming, tracked his recharge cycles, kept a close eye on just what activities he engaged with on a daily basis, and probably had a tracker installed beneath his aft to keep him from ever having an ounce of privacy. 

Of course he did, though, after that night with the other ‘bots. He knew what he had been doing and why he had been doing it. He just didn’t know why he’d stopped.

The Autobots he’d frightened were significantly less green than he was. That wouldn’t keep them safe. They’d returned to their habsuit to begin a cycle of “enjoying one another’s company”. That was why he’d picked them. Two for one. It would have made the whole situation easier on them all.

Except it hadn’t been easier on anyone, especially him. They’d both become creeped out when, upon discovering him in their personal quarters, staring at their recharge slabs with optics more devoid than a moon, he’d purged his dinner and collapsed, whining like a sick turbofox. 

That was when Uptick had been assigned as his caretaker. There wasn’t anything wrong with Uptick, by any means, and he didn’t hate him. He was, like all Enforcers, large and imposing, and tended to play by the rules too much. His paint was cheerful colors of blue, green, and white, meant to match with the new planet he was eager to call home. And his personality was surprisingly forgiving–for being the sucker stuck with the mental patient, he had quite a tolerance for nonsense.

No, Luster despised Uptick’s company for an entire other reason. One that didn’t have to do with how closely he watched him, how constantly he reminded him to attend his appointments, or how constantly he changed his curfews and rules.

It had to do with his sparkbeat. With how close he insisted on staying, Luster could hear the damnable thing’s constant pulsing despite the layers of glass and metal and wires separating them. It was loud and full of vibrant life. 

He could feel the solvent building in his mouth. 

Tank capacity at 93%. 

—-------------------------------

The habsuit allotted to him was at the very end of Metroplex’s furthest row. It was close to the wall, away from any streets or alleys. The original request put in regarding a space for him had placed him near the clinic, where other Cybertronians would be passing by. His vehement rejection of the idea had only been approved after the arguing had made him purge. 

Uptick brought him right to the sliding door, inputting the code to open it on its keypad. The metal let out a quiet shff as it slid open, revealing the small space within. He turned, giving Luster a look. 

“Your visit tomorrow is at 09:20, Earth hours. I’ve already sent you the data package. You seem to have ignored the first four.” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice as he raised a servo to his helm. “I’ll send you another. Be there on time, please, so I don’t have to come here and convince you, alright?”

“Convince”. Luster almost scoffed at the word. The heaviness that came with overfueling had left him by now. With its cloud gone, he found himself choking on bitterness again. 

Instead, he vented, giving a tiny nod. 

“Alright.” Stepping past Uptick, he paused in the threshold of his habsuit when a hand suddenly landed back on his shoulder. 

“Luster. You know these visits are for your health, right? No one here wants to hurt you. We don’t see you as a processor to be poked.” 

“I know.” He didn’t turn around. The lights in his habsuit, motion activated, had turned on, illuminating the sparse few belongings within it. 

“I mean it.” His grip tightened ever so slightly, then released. “We want to help you. All of us.” 

“I know,” he repeated. “Now please leave me alone.” 

Uptick said nothing as the door slid closed, sealing him, and the outside world, away. Luster stepped fully into his habsuit and paused, gaze fixed on the berth. 

It was a recharge slab, standard issue. They’d tried to pull a better one for him due to his circumstances–the medic’s had posited that he may have recharging terrors. They’d been right, of course, but he knew it wasn’t the fault of the slab, so he’d let it lie. They didn’t need to know about the terrors that plagued him, for they were meaningless, and besides, if they knew, they’d want to keep a closer eye on him. 

Who cared about terrors that only consisted of strange humming noises, anyways?

Besides, a closer eye was the exact opposite of what he needed on him. If they watched him more closely, they’d take him away from the bar. They’d take him away from his quiet habsuit. They’d take him away from his place at the edge of their world and draw him right into the middle. 

And if they did that, he had no idea how long he could ensure their safety. 

He stepped over to the slab, observing his reflection in it. They’d taken away the mirror after he’d shown distress staring into it. Something about his frame just didn’t feel right, and the more he looked at it, the more out of place he felt. 

His paint was blue, a gaudy blue, one with a sheen to it that made him literally shine. One of the medics had stated his color was particularly reminiscent of a bird known as the “peacock” on earth. He’d never met the thing, but from the way they’d snickered, he assumed it was excessive. 

On his chassis were diamonds, which, according to the doctors, had been placed there, willingly, by him. He couldn’t imagine why he would have ever reasoned to do such a thing. The stones weakened the integrity of his armor, and furthermore, they drew attention. Cut into varying shapes, they were arranged into delicate patterns that continued on his faceplate, where several more had been embedded just below his optics. Had been. When they found him, all that were left were the indentations of what had been. They now felt like ugly scars. 

The gemstones were gaudy enough, but worse, in his opinion, were his drills. Their blades rested comfortably on his arms, with the largest sitting on his back as a heavy extension. His treads were on his legs, which, combined with the weight of the drill, made even lifting the damnable things a chore. According to the medics he hadn’t even been a miner back in the day, but a scientist of sorts, so why he was so equipped for drilling, he couldn’t even say. 

All of this shaped up to make his frame bulky and uncomfortable. His steps were heavy. His pieces tended to bump into things. And his excessive decorations drew gazes and snickers alike from other mechs. 

He hated the face that looked back at him. The optics were green, a gaudy green, because apparently, he’d once been obsessed with fashion, and made himself a different pair of colored optics for every day of the week. The others were lost, but the green he’d been wearing when he disappeared weren’t. 

His faceplate was a pale gray, like most mechs tended to be. Pale, with those intricate, delicate etchings, designed to make him look ‘beautiful’. His helm had a sharp point in the middle, reaching about halfway down, and of course, in the middle of it was another gemstone. This one, however, was cracked. 

A cracked gemstone accompanied by diamond shaped holes that had once held something supposedly precious. That was all he saw when he looked at himself. 

He tore his optics away from the visage and sat on the berth, keeping his pedes on the floor as he turned to look around his habsuit. It had a desk, a window, a few datapads, and a small storage shelf. That was all. 

They’d offered to bring him some of his surviving “collection”, whatever that meant. He’d declined.

The ceiling lights dimmed as he tried to lay down on his back, found it impossible, and instead did so on his side. He’d never get used to the damnable drill on his back, he just knew it. It wasn’t supposed to be there. It hadn’t been there before. Why did he have a drill on his back? He couldn’t ever remember a time where he did. 

But that was the problem with remembering. He couldn’t remember much of anything. 

It had been only three Earth “months” (solar cycles?) ago that he had landed on the planet, in an unmarked spaceship that had been dated back to the middle of the war. The bots who had discovered him found his frame locked in a stasis pod, almost offline from how little power he’d had left. Taking him back to Autobot City, an emergency transfer of Energon and a strong shock to his processor had brought him back online. 

And that was when the trouble had begun. He’d awoken in a room he didn’t recognize, in a time he didn’t know, in a place he’d never been before. He still remembered coming online. For so long it had been just darkness, darkness and the very hum of the universe, the electrical pulses that dictated the existence of life, making up the entirety of his world. When he’d come online, that hum had ebbed, becoming less than background noise. 

It had felt like being cut off from a lifeline. His optics had onlined, and he had been greeted with the sight of one of the Autobot medics, First Aid. There was celebration to be had as he had groaned and tried to sit up, confused, delirious, and wondering just how he’d gotten to this strange place. They’d insisted he stay down until his energon reserves were replenished. 

But even when his tank hit its safe capacity, a feeling that should have left him satiated and energized, he hadn’t had the strength to properly move. He’d known in that very instant, as the question arose as to why, that something was wrong with him. 

Another electrical shock had returned the ability to properly move to him. They’d released him from the medical bay after he’d demonstrated he could walk–right into the hands of their Enforcers. For according to their records, he was not to be alone, and the question of just what had happened on his mission was hanging heavier than a spaceship in orbit. 

The issue of his memory had arisen almost immediately. They’d asked him his name. They’d asked him why he had been alone. They’d asked him what had happened. 

He couldn’t remember any of it. 

“His processor seems to have been damaged, sir.” He remembered one of them saying, looking over the scan that had been provided from the medical bay. “They’ve found evidence that a code was written to delete some memories, but even more than that…” The datapad had been handed over, and the interrogator sucked in air through his denta. “How is he even still functional, with scrambling that bad?”

It looked like his processor had been ripped out, smashed, and placed back into his helm. He had no recollection of any of it. 

“Do you remember why you left?”

“Do you remember the name of your ship?”

“Do you remember the research you’d been engaging with when you’d decided to leave?”

“Do you remember what you found?”

“Do you remember Solace?”

“Do you remember what happened to him?”

“What happened to Solace?”

Who’s Solace?

The interview had ended shortly after. 

He vented, watching the lights in the ceiling turn down. Uptick’s data package pushed at the edge of his internal hub. He accepted it because he had no other choice. 

Solace. The name haunted him like a specter. Solace. Who was Solace? Solace had been someone he’d been very close with, apparently. Solace had been someone so important to him that he’d left Cybertron with him, in search of something mysterious to help the Autobot war effort. They’d been joined at the hip all their lives, apparently, 

And he couldn’t remember a single thing about the mech. But why?

He shuttered his optics and tried to think back to the day he’d left Cybertron. It had been sometime in the middle of the war, apparently. He’d made some big decision and gotten a ship somehow. He was going to prove something, or save them all, or change the tide of the war. Something heroic, or whatever. They’d said he had once been outgoing. 

He tried to picture himself standing on Cybertron (did he even remember Cybertron?), chassis puffed out, engine revving, the diamonds on his faceplate and chest glittering. A huge smile was on his face. He stood before the ship he’d arrived on, except instead of its decrepit state, it was a fully functioning spaceship, fresh off the factory line, without a single chip on the paint. 

Before him was a crowd of Autobots. They were cheering his name. Optimus Prime himself was there to see him off. 

He looks them over and grins widely, holding his arms out. Yes, he was going to save them all. He was going to travel far away, find something, and help end the war. He would be so full of hope, nothing could dampen his spirits. 

And there, beside him, would be Solace. Solace, his best friend, his one in a billion, his greatest ally. 

But when he looks beside him, there is no Solace. 

There was only fog, and blank space, and when he looked back, the planet of Cybertron was empty, a barren wasteland of gray. The sky was dark velvet blue. Stars glittered like diamonds overhead. 

There were stars in his chassis. He blinked once, twice. The planet was empty, and he was full of stars, and he was alone. 

And here, alone, in the emptiness of space, he floated, watching all of existence fall away and turn into the hum of electromagnetic pulses indicating life. Life that he could not see or touch. Life he could only listen to as he lay dreaming, drifting through the universe alone. 

In his cradle of stars, dead $^%#%&* waits dreaming. 

Not alone, really. He had not been alone while he was dreaming. He had heard something else in the hum.

He replayed the sound again, the hum he was so familiar with. It was millions of years worth of noise, stored within his processor because he had nothing else to comprehend for all of it. 217 gigabytes of nothing but humming. His processor ran through all of it in mere minutes, then ran through it again. 

There was something beneath all of the noise, something explicitly subtle. He opened his internal hub and pulled up a spectrograph. The noise was replayed again. 

The waves showed up as nothing in particular for a long time. Then, slowly, they began to form a curve. One by one, each contributed a single line, through millions of years, until finally, he reached himself now, still intuned, just barely, to the electromagnetic pulses of life. 

The image looking back at him was in the shape of a crescent. It was the very shape which he saw in his recharge terrors, the one which, ever present, hung in the background, watching him like a cybercat would a mouse. 

His spark felt cold. He closed the spectrograph and opened his optics, staring at the gentle light of Earth’s moon shining in through the window. His internal clock beeped a warning to him–five hours until he was designated to be at the clinic. A pop-up recommending he enter recharge appeared. He moved to close it.

Tank capacity at 68%. Fuel uptake at &%#$^*(&%$$%&&%$%^^^&* Seek alternate fuel source. Seek alternate fuel source. Seek alternate fuel source. 

Dozens more appeared at the death of the one. He pushed the notifications away. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

They came back, one after the other. His frame felt like it had been starved of Energon for years. 

Seek alternate fuel source. 

He forced his optics to shutter, letting the notifications drown out the fear he felt. 

Seek alternate fuel source.

It was going to be a long recharge. 

[ashtreegt]

melody and sae having a secret covo in one of the closets on the MS. Maelstrom

[chiropteracupola]

So come fill up your glasses of brandy and wine / Whatever it costs I will pay / So be easy and free, when you're drinking with me / I'm a man you don't meet every day...

[neo-punks]

i just fucking love neopets so much 😭

[maedaymayhem]

actually I killed cringe. with my bare hands yeah.

[ilovedthestars]

love when i'm doing an ask game and get more fundraising asks than actual ask game asks

[sparkycinnamon]

watermelon-scented glue stick. he’s experienced SO MUCH horrible stuff that’s he honestly just numb to it now.

[owoasis]

March 13th will mark my one year anniversary of locing up my hair.

time flies. i really could cry. it's been growing so quickly i had to do reties every three weeks 😭 instead of every 4-6 weeks. goodness. i love it though

[anongalactic]

ive been seeing an influx of "[very popular thing] has no fanfics!!!" and the comments are all similar sentiments??? and I've been SO CONFUSED??? but i had my lightbulb moment: they mean x reader fics.

this is only something ive seen in the past couple of years, with covid bringing anime and fandom to the average person, and also the very recent uptick in selfshipping/yumeshipping. because these same posts will have people hating in the comments over oc inserts as well!! because they can't just project onto a blank slate pretty woman character. like. do they know x reader fics are not the only kinds of fanfiction. and why r u hating on the OCs!!! when ur literally doin the same shit!! OR, worse, commenters saying they just haaaave to use character.ai and other ai programs because theres just nooo content for their popular anime sexyman.

what happened to wanting character analysis. ship fics always have some level of depth because its about understanding two characters and how they'd interact, how their relationship could or would progress. THAT is something the soulless ai chats and copy paste y/n here fics never can have.

[malewife-overlord]

Six Cycles Later -- Part IX

Chapter summary: It's all gone to shit.

Tags: robogore, cannibalism mentions, some mild body horror, sparkeater, violence, war trauma, and death.

word count: 4608

previous chapter can be found here, start is here, next chapter is here.

chapter under cut! featuring Stall from @scarlettaagni!

Time of death: 17:23:51. She moved the clasps away from his chassis and willed for her mind to stop its recording. 

She failed. 

Cause of death: spark failure. His spark had completely lost its charge and ceased its beating. 

She'd failed. 

Luster's misshapen form laid completely inert on the slab. The bindings she'd tied him down with had come off hours ago, when she'd realized his arms were so atrophied they couldn't even rise. The pink of Energon has formed a puddle around him, changing what little peacock blue was left on his plating to bright pink. His tentacles hung limply off the sides of the slab like organic vines. Among the four he’d presented with two more had sprouted, eating through his body in their desperation to be born. 

Uptick had promised he'd be back in eight hours. She watched him consume so much fuel it'd make anyone else sick, then fly off with a speed that would threaten to shred his plating and send him crashing to the ocean below. He hadn't even pinged her if he'd arrived safely, he'd been so focused on his flight.

And it was all for nothing. She stood over Luster like the Necrobot himself, staring down at the wretched pile his corpse had become. Perhaps it was mercy Uptick hadn't been here to watch him wither away. 

Though she couldn't imagine just how he'd react when he came back. If he came back. No, he had to come back. He had to. She couldn't accept anything else. Primus, why had she let him fly off? Why had she let him convince her to leave? 

He couldn’t see Luster like this! When he came back and saw the broken remains he’d fought for, killed for, and betrayed his life for, it’d break him in two. 

She took her helm in her servos and leaned against the slab, Energon dotting her elbows as she stared at the floor. It was on her calves and knees, spotted on her abdomen and helm. She'd tried. She'd really tried. He just wasn't like them. There wasn't anything she really could have done. 

Just like then. And just like then, if she didn’t do something to keep him safe, the truth would eat him alive. 

Luster had been so special to Uptick. She could still remember when he'd eagerly pinged her, seven in a second, to tell her about the 'bot he'd been assigned as his first Earth mission. After all those years in the mnemosurgeon's chair and the therapist's couch, he’d finally been judged suitable to integrate into a peaceful Autobot society. They'd offered him the chance to care for Luster after it became apparent how lonely and out of place the old bot was. It was something, they'd said, Uptick would have experience with. 

She felt pricks of solvent at the edge of her optics and bit her derma, straightening back up. There was work to be done. She couldn't spend all her time here crying over one more failure. He was the first dead Autobot she'd seen in years, but that didn't matter. What did was getting rid of the body. 

She could already see how she’d do it. Luster was barely a skeletal structure with tentacles at this point. She could cut him into pieces and bury them individually, or toss them into the ocean from four different directions on the island. 

Uptick would ask what happened, of course. She’d form a lie, for his safety. Or even better…eyeing the hands, she glanced at her own. It would be a fast fix. She wasn’t that experienced with mnemosurgery, but with a willing and grieving bot, it wasn’t hard to slip in and out. 

It was decided, then. Lifting herself off the slab, Channel moved to her storage closet to retrieve her tools. She clambered over the multitude of niche spare parts and communications gear as she crossed the room, heading for the medical tools she kept on the back wall.

Which was when she noticed the silence. 

On the Marshall Islands, there wasn't too much noise, as the organic wildlife in the area often avoided the place. What remained were a few birds that spent the majority of their time at sea and a few land mammals that kept to themselves. The most background noise she heard on an average day was the sound of the ocean crashing against the beach. That was normal. She'd tune it out. 

What wasn't normal was the dead silence she picked up as she moved in the storage room. For about a day ago, now, she'd thrown a cage of angry sparklets into the room, and they'd been hungry enough to cry in their demand for spark energy. Elongated neglect had hushed them into silence, but considering she was an able-sparked mech stepping into a room with them, they should have immediately activated. 

They hadn’t. She squinted over at the cage, seated against the far wall, observing all of their tiny forms huddling together. None of them were looking at her. As one, despite the wall standing between them, they'd all turned their gaze to Luster's slab. 

She raised an optical ridge. Grabbing her saw, she moved over to the cage and lifted them up. They reacted to her then, several turning around and snapping at her, trying to reach through the bars of the cage to get at their prey. The others, however, remained transfixed on something they could not see. 

Uptick had proposed feeding them to Luster. Desperate times called for desperate measures, but she was sure that such an action would only make his condition worse. Sparklets didn't necessarily store the energy he so desperately needed, and considering they were a different species than scraplets, they might not even be made of sentio metallico. She'd turned down his plea to save her patient—the unknown was simply too dangerous. 

Now, she wondered if, perhaps, she should have tried at least one. Could he have even taken it? Luster had been fading and unable to even keep Energon down. An entire solid, live sparklet...

No, she'd been right in her assessment. She sighed, hating herself for that. Was there really anything she could have done? Had she just been entertaining Uptick's delusions the entire time? Was she responsible for him flying off to death? 

Her grip on the cage tightened and she placed it down, frowning deeply. The chatter of the sparklets died as she did so. 

It was just in time for her to hear the scraping of metallic claws over stone. Channel froze, gripping her saw tighter. Her danger sensor began to ping in her head as she ordered a scan. 

It picked up on movement just beyond the wall. 

No. Not possible. He was dead. Spark failure. Without that energy the frame couldn’t move. She gripped her saw tighter, servo on the activation button as she stepped out from the storage closet. Immediately her optics fell on the slab. 

It was empty.

Alarms rang out in her head as she vented sharply, scanning again for life forms. The reading came back negative. She swapped it to spark energy and saw the wall and floor light up where Luster had purged on it. Otherwise all that came back were the tiny embers of the sparklets. 

He was gone. Where? How? His legs had been reduced down to his frame, there was no way he could even walk. She’d tried to get him to lift his arms, they were practically a single tube with wires wrapped around them. And his helm, the decay it had would be fatal for any Autobot. 

But he wasn't an Autobot. He was a sparkeater. 

She suddenly felt cold, her systems responding by increasing the temperature around her spark. That made her feel even worse. Channel quickly crossed the clinic and grabbed the string to the garage door, pulling it to bring the door down. 

And right as she did, two silver tentacles pooled over the edge from outside, waving in the air as they turned their pincer-like claws on her. 

She drew in a sharp ex-vent and slammed the door down, hearing the shriek of metal outside as massive slashes tore deep gouges into the door. Cheerful sunlight poured in through the wounds, followed through by the claws that had inflicted them. They tapped around momentarily, feeling the door, climbing up to the ceiling and searching for weak points. 

She backed away from the door and dove for her private room, throwing caution to the wind. Frag this. A sparkeater was a sparkeater. Didn't matter if he was Uptick's favorite Autobot on the planet. A sparkeater was a sparkeater and she was alone on this island, far from any kind of help, with only one Autobot who knew of her existence who could be dead for all she knew--

Primus, why had she let him leave!? Why had she fixed his knee and his wing in silence and let him go?! Why had she listened to him when he said sparkeater?! What had happened to her self-preservation? Her wit? Her rule that what's going to die should be left to die, because otherwise you hurt yourself trying to save them?!

It would get her in a world of trouble, but she wouldn't have a world to be in trouble with anymore if she didn't reach out. Fighting was off the table at the moment, sparkeaters could rip brains from helms by merely looking at them. Her best bet was to barricade and hide. 

That was the first thing she did, grabbing every ounce of equipment she could in her private quarters and shoving it against the mechanical door. As she did so the shriek of tearing metal sounded louder. The garage door wouldn’t hold for long. 

Frag. Frag. Frag frag frag frag frag. She threw a few computers before the door, considered the generator, and then pulled it over as well. It was heavy, and if he hit it in the right place, it’d explode, but if it served its purpose as a barricade, he’d never manage to get in. It was a risk she had to take. 

There were no windows in her private quarters. She’d seen to that. If they could see you, they could shoot you. The only way he was getting in was through that barricade. It would have to suffice. 

Crouching beside her berth, she checked that her last resort weapon was still present–it was–before grabbing a computer and connecting to it. The rattle of aluminum accompanied her as she dove into the world of radio waves and signals. 

Locking onto Autobot City's, her mind crossed the planet in seconds, seconds that she prayed wouldn't cost her body its spark. She arrived into a blaze of traffic, narrowly avoiding being swept up in it. 

The Wavescape, as she called it, was like a giant, open field, with hundreds of thousands of voices speaking, hundreds of thousands of emotions crashing against each other, and hundreds of thousands of tiny fires burning around, above, below, behind, and before her, all at once. In this ocean of information she'd have to find and pick someone who could help her, someone who could get here fast and actually survive a sparkeater.

The first signal she looked for was Ultra Magnus's. Of course she knew his, it had a particular cold, closed-offness that others lacked, nevermind the size of it. When she couldn't find him, she searched for Springer’s, then Kup’s. .Nothing. There were her hopes of recruiting a Wrecker.

Perceptor. She found his, but upon trying to connect, his mind automatically forced her out, with an automated explanation that Perceptor was not to be interrupted during his lab work. Jazz–emptiness. Goldbug, or Warpath, or Powerglide, or Skyfire. 

All completely silent.

Her systems began to scream for retreat. Her processor was already starting to ache. There was less information here than on Cybertron, and she'd only been in the Wavescape for a few minutes, but it was already starting to overload her. Primus, she'd become weak. She needed to find someone to connect to, and fast. 

Metroplex. She zoomed out too fast, sent herself stumbling, and tried to ping him over and over and over. A massive presence arose, upturning all the sound, colors, and voices. All of a sudden the abstract nature of the Wavescape took shape, coalescing into a titanous form, one which turned its wretched gaze upon her and pinged back a simple reply: 

>Query?

A simple request. That was all. 

It completely overloaded her. She felt like her head was screaming with a million voices, echoing and ringing and bouncing around inside of her helm. They were trapped and would remain so until she returned to herself. She had to return. She had to return, or she would break, and if she returned she would die--

She mentally screamed and Metroplex backed off. An offer was given to her, a single wavelength at the very edge of his body. She took it without thinking, plunging into the signal and burrowing inside it, bypassing its security through sheer desperation and force of will. 

She didn't know who she dropped into, just that they were very calm about the entire thing, and didn't talk to her at first. As her own mind lay inside their field recovering, performing the mental equivalent of panting and clutching her head, they asked a simple question: 

> Who are you? 

She didn't answer at first, too exhausted and stressed to form proper thoughts. They picked that up through the shared connection, reciprocating with a few calming waves of their own. It was difficult to describe, but by sharing their own stability, they helped bring her back from the drowning edge of the Wavescape, pulling her from the tumultuous waters to a solid island where the noise ceased and the signals fell away. It was just her and them in a quiet, lonely place.

Finally, she recovered enough strength to respond. 

> Channel. 

She shared her location with them, then quickly accumulated a data packet to push over. They paused at that, cautiously scanning and examining it for malware. 

> Where did you come from? 

> In the packet. 

> Say it first. 

> Marshall Islands. Don't have time for this. Need help ASAP. Who are you?

> Stall. 

He wasn't opening himself up to her, just letting her rest within his mind. She focused on gathering her bearings, pressing the data packet to him again. 

> Everything's in there. Need help ASAP. Please. It's not malware. 

With all the care of a surgeon cutting into a sparkchamber, Stall opened the data packet, extracting and reading the information in seconds. In the meantime, Channel let herself sense his field and what was in it—they actually were in a quiet, lonely place, it seemed. There was no one else alive in the vicinity, though there were other Autobots. Two of them, recent deaths. 

Oh. She understood. He must be the mortician for Autobot City. And the two bots here...

> Sparkeater? 

He asked, and she gave him an affirmative. 

> Could have guessed. 

And he sent her over the information he'd gathered from the two bots in his care. Redactor of DCC-12, Grease of APF-01. Both dead following a suspected sparkeater attack. The information he sent her showed their bodies, splayed on gurneys, chests torn open. One had his brain next to him after it had been torn out of his mouth. The other's head wasn't even intact. 

She grimaced. 

> Eaten by a sparkeater...what a horrible way to go. 

> Not eaten. 

> What? 

> Redactor's sparkchamber is intact. 

> Then what killed him? 

> Laser bolt to the head. Execution style. 

Something in her felt colder than ever before. Redactor, where had she heard that name before? Redactor, Redactor...

Redactor, the mnemosurgeon they'd recovered from one of the Decepticon Containment Centers, where the minds of war prisoners had been held in stasis while their bodies were repurposed for parts. One of the many Autobots who'd been taken out during the war, he'd been fitted with a new frame and granted a place in the rebuilt Cybertron while he recovered. She'd read about him in the news—of all the Autobot mnemosurgeons recovered, he was one of the few who survived returning. 

And now he was dead from a gunshot wound cycles after the war had ended. 

There wasn’t time to think about the implications. She had to get back to her body. 

> Need help. Sparkeater on my island. Don't know how long I can avoid it. Send Enforcers. 

She pushed her exact coordinates to him, again. 

> Help. Please. 

He pinged her an affirmative, and she pinged him a thanks. Then, as seamlessly as she'd entered him, she left, dropping back into the sea of the wave scape. 

But this time, she let herself drown. 

-------

Channel snapped back up, panting over and over as feeling returned to her frame. She was so overheated the entire room had gone up five degrees, and her helm was splitting with pain.. Back on her island, the Wavescape was quiet. She took a moment to recover, waiting for the noise to die down and the sensations to fall away.

But they didn’t. Through the thin door of her private abode she could hear the chittering of the sparklets, loud and panicked. She turned her head in their direction and extended her sensors, then winced from the pain of it, retracting her scan. Her normal senses would have to do, dulled as they were.

But even dulled, she could hear the scrape of metallic claws over the floor, moving about in the main area. Her optics went wide. He'd broken in. How long had she been away? Not long, that was impossible. Travel took seconds in the wave scape. She couldn't have been more than ten kliks. 

A low scraping ran over the door to her room. She froze. It ran the length of the door, then came back and ran it again, as if deciding whether or not to break it down. 

scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp

scrrrrrrrrp

She heard his pedesteps stop. A hundred warnings flashed in her HUD at one as her gaze froze on the door. 

The chitter off the sparklets was all she could hear. 

Then his pedesteps picked up and the scraping went away. 

In its place fell the shrieking of sparklets as they screamed for their lives and fell silent. 

She wasted no time, reaching under her berth and grabbing the weapon beneath it. It was a rocket blaster, one of the last things she lifted from Cybertron on her way out. Unloaded, all it needed was a bit of energon and some of the ammo next to it.

She'd destroy her damn clinic, but at this point, it was going down anyways. She'd rather escape with her life than her dignity. And if that meant blowing up the thing she'd worked so hard to maintain and keep hidden for cycles, then so be it. 

A crunching was sounding from the other room. She estimated fifteen kliks before he was done with them. 

Two options were available to her: hole up and wait for help to arrive, praying it would come on time. If he got in, she could fire at him, but the explosion would likely kill them both. If she left her room, abandoning her barricade, she ran the risk of him chasing her down. If, however, she escaped the clinic and fired at it as she left, he’d be caught in the collapsing rubble. 

Only one of those scenarios saw her survival. Then again, it was possible he wouldn’t break into her room, but...was she willing to risk it? 

In war, what had kept her alive? She remembered those days, hiding behind rocks, within caves, rubbing the Energon of her slain comrades onto her faceplate and playing dead as their pursuers stepped over her. Staying put when the world burned around you was a good way to ensure you formed its ash. 

It brought her back to that moment, pushing him forward, assuring him over and over he’d make it. 

“There’ll be three, one behind, two at the sides. You’ll need’a fly low. They’ll outmaneuver ya no matter what height, but if ya stay low, the environment becomes yer friend. They’re delicate. You’ ain’t. All you hafta do is get us close to camp. Aerial support takes it from there. We’ll be wit’ ya the whole way. Hey, when we make it outta this, we’ll have a wicked story ta tell, right?”

Wicked story. Was that what this would be? Another wicked story that she would hide and that Uptick would forget? God, she’d been optimistic then. If only it hadn’t died alongside him.

Pushing her past to the back of the mind, where it belonged, Channel climbed atop the generator she’d shoved in front of the door and crouched, pressing a hand to it. The door responded and she ordered it to open on a delay in five kliks. 

One klik. She readied her rocket blaster, feeling its weight against her body. 

Two kliks. A sparklet cried out and fell silent. 

Three kliks. Her helmache was growing worse, and her danger sensors were shrieking again. 

Four kliks. Metal crunched between teeth that had grown sharp with hunger. 

Five kliks. The pistons in her legs tensed as the door slid open. 

The clinic was in ruins. Energon was streaked over everything, the cubes she'd stored knocked over and shattered. The gurneys and tables had been torn to shreds. Her tools were scattered about like ashes and interspersed with broken glass. 

At the edge of it all, just beyond the threshold to the storage, she could see his skeletal frame crouching. 

It stood up. She leaped from her private quarters and bolted. In seconds she was outside in the sunlight. Whipping around, she immediately took aim. 

He hadn’t even left the storage closet, though he’d moved–backwards–to its entrance. His head cracked back, the last few bits of proper helm falling away and crumbling against the floor. Yellow optics met her own, sending fear like nothing else through her frame. Her servos began to shake in their iron grip. 

There were two signals coming from him, his own and the hum of the crystal still embedded in his helm. Together they locked onto her with bottomless hunger and commanded her to be afraid. 

She felt her helm starting to split, a pain building in her brain that was worse than any helmache. He took a step backwards, towards her, silver bones shining with the glow of energon.

Her jaw threatened to crack open. Her spark seized in its chassis, so terrified that it was ready to explode.

One of his tentacles ran the length of the doorframe, and attached to the end of it were purple hands from which five needles sprouted. 

The scream escaped her all at once and she fired. 

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

"Channel? CHANNEL!"

When she came to her helm was ringing and her body ached. Fire burned all around her, sending up huge plumes of black smoke into the clear blue sky. The heat was unbearable. Coughing, she slowly pulled herself up, dozens of damage notifications lighting up her HUD all at once. 

It was burning. Before her were the bones of her clinic, burning and broken, blasted apart into hundreds of pieces. A mass of molten metal had formed in the center of it. 

She hoped Luster was somewhere in there as she moved to her pedes, gasping as she nearly fell forward again. Her plating was singed and her wiring was threatening to short at any moment. Her jaw felt like it had been broken, and her helm was hurting like someone had taken a saw to it. 

"Hello...?" She said, trying to respond to the voice in her head. It was familiar and masculine. She felt like she should know it immediately. "Who is this...?"

"Channel? It’s Uptick." 

Her optics widened. "Tickers? Oh, thank Primus you're okay! I—" 

"No, Channel, I'm not." 

"Wha--"

"You were right. I couldn't take them. I couldn't take either of them. I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. I shouldn't have been so stupid." 

The fire’s heat suddenly didn’t feel so intense. 

"What're you sayin', Tickers? What's wrong?"

"I'm coming back, Channel. I don't think you can fix me this time. I want you to...I want you to know that I'm sorry. I never wanted it to end this way."

Her spark fell in its chamber. "No, Tickers--"

"Look up. To the West. Do you see me?"

She moved on shaky pedes to the first break in the trees she could. There, on the horizon, was a black speck. 

"I've got someone with me who's a greater threat to us than any Rainmaker or Seeker. I promised her I'd bring her back here, Channel, so she could contact her allies."

"Tickers..."

"I'm not going to let that happen. She's...agh...she's got my...brain...but...but I still have control of this body. And I'm not letting her hurt you or Luster.”

"Tickers, wait, Luster, he's--"

"So. So I need you to hide. Both of you. Take Luster to someone who can help him, someone who won't make him an experiment. And tell him...when he comes back online, tell him...tell him I enjoyed it. The time that we had together. Even if he hated me." 

"Tickers, that's just it, Luster isn't..."

"He isn't what? Channel…the smoke. He isn’t what?"

And she watched his path waver slightly, knowing already that the knowledge would kill him. 

"He's...doing better. You were right. Sparklets. All he needed was the sparklets. Don’t worry about the smoke, it’s just…I just…don’t worry about it." She choked it out, vision starting to spin. 

He gave a weak, forced laugh. 

"I'm glad to hear it. Channel?"

"Yes, Tickers?" 

"Will you tell me his name, one last time? The one they took from me?"

She remembered it like yesterday. Uptick, fresh out of the mnemosurgeon's office. They handed her the datapad and its hundred warnings. As part of his therapy, they weren't to mention his old name, and never to activate the trigger of his name. Doing so would let every delicate seam the mnemosurgeon had sewn shut break apart. Doing so would let Globetrotter remember just what had happened that day. 

To think, for eight hours straight, he walked through the remnants of the fifth infantry, pursued by Seekers and just barely staying ahead of the advancing 'Cons. The spy was cradled in his arms, bleeding from a ruptured fuel line. Using the fuel in his auxiliary tanks, he kept him alive with his fuel boom. 

For five hours, he kept him alive. For the final three, he bled into a corpse. When he'd presented the small body to the medics, they'd told him it was a lost cause. His mind was so broken from what he'd seen, he couldn't comprehend anything else. For hours, he'd called her name, demanding they let her work on him. She could fix him, she could fix anyone. She’d promised.

Never speak that name again, lest all those cracks reopen and his mind break, permanently. 

She watched his form drawing closer to her, imagined the Decepticon aboard, holding his brain, telling him what to do, preparing to kill him the moment he landed. 

And with tears of solvent running down her cheeks, she spoke it. 

"Rotors."

Silence. Silence for far too long. Then he spoke, with nothing in his voice. 

"Thank you, Channel. Till all are one." 

And he dove, straight into the ocean. 

[kirbyoctournament]

After a gruelling six months, we're pleased to finally announce to you this year's winners of the 2024 Kirby OC Tournament!

We'll start with the results from the Second Chance Brackets. This event was hosted to allow those who were voted out within the first three rounds of the mainline tournament to participate for a little longer, and featured high-speed 3VS match-ups.

The grand final of the Second Chance Brackets pitted Noir Fontaine (of @desultory-novice), the long-suffering swordsman, against Rope MF (of @mint-termsandconditions), that one guy who really really likes ropes. Both contestants produced an incredible, ongoing series of finale propagandas bouncing off the strengths of both characters, combining both lore and comedy, comics, and even animations!

Their poll, ✦ THERE ARE NO STRINGS ON ME ✦ concluded with one singular vote of difference. This polled in favour of:

⭒THERE ARE NO STRINGS ON ME⭒ ✦ FINAL RESULTS ✦

WINNER: Rope MF with 50.3% of votes!

Congratulations to Rope MF!! This was an incredibly tight race until the very end, with Noir claiming a lead for multiple updates right up until the last moment, with a surprise victory for Rope MF!

Moving on to the Mainline Tournament. After six months of intense 1 on 1 competition, our grand finalists emerged as Valfrey (of @gethoce), the butterfly samurai who created suns at the beginning of the universe, and starstruck dee (of @starflungwaddledee), a palmful of waddle dee who is definitely very normal.

Despite their differences of vibe, both characters are beloved by the community, within the tournament and out, and their creators have told consistent tales throughout the course of the event. Valfrey in particular has spent her time doing everyone a great service by handling one specific menace, a story that carried through into her propaganda until the very end, while starstruck found herself rather lost en route.

None the less, as we don't technically require contestants to be on the tournament grounds to compete, their poll ✦ FOR THE SUN ✦ ran as normal! The results are:

⭒FOR THE SUN⭒ ✦ FINAL RESULTS ✦

WINNER: starstruck dee with 54% of votes!

For this poll in particular, we have an additional graph to show the full week of movement!

Despite a slow start, starstruck dee pulled into a tie, and then into a lead that she maintained up until voting closed. Congratulations starstruck dee!! Propaganda and campaigning made an incredibly noticeable impact on this poll, with every post from each competitor and their supporters resulting in an instant uptick of attention for their character on the poll!

Congratulations to the winners, and also to their opponents. To be among the final four of a roster that was just shy of 150 characters is an incredible achievement!

Our final wrap-up for the tournament and this blog will be posted within the next week or so.

Once again, congratulations to our competitors, and thank you to all-- contestants and spectators alike-- for participating this year! This tournament could not exist without your love of OCs, and we are thrilled to have been able to host you, your characters, and all the creativity and passion that has come with them!

[faithwritten]

my main dol oc winnie! :] he's very special to me and I finally wanted to peek my head back into the doltumblr scene... she's open for interactions of all kind and any poking and prodding!

more info under the cut :3

she/her or he/him + 18? (she doesn't know anymore) + bigender transfeminine.

winnie was an otherwise model student and a familiar face at the orphanage (she wasn't too outgoing, but he had at least a reputation of being kind or approachable). the only oddity winnie ever outwardly expressed was an affinity to crossdressing, she only ever truly felt comfortable when people thought he was a girl.

when he vanished into almost thin air, it was a shock to most. there was no warning for winnies presumed kidnapping, other than a small uptick in sexual or otherwise irritable behavior.

it took half a year for winnie to come back to town, and there was little to no warning for winnies return to town. she was just as dressed up as she always was, her hair was maintained and taken care of- and she had no memory of the almost-year she was gone for. to winnie, she was just returning to her routine as usual.

reduced to something airheaded, girly and giggly, winnie spends most of her time with her "friends" (people who tease her or take advantage of her willing nature, it always flies over her head), and is very complacent in the towns violent sexual nature. people take advantage of her, and she happily lets them. its only natural after all!

nowadays, she's recognized for her work at the brothel as a dancer, and by people she goes to school with- if you catch her attention, she'll likely take you on "dates" or try to be physically affectionate. she loves to "play" with her friends and give them gifts!

[magicshopaholic]

Part 1: A Rainy Day

Summary: Namjoon is on holiday with his girlfriend - and without Namjoon, all hell breaks loose.

Pairing: OT7 x OC (different OCs)

Genre: Humour, fluff, angst, chaos

Word count: 6.9 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language

A/N: I can't believe we're finally here! This fic has been in mind for so long, slowly evolving from a concept with a soundtrack to a whole outline and now to a complete half of a fic! Everything from the song to the situation to the leap that most of the characters will take feel like a milestone, so here's hoping it's a good one *insert gatsby meme*

The teaser to this fic got a lot of reactions :D so to make it worth the anticipation, this will be split into two parts. It is set a week or so after Dinner at the Kangs'. Enjoy!

Tagging: @bbl32@quarter-life-crisis2@dreaming-with-happiness@faearchives@margopinkerton@purpleseoul7@confessionsofamarshlily @jiminjhang @xjoonchildx @tarahardcore @infinitehobi @handfullofcandids @whoisbts @kflixnet (drop a message if you want to be added)

Listen to: “bittersweet symphony" by the verve

teaser | main masterlist

November in Seoul rolls around unexpectedly soon and occupies its usual position: a harbinger of the cold and white winter months, making the heat and humidity of summer a distant memory.

With BTS’s world tour officially at an end, followed by its normal uptick in concert clips and dance challenges floating around the internet while the company celebrates amidst figurative piles of cash, the members finally have the luxury of a few weeks off work where seeing them off stage and in casuals is the new novelty.

This includes Namjoon as well. After a tumultuous year of heartbreak and pain and longing, along with the real and genuine fear that he may have to give up the girl of his dreams due to extenuating circumstances, he and Kaya mutually decide that they need time away to reconnect with each other. Leaving behind their homes in Seoul and Amsterdam respectively, they reunite at Auckland Airport from where they take a cab in relative anonymity to begin their vacation.

With Namjoon gone, the company automatically takes it easy on the group as well. With Namjoon gone, the members manage to relax, able to keep an additional distance between them and the company before work inevitably starts again and the nomadic life of sleepless nights, dance practices and event appearances resurface.

Perhaps they underestimate their leader’s role in their lives, or it simply does not occur to them just how dependent they all are on each other after a decade of working, living and breathing in synchronicity. Namjoon is only gone for three weeks in total - but with Namjoon gone, all hell breaks loose.

With Namjoon gone, one member crosses a line.

With Namjoon gone, one member unintentionally makes a mess.

With Namjoon gone, one member makes a joke without realising its consequences.

With Namjoon gone, one member does something he’s ashamed of.

And with Namjoon gone, two members kiss someone they shouldn’t.

—

“Screen, food, lights - check.” Jimin tucks his bottom lip between his teeth as he frowns at his phone screen, eyes flitting between it and the writing pad he’s hastily scribbling on. “Need to pick up the champagne - oi, Jungkook, can you give me a ride to the liquor store? My car is getting serviced this weekend.”

“What about your Toyota?”

“It’s at my apartment. That’s farther than the liquor store.”

Jungkook pauses and looks up from the stove, across the kitchen island from Jimin. “Wait, the liquor store is in the building. Why do you need -”

“Not that liquor store,” interrupts Jimin patiently. “I need to go to the one in Gangnam, which has the tasting menu and assortments.”

“Why -“

“Because it’s Sooah’s birthday,” answers Taehyung from where he’s lying down on the sofa, scrolling through his phone and not bothering to look up. “Normal champagne won’t cut it. Not for Kim Sooah.”

Hoseok frowns, coming up from behind Jimin and peering at the writing pad. “Why not? Wait - why do you need professional lighting and sound equipment?” he asks, reading from it. “And food from Golden Pig? I thought the lunch was at MOBO Bar. Hang on -“ He looks bewildered. “Isn’t her birthday tomorrow?”

“The lunch tomorrow is for all her friends,” supplies Jungkook, pouring a steaming pot of cooked ramen into a bowl. “Tonight is just hyung and Sooah.”

“Yes, and don’t anyone be late tomorrow.” Jimin reminds them in a business-like tone, continuing to check things on his phone and tick them off. “I know you guys have to film a thing tomorrow morning, but make sure you come straight there. And, seriously - can anyone drive me to the liquor store or not?”

“I have a Zoom meeting starting in five minutes,” says Hoseok, clapping him on the back, “or I totally would. What about Yoongi?”

“He’s not here. He left for a meeting in Incheon this morning,” chimes in Jungkook again. “Won’t be back until later.”

“How much later -” Hoseok starts to ask, but is cut off by Jimin huffing.

“So no one can take me to the liquor store?” he demands. “Which is, like, twenty minutes away? I wish Namjoon hyung were here,” he adds sullenly, shaking his head. “He would’ve driven me.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” says Hoseok indulgently. “Taehyung, you can take him. Your car has a ton of extra space, too.”

“I’m busy,” answers Taehyung listlessly, still on his phone. When no one responds, he looks up to see all the other three staring at him. “Fine, I guess I could,” he agrees with a huge sigh, clambering off the sofa and trudging to the dining table, sliding into the seat adjacent to Jimin’s.

Jimin narrows his eyes. “It’s not such a big deal, you know. You can just give me your keys if you want.”

“Yeah, why are you in such a mood today, anyway?” Hoseok asks, his hands on the back of Jimin’s chair.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, running his hands over his unwashed face. “I’m just…” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. “Hungry, I guess.”

“Hungry?”

“That’s code for horny,” says Jimin, raising his eyebrows nonchalantly when Taehyung looks up to glare at him, but doesn’t disagree.

Hoseok snorts as Jungkook joins them with his ramen, silently sitting across from Taehyung. “That must be some dry spell if you can’t help out your buddy,” he says, a bit pointedly.

Taehyung observes Jimin for a moment, then sighs. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s go to the liquor store. I’ll help you look for the best champagne out there - and since you’re not driving, you can try every single thing on the tasting menu,” he offers in a moment of generosity.

Jimin’s head snaps up from his phone. “Really?” When Taehyung nods, relief floods his cherubic face. “Thank God. Because I - I really need tonight to be absolutely perfect -”

“I know, I know,” interrupts Taehyung, clapping him on the shoulder and standing up. “I’ll just grab a quick shower and we’ll go. Jungkook,” he says, waiting for the younger member to look up in surprise. “Want to come along?”

Jungkook, who’s polished most of his bowl clean by now, looks up at him with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Yeah,” answers Taehyung evenly. “Why not?”

There’s a flicker of doubt in Jungkook’s eyes which he seems to partially blink away. “Yeah. Yeah, no, yeah - I mean - sure.” He scoops up a large bite of noodles with his chopsticks and inhales it. “Jus’ give me a minute,” he says through a mouthful of food.

Taehyung nods. “Ramen looks good,” he says after a moment. “Can I have a bite?”

Jungkook nods instantly and pushes the bowl across the table. Taehyung takes a bite, slurping the sauce until he’s swallowed the entire thing. “Delicious,” he says honestly, waiting just long enough to see Jungkook smile before turning around and heading into his room.

—

“This one’s fruity,” decides Jimin, smacking his lips and frowning seriously. He places the small glass down and picks up another, giving it a sniff and proceeding to take a sip. “But this one is definitely more bubbly.”

It takes a lot for a liquor store to provide a tasting menu for champagne, but for the correct price, it can be done. Taehyung isn’t entirely sure how much Jimin has paid for this particular round of testers but he gives his honest opinions, careful to keep his friend’s spirits high for today.

It hadn’t occurred to him back at the house, but it seems obvious now why Jimin is so anxious about tonight. If Taehyung’s hunch is correct, it’s because it’s Sooah’s first birthday since they’ve gotten back together after years of sniping and occasionally hooking up, and Jimin has taken on the pressure to make it perfect to the next level.

“I like this one.” Jungkook points to a bottle on the shelf. “We had it after the last concert, remember?”

Jimin looks up briefly and shakes his head. “Chandon is the last resort, if I find nothing better today. Come on, it’s Sooah’s birthday. Chandon is way too basic.”

Jungkook raises his eyebrows but says nothing, his eyes meeting Taehyung’s, who takes his hunch to be correct.

“I’m going to go see if there are any other bottles at the back,” says Taehyung, leaving Jimin to overthink the little glasses of bubbly liquid. He stops by one of the staff and leans in. “Can you bill a Chandon anyway?” he asks in a low voice. “Just in case?”

“Of course. Should I combine it with Mr Park’s other purchases?”

Taehyung shakes his head. “Put it on my tab.”

The staff nods and takes a bottle up to the register as Taehyung turns the corner to another shelf full of champagne, Jungkook a few steps behind him.

“That was nice,” he comments, hovering at the edge of the shelf.

“He deserves it,” mutters Taehyung, feeling slightly guilty about his standoffish behaviour at the dorm a little while ago. “Guy’s stressing way too much. I know Sooah will love whatever he’s planning. She’s chill that way.” He pauses. “What is he planning, anyway?”

“I mean, I don’t know all the details but I think it’s one of those movie screening things at the park.”

“In public? At the park? What - are they going to sit in the back and pour out champagne while everyone else is drinking cokes and beers?”

“What? No, he rented out the whole park,” explains Jungkook. “It’s just them, with a huge screen and seating and food - and champagne, I guess. He’s got professional sound equipment and heating and blankets and everything. He really went all out.”

Taehyung stares, a bit horrified but mostly impressed. “Wow. That actually sounds really romantic.”

“It does,” agrees Jungkook absently, peering at the label of a bottle where he’s still standing at the end of the aisle. “I just hope it goes well.”

“So do I. And I hope it doesn’t rain,” he points out. “It’s been drizzling every day and raining in parts of the city. It could really put a damper on the whole outdoor movie thing.”

“Yeah. Hopefully it won’t.”

“Hopefully.”

A slightly awkward silence falls over them. Taehyung glances over at him to see him pick up a bottle of whiskey from the opposite shelf. He turns the bottle over in his hands before looking at the price tag, letting out a low whistle and placing the bottle back.

“What about you?” When Jungkook looks up, Taehyung continues. “Any plans today?”

“Uh, not really.” He pauses. “I have a date, actually. Kind of.”

“Yeah? With the tattoo artist?” When he nods, Taehyung grins. “Nice. Why aren’t you more excited about it, though?”

Jungkook gives a noncommittal shrug. “I don’t know. I was thinking of blowing it off. Going to the gym, maybe. Namjoon hyung usually joins me on Fridays and we spot each other on the bench press but I guess I’ll have to go alone today. Unless you want to come along?” he asks hesitantly.

Taehyung had spent a couple of hours at the gym yesterday but he nods anyway. “I’d love to, but why are you avoiding your date?”

“I’m not avoiding it. I haven’t worked out in, like… three days.”

“So come back and work out.” Taehyung frowns. “I have nothing to do all day so I’ll be here whenever. You may want to go easier on the weights with me, though.”

Jungkook chuckles, sounding relieved. “Give yourself a little more credit than that, hyung.”

“Please. Namjoon broke the lock on my bedroom door with one hand the day he left when he was looking for a spare set of Airpods.” Taehyung shakes his head. “He’s a menace, and he just adds to it whenever he starts working out.”

Jungkook laughs. “We’re definitely less clumsy in the gym than he is, that’s for sure. Is seven pm good for you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Dilara has been pestering me to give boxing a shot, so, you know. Tonight might be the night.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, of course. That’s a good idea. I mean -” He shakes his head, as though getting rid of a fly. “It’s… it’s an idea.”

Taehyung is about to comment on this strange response but notices Jungkook gazing intently at the whiskey shelf again, his ears slightly red, and decides not to.

Ever since the Samsung event nearly a month ago, Jungkook has been almost walking on eggshells around Taehyung. Taehyung wishes he wouldn’t; that night had been awkward at best and contentious at worst, and had been entirely unexpected on various fronts. However, he and Dilara had awoken the next morning in an air of mutual forgiveness and shared an intimate couple of hours before breakfast, filled with silent apologies and hope.

Regarding Jungkook, Taehyung had had every intention of giving him the cold shoulder for a while, at least, still somewhat peeved at the sudden confrontation from his very non-confrontational friend. As it turned out, the moment they’d all reached Seoul and climbed out of their separate SUVs, Jungkook had cornered Taehyung outside their building and begun apologising profusely. 

That had taken him more off guard than their argument last night; Taehyung had tried to get a word in amidst the explanations but looking at how horrible Jungkook clearly felt, he hadn’t had the heart to give him any more grief about it. Somehow, the whole situation had ended with Taehyung comforting Jungkook, telling him to forget about it, that he understood he and Dilara were friends.

Jungkook had looked like he wanted to say something more but he’d shook his head instead, and they’d hugged until Dilara stepped out of her SUV. Jungkook had skirted around both of them for the next few days until Dilara had left Seoul, after which Taehyung had gently but categorically told Jungkook to chill out.

He isn’t sure if Jungkook has got the message yet. He thinks he has for the most part; they’ve hung out many times since then, for work, with other friends - but maybe the mention of Dilara has suddenly made him clam up again.

“Sir.” The same store staff who was ringing up the Chandon appears from behind the shelf. “Mr Park has picked out a Cristal that will be delivered to his residence shortly. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Taehyung starts to say as he and Jungkook begin moving towards the front of the store. As the younger member continues on his way, Taehyung stops. Retracing his steps, he picks up the bottle of whiskey that Jungkook had been examining.

“Can you add this to the Chandon?” he asks, waiting for the store staff to nod before he joins his friends.

—

Seokjin [12:30] Are you working late today?

Seulgi [12:33] Not sure. Why?

Seokjin [12:33] I’m on my way back from Annyeong now so I should be in Seoul in a couple of hours. Wanted to see if you maybe want to go out tonight?

Seulgi [12:36] It’s supposed to pour today. And doesn’t look likely with my calendar anyway.

Seulgi [12:37] But I’ll try, in case something opens up.

Seokjin doesn’t reach Seoul until almost three hours later. The long solo drive was a nice way to get some time to himself, especially with the mild anxiety that had started to creep up over the last couple of days, almost as though he was forgetting something. He would’ve spent a lot less time driving but the traffic was maddening; as per the radio, it was due to people driving in and out of the city for the weekend combined with rain warnings. 

He reaches the dorm to find it empty. Ordinarily, he would’ve gone back to his own apartment but something about being back in his childhood home for a week, along with Seulgi’s distant demeanour, makes him want to be around his friends for a little bit. 

As it turns out, none of them seem to be home at the moment but he knows they’re here: there’s a bowl in the sink with ramen sauce smeared on it; a Gucci hoodie he knows is Jimin’s is draped over the back of a chair; Taehyung’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, the bedcovers unmade and clearly slept in.

Seokjin sinks onto the sofa and lies down on it, closing his eyes and preparing for a nap. He has no plans for today whatsoever, especially if Seulgi doesn’t get back to him. He isn’t entirely surprised at her mood; ever since he’d ventured into the territory of him and Nari, she’d begun distancing herself from him. 

He couldn’t blame her; he had no idea what he was walking into with Nari and the fact that Seulgi had to stand by and wait for him to figure it out would have to rankle. He wasn’t fully surprised when, a couple of days after the fact, she confessed to Seokjin that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to take some time apart.

Sleep doesn’t come to him, not really. He dozes off at least half a dozen times without actually falling asleep, his mind constantly replaying the last few weeks, with that nagging sense of stress and anxiety a constant in his mind. Seokjin lazes around until he marks the attempt futile, just as the front door opens and Jimin strides in with his phone to his ear, followed by Taehyung and Jungkook trooping in behind him.

“Hey, hyung,” they chorus, Jungkook falling onto the sofa next to Seokjin. “When did you get back?”

“Just a little while ago.” Seokjin looks around at them, rubbing his eyes. “Are you guys also staying here this weekend?”

Before any of them can answer, one of the other bedroom doors opens and Hoseok steps out, stretching and yawning. “Hey, hyung. How was the champagne tasting?” he asks Jimin, who holds up a finger as he continues talking.

“Oi, Hobi, you’re here, too?” Seokjin frowns, bewildered. “Wait, have you been here this whole time?”

Hoseok nods and points noncommittally to his bedroom as he walks over to the dining table to peer into a bag that Taehyung has placed on it. “Ooh, Chandon. Is that the one he picked finally?”

“Jimin chose the Cristal,” says Jungkook. “And he’s getting it delivered.”

“He did and it is,” confirms Taehyung, and says no more.

Hoseok raises his eyebrows. “Okay. And what about the Jameson?”

“That’s for Jungkook.”

Hoseok just about catches Jungkook’s surprised look before Seokjin speaks again. “So - wait, I thought Jimin’s lunch was tomorrow.”

“Sooah’s, and yes,” says Jimin, getting off the phone and finally looking up, seeming a bit frazzled. “Tonight is just me and her. There was some kind of confusion with the food,” he says to Taehyung, who’s giving him a questioning look.

“Oh, hey, if Sooah is going to be with you tonight, does that mean Chaeyoung will be home alone?” Hoseok asks.

“I guess,” answers Jimin vaguely as his phone rings again. “Damn it, it’s the park coordinator again.”

“The park?” Seokjin raises his eyebrows sceptically as Jimin takes the call, and turns around to look out the nearest window. “It’s already drizzling. It’s supposed to pour tonight, you know?”

Hoseok shrugs, while Jungkook clicks his tongue. “Doesn’t matter. Jimin is in charge and if he wants to give the birthday girl a night in the park, he’s going to make sure it happens.”

And suddenly, Seokjin knows what he’s been forgetting.

—

“Okay, wait.” Jimin exhales sharply and closes his eyes. “You said that you do have an option of a makeshift roof or something - but now you’re saying you don’t want to do it? I put a deposit down on the whole place,” he reminds him.

“Mr Park, I’m saying we can do it but I don’t recommend it,” says the coordinator patiently. “We use that for light drizzles or snowfall but the downpour that’s been predicted will render it useless.”

“There’s been a downpour predicted every single day of this week and nothing has happened,” he points out. “I’m okay to take that risk.”

“It’s not just the furniture, Mr Park.” The coordinator sounds mildly stern now. “It’s a lot of expensive sound equipment as well and I cannot, in good conscience, risk having it outside -“

“Okay.” Jimin interrupts him, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to think. “What if we moved it to slightly earlier?”

“It’s already drizzling, sir.”

“Fine, do you have a different spot in the park?” He asks through gritted teeth. “Something more canopied, perhaps?”

The coordinator hums vaguely and there’s the clicking of a keyboard in the background. Jimin rolls his eyes at Taehyung, who’s approaching him with a questioning look, and mutes the call.

“I’m going to kill this guy,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I've been planning this for a month and he’s pulling the rug out from under me now?”

“I mean, he may have a point. If it rains then your plan is ruined - but it’ll probably stop in a bit,” Taehyung adds hastily when Jimin glowers.

“God, I hope so,” he says, although even he is starting to think that it might not. “I can handle a slight change of plan with the venue but the rest of it has to be perfect. There’s the food and the cake, and - oh, did the champagne arrive?”

“Er, not yet.” Taehyung checks his watch. “They said they would send it in an hour, right? Should’ve been here by now.”

Jimin is about to swear but just then, the park coordinator says something. He waves Taehyung away, accepting an encouraging clap on the back, and gets back on the call.

“Sir, we might have something on the other side of the park,” he suggests hesitantly. “The view is not the same, but it fits the general requirement.”

“The view - you mean it doesn’t have a view of the Han.” Jimin takes a deep breath, preparing to choose his battles. “Okay. What is this other side of the park? Where - how -  I mean, what does it look like?”

“It’s in a way that the screen and the projector and all the sound equipment will be protected, but you and your companion will still be able to enjoy the beautiful outdoors.”

Jimin frowns. “How -“ Somehow, all he’s able to picture is some kind of garage where everything is stuffed in and just two lawn chairs and dragged out onto the grass.

“It’s available for inspection now, sir. But we don’t have a lot of time as we need to confirm the booking at least two hours before the actual event in order to make preparations.”

Jimin’s eyes widen and he lunges after Taehyung, grabbing his hand and checking his watch. “It’s almost five pm! I was supposed to have the venue from seven pm anyway!”

“You are an esteemed client, Mr Park, so we can make that exception. Our staff is very efficient and can help you -“

He resists the urge to scream over the phone at someone who, at the end of the day, is just doing his job.

“I’ll be there,” he says quickly and hangs up. “Okay, I’m heading out,” he adds to nobody in particular, but Taehyung follows him into his room anyway.

“Everything okay?” he asks, stopping at the doorway.

“No. Actually, you know what? Yes,” says Jimin firmly, shedding his clothes and throwing on the outfit he was planning to wear (comfortable jeans and a Louis Vuitton jacket, plus a Gucci hoodie of his that Sooah loves to snuggle in). “It will be okay because there’s really no other option.”

“Look, I’m sure it’ll work out fine, but… I mean, I’m sure Sooah will appreciate the thought no matter how it goes,” he reasons.

“You know, I’m sure she will,” agrees Jimin hurriedly, “but I need this to be more than just a thought. Okay? Because this is - this is -” He struggles for a few moments before giving up. “This is Kim Sooah,” he says finally.

Taehyung looks like he wants to say something but instead he simply nods. “Okay, go, then. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Yeah - can you bring the champagne down there once it gets delivered?” he asks immediately, rushing out of the room and gathering his phone and keys. “The food and cake will come there directly - hang on, I need to check out -” He fishes out his phone and makes a call, tucking the phone in between his ear and shoulder.

They reach the living room and Jimin scans it to see Hoseok, Seokjin and Jungkook in front of the television, sharing a large bowl of popcorn while a football match goes on. 

“Jungkook, I’m taking your car.” Jimin grabs a bunch of keys from the side table and, without waiting for a response, dashes out of the front door.

The park coordinator may not have been completely wrong; the rain is already at a steady speed, enough that most people have pulled out their umbrellas and the roads are starting to get jammed. He drives to the park anyway, a little unsettled at seeing it completely empty this time of day, leaves the Gucci hoodie in the backseat and runs inside towards the office.

The coordinator seems to be waiting for him. “Right this way, Mr Park,” he says immediately, barely giving Jimin time to run a hand through his damp blond hair before ushering him out under a black umbrella.

“This is the alternative?” Jimin asks a few minutes later, staring up at the thick cloth separating them from the rain.

“Yes - now I know it’s not probably what you pictured but it’s the best we can do in such short notice, Mr Park.”

“Actually, this is exactly what I pictured,” he murmurs, heart sinking. It does look like a makeshift garage in front of them, like something he would’ve planned back when they were in high school, using a bedsheet for a screen and a Bluetooth speaker for an innovative night out, with instant ramen and cokes. He’d hoped that now, all these years later, they were finally due for an upgrade - but the universe clearly had other plans.

Okay, Jimin. Stop whining. Just think. He takes a deep breath and turns around, wincing a little and trying to ignore how the rain is getting louder by the minute.

“Okay, so it’s… five-thirty,” he says. “Sooah will be here by seven which gives me just enough time to follow up on the food and drinks. What?” he asks, when the coordinator’s assistant looks confused.

“Well, it’s - it’s just -” She stutters, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Won’t the food get ruined, sir?” 

“Why will it -” Jimin stops, closing his eyes. The rain. “Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath.

“Sir, we can arrange for a table next to the screen under the roof so you and your friend can come up and take your food and go back outside -” He stops abruptly when he sees Jimin’s incredulous expression. “I mean… it could be like a buffet,” he reasons in a small voice.

“It won’t be anything like a buffet. Sir, come on -” He sighs, at his wit’s end and getting anxious. “Can’t we get - I don’t know - something stronger up there to protect us from the rain? The screen, projector, electronics - all of that is going to be under the roof. The sound is going to be compromised because of the rain anyway - can’t we just get a slightly stronger thing above our heads so the food doesn’t have to move, too?”

The coordinator starts to say something sympathetic when Jimin’s phone rings. He apologises and picks it up immediately. “Taehyung! Come to the other end of the park - no, not that side. The side by the exit parking lot.” He stays on the phone for another minute until he spots Taehyung jogging up the path with an umbrella in one hand and a plain tote bag in the other that Jimin assumes contains the champagne.

“Thank God,” he sighs, shoving his phone back in his pocket as Taehyung reaches him.

“Okay, listen -” Taehyung holds up a hand. “Don’t freak out. But I think when you gave the liquor store your address, you gave them your apartment and not the dorm. But - “ He says loudly, preempting Jimin’s heart stopping in his chest, “I got this as a backup,” he says, retrieving a bottle of Chandon from the bag.

It’s not what Jimin had chosen but the fact that something has found a solution is more than he could hope for right now. In a moment of emotion, he hugs Taehyung tightly.

“Alright,” says Taehyung gruffly, patting him on the back. “Come on now, you have things to do, Jimin. Oh, speaking of which,” he adds as Jimin steps away, “Sooah called me a little while ago. I don’t know if she was looking for hints or what, but I told her you’re working really hard at it.”

“You did?” Jimin can’t decide if this is a good thing. “Alright. Well. Got to get it done, then, I guess.”

“It’ll be great. Don’t worry.”

There’s a clap of thunder and they both jump. Taehyung opens his mouth, clearly looking for words of comfort but eventually gives up. Giving Jimin another pat on the shoulder, he hurries away in the rain, the umbrella barely helping anymore. 

—

Stepping out of a hot shower, steam still rising from the bathroom behind him, Seokjin ties a towel around his waist and enters his room. The moment he does, the first thing he sees is the view outside the window, with rain lashing down the city. He stares at it, horridly fascinated, when he remembers.

He sits on his bed, glad he’s in the warmth of the dorm, and makes a phone call.

“Hey,” he says, glad she picked up on the second ring. “How are you?”

“Fine,” says Seulgi, but she doesn’t sound curt. “You?”

“I’m okay. What about you? Are you still at Big Hit?” 

“Yeah, why?”

“Uh, have you looked outside?”

“Oh. That.” Seulgi sighs. “Yeah, it looks pretty bad. But I still have work to get done so I’m stuck here for a while no matter what. All I can do is hope the rain stops sometime tonight.”

“The forecast says it’s going to go on really late,” points out Seokjin, peering out of the window uneasily again. “I can barely see the river from my window anymore. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get home now before it gets worse. I can pick you up,” he offers.

“No. I mean - no, thank you,” she amends, her voice softening a bit. “I told you, I have a ton of work to get done. There are still two whole meetings to go - I don’t think I’ll be able to leave before ten, no matter what.”

“But it’ll get actively dangerous to commute in worse rain than this,” he argues. “The company should care about an employee’s wellbeing over a meeting.”

She scoffs. “You work for the same company, Seokjin,” she reminds him. “How many times have they prioritised your wellbeing over a work commitment?”

To this, Seokjin has no answer. “You have a point,” he admits grudgingly, and is heartened to hear her chuckle. “Okay, but can you tell me whenever your meetings do end? I’ll pick you up - and I’ll drop you to your place,” he clarifies quickly. “If that’s what you want.”

Seulgi doesn’t reply for a few seconds. “Seokjin,” she says carefully, but then sighs. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do but I don’t know if…”

He waits for her to continue but when she doesn’t, he speaks. “Look, I’m not trying anything,” he says, turning away from the window and feeling the same guilt he’s felt around her for weeks now. “But these are special circumstances. I mean, I don’t know if you have a window anywhere around you, but it is insane out there right now.”

“Alright,” she says, but she doesn’t sound convinced. “I’ll let you know. Chances are, the rain will stop.”

“Let me know either way.” Seokjin waits until she hangs up, not really sure what he was expecting from this exchange. Seulgi wasn’t off base at all; apart from the rain, the constant nagging guilt at putting her through this period of doubt definitely played a part.

He isn’t any closer to figuring out his stance with Nari. Seulgi feels far away, farther away than a girlfriend should. It’s a mess and all he can do now is wait.

The rain pours harder, the sky darkening and thunder deafening. Jungkook is lazing around the house, doing laundry and other chores while Taehyung is video calling a friend who’s working abroad. Hoseok is a ball of nervous energy, mentioning more than once that he hopes Chaeyoung is okay in the storm and safe at home. 

Seokjin just waits, until a couple of hours later, Seulgi finally lets him know.

Seulgi [20:00] Hey. So my second meeting hasn’t even started yet and I think the company has finally caught on to the situation outside. Apparently they got a government advisory about the storm and that it’s only going to get worse.

Seokjin [20:01] So… what? They’re not letting you leave?

Seulgi [20:02] They’re advising us not to. And honestly, I don’t think anyone should be outside in this rain. Apparently parts of the city are losing electricity, too - another team was supposed to have a work dinner in Hongdae but it got cancelled because the whole restaurant shut down.

Seokjin [20:03] How will you get home then?

Seulgi [20:03] They’ve set up rooms here - I think they’ve repurposed the resting rooms that the idols use on the top floor for the rest of us mere mortals. It’s not ideal but it’s better than trying to go out there.

Seokjin bites his lip. It sounds rather like she’s made a decision, albeit grudgingly, and in typical Seulgi fashion, has told him subtly not to bother coming over. It’s hard to argue when she hasn’t said it in so many words, and even harder to justify an argument while being able to hear the wind outside. 

“What are you guys planning to do for the rest of the night?” Seokjin asks, looking up at the others.

“Not sure,” answers Taehyung, getting up from where he was lying on the sofa and walking towards the kitchen. “Lazy night in, I think. Jungkook has a date, though,” he adds, grinning.

Hoseok whistles teasingly as Jungkook chuckles, his ears going slightly red. “I do but it’s raining so hard. I’ll probably have to cancel,” he says, giving Taehyung a sheepish smile that Seokjin doesn’t fully understand.

“Okay, so that’s two. Hobi?” Seokjin taps his watch. “What about you?”

“Oh, uh…” Hoseok shakes his head, looking a bit distracted. “Not sure. Why?”

“Just - just curious. Seulgi was just saying that there’s an advisory about the storm floating around and Hongdae has lost power or something, so in case any of you have plans…”

Hoseok’s face goes slack. “Hongdae lost power?”

“Well, one restaurant in Hongdae lost power as far as I know -”

“Chaeyoung lives near Hongdae,” mutters Hoseok, tapping furiously on his phone before putting it to his ear. “Sooah is out with Jimin so she’s probably alone…” He taps his foot impatiently for a few seconds before swearing. “She isn’t picking up.”

“Maybe it’s a signal issue,” Jungkook starts to say, but Hoseok is already off the sofa and grabbing a jacket. “Wait, where are you going?”

“To check on Chaeyoung,” he answers bluntly, rummaging for his car keys in the bowl on the mantle and dashing out of the apartment without any further explanation, the door slamming shut behind him.

Seokjin’s heart races; it’s a gale out there, but this is a sign. Chaeyoung must matter that much to Hoseok, if the decision was that quick for him. He checks his watch again to see it’s a quarter past eight. He traces the familiar route in his mind, calculating how much longer it will probably take him to get there than the average day.

Something clicks and he hurries up off the couch as well, pulling his shoes on before the other two even seem to realise that something has happened.

“Wait, where are you -”

Taehyung is cut off by the front door slamming shut for the second time. Seokjin hurries down the hall, checking his pocket for his phone and keys as he takes the elevator to the basement car parking.

If he had been amazed by the rain from inside the three storey dorm in Hannam Hill, he wasn’t ready for the real thing. The moment he pulls his car out of the parking lot and above ground, the sound of the rain hitting the roof of his car is like gunshots. For a moment, he considers reversing and doing this another day but the fact of the matter is that today is the day. 

In the distance, he sees what could be another set of headlights turning down a path and out of the main gates that he guesses is Hoseok. Making up his mind, he heads out, trying to drive as carefully as possible in the severely compromised visibility of the streets.

The roads are largely empty save for buses, some taxis and cars that seem to be desperate to get done with the night. Despite knowing the route like the back of his hand, Seokjin plugs in his phone and turns on the map in case there are road blockages, and starts driving.

He has no idea what Big Hit can possibly do when it comes to building any sort of nightly camp for its employees in the office. All these years, his attempt has remained to stay as far away from that artificially lit building as he possibly can, preferring to cling on to the vestiges of normal life outside of it.

Namjoon will know. The answer comes easily to him and even though the leader is on holiday, Seokjin decides this is enough of an emergency to disturb him during it. He calls him and waits, still driving through the rain as best as he can, the roads flowing and reflecting the street lamps, the sheets of rain falling with a vengeance. 

Namjoon doesn’t answer, possibly because it's his last few hours of vacation. Swearing uncharacteristically, Seokjin dials the next best person. The line crackles and a woman’s voice, a bit far away, sounds abruptly before another takes its place.

“Hello?”

“Yoongi,” says Seokjin gratefully, swerving down a lane and wincing as he splashes a row of bikes parked along the side of the road. “Listen - have you ever seen the resting rooms on the top floor of the company building?”

There are sounds at the other end, of similar rain and splashing water. The woman’s voice floats again, a soft “Shit” in the background before Yoongi speaks.

“What?”

“The resting rooms on the top floor,” repeats Seokjin urgently, honking at what he thinks might be another car coming the opposite way. The side mirrors are completely useless by now. “Have you seen them? What are they like?”

“Oh, that? The ones for the idols?” There’s a screeching sound on the other end and Yoongi swears this time. “They’re fine, I guess. I’ve crashed there a couple times after all-nighters.”

“Really?” Relief washes over Seokjin but before he can say anything further, the voice at the other pierces the air.

“Yoongi - that’s a tree!” 

“Fuck!” Another screeching sound, a loud one, and then silence. “Uh… hyung,” says Yoongi, sounding uncertain. “I’m going to have to call you back.”

The line goes silent but Seokjin has what he wants. He just hopes Yoongi is okay and makes a mental note to call him in a little while as he pulls onto Hangang-daero, passing building after building - museums, a school, the ramen joint where he and Seulgi had first gone to almost a year ago… he keeps going, barely able to see the flyover in front of him through the rain. His wipers work overtime as he passes the last building before the bridge, seeing the company logo flash momentarily in his rearview mirror before it disappears.

The areas off the main road are darker somehow, the roads narrower, trees thicker and the rain seeming even more stifling. But the closer Seokjin gets, the more he’s convinced that he’s made the right decision. He parks the car in his regular spot and, holding his hood over his head, sprints across the street as the raindrops pelt him until he enters the building, already fairly wet.

He doesn’t dither; running upstairs to the first floor, he knocks on the door, thankful that there’s a sliver of light underneath. Behind him, the storm rages on. As he waits, Seokjin turns to look outside the window in the corridor, seeing small gusts of wind and trees moving with the force. Twenty seconds and his socks and shoes are drenched; he slides open the window slightly and immediately backs away, the wind and droplets hitting him instantly.

The sound of the door opening is the only thing louder to him than the rain. He turns around, his heart hammering.

“Seokjin?” Nari frowns, in a college hoodie and faded jeans, thick socks on her feet. Her hair falls unbrushed down her shoulders and she’s clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand. “What are you doing here?”

He wants to smile; it’s automatic, so he does. Taking a step forward, he thanks his stars he decided to leave the dorm, rain be damned.

“Hi, Nari,” he says, watching her forehead clear just a little bit. “Happy birthday.”

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to drop a review :)

[wolfertinger]

Now Salem is complaining on his blog about how mean other trans men are to him about his fursona and use their “internalized dysphoria” against him and that’s why he’s not part of the transmasc community. The reason so many of these trans men he calls transphobic don’t like his art or attitude is we don’t actually want to see hyperfeminized FTMs — most of us don’t WANT big boobs or to be posed seductively wearing bikinis, we want to look like MEN. And then when a trans man says art like that makes him feel dysphoric and promotes the idea that trans men are still girls, Salem cries to his thousands of ass-patting followers about the mean transmascs who persecute him. It’s no wonder he has no community. Signed, a frustrated trans man.

tbh. i can see on both sides of this, personally. i could see salem's point, that yes, there is a fairly significant number of trans men with harmful ideas of what a "real" man is, including putting other transmascs down, if they are not masc "enough". for example, the kalvin garrah types, who think unless you 100% medically transition, go on the highest doses of t, and "act male", you are a "trender". when the reality is, AS IF every cisman is a pale, 6'0, jacked, chad jawlined dude bro. the reality is, men come in all shapes and sizes, and to insist there is a correct and incorrect way of being born and living your life, is not just wrong, but ignorant.

HOWEVER. salem's attitude toward transitioning men and mascs, is very clearly disdainful. of his few ocs, with gender affirming care. he retroactively gave one boobs again, and gave the other an hourglass figure, when he was triangular, before.

that in itself, is not inherently bad. tastes can change. but when you look into his posts. he shows, he either has very little understanding of what transitioning is, or how bad dysphoria can get, for other trans men. just because his dysphoria "went away" after, "he let his boobs hang," does not mean that is a capable fix, for transmascs with severe dysphoria. nor does he actually seem to understand HOW binders work, as he assumes they will be a sensory nightmare for him, and assumes that c cup breasts, are "too big for any binder".

similarly. he tried using his experiences as a broad brush, to claim that all trans men have the collective trauma of misogyny, and religious/sexual trauma. i understand, what he was trying to say. but ultimately what he says here is, "you are only scared of femininity, because you are traumatized, so you have to unlearn that" followed up with, positioning himself as some kind of figurehead of trans men, unable to recognize when HE oversteps, yet perfectly able to recognize when OTHERS, overstep his own boundaries.

and to be honest. i get constant messages from trans men now, expressing that salem doing his thing would be fine, but that his yapping about accepting femininity, is actively normalizing this line of thought with NON-trans men. meaning, harmful ideas of what it means to be a trans men are being internalized, and eventually just accepted as fact.

i have even received several pms, detailing how some trans men noticed an uptick of transphobic/detransitioning content, mostly with non-trans men fetishizing the """inherent femininity""" of trans men, their ability to get pregnant, or "forcefemming" content. (i have seen these things first hand. i cannot get screenshots. but i can personally say, it is fucking gross.) is this directly related to salem? i think he has a part in it, but he himself has stated, after he drew feminine trans men, many others began doing so, as well. salem, as a trans man, can treat himself and his characters, however. but the fact is, the more he speaks, the more he reveals how harmful his own internal thoughts are, toward himself and to others. and rather than putting himself in a position, where he speaks for all trans men. he needs to recognize his experience, is unique to HIM, not anyone else.

[sunshineandspencer]

Has to be a joke (Iridescent, Part 1)

A/N: I will be writing more based on these two (I'm currently writing a fic but wanted to put the ideas out) and wanted to show their first meeting :) I hope you enjoy <33 also this is set for postprison!spencer, except I'm too much of a wuss to go past season 10, so expect inaccuracies into how that all goes down.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!OC.

Summary: Spencer doesn't like the name of his new partner.

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: swearing, spencer is an ass™ (I have no idea I've never done this before sorry)

Parts: Pt2

Let me stress, this is not Maeve from the show, but my own Maeve just named the same to send Spencer into hell whenever he thinks about it.

In all the mind-fucking ways that the BAU have slowly tried to help her adjust - by that, her very first case was a misogynistic cannibal that seemed to like her a touch too much - this had to be the worst.

Granted, she is a pushover, and so she agreed to do this, so honestly she brought this upon herself.

Spencer Reid, the man she had been acting as a ‘replacement’ for while he was in prison, was finally coming back. Some might assume, ‘oh- this means you’re going back to cyber crimes right’. A fair enough assumption, and one she had made herself.

However, Emily, her Unit Chief, liked her work so much that she was asked to stay permanently. Of course, blaming the pushover-ness again, she agreed.

Now, not only did she find herself potentially becoming Spencer’s partner but she was tasked with cleaning his desk before he got back.

For the most part, they kept it clean in his absence, but an uptick in cases and zero free time meant that it became neglected. Everyone quickly agreed that the germophobic man would not like to come back from prison to a dusty desk. In comes his new partner, agreeing with a self-depreciative laugh as she stayed behind to dust off the desk and array of personal items.

Not that it’s wholly surprising that she was the one left behind. She is the newest member, had never met Spencer, and a massive sucker.

Just as they walked out JJ mentioned that he had an eidetic memory, so everything had to be put back perfectly or he’d notice. The last thing she wanted was her new partner, the sought after and beloved Doctor Reid, to hate her.

Quietly grumbling to herself as she dusted and set back the third Doctor Who figurine, very nearly done.

But she heard voices from beyond the bullpen and swore. Doing a final sweep with the microfiber cloth and then chucking it behind her onto her desk. Reaching out to spin a pen back into place and stepping back to stand beside her own desk, wondering if she looked as insane as she currently felt.

Thankfully it seemed like they’d had a good drive in, after all, he’s only coming in to get reinstated properly and then he has to take thirty days off. Emily’s rules to make sure that he gets to stay for good.

Nervously, she pulled on a bright smile, lacing her hands together painfully to stop herself from reaching for a handshake. Germaphobe, she reminded herself, don’t offer your fucking hand.

Spencer, as he walked over, must’ve either sensed the pure waves of anxiety crashing off of her, or just profiled his way to the conclusion that she was losing her mind, because he put on a soft and welcoming smile.

Right in character for the man Garcia had painted him out to be.

Once she realised he was waiting, so damn patiently for her to start talking, she blinked softly and seemed to restart with a friendly smile.

“Hi! I uhm.. I was your replacement while you were.. Gone. But they-- Emily, liked me and asked me to stay on as your new partner. I hope that’s alright, I’m still kind of new here.”

Oh thank God he seems like an absolute sweetheart right now, because she honestly couldn’t have been able to cope otherwise. She’s not good with confrontation or high emotions.

“That’s completely fine, as long as you don’t mind an ex-convict.”

This man, immediately, had a giggle bubbling up in her throat. A giggle. She’s a fucking grown woman.

So she stamps it down, to maintain her own image and save face in front of this downright gorgeous man.

“Of course not! I’ve read your work thousands of times, and everyone here has told me so much about you. A little jail time isn’t going to scare me off.”

Soft banter, she can do that, that’s something normal and socially inclined people do. Even with very attractive people that kind of look at them as if they clearly know how they turn people’s brains to mush. Like he’s doing right now.

Penelope and JJ had shown her so many photos of Spencer so that she’d know exactly who she’d be covering for - and then working with. And honestly, she’d been absolutely destroyed by him in sweater vests and looking like he doesn’t know how to use his own limbs. They’d described him as a ‘human bambi’, but clearly they still had rose tinted glasses on.

Because somewhere in the last decade they seemed to have missed the way their little sweater-vest-wearing boy completely grew into a man, and decided to use his Godhood to pick on his new partner.

When she finally stopped thinking about all the ways she was going to murder Garcia for not preparing her for this, she caught movement on his face. His eyebrow raising and the corner of his lips seemingly unable to decide whether or not he wants to smile.

“Wh- What? Sorry, I didn’t.. I didn’t catch that.”

He smiled, clearly fully aware of himself and how he’s destroying her ability to think, and she nervously returned it, wondering how hard she’d have to jump for the floor to crack open and let her drop.

“Your name, angel.”

Angel?! Oh, she’s fucked.

“N-Name? My name? Right, sorry. I’m Maeve Donnelly, but no one really-”

He visibly jolts, small but she’s hyper-aware of his every move right now, and that one certainly didn’t look positive. His eyes finally moved from her face to look up at Emily’s office, and she had to be careful to remind herself to breathe.

When he looks back, all signs of willing friendliness have gone, and suddenly she’s being scowled at, causing a lump to rise in her throat.

Confrontation is a bitch, especially when she doesn’t know what she’s done.

“Your name is Maeve Donnelly? Is this a joke?”

“I- no?” She was the one to flinch this time, by the sound of his voice and just how harshly it met her ribs clack against her lungs. “It’s- It’s my name, what’s wrong with my name?”

Tossing his bag onto his desk, he shoved past her to sit down, and she’s trying to piece together what had happened to make him react like this, completely unprompted. All she did was say her name, he’s the one that asked her to.

Still scowling at her as he starts packing away case files to work on at home, clearly not wanting to be around her anymore.

“What isn’t wrong with your name?! Honestly, if this is your idea of a joke, I don’t think we’ll be together for very long.”

Storming past her again, he starts the walk up to the chief’s office, and she’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that she might not actually have a job after today. Especially when he turned back one last time.

“And I know you touched my fucking desk, my stuff has been moved. Don’t fucking do that again.”

Just like that, as he stormed into Emily’s office and she stayed feeling small and entirely unwelcome by her new partner, she reminisced on the brief moment that she found him attractive and how she’ll never get to feel like that again. Considering he’s a massive arse who just judged her entirely by her name and refused to elaborate.

Damn, at the very least, she won’t have to deal with him for long if he gets his wish of getting her kicked off the BAU, maybe then she can finally go back to cyber crimes.

Want more?! Good!

[princess-self-shipping]

I did it! I made my baby! My first ever proper iterator oc Crystal Clear Tides is here!

They're a doctor that was made for the specific purpose of keeping natural wildlife alive as long as conceivably possible until the Triple Affirmative was found, as a means of ensuring no lives are lost prematurely and risk being entangled further in the cycle

Also some bonus doodles and a lil something special I whipped up a few months ago under the cut

It would appear that most of my previous patient logs have been relegated to pearls that had been brought to the memory crypts of my city without my knowledge, perhaps not too long before mass ascension had begun. While frustrating to know lots of my previous data had been lost in such a haphazard move, I can’t say I am too surprised. The immense uptick in pearls being used for memory storage and decreased care for biological life around my structure was enough of a clue to know what my previous denizens were doing, so something of this sort very much falls in line. Short sighted for anyone other than themselves once they decided it was time to leave this place.

Nevertheless, I wish to continue collecting my thoughts into logs as I had been requested to before, so perhaps it is best to start with this first pearl as I had the one I have made years ago.

To begin with, introductions. My title is Crystal Clear Tides, an iterator of the generalization ‘second generation’ which was made to solve The Great Problem, with intended secondary functions of medicinal aid should the need arise. These logs are dedicated recordings of my patients that enter my facility as time goes on, with as much detail as I deem necessary to disclose. This amount of detail will vary between logs as circumstances demand. 

With that said, with the mass ascension of our creators, I will be continuing my task of serving as a medical institution for the local fauna in the area in order to minimize the risk of their cycles coming to an end early. The cycle of life is a cycle almost as tough to crack as the Great Problem, but it is one I am willing to challenge to ensure the creatures around my facility have as long of a life as possible as to minimize how many ripples they create amongst the cycles from premature violent death.

This pearl will be the introduction recording to my logs. The rest will be properly stored nearby, detailing every patient that has come into my care.