#it was a reaction TO prowls actions

[wortsandall]

i have so many thoughts on mtme #27 and chromedome and prowl and i fear i am severely late to the party

[leftshiftwashere]

Showing him off because I'm proud as hell

I think the doorwings are one of the best parts because guess what! I animated them

So basically the animations they have: Idle, walking, running, swimming, jumping, hurt

He was a pain to texture and at some point I got scared I'll have to start from scratch, mostly because I messed up the files and the textures wouldn't apply. Obviously in the end I fixed it because I simply can't stop winning.

His animations also got a bit messed up. I planned for it to be possible to run and jump without the jumping animation interrupting the running one but oh well.(Not sure what went wrong I adjusted the priorities correctly)

Also I'm thinking of adjusting the hurt animation to be faster because it's not as clear

Annndddd also have a regular skin of him I made. He's very bald though

It's just that I got too hungry and bit his doorwings off. Whoopsies!

Anyway 👋

[dreamsofmoney]

-> L&DS Sylus x reader

GN!reader, sub!Sylus who resists but defeated at the end, dom!reader (kinda mean and harsh reader), slightly yandere Sylus, suggestive but nothing explicit

Sylus is portrayed as very dominant in game, the first meeting with him alone is enough to give a clear understanding of what kind of person he is (or at least how he wants to show off in front of others) : a strong and ferocious man whose authority rules over everybody around him.

For that reason, it was quite a shock for him to witness you being so daring around him during that night, the one after he had saved you from those delinquents (more like kidnapped you, but he sees it differently) .

To think that you were so helpless just a few hours ago when he had found you and kept you safe in his mansion ; at night you were suddenly brave enough to enter his bedroom, quietly pushing the doors, stepping in as quickly as a little mouse. While he was sleeping, you carefully took his large hand, clasping the handcuffs on his soft wrist and attaching the other end to the bed frame.

Sylus was a light sleeper, the minimal sounds of the bedsheets moving, the click of the handcuffs or even just your steady breath were enough to avert his attention. As the predator that he usually is, the white haired man was ready to pounce on his prey, catch it, and imprison it again for daring to prowl around him.

He was just about to open his eyes, until he felt a ghostly touch on his bare shoulder, going down to his chest, pushing the thin blanket further away. Now he could only feel amused by your manoeuvres ; really, the little hopeless prey he saved was taking their chance in seducing him with their charms, right in his moment of vulnerability in the middle of the night? He restrained a smirk forming on his lips. But what could happen anyway after he takes the matter in his control?

All of a sudden you grip Sylus's chin in your left hand, making him wince under you. He lets out a grunt when he feels his teeth clench under your grasp, urgently alerted by your actions he glares towards your direction but he can't see you yet. The lights above blind him and he can only make out your silhouette on top of him : one thing that he is sure of is that you're smiling widely at him, as you let out a quiet guttural laugh, mocking his reaction.

However, Sylus is a man who knows how to keep calm and stay level-headed.

" The little bird came for somethin'? " he teases between his gritted teeth. Sylus wonders what exactly has motivated you to act like this; perhaps revenge, perhaps you've realized he is your savior and you've grown a liking into him, hence your seductive approach for the night - or something far more sinister is in your plans.

Silently, you trace your right handed fingers over different areas of his upper body, your soft feathery touch lingering and making him shudder. Although he keeps his composure stable, you can feel the goosebumps of his skin and his body hair rising up. He grows impatient of your little game, as you keep playing with him and you tighten your grip on his face, you know it's only a matter of time until the tiger snaps : you must tame it quickly.

You push the blanket further down, revealing more of his naked body ; the coldness that hits him makes him tense even more, his glare becomes more menacing, trying to pierce right through you and yet, you keep an immutable tranquility in your movements. Suddenly, you violently turn his face to the right, Sylus lets out a small gasp, then he feels a crushing pain in his left wrist, his arm forcibly pinned above his head. He ignores the pain and when he turns his gaze back at you, you tower over him, you're much closer, he can finally observe the traits of your face from up close. He notices this intense shining in your slitted eyes, with a big grin plastered on your face, somewhat of an evil look that he cannot help but find adorable too. You seem amused by the situation, while Sylus cannot feel more frustrated than now, he's not in for the teasing and playing around anymore.

"Birdie I don't know what you're trynna do here, but I suggest you to stop. Prying on me so noisily, with this kind of ridiculous method and accessory isn't gonna lead you to a good outcome."

"No. You just don't understand what's coming for you Sylus, and you had no idea of what I am capable of when you decided to bring me here. Now I'll show you just that."

Sylus frowns his eyebrows at your answer, utterly astonished and confused by your words.

The swift touch of your right handed fingers comes in contact with the supple skin of his chest again, lightly pinching at it here and there, then caresses up his neck, while a subtle pressure between his legs makes him impulsively squirm underneath you.

"I'm sorry Sylus, but I'm the one keeping you trapped this time."

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Obviously this was inspired from the first encounter with Sylus in game and the moment when MC comes into his bedroom to steal the brooch. I really liked that moment in the game so I wanted to give it different turn hehe.

Writing is so hard!!! It's been so long since I wrote anything and this is my first or second time posting a drabble on here - I don't remember - so please do share, repost, like and comment if you like it and if you want more. Don't hesitate to come chat with me too if you wanna!

Also, excuse me for any spelling mistakes and grammar errors, english isn't my first language and I learn my language the way I eat my ice cream : messily.

[crxshed-skxlls]

Hey, could you do Slenderman headcanons with a fem reader

Yes! I can most certainly do those headcanons. Your sins are my command 🙏

— ❝ 16 Slender man x Fem!Reader headcanons

NSFW tags: exhibitionism / voyeurism, bondage, s&m elements, tentacles, teratophilia, dacryphilia, master kink, breeding elements, mentions of oral sex (female recieving), aftercare headcanons

As always, viewer discretion is advised.

Credits to the divider here.

Slender is a Service Dom. He rather takes joy in watching you melt with pleasure before he ever tries to pleasure himself. It turns him on more watching you beg and plead for more action anyways.

Slender loves watching you roam around. Whether it be normal hiking some forests or visiting a local park, Slender loves to watch you fill with a certain unease every time he's around. It turns him on as he prowls around to earn a reaction from you.

Whether he knows or not, you are also into his prowling gaze whenever hes around. Even if he was peeking at your window while you changed, it didn't matter to you.

Contrary to popular belief, Slender does have a mouth. Though covered in a thin layer of skin, he can easily crack open his mouth to reveal his sharpened teeth and slick tongue. Speaking of his tongue, Slender's tongue is easily the best to use during cunnlilingus (oral sex). It's long enough to hit all the best places.

I am a firm believer that Slender would use petnames like Doll, Madame, and Miss. He also loves your endearing petnames like sir, master, and (annoyingly enough) "Slendy"

Slender's tentacles are actually rather sensitive and slick, being that they're made of a special membrane that coats his special tendrils. (He also has a tentacle cock with the same slick membrane)

Slender likes to restrain you during sex. He likes sliding his soft tendrils around your wrists or another part of your limbs as he pounds into you. He finds it arousing to watch you struggle under him.

Slender has dacryphilia. He adores watching you cry whether it be from pleasure or pain, and it always makes his heart flutter with pleasure.

Slender is a sadist. After he soon found out about any of your masochistic tendencies, he went all out to inflict sweet, sensual pain as much as possible on you.

He loves to lick at the bloody marks he made on you, or the scratches his hands left on your sensitive body. He even would go as far as to make you taste your own metallic tasting blood, making you flinch and moan in his grasp.

Slender always makes sure to fill you up with his semen. He always dreamed to breed you, even putting you in positions where you absolutely had to take all of it. Luckily though, you've been on birth control. (No slendy babies fortunately)

— ❝ Aftercare Headcanons

Slender always makes sure you arrive to your house bandaged and tucked in your bed. Sometimes he's so good at it you wonder if you just had a wet dream or not. You've never really been to his mansion before, but you always pondered what it would look like. (And if Slender had a custom bed for him; he's a tall man)

When given the chance, Slender loves to converse about anything you wish. However it may be, from answering the most confusing questions, or answering your delirious comments. He may go rough on you during sex, but he definitely has a tone shift after.

Slender loves to cuddle. He likes to keep you close to him as he picks you up from the forest ground. His tentacles nuzzling you in a comfortable grasp as you catch your breath.

Slender always offers to help you to bathe. Considering how much of a trouble it is to clean off grime and blood from your body, he took it upon himself to help you on the hardest days.

The way you can describe Slender in his "casual" mood is "a protective gentleman". He has sophisticated manners and always talks to you in a gentle tone. When it begins raining, he often takes off his tuxedo and lends it to you before you can go inside. He always keeps a possessive presence with you however, keeping you in a protective hold wherever you go.

[crying-fantasies]

In health and sickness

Masterlist

Many words could describe him at the moment.

Overprotective, over doting conjunx, overwhelming, overbearing and many others that could be an excellent reflection of his actions and reactions, it's the second one that catches him off guard because he isn't sure if it was due to embarrassment or that it felt like a joke at his expense.

There are little options when his system charge way before the programmed hour, not knowing what is going on before his sensors show him in deep red alarms a focus of temperature in the room and the low registration of CO2 in the room, there is a way too short time for decision making as he finds you looking at the ceiling without blinking, chest hardly moving before a horrendous sound erupts, like an engine got stuck somewhere or a spark giving up, almost like a dying cybertronian or an idiot that consumed some corrosive substance.

He has heard both frequently in the battlefield, that's his excuse to call, and appear, at ungodly hours to the nearest clinic going full police car, poor the souls of any mech on his way while you were hardly battling off the mucus on your throat and the pain of your insides twisting, churning, trying to get whatever kept oxygen out of your lungs.

Nothing too hard, just the main problem being what humans call a virus, Prowl has to download once again the basics of your species and the recently updated papers about the whole deal, how did it came to Iacon when he was so sure the outbreak was limited to Stanix? How is it possible that there is no cure for this humorless pest, almost strangling the medic with his bare servos when the indications of "just let them rest well, a lot of fluids and a healthy diet" were all he could give you apart from medicine to only temporarily placate any symptoms.

Prowl knew that humans had a terrible automatic cleansing and protective program, but it still was ridiculous how it only took a little microscopic individual to have you in the verge of dehydration and suffocation, assaulting as an opportunist in your weakest state of mind to have him saying the same as always: you don't have to work, he'll take care of everything, you don't have to stress yourself because here you're safe, but his words aren't that believable as this is the result of the heat generators in the city falling once again because he can't still keep the energy flow uninterrupted, your little body caught in a decreasing temperature in mere minutes before someone else gave you a heated metal blanket to stop a freezing coma or something worse.

There is nothing left to do, only make it bearable for you, as long as it can last because even the most advanced remedies are lacking and he can't have something better in at least a few more years when he needs them by yesterday when it all began.

"It's okay", you try to calm him, knowing well how under his stoic faceplate he is freaking out, you just have to see how far Prowl is going, this is his second day working from home, his scowl is present as always but the way his door wings move at any sound from the street show just right how in the edge he is.

Somehow, your words seem to make it worse, his angry expression almost scares you, "don't talk back now", is his only response, putting a little cube with warm lemonade next to your side of the berth, internally, you cringe, thinking of the warm but also stinging fluid going down your sore throat, thinking how expensive a single lemon is in Cybertron.

But, above all else, seeing him so on edge puts you in the same circumstances, trying to talk him down from submitting a complain to Stanix's medical officers regarding the virus now in Iacon, he is so engrossed in it, not even putting his datapad down when there is an obvious notification of intruders on your door, Prowl only gives it attention when Bonecrusher ends up decimating the door of the living quarters by brutal force, falling with it and still punching the poor thing, growling and roaring like a wild animal, soon after the rest of the constructicons follow, but they look in a way you've never seen before from them.

Wild gazes, bared dentae, vents puffing out hot air, their armor moves and stands threateningly, they look murderous enough for Prowl to hold you in his servos, almost preparing himself to be attacked before Long Haul claims, "Where is it?! Where is the slag fragger, son of a glitch-?!"

Turns out, Prowl's anger and worry could be felt by them.

Turns out, also, that they don't have his filter of supposed control.

"What? What is this?"

Turns out, easily freaked decepticons, who have very little real interaction with humans, shouldn't enter the medical area of a corny website probably made by a doctor wannabe.

And it shows, in how Hook push them all out of his way when you cough once again, too hard this time, the paper on your hand now with a tingle of blood in between, before any word of assurance can be said from your part Prowl is the first to hold you near, Hook is fast to ask what is going in and someone is already crying out loud for a medic.

So much for a peaceful Saturday morning.

"This will do, this has to do the work", Mixmaster usual anxious movements seem to reach another point, normally steady servos seem to shake ominously when mixing something that smells like bleach, "concentrated citric acid, this'll kill it, show that thing not to mess with us", a drop of the thing reaches the table, an acid like reaction eating away the metal, Long Haul and Scavenger look with dread as the thing keeps eating part of the floor, smoke frizzing out of it, visors wide with obvious panic, the bigger 'con putting a protective servo over you, using his own frame and stopping his partner to get near in his hysteria while the smallest started to cry yet again while clutching your hand between massive digits, said cries only decreasing when you started to promise you were going to be okay, hard to believe when another coughing session appeared again, "it'll work, I swear, only a few sips of it and those parasites will be gone forever!"

Hook shouted too, "it's vitamin C! Vitamin C!", he holds down Mixmaster, who at the end just let's go of the cube with a strangled growl.

Prowl would never admit it but he could act normal if Long Haul was watching over you.

"We should punch them in the faceplates", Bonecrusher keeps going, going from one side of the place to the other, barely kept anger on him.

You try, you really do, to push yourself out of the different blankets above of you, but they have made the sentence of "keep warm to improve the process" a lot more unnecessary, as you're sure at least one of those is your weighted blanket, "I'll be fine" you promise once again, mucus on the nose, throat incredibly raw, pretty sure they can read the increasing fever in their sensors, Scavenger is the one closest to you, and is also the one hearing every word of yours and give it real credit, "this takes a week as much, just let it-"

Another fit of coughing erupted, and this time followed by sneezing, more blood coming and showing like an alarm on the white tissue, and someone shouting "MEDIC!" as if you have just been injured on the battlefield.

You're ready to die from mortification, preparing your lengthy apology to whoever has the disgrace to treat you as Prowl drives back to the hospital with 5 constructicons after him.

.

For my Prowl lovers fellows (sorry for the constructiprowl content but boy I love all of them together) @dundeey, @lovenotcomputed and @ikkosu.

[azsazz]

Keep It Up

Kinktober Day 19: Nesta x Reader [Praise]

Summary: Nesta let's you know just how good you are for her.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, FF

Word Count: 2,328

Notes: Don't come for me it's my first time writing FF.

_________________________________________

“Would you look at that,” Nesta says, blue-gray eyes drinking you in as she rounds the bed. You crane your neck, following her movements, desperate to watch her reactions, to hear those words you want to hear fall from her lips. 

You’re naked, legs spread wide for her to see. Your body is flushed from head to toe, chest heaving a little as you come down from your first orgasm of the night. The one where Nesta had sat on the plush couch across the room and watched you, demanded it from you. You whimpered loudly, back arching off of the plush bed as you worked your fingers through your folds, circling your clit as you stared at her, eyes wide and nearly begging for her words.

She hadn’t given them to you. Not yet. You know how Nesta likes to play, you earn your praise like the good girl you are or you don’t get her hands, her mouth, her words. “Look at me,” and you did. “Another finger,” and you obeyed. “Cum for me.” Yes, yes, yes.

“Please, Ness.”

Your cunt glistens in the soft lighting dotted along shelves stuffed with books. There’s no warmth in the room, not a fire in the hearth, and your nipples hurt from the tightness, the cold licking over them. You ache to have her warm mouth on them, licking, sucking, biting. Gods, you need her.

Nesta prowls closer. She moves with such grace, it’s a surprise she hadn’t been fae her entire life. With a preternatural elegance, she slowly unhooks the straps of her dress from her shoulders, revealing pale, perfect skin that dips down to her glorious, full breasts. 

You hadn’t seen her in days, off on a mission in the Winter Court on Rhysand’s command. It hadn’t been anything terribly serious, emissary duties with an ally of Night shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but the stipulations had changed on Kallias’ part, and you’d been told to stay within the ice palace until you could convince them to agree to your High Lord’s terms.

And you’d done it, but not without missing your mate. The crystals hanging from the ceilings reminded you of her eyes, her sharp wit and less than warm personality. It’s what you love the most about her, though, because while she may be cold and unfeeling towards others, with you, she’s different.

You get the greatest gift of all, her warmth. There isn’t enough to share with the rest of the world, so it’s mostly kept within the confines of your bedroom. You don’t mind, though, because there are often times where you don’t leave the chambers for days. And those are your favorites. And exactly where you hope this night is leading to.

“All pink and pretty for me, aren’t you?” Nesta praises, coming to kneel between your legs. She drinks in the sight of your glistening cunt, shining just for her. Your fingers are still stuffed inside of yourself, moving at a slow pace as you try to work through the sensitivity from your orgasm. “How about a proper welcome home?”

“Yes,” you hiss, spreading your legs wider for her to see the entirety of your eager, dripping cunt.

Icy fingers trail the expanse of your warm legs, from calf to bent knee. Nesta’s gaze is pinned to your weeping cunt, begging for her to touch. The softness of her stroking fingers doesn’t surprise you, she looks more enamored with how ready you are for her than anything else.

“Did you miss me, mon amour?” she questions, right as she brushes her knuckles across your throbbing clit. Her gaze finally flickers to yours, catching how your lips part to suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, your breasts rising with the action.

“I missed you so much, Ness,” you add softly, taking a moment to meet her gaze full on, nothing but honesty in your eyes. Her gaze softens, and you send those yearning feelings down the bond, diminishing now that you’re back together with your mate. “It hurts to be away from you.”

She sighs softly, a shiver working up her spine. It’s a comfort, to know that you feel the same as she does, like she’s missing a limb when you’re not around. She tends to lock herself away from others while you’re out of town, more irritable when you’re not there to keep her calm. 

Nesta leans over you, pressing her lips against yours. It’s slow, soft, and sensual, everything you’ve been missing all in this kiss right here. Paired with a finger sheathing into your cunt, all the way to her knuckle, it’s everything.

“We’re together now, mon amour, let’s make the most of it.”

She knows exactly what she’s doing, too. How to work your clit in tight circles, the quickest way to get you to reach your orgasm. You whine. You don’t want this to be fast, you want all of her attention on you all night, and the morning, and the entirety of your time until you’re whisked away on another mission from Rhys.

“Ness,” you mewl, eyes wide and pleading.

Her chin is lifted, eyes looking down at you and she jerks her fingers faster, twisting them to brush across the bundle of nerves you’re crying out for her to touch. Her pose exudes dominance, even though there’s no one else she needs to be proving this to, with you pinned by the movements of her fingers, it’s pretty clear what role you’re playing in this sexual act.

“Don’t hold back,” your name is a demand on her lips, and the tightness coiling through your cunt tells her that you’re trying to keep yourself from cumming, all to keep her fingers inside of you a little longer. “Cum for me, and I’ll give you my face.”

Her words make you explode, fingers digging into her soft skin as you cling to her, trying to claw your way through the dark. Your mind is muddled and Nesta keeps up her quick actions, sliding her fingers in long strokes, working you through that incredible feeling coursing through her body until you’re limp in the bed, unable to open your eyes.

“That was…” you trail off because you can’t find the words. Incredible. Magnificent. Extraordinary.

“You’re doing so well for me, mon amour,” Nesta says, finally leaning down beside you. Your naked bodies press tightly together as you roll, facing her. Her eyes have gone a touch soft and she lifts the hand between your legs, hushing you softly when you whimper from the loss. You’re all wet and warm, but the ache for her never ends, not really. 

Nesta lifts her glistening fingers between the both of you, pressing them against your slightly parted lips. There’s a hunger in her eyes that has you clenching your thighs again, but she’s wedging her leg between yours, and you grind down on the muscle of her thigh. 

“Be a good girl and clean me up,” she says, and you don’t hesitate, sucking her fingers into your mouth. The taste of yourself floods your senses and the bond in your chest goes warm. It makes you preen, when she shows you her delight by shooting soft feelings down the tether of your souls. It’s almost as good as hearing those words coming from her lips. “That’s it, just like that.”

You moan, gyrating against her leg, soaking her skin. Your fingers find her body to hold her tightly as you do, stimulating yourself on newly formed muscles from Valkyrie training. One particular grind has you weak and desperately trying to work yourself faster.

Nesta watches you with bright eyes. When any semblance of your slick is gone from her fingers, coating your mouth, does she finally remove them, grabbing your hip and pulling you further into her body. She leans in, devouring your mouth, licking your taste as you brush your tongue against hers, giving it to her eagerly. 

In a bold—needy—move, you snake your hand between the two of you, sliding between her legs to touch her. She’s warm, wet between her legs and she gasps against your mouth when you slide your fingers between her folds, brushing right up against her swollen clit. In retaliation, she nips harshly at your lip before soothing it over with her tongue.

You can be daring when you want, when you need to feel her as much as she needs you, and Nesta loves it when you do. So, you make work of it, falling into the feeling of her mouth, her thigh between your legs and your fingers between hers, working each other up as you kiss, touch, and grind against the other, a pile of tangled limbs in the middle of your plush bed.

The heat in your gut is present again, a burning through your loins that has you panting against Nesta’s mouth. “I’m—mph—I’m going to cum.”

“Louder,” she moans into your mouth, accepting it. “Let me hear you.”

Except, that she’s pulling away. And it hits you like a wave against a rocky shore, that she isn’t asking to hear your cries of pleasure, but those begging ones that you sound so fucking pretty making. 

“Please, Ness, I need to—”

“Need what, mon amour? Need to cum? How? Want my mouth? My hands? My cunt?” Nesta teases, licking hot down the skin of your throat. You arch off of the bed, flattening your head to the pillow to give her more space to work. She climbs down your body, pressing her hips flush against yours as she works. You can hardly even think when she suctions a tight nipple into her mouth, laving over the nub with her tongue. She nips at them, sucks harshly, her free hand playing with the one she doesn’t have her mouth on. Your fingers bury in her long hair, caressing the nape of her neck as she works. 

The bucking of your hips for friction does nothing to distract her. That’s your Nesta, hard-willed and determined. Determined to leave her mark across your skin in any way possible, love bites sucked into skin, bruises shaping your hips, teeth marks gone red with nearly broken skin. If you could tattoo her on your skin you would. Maybe you should make a bargain with her so that fantasy can come true. You want your skin, your aura, to reflect how you feel for Nesta on the inside, the mating bond thrumming with love.

“I need to cum,” you pant, but that much is obvious. Nesta licks a long stripe from your navel to the base of your throat and blows air on it. The sensation turns you dizzy. “Want to cum on your cunt, Ness.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” she grins against your skin, pulling away to give you what you ache for. She slots herself against you and you groan from the sensation of her hot cunt pressing against your own. Unable to control yourself, you roll your hips, enjoying the sound of pleasure Nesta releases as you take charge. “C’mon, mon amour. Show me what those hips do.”

Fervor consumes you. You’ve orgasmed once on Nesta’s fingers and it hadn’t been enough. To edge you further, she’d nearly had you cumming against her thigh as you rutted into her like a teenager getting off for the first time. It should’ve been embarrassing, but with the way she was kissing you, you were anything but.

The remnants of your lost orgasm creep back slowly. Nesta’s noises help a lot, and the way she’s grinding just as desperately against you, throbbing clits pressed tightly together with each stroke of your hips, adds to the building in your stomach. 

You’re both so wet for each other, soaked cunts slick and noisy as you move. You bite at the skin on her pale throat as her head is thrown back and she cries out with a wail that makes your clit pulse, beating in reaction.

“Gods, Ness,” you sigh, “You’re fucking beautiful.”

She hums, pulling you closer, hands guiding your hips as you fuck against her. The position she puts you in stimulates you more, like a part of your subconscious had been holding back, wanting to fuck your mate for as long as possible. 

“Right there,” she croons, lashes fluttering over intense gray eyes. “Right there! Yes, yes, that’s my good girl—”

Those words always unlock something within you. You lose all control of your body but Nesta’s there to guide you through it, soft words pressed into your skin as she encourages you towards the orgasm clenching your cunt.

“Right there!”

“If you keep making those noises, mon amour, I’m going to cum.”

You keep it up, releasing yourself and falling fully into it. You moan louder, more languid, drawing it out until Nesta is jerking against you and cumming with a cry of her own. Her grip on your body is strong, as if locking the muscles on her convulsing body will stop you from grinding yourself against her. It doesn’t. You move faster, reveling in her soft moans she makes, the bite of her fingers against your forearms. You’re chasing your own orgasm like hell, and the pool of Nesta’s hot cum that slides across your cunt is what does it for you.

“Fu-uck, Ness!” You cum with a cry and now you’re both a mess of jerking limbs and clinging to each other like the searing heat coursing through your blood is trying to separate you. You bury the rest of your noises in her mouth, needing to feel her against your mouth as euphoria wracks your body.

“So good,” she sighs, when the both of you melt into each other, the bed. She brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it sweetly behind your ear and presses her lips to your cheek in a chaste kiss. “So good for me.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Kinktober Taglist: @bunnymallowo @jeannineee@icey–stars @hannzoaks @harrystylesfan2686 @azriels-shadowsinger @alysena2 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @impossibelle @glitterypirateduck @reading-moongirl

[shadowflorecita]

Elain x Azriel

This dazzling art is by my wonderful, skilled, hardworking friend @moshimoichi, and I am so thankful for the time & care she dedicated in creating this beautiful commission for me.

Please do not repost, reblogs are welcome & appreciated! 🖤🌸

Below the cut is a little ficlet to accompany this sweet moment.

𖥧⚘𖤣𖡼

The sunlight was a steady stream, gilding the cottage in a summer morning radiance. Sparrows sang their cheerful melody as they flitted from branch to branch of the fruit trees, more birds joining in the chorus as they awakened.

Elain and Azriel had created a shared routine to rise early and witness the sunrise together. Sometimes they were tangled in each other, all tousled hair and sheets askew, watching the daybreak from the windows of their bedroom. Sometimes they were on the balcony cuddled in comfortable silence. And sometimes they shared Elain's favorite meal of the day in the garden. The most important meal, as she often reminded the Shadowsinger.

It wasn't a previous habit for Azriel to take time to eat slowly and savor a breakfast. Aside from official court gatherings or traditional family dinners, he usually had his meals on the go; quick and fuss-free. Boiled and peeled eggs, slices of toast, links of sausage, anything that could be eaten within a short amount of time or as he flew to his destinations.

Since spending more time with Elain, he found he rather enjoyed a moment to sit down with her for a meal. He indulged in her quiches and pastries, sweet and savory alike. The creations she orchestrated in the kitchen were some of the most delicious food he had ever tasted. He delighted in settling beside Elain, her eyes wandering his face, gauging his reactions to her cooking. They often mirrored each other's expressions, communicating in their secret language.

Azriel helped himself to the food on his plate, chewing slowly and luxuriating in the buttery flavors. He was fully armored today, prepared for a swift reconnaissance mission with Cassian. They would scout the coasts of the mortal lands, keeping a lookout for any odd activity, armed to the teeth and prepared for anything. Especially after the events earlier in the Spring with Briallyn and Koschei. If all went well, Azriel would reassign his spies back to the lands to remain as the Night Court's eyes and ears, ready to report if trouble transpired.

Beside him, with her legs draped lazily over his lap as she leaned against the bench with Azriel's free arm around her, Elain sipped her tea. She reveled in the nearness of him. It was not long ago that Elain had stormed into Rhysand's office on an early morning just like this one. The light of dawn was still peeking into the windows of the river house study when Elain threw open the doors, prowled to Rhysand's desk, her teeth bared with fury and demanded that the high lord understand that she had every right to gift her affections to whom she wanted. Without his unwelcome scheming.

Feyre and Rhysand had froze then. A stack of parchments fell from Feyre's hands all over the desk and Elain would forever remember the panicked look on Rhys's face once Feyre whirled and began snarling at him, viciously recalling Rhysand's own promise that Elain would be wholly protected in Velaris should she choose to reject the suppressive cauldron forged bond.

There were countless times Elain had been thankful to Feyre and filled with pride for her sister's tenacity for justice, but this moment immediately became one of her favorites. Feyre was a mother now, and the protective essence of an irate wild bear shone in her eyes and the scrunch of her nose. The image would remain in Elain's memory for the rest of her immortal life.

Elain triumphantly left the study and took the appropriate course of action with Lucien that very day to formally reject the bond. Lucien was... thankfully relieved. Elain had known that Lucien had a blossoming love of his own for the red haired human queen Vassa, but Elain would no longer politely wait for him to gather the courage to take action. She was an Archeron, and trembling fawn aside, like her sisters, she was also a fanged beast. The resolve to fight for what she desired for herself was enough for Elain to bravely face all consequence and cost.

It was a liberation, for that odd and misplaced link to go permanently dark. She understood the lifeless thread would always remain, but she felt like she wholly belonged to herself once again. Lucien took Elain by surprise by declaring an everlasting oath to never call in a blood duel against anyone Elain chose to spend her life with. She in turn, graced him with thanks and blessings for his own journey of the heart. Afterward, Elain immediately went to Azriel, explaining her actions, her heart, and her wish to never leave his side. If he would allow it.

The teacup clinking against the ceramic plate tugged Elain from her memories as Azriel finished the last of his tea. She had particularly enjoyed learning how he liked his tea- cinnamon bark and orange peel was his usual brew. He was also fond of peppermint.

"Regretfully, it is time I must be off."

The pair stood from the bench, their dishes whisked inside the cottage by Azriel's shadows. Elain was pleased that he had helped himself to two servings of quiche. She brushed off the crumbs from his polished plackhart into the graveled path. He was the epitome of a heroic and unvanquished knight, his dark armor and fastened weapons at a complimentary contrast with the bright, delicate blooms of their garden.

Azriel peered down at her, his inky curls brushing against his brows in the way Elain was so fond of. She reached up to run her fingers through it, overwhelmed with the need to always be touching him. Azriel beamed, pulling her into his arms and kissed her reverently on the soft skin of her earlobe. Then both cheeks, her chin, her lips, ending his affectionate conquest by softly nuzzling the tip of his nose against hers. Elain shuddered at his touches, the feel of home as his mouth and scarred hands roved over her. She peered into his hazel eyes, the colors glittering the way sunshine dances upon the surface of the Sidra.

So long ago this moment felt like an impossible dream yet here it was, real and palpable and hers. Elain's heart fluttered with gratitude and awe as she stroked Azriel's strong jaw, the tiniest prickles scrubbing her palm.

Azriel read the thoughts reflected in her eyes, felt them in the special way he was always able to. His hands squeezed her waist, pressing his lips to hers. Hesitant to pull away, his wings lightly enveloped them, the sun now peeking over his broad shoulders.

"I miss you already. I will think of you every moment until I see you again" he murmured.

Elain chuckled, a roll of her eyes and subtle shake of the head "You won't be gone long, I will see you for dinner! I hope everything goes well."

Azriel grinned, his hidden dimples revealing themselves. "Whether I am away for an hour or a full day or a month, you are always on my mind Elain. You and that lovely smile of yours. I will see you this evening."

Elain's expression was soft, her doe-like eyelashes fluttering "Until then" she said.

"Until then" Azriel nodded, and after one last kiss to her hand, took a few steps down the garden path and launched himself into the sky, the breeze from his wings caressing her. As he flew into the clouds to meet his brother, Elain scattered a silent "Be safe, my darling" to the winds.

--✿--

Thank you for reading! A very special thank you to @tealeaves-and-rosepetals for helping with proofreading & edits, I really appreciate your endless kindness and encouragement!

Feliz año nuevo friends 💕

[in1-nutshell]

Hey I saw that your requests are open so I decided to send one your way. A while ago you did a request for tfa character’s reaction to a spider-buddy. I was wondering if you could do something similar to that. Specifically, I’d like your take on how the tfa elite guard (Jazz, Jetfire, Jetstorm, and Sentinel) would react to spider-buddy.

Spidey Buddy lives!!!!

Hope you enjoy!

Spidey Buddy meeting Jazz, Jettwins, and Sentinel

SFW, Platonic, Human reader

TFA

Jazz

Spidey and Jazz met through Prowl once the Guard came back to Earth.

He finds Spidey to be an interesting person.

At first, he thinks that Spidey is a new type of human he hasn’t met.

Color him surprised when he finds out that they are just like an outlier on Cybertron.

Reminds Jazz of the Jettwins.

Has a lot of respect for the tiny human trying to do good for their community while helping Optimus’s team.

Loves watching them swing around the city with their webs.

Jazz has tried seeing how strong the webs can be.

Jazz hanging upside down from the top of a building. Spidey drops down a bit hanging upside down from a single web. Spidey: “Do you have any more doubts, Jazz?” Jazz: “Just one question.” Spidey: “Yeah? And that is…?” Jazz: “How do I get down?” Spidey: "Hold that thought.” Spidey climbs back up the roof and beings to pull the Autobot up. Jazz has a priceless face seeing Spidey pulling him up. Spidey: “Oh yeah, I’m also really strong!” Jazz: “Coulda fool me.”

Jazz love testing the Spidey sense, especially when they do mock spar sessions.

Never in his imagination would he think he’d be sparing at an almost equal with a partner smaller than any minibot back home.

If Spidey ever needs help, Jazz will do one of two things.

If he is available, Jazz is rushing to their side ready to help.

But, if he is under strict orders from Sentinel, he’ll make sure to send any available bot to go help Spidey out.

Jettwins

They met Spidey through Bumblebee.

The yellow minibot claimed to know a human outlier and they wanted to meet them.

The twins quickly become fans of Spidey after seeing their powers and how much good they had brought with them.

Jetfire wants to know more about the action-packed patrols and missions Spidey has gone through.

Jetstorm wants to go on patrol with them.

They have had a moment with Spidey’s web weapons.

Spidey and Jazz looking at the web mummified Jettwins. Spidey: “What did I say about going through my stuff?” Jetfire: “This is an easy fix, watch!” There is a faint glow, but it quickly goes off. Spidey: “Did I mention that these webs are highly fire resistant? And don’t even try and use the wind, Stormy.” Jetstorm: “Can you get us out?” Spidey looks at Jazz. Spidey: “After 15-minute time out then we’ll start with the webs. Fun fact did you know it takes hours to get that gunk off? You can ask Bee.” Frustrated Jettwin noises increase.

The twins love it when the Spidey sense goes off.

So much that they like to throw random things at Spidey to see them dodge or catch it.

Jazz and Optimus do tell them to stop after they chucked a trashbot at them.

Will drop everything if Spidey calls them for back up.

They have a plethora of excuses on why they had to leave their post for Sentinel anyways.

Sentinel

Poor Spidey…

Sentinel is screaming once Spidey deploys the webs.

Spidey hanging upside down from their web, waving happily. Spidey: “Hi! You must be Sentinel—” Spidey narrowly escapes the blast and the rapid fire of fist. Spidey: “WHAT DID I DO!?” Sentinel: “Take this you filthy organic—”

TWANG!

Sentinel falls to the floor with Optimus standing over him venting a bit. Out of pure reaction, Optimus had punched Sentinel in his asteroid sized chin to stop him from trying to hit Spidey. Spidey lands on Optimus’s shoulder. Spidey: “Yeesh! And I thought you were bad when the webs came out.”

Optimus does have a shred of sympathy for his friend, but at the same time finds it a bit funny.

It’s the equivalent of a person hanging from a chandelier to get away from a mouse.

Sentinel refuses to get to know Spidey or even acknowledge them.

No matter how much the tiny hero tries, Sentinel refuses to budge.

His prejudice against organics increases tenfold when Spidey is in the room.

Can not stand the tiny ‘hero’.

Refuses to answer the question about him screaming into his room after catching a glance at Spidey’s fangs.

Hates the Spidey sense with every fiber of his being.

Sentinel, did in fact, scream and ran to his room hiding for a total of 5 hours after Spidey yawned.

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter eight | back to black.

masterlist.

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!

cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 

Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.

At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 

On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.

Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 

He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.

The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.

Valuable. 

He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.

His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.

"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"

He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.

He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."

She'd left him speechless. 

He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 

Because she was right.

He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.

He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 

After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 

Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.

Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.

He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 

Things he swore to himself would never resurface.

"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.

Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."

Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."

Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 

The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.

"Not many people would stand up to you like that."

Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.

But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."

Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."

"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"

Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."

Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.

Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."

Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.

Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.

She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.

And he had failed her.

"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."

Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"

"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."

There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 

Fear from a man who claimed to have none.

The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.

The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."

Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.

Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"

Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"

Oh, that.

Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.

Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.

"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."

"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."

Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.

"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"

Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"

"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."

Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.

Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.

Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"

"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.

"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."

Reluctantly, Bruce let him.

As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"

Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 

He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."

The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.

The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.

She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.

The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.

Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.

Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.

Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.

Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.

It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.

Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.

Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.

She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.

"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 

The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."

"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."

Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.

Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."

Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."

"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."

The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.

"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."

"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."

"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."

"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.

"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."

"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.

Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"

Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."

Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.

She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.

Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."

"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."

"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.

Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"

Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."

Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."

Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.

"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."

"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."

Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."

As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 

Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.

"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."

Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"

Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.

As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.

The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.

They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.

She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.

"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"

"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.

Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.

"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.

Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.

Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."

Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"

Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.

"Maryam."

Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.

With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.

"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.

Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."

As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.

"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.

But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.

"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.

Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.

They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 

Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.

"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."

Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."

Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."

Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.

Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"

"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.

Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.

"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.

Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.

Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.

Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"

When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.

"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.

No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.

Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.

"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.

"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.

Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."

As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.

"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.

"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.

Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.

Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.

As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.

Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.

Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.

"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"

"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."

"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.

Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."

Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."

In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.

She didn't have to wonder for long.

Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 

He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.

"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.

"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.

"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.

"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.

"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.

But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.

Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"

"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.

Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"

But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.

"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.

Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."

Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"

Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."

Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.

A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.

Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.

Oz Cobblepot. Of course.

The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 

What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.

"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.

Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 

She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.

As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 

The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.

People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.

Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 

Always lurking, he thought grimly.

Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"

His blood chilled at the sight.

The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.

He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.

The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.

"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne's here!"

The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.

Then he saw them.

Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 

He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.

A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?

But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.

Maryam Ben Halimi.

The haunting of his dreams. 

Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.

Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 

The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 

All he could see was her.

Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 

For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 

He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.

Then she moved.

Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.

What is she doing?

His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 

The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.

He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.

And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.

As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.

She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.

Still, he couldn't look away. 

It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.

It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.

"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.

Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.

The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.

The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 

But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.

The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 

The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.

"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.

Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.

The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.

"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"

Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."

The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.

And yet, the sting remained.

But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.

Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.

"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."

Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"

Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"

A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.

Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.

"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.

Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.

Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 

Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."

Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."

Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.

"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.

His focus was singular now.

Maryam.

previous chapter | next

Oooooop 👀👀

I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :

[ Translation ]

Amti : aunt.

Khalas : stop.

[darkeraurora]

Admissions Chapter 2 - Opening Up

Fluffy filler, SFW. Rather short.

Ghost starts using his words.

This is kinda shit imo. But holidays are busy and I've been sick, I'll come back and spruce it up later.

The silent skull prowled the corridors in the dead of night.

Always watching. Listening.

His senses never shutting off.

Voices echoed from around the corner. Lights out was a few hours ago, the lieutenant decided to investigate.

And what’s going on here?

The little one sat close – uncomfortably close for Simon’s liking – to…

Who was this anyway?

Some guy.

What the fuck did this knobhead do to earn her attention?

Keeping to the shadows, the Brit stealthily drifted closer to the entryway to the common room. Oh right, the tall black-haired guy who had hugged her while she made coffee the other morning.

He’d kissed her too.

On the top of her head, but that didn’t make it any less painful to witness.

Ghost knew he should leave. Give them their privacy. He ordered himself to, but his body refused to obey and stayed stuck in place.

Whatever they were talking about, it was an animated discussion. Some Guy was gesturing, then touching somewhere Simon couldn’t see. A stupid fucking chair was blocking his line of sight, but he could tell it was in Sereza’s lap. From where he stood it looked like he was running his hand up and down her thigh. Then again, maybe he wasn’t – but the angle fit.

The couple looked down at something, then the little one rested her head against Some Guy’s shoulder. Her beautiful smile on full display as she laughed.

An uncomfortable feeling settled like lead in Simon’s stomach. No sooner than it appeared, a wave of misery snuffed it out when she smiled warmly at something Some Guy had said and he lifted his arm, putting it around her and pulling her close to his side. He then pressed a kiss to the side of her head. Sereza didn’t resist.

Simon turned away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hours later, Ghost wandered back through the hallways.

He was a man on a mission— his target: the kettle in the common room’s kitchen area.

A Brit needs his tea after all, and the lieutenant had none. A catastrophe that required immediate action. Simon had half expected these Yanks to microwave water. A thought that was enough to make his teeth itch. But he’d been relieved to find a kettle.

Small miracles.

His hobbling pace slowed as he materialized out of the hallway’s darkness. A little one was still out of bed, curled up in the same spot she had been in earlier. Luckily Some Guy was gone.

At last, it was just the two of them once again. Alone.

“Hey Ghost! What brings you here at this hour?”

She sounded awfully wide awake and chipper for damn-near three in the goddamn morning, not that he had much room to talk. Awake he might be, Simon was categorically not chipper. He grunted. “Cuppa.”

Never had been good with words.

A small grin tugged at the corner of his masked mouth as the little one visibly tried to translate what ‘cuppa’ meant into American. “Ah. Please tell me you don’t put ice in yours.”

Ghost straightened to his full height as he shot her a look, dismayed at the very thought. No proper, self-respecting Brit would ever consider such a thing.

The tiny female giggled at his reaction, unknowingly settling the lieutenant's ever-present anxiety. “I’ll take that as a no. Good; we can be friends then.” The skull cocked his head to the side. “I asked Rafael for tea once and he put ice in it. He’s been grounded from making my tea ever since and that was three years ago,” she went on to explain.

Simon nodded in approval. Good girl.

He turned his back to her and set the kettle to boil.

‘We can be friends.’

Hm, well he supposed as… friends… it would only be polite of him to engage her in a bit of small talk. He wasn’t usually one for chitchat, but if he must- “What about you?”

Sereza blew eraser shavings from her drawing. “What about me?”

“It’s late, aren’t you tired?”

“Kinda, but I’m on call tonight so no sleeping for me. And I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Why?”

She was quiet a moment before answering this time. “My head gets really active at night sometimes and won’t let me.”

The skull hummed, understanding all too well. “What’re you drawing?” he changed the subject.

“A tattoo. Rafael was in here earlier and we were discussing the design for his new one.” She flipped her sketchbook around, showing him her work. Ghost nodded as he looked it over, genuinely impressed. “You have any tattoos?” He pulled back the sleeve of his black hoodie above his wrist, showing her the hidden ink. “May I?”

It felt absurd how much he appreciated her asking before touching him. He nodded again, albeit more slowly this time, and stepped closer. Sereza took his gloved hand, rotating his arm as she looked him over. Meanwhile, Simon’s eyes focused on Sereza’s hand. So small compared to his. Delicate, slender fingers. Pretty little pale pink nails. Smooth and cool skin… Such a contrast to him.

“That’s a really nice piece Ghost! You’ve got a good artist!” He said nothing in response. Yeah the artist was talented but he would rather it be her artwork covering his skin, but this woman made him weirdly tongue-tied so he settled for the next best option and only hummed in response to her compliment.

She tugged his sleeve back down for him. Simon had to take a moment to find his voice again. Fortunately the kettle was ready. Perfect timing.

Not until the bag was steeping in his mug did he feel able to speak again. “You draw for him often?”

“I draw for a lot of people around here and quite often.”

Oh. Okay, that was fine then.   …He guessed.

Are you together?

Is he kind to you?

…Are you happy with him?

So many things he wanted to know. While they were near the top of the list, those seemed a bit invasive so the Brit settled for something more general. “How long have you known him?”

“About, hm,” she paused and momentarily crinkled her nose as she thought. Simon wondered if she was even aware of it, or of how adorable she looked doing it. “Ten years or so.”

Oh shit, they were serious about each other then. “Command is alright with it?” Relationships were frowned upon if the couple was too far apart in rank, and definitely not allowed between officers and enlisted. Ghost has seen Some Guy a couple of times around base; he was a captain, but what rank was the peanut? He’d never picked it up nor had anyone addressed her by rank.

Hazel eyes blinked up at him, confused. “Huh?”

“You’re… dating, right?” he forced out the question. “You two were quite close earlier.”

Sereza’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead as she realized what he was getting at. “Oh! Nononono, Rafael is my brother,” she explained with a laugh.

Fucking dammit. Simon felt ridiculous. Equally relieved and ridiculous. “Sorry, uh… I saw you together earlier and assumed…” he trailed off.

“Don’t worry about it sweetie, you’re fine. You didn’t know.”

…Sweetie??

Ghost quietly cleared his throat. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Sereza addressing him like that. Not a bad feeling though, whatever it was.

But he wasn’t sweet though, goddammit.

“Rafael is my half-brother, to be more precise. He found me about ten years ago, then a few years after that he joined a unit up north and heard they wanted people. And that’s how I got here,” Sereza explained while applying the finishing touches to her drawing.

“I see.”

“Mhm, so it’s all his fault,” she softly giggled, concealing her surprise when a quiet laugh huffed out of the stoic lieutenant as well. “Can I ask about you now?” Since he appeared to be in a relaxed mood, she decided to test her luck just a bit. See how far he would let her go.

Simon felt himself instantly tensing up. “Like what?”

Though the balaclava hid it well, his expression changing from calm to guarded didn’t go entirely unnoticed. Her late-night visitor didn’t want to get into personal territory. Which was fine, she could understand and respect that. “Where in England are you from?” Sereza asked, deciding to start small.

“Manchester. My turn.”

Well that didn’t last long. Sereza suppressed a laugh at how quickly Ghost put a full and complete stop to that. “Ask away.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Argentina. Zárate if you meant where specifically.”

“What’s your rank?”

“None. I’m a civilian, contracted.” The Brit only murmured in acknowledgment. Sereza continued, “To be honest, they offered me rank when I signed on for this little vacation, but I declined.”

“Why?”

This is turning into something of an interrogation. Her shoulders casually shrugged, “Didn’t want to accept something I hadn’t earned.”

Ghost respected the hell out of that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I’d murder for a whiskey.

Simon limped down the halls. His fractured foot felt much better but fucking hell having both his physical activity and movement limited like this was driving him mad. Up ahead, just the man he was after.

Price and the little one stood side by side. People-watching, from the look of it.

For a moment he simply took her in. Her hair was down today, a lush caramel sheet that draped over her shoulders. She wore leggings instead of the pants she’d normally had, which showed off her figure much better, paired with a deep turquoise shirt and a loose black hoodie. Must be her day off. She was leaned back against the wall with one foot up, every few seconds she gestured in some direction and said something to John. The older man listened intently, eyes focused in the direction of whatever she was saying, clearly learning something important.

The little one noticed the Brit making his way over and shot him a bright smile. Simon had to look down at his feet a moment.

Fuck me, that smile.

“Having a chinwag Price?” The Brit cringed at his growly tone. Sometimes he wished he didn’t always sound so angry, especially around Sereza.

The captain grinned and indicated toward the little one. “Getting intel.”

Ghost silently posted up alongside the pair. She pointed again, “That guy over there? Goes by Crash. Appropriately named; do not let that man drive you anywhere. And over there is Dice. He’s a sniper on my brother’s team. Good guy, great shot, but don’t play poker with him when he asks you, he’ll end up owning your house. At the very end of that hallway he’s turning down is supply, by the way. In case you guys need any stuff for soldier-ing you can get it there.”

“Mm,” Price hummed, sounding intrigued. “Quite like stuff.”

Ghost’s least favorite person in Westforge pranced by. “And that guy with the short lab coat is Donald Abrams,” Sereza grumbled. “Nicest thing I can say about him is he’s about as useful as a white crayon and nowhere near as sharp.”

“Ha!” Price snickered at her comment.

The skull next to her rumbled discontentedly. ‘Donald.' Stupid fucking shit would have a stupid fucking name like Donald.

“I take it they’ve met,” The captain guessed, still chortling. Sereza’s lips pressed tightly together as she rapidly nodded, making the captain chuckle again. “Did you make a new friend?” he asked, directing his attention to Ghost.

“No,” both Simon and Sereza answered in unison.

They continued to listen as Sereza pointed out more important people and places the 141 might need to know about. Simon leaned down, “Got intel on the gym, Peanut?”

Price burst into a fit of laughter so hard his face looked a little red.

“Peanut?!” Sereza whined.

He hadn't meant to use the nickname he'd given her, it just came out. Ghost shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “What of it? It fits. Grow bigger if you don’t like it.”

“Suppose you are pretty tiny next to him Darlin’,” Price continued to laugh, eyes crinkled in amusement.

She sighed, seeming to give up. “Yeahhhh. I feel like a toddler.”

Price laughed again at her self-deprecating joke. “Just takin’ the piss. He makes everyone look small,” he consoled with a sympathetic pat on her shoulder.

Simon reached over and lightly patted the top of her head.

As the people-watching resumed, Price snuck subtle glances in Simon’s direction every so often. If I didn’t know any better…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Goddamn this maze.

She’d said two lefts, a right, another left, go straight past three doors then two more lefts and a right.

Right??

After weeks of this fucking boot Simon was itching to get back in the gym, even if he'd have limited options. First though he’d have to locate the damn thing. Problem was Westforge was colossal and it seemed no one here believed in signs.

“Haunting the hallways?”

Ghost grumbled as he turned and peered down at the tiny female coming up from behind him. How did she manage to sneak up on him? Not that he minded exactly, but it was very unlike him to not be aware of someone approaching. Maybe it was her fault, for keeping him distracted all the fucking time.

Sereza took note of his clothing. Casual, still clean… “Off to the gym?” Simon only stood silently in place. “Lost huh?” The Brit slowly blinked his black eyes and made another noise. He hated being obvious. “This way,” she gestured with a nod of her pretty little head. “Follow Peanut.”

But the stubborn lieutenant stayed put. “Not having you go outta your way for me.” His baritone voice made it sound like she’d thrown down a gauntlet he refused to pick up. Maybe she had in a sense; this would mean accepting help – a kindness – from someone. Not something he was entirely comfortable with. Or used to.

Sereza turned back, giving him a sweet smile. “Not out of my way, not really. I had to head over there eventually regardless. And before you say something about troubling or inconveniencing me, you’re not. Promise.” He continued staring her down, unconvinced. “I have surgery in a bit and the gym is on the way there.” Sereza could visibly see the guarded expression shift beneath the balaclava into what she supposed was genuine concern. She could only see a tiny part of his face so she could only speculate.

Internally, it felt like the floor he stood on suddenly dropped from beneath his feet. Simon’s chest felt tight and his pulse began to pick up.

Surgery?

Was it something bad? She seemed fine, but-

What if… she didn’t make it?

What if he lost her too?

The little one bit her lower lip and her eyes dropped to her feet, mistaking the skull’s silence for annoyance. “Or, I don’t have to if you don’t want, but um, they’re waiting on me, so... I’ll see you around Ghost.” With a whirl of honeyed curls, she turned and began quickly walking away.

“I do.”

Those tiny feet of hers stopped as she looked back at him. Ghost trudged closer, abyssal eyes peeking cautiously at the object of his vexation. She’d sounded sad - he’d hurt her - and then she began to leave and Ghost couldn’t stop himself. “I do-,” he repeated before awkwardly pausing, “want to walk with you.”

…Stay.

…. Don’t leave yet…

“You have surgery?”

She nodded, “Just an appendectomy. Not my usual kind of surgeries but I was already up. And this way they won’t have to wake someone else or tie up the surgeon on call."

Simon pondered a moment about just how dense he could be, how he hadn’t put two and two together before now. Normally he was quite astute; maybe he had actually hit his head at some point on that last mission. “Thought you were a medic.”

Just as she began to answer, her phone chimed. “Sorry, one sec,” she replied instead, but before answering the text she pulled her lanyard from her pocket, handing Ghost her ID.

Sereza Olivares, MD. Trauma Surgeon.

There weren’t words for how relieved he felt. The surgery wasn’t for her; she was doing it. Dark eyes cut over to the woman walking by his shoulder, discreetly appraising her while they walked together and appreciating her in a whole new light. Sereza wasn’t just pretty and kind, but also successful. Accomplished. And extremely fucking intelligent evidently.

What would someone like him possibly have to offer her? Absolutely nothing.

She had no need of him.

He forced down a hard lump in his throat as he returned the badge. “Simon Riley.”

[ricegobbler]

Hi I so happy your open can you do the tfa team prime react to sentinel prime falling in love with a female cybertronian who came to life by an allspark fragment , she is a kind and a total sweetheart to everyone but is very oblivious to his feeling

TFA TEAM PRIME REACTION TO SENTINEL FALLING FOR FEM WHO CAME TO LIFE BY ALLSPARK FRAGMENT!!

IM BACKKKK!!!!!!!!!! HOORAYYYY

I know Sentinel is a jerk in the show. But he deserves love. Everyone does😢 (kinda)

ANYWAYS. TYSM FOR REQUESTING AND I LOVE THIS. 😍😍

ENJOY YALL!!<33

Warnings‼️: well, I’m using ‘Y/N’ tho. So for ppl that don’t like that being used I’m sorry, idk what else to use honestly 😢

——————————————-

Optimus:

-he’s so cute. Love him sm🤞

-anyways.

-At first he was surprised. He was surprised Sentinel could ever even fall in love.😭

-he’s happy for him though, watching an old friend of his that was a jerk fall in love. Deep inside Optimus would think you can do way better. But your life yk!

-when he first witnessed you and sentinel talking he noticed Sentinels actions.

One day Y/N and Sentinel were just talking, that was until Optimus walked in and saw the two.

He noticed Sentinels stance and awkward look on his face, he then realized the stammering he’d do when replying back to you.

-it was obvious. Especially to Optimus, he’s never seen Sentinel like that.

-Sometimes when you’re gone Optimus would just smirk at Sentinel, obviously he’d deny his crush on you but it wasn’t believable.

-I feel like Optimus would be the type to like Tease Sentinel or try to help out ykyk.

-he’d sometimes randomly ask you abt how you and Sentinel are doing, and the oblivious person you are, you just say you’re both fine.😢

-Sentinel won’t stop crushing on you though. He’ll be patient (sometimes)

Ratchet:

-yeah he can still hear guys😒

-at first he don’t gaf. Sure he’d be a lil surprise, but like he don’t care.

-he also thinks you can do so much better, he’d even say it out loud once. Of course, you didn’t understand what he meant since you were oblivious about Sentinels love for you </3

“she can do so much better..” ratchet grumbled. You then turn your head to look at him and raise an eyebrow, wondering what he said.

-when he’d see you and Sentinel talking he’d see how sentinel looks at you. It’s like a puppy in love🤧

-sometimes when you company Ratchet when you’re bored he tries hinting to you how Sentinel is acting with you. But, you're oblivious about it. :(

Prowl:

-sentinel in love?? Impossible.

-he’s shocked, he never thought somebody like sentinel could fall in love with a fem so..much different then him

-just like ratchet, he thinks you can do better. Even if you and sentinel aren’t dating (bc you’re oblivious abt his feelings) he still thinks you can do so so so much better.

-he does watch the two of you though, romance is something that caught his eye since the bots arrival on earth.

“Fascinating..” prowl mumbled as he saw you and sentinel talk.

-he wouldn’t really intervene with your guys alone time, he just watches from afar like a lil weirdo.

-he’s just interested 😢

Bumblebee:

-😱🫵

-“SENTINEL COULD FALL IN LOVE?!?!” <- bees reaction.

-he’s surprised, and disgusted at the same time. He’s like a boy who saw his parents kiss😭

-he notices how sentinel stutters around you so he’d giggle to sentinel’s nervousness.

Y/N and Sentinel just talking, but Bee notices how shaky and stuttering Sentinel was.

“PFT. Scaredy cat.” Bee mumbled

-he wouldn’t intervene, he wouldn’t really care honestly. Just don’t kiss In front of him if y’all ever get together.

-butttt, if he’s ever bored he’d run to sentinel and give him advice. (His advice kinda sucks but🤷🏻‍♀️)

Bulkhead:

-same reaction as bee😭

-“HE FELL IN LOVE?!” <- his reaction

-he’s mostly similar to bee, and they’re buddies for a reason-

-Instead of snickering or anything while seeing sentinel struggle, he’d feel a little bad. This bulkhead is to sweet 🥹🤍

-I feel like he would definitely try to make sentinel feel better if he had the chance.

Sentinel grumbling in embarrassment after stuttering infront of Y/N

Bulkhead noticing and walking over to him, “Hey, don’t be upset! I’m sure she didn’t care you were stuttering”

Sentinel giving him a confused face, “you were watching us?-“

-he wouldn’t intervene as much, but if he does it won’t really affect you and Sentinels relationship.

——————————————————————

GUYSSSS…IM BACKKKKK‼️‼️

IM WORKING ON THE REQUESTS I GOT BEFORE SO PLS BE PATIENT!!

REQUESTS R NOW OPEN AGAIN!!!

[transingthoseformers]

Considering Prowl's reaction to Alex's action figure collection, I wonder if the Cybertronians had to be explained to what a Transformer action figure was?

"Optimus, I think the humans are cursing me."

"Why do you say that?"

"One of them had a figurine of me and screamed 'DIE MEGATRON!'"

"Oh, that's not what it looks like. It's a toy."

"Is that what they call it now?!"

Oh I can definitely see that happening!!

[noxer]

"Getaway - from hero to zero"

DISCLAIMER: Everything expressed is a subjective opinion that does not claim to be true or significant, I am not justifying anyone, and all this is necessary to simply examine one character under a magnifying glass.

I really love Getaway as a character because you can endlessly interpret him and his actions, even though he only appears in MTMTE and LL, which I remember were written by the same writing team. Getaway is interesting as an antagonist, especially since at first he is presented as a rather likeable character, and at the time of the events of MTMTE his motivation is still quite understandable. And the fact that it's getting such a negative reaction shows how well it's written (or how much people like Cygate). And he’s so pathetic that I want to tenderly bite his head off. So I want to put together what we have on this special agent and see what he’s like. After all, despite the fact that he is revealed to us in comics, we can only guess about many details, since the writers could not show everything as it is, so as not to disrupt the intrigue.

First steps

The only thing we know about Getaway's past is his telling Tailgate about his first battle, from which the newly activated Getaway escaped. I don’t want to analyze specifically the act itself, because it is quite difficult to judge whether this escape was justified or not (pro - what else did the Autobots expect from a newborn?; con - the other MTO, it seems, remained to fight). I want to talk more about the impact of this act on Getaway's personality. Because Getaway is definitely ashamed of what happened, since it doesn’t fit into the image he wants to create. The only reason he shares this story with Tailgate is to a) make Tailgate feel sorry for him; b) instill in Tailgate an even greater sense of hostility towards Decepticons; c) a kind of therapy - he needs to share this with someone, and he doesn’t feel an emotional attachment to Tailgate, that is, he doesn’t care what he thinks about him, plus, Tailgate still has to die according to the plan, which means he’s already won't tell anyone anything.

Shame in most cases leads to anger, either at oneself or at others. Getaway chooses the second, and begins to slowly accumulate resentment and anger towards both the Autobots and the Decepticons, that is, towards those who started this war and thus forced him to be born as a soldier. In addition, the feeling that he is now forever branded a coward lays the first bricks of Getaway's exorbitant ambitions, as a way to make amends for his initial transgression. Let's add to this the very status of Getaway as literally a consumable item - the fact that he could die in the first minutes of his life was quite expected. Then attempts to become something big become a matter not only of ambition, but also of banal survival, because a specialist is less likely to be sent directly under fire than an ordinary soldier.

Diplomatic corps

We know almost nothing about Getaway’s work in the special unit. What I want to highlight here is Getaway's attitude towards Prowl. He clearly has a certain respect for him, and we have no reason to believe that this respect is feigned, if only because Getaway's behavior is in many ways a copy of Prowl's, only a little more inept. Getaway tries to manipulate like Prowl, tries to scheme like Prowl, but since he has less experience being the one who plans the operations rather than the one who executes them, things do not go entirely smoothly. Honestly, I can't get out of my head the image of Prowl berating Getaway not for attempted mutiny, but for how clumsy it was.

I mean, his entire plan rested on one Tailgate, and if something happened (and it did), all, literally all the threads would lead to Getaway. Getaway tries to be smart and accurate, but in the end his actions still amount to brutal blows to the head (sometimes literally), simply because that's how Getaway is used to acting. He is an operative, not a tactician or strategist. He acts here and now, with small goals like “kill X”, “successfully escape”, “survive”, and when fate confronts him with the need for long-term planning, Getaway simply cannot cope. No matter how manipulative the scriptwriters make him out to be, for the most part Getaway behaves almost instinctively. I highlight this this way because a similar pattern of “a small person (bot) trying to seem like something big” is clearly visible in Getaway’s behavior almost always. He tries to be an Autobot, but escapes from his first battle. He tries to be an "evil genius", but in the end, all his plans fail and he gets through only through luck and evil chaotic throwing, in the hope that something will work. He wants to become Prime, but does everything to ensure that his name is associated with this title as little as possible. Getaway may be a villain, but he's primarily a failed villain, not a villain with a plan.

"Primus apotheosis" - or similar symptoms?

I'm actually very wary of the whole "primus apotheosis" situation, because it was only added in LL, and therefore there are some doubts and inconsistencies with MTMTE, but more on that a little later. What do we know at all: there are certain signs that distinguish Prime from among ordinary bots, and Getaway, having discovered them in himself, becomes fixated on this. Why is that? Back to the “I’m-more-than-I-seem” pattern. For Getaway, it is important to be more significant than he is, so much so that he is ready to cling to semi-mythical descriptions just to feel better. In fact, these signs are no better than some “aryan standards” - they are just an easy way to gain superiority over others. For Getaway, “primus apotheosis” is only a consequence of his ambitions and inferiority complex, which took this form due to the war surrounding him and a certain “cult of Prime” that reigned among the Autobots. Since 1) i am a doctor not in the field of psychology, 2) we have no information about the Cybertronian psyche, 3) Freud’s diagnoses is not the most reliable, in principle, it is difficult to say whether Getaway actually has such a disorder, but if yes, it fits perfectly into his image.

Also, the “primus apotheosis” fits into another aspect of Getaway’s personality – his rather contradictory relationship with their god. The Autobots, unlike the Decepticons, in some places still retain a somewhat functional attitude, as well as faith in Primus. From this point of view, Getaway is in a rather unenviable position - he is a MTO who ran away from his battle, that is, in some sense, did not fulfill his function, he is constructed cold, that have long been considered second-class, he is a murderer, no matter what he said. And Getaway simultaneously hates Primus for who he created him, who he forced him to be, and longs for recognition and forgiveness from him. Becoming a Prime was about affirming that he was worthy, that he was forgiven, that everything he had done was right. Because if sinners like Optimus and Rodimus could become Primes, then so could Getaway.

Mutiny

We already know that Getaway hates his origins, and this anger is constantly projected onto others, but especially Megatron. The logical chain is as follows: “if you had not started the war, I would not have been created as MTO, I would not have had to become what I became, I would not have had to prove my right to life, I could have been like others.” For Getaway, Megatron is another obstacle to being as valuable as the others. He dared to start this war, and made Getaway's life like this. I also wonder if Getaway might see killing Megatron as some kind of “redemption”? "I killed the greatest monster in our history, something previous Primes couldn't do, I'm not that hopeless, right?" However, even if you remove the specific reasons, Getaway will still have the motivation to get rid of Megatron, because of whom many, many cybertronians died. Removing the one who started and supported the most destructive war of your species away sounds like a good reason. And Getaway does everything for this purpose, at least until the ill-fated events of LL.

Crucial moment

The difference between Getaway MTMTE and Getaway LL is quite noticeable. In MTMTE, Getaway is motivated precisely by his hatred of Megatron as a military leader; his “primus apotheosis” was only added into LL. In MTMTE, Getaway really was a mini-Prowl - he had a completely understandable and even justified motivation - to get rid of an objectively dangerous crew member - which he solves in a not the most humane way, using Tailgate. Getaway in MTMTE has a lot of likeable traits until we are gradually introduced to his slightly less pleasant sides, making it difficult for us to know how to feel about him. Yes, he put one of the beloved characters in danger, but he did it for a reason we can understand. We get asked a pretty tough question, which is great, right?

Now forget all this. Because in LL, Getaway does terrible things for terrible reasons, and his “primus apotheosis” is revealed, and it just becomes difficult for us to respect him at least as a villain.

But why is this even the case?

Doylist explanation

It was vital to the writers that the core cast was Always Right™. In MTMTE, it was quite easy to sympathize with Getaway (unless you are a fierce fan of Tailgate and Cygate). And since the main goal was the redemption of Megatron, Getaway had to be removed. Because Getaway's character asked this question: "Maybe Megatron can redeem himself. Maybe he deserves it. But what if we, who suffered from his decisions, are physically unable to forgive him after all? Don't we deserve our good ending?" And the writers didn't have an answer to that question (because there's no right answer). And they had to make Getaway much worse so that readers would not have the slightest desire to understand and and accept his ideas.

Watsonian explanation

Getaway has really, truly gone crazy. He has currently spent some time in a cell, unable to move or speak, having previously been held captive by Tyrest for an undetermined amount of time. Yes, Getaway is an operative, his psyche must be prepared, but everyone has their own limit of strength. Getaway later leaves the team at the mercy of DJD because they were the ones who threw him into the cell, even though he was doing them a favor by getting rid of Megatron. Thus, he allows his partner and friend to die, which is also unlikely to contribute to mental health. And as time goes on, Getaway's actions become increasingly desperate and insane in an attempt to survive and reach Cyberutopia, where he hopes he can find forgiveness for all the terrible things he has done. In the end, his last actions are, in order, 1) an attempt to blow up the ship along with himself; 2) unsuccessful suicide attempt; 3) an absolutely senseless attack on Cyclonus, either out of desperation or in the hope that he would kill him; 4) he lost his sense of reality so much that he believed the illusion created by the scraplet colony. By the end of LL, Getaway is more of a hunted animal than the calculating saboteur he was in MTMTE.

Bottom line

So what do we get in the bottom line? Getaway was destined from birth to become a bargaining chip in a conflict to which he had nothing to do. His unsuccessful "debut" began his quest to become something significant, in the hopes that others would forget who he was. Prowl gives him this opportunity, which is why Getaway begins to see him as a role model, adopting his worldview, ways of acting and attitude towards others. At the same time, Getaway “grows up” in an environment where some stereotypes and prejudices, including religious ones, still persist, and there is also an idealized figure of Prime. Since his promotion to special agent has hardly changed anything for Getaway about himself, he becomes fixated on the supposed signs (perhaps with the occasional intervention from Skids), although most of the time he "keeps it under control" until something serious happens. Getaway has loyalties and principles, he can have feelings towards others, and I don't believe his attempts to kill Megatron were always purely selfish. But Getaway puts these feelings aside in favor of “more important things,” because the fear of being a nobody again, of being just MTO running away from battle, is stronger than all his attachments. Getaway is a terrible (and rather unhappy) bot, not because he has always been like this, as they tried to present it in LL, but because between real significance - being important to someone - he chooses false significance - being important to everyone, which the same as being important to no one. It is still easier for Getaway to run away, chasing something illusory, than to fight for something important. And no one is to blame for this but him.

[barrenclan]

Ranger, Ranger, Ranger. The Machiavellian mutt we all love to hate. As we near towards the big finale in issue 44 and the epilogues that ensue, there is no doubt his role will become larger and larger. So, it’s time we start predicting his actions, reactions, and potentially his fate.

First, we must understand his character as well as his whole Bonnie and Clyde act with Hacksaw. I’ve checked through the comic to find their appearances and my search has found that Ranger is seemingly never seen without Hacksaw. However, Hacksaw is seen a few times without Ranger(in issue one, albeit implied and very brief)(And in issue 27, where she spies on the Barrenclan territory) it might be interesting to note that they are not mentioned alongside Prowl in Thrasher’s monologue in issue 13. Ranger definitely could not do all the menace behavior and projects and whatever shit he’s on, or at least it would be toned down, without Hacksaw. After all, she was the one who killed Saturn, the one who caught RainHaze in the first place, and is always by Ranger’s side whenever he’s talking to RainHaze, probably to bodyguard. The main examples of when Ranger has seriously fought are probably the pheasant he gave to RainHaze(might have been Hacksaw’s kill though) and when he was punishing RainHaze for lying. Issue 24 seems to be the main scene where we get a little peek at what is cooking in Ranger’s little brain cells. He doesn’t seem to really be invested that much in routine control, it’s the “projects” that he really cares about. It seems to be implied that RainHaze might not be the first poor creature this beastly brainwashed has sunk his claws into. However, something to note in issue 31(not the flashback part) is that Ranger does not seem that happy. He seems almost frustrated even though ordering around RainHaze and making him suffer seems to be his favorite thing in the world right now… or is that just a temporary mask he put on to trick RainHaze? Maybe Hacksaw’s words in issue 24 affected him.

So, our current takeaways:

-Ranger depends on Hacksaw as muscle to keep him safe

-Ranger’s main form of activity is his “projects” whether that be just what he’s doing to RainHaze or other fucked up things

-Ranger seems to be a bit in a rut with RainHaze right now

Now, to what Ranger might do in the near future of this story:

Well, we might need to know the extent of how far he wants to go with RainHaze. Does he just want him to love killing? Does he want to ensure RainHaze doesn’t hate him? Is this kind of a, “You’ll thank me later” situation he’s got with torturing RainHaze? Because he knows that RainHaze is part of BarrenClan, he’ll definitely want himself, Hacksaw, and RainHaze to have front row seats for whatever shenanigans Deepdark’s going to do when he pull up to their crib. But something Ranger should keep in mind is that if RainHaze has nothing left to lose, there’s not really anything holding him back from revenge. I’m sure Ranger knows this small risk, and either doesn’t care because he’s confident it won’t happen, or will just have his wifey do the cleanup. If things were to go his way, he’d probably just continue to brainwash RainHaze, wait for him to enjoy killing, and then move on to another project. I wonder if all his victims have a therapy group.

Now, before we go into my main theories for what Ranger’s conclusion will be, I want to discuss something a little extra. If there’s anything this comic is known for, it’s the big, fat, juicy EXISTENTIAL CRISES(and the generational trauma). Maybe, Ranger might get one. More likely not though.

So the two routes I think the story will take with Ranger

He Wins:

Until BeeFace and PlumStripe, and maybe CootStorm, we haven’t really seen antagonists be punished for their bad acts. I don’t think Razmerry is going for the route where Defiance gets away with everything though. But you never know. Maybe he gets no external punishments but it’s more of the internal horror, like the ending of American Psycho.

He gets a comeuppance:

This can come in many forms. Maybe he and Hacksaw die together. Maybe only Hacksaw dies, leaving him probably all alone. Existential crisis optional. Maybe RainHaze gets his revenge, by doing something Ranger did to him. It would be a cool scene if Ranger begs RainHaze to kill him, only for RainHaze to refuse. Maybe Hacksaw leaves him, as she seems a little annoyed with this whole project thing, “It’s either me or him!”

Welp, that’s my ramble. PatFW got that magic that got me doing a full analysis of Coyote Patrick Bateman.

You wrote a wholeass essay on my weirdo coyote with the whimsicality of Lemony Snicket... I'm in LOVE with this. I'm never gonna stop thinking about Machiavellian mutt. Coyote Patrick Bateman. Beastly brainwasher....

This is so good! I'm glad you're excited to see where these guys go!

[singingcicadas]

IDW Rodimus and Optimus’ relationship in a nutshell: Rodimus chose a leader. Not “Optimus chose a protege.” Rodimus has the dominant position here. 

IDW Rodimus and Optimus have such a deliciously messy relationship that contains equal measures of positive support and fucking each other up in the most spectacular ways. They respect each other, there’s friendship and admiration and fondness born out of long acquaintance, but once you dig underneath there’s also this current of internalized resentment: Optimus sees in Rodimus the reflection of his own flaws, as well as things he simultaneously dislikes and envies; Rodimus wants to emulate Optimus in terms of accomplishments/veneration but is frustrated by the sheer height of Optimus’ ideals and moral standards. They inconvenience his life, makes Optimus impossible to live up to, which in turn makes him feel morally inadequate because deep down he knows Optimus has the right values and doesn’t like what that says about himself.

The default impression that most people have of their relationship is usually Rodimus hero-worshipping Optimus as the eager-but-naive mentee and the stereotypical “Rodimus Wants Approval, Optimus Frowns in Disappointment”. It’s more complicated than that. To the point where I’d even argue that Rodimus is altogether more comfortable in a leadership role than Optimus is, and more often than not his headstrong personality puts him in the dominant position during their interactions rather then the other way around.

Looking at the major points of their interactions, whenever conflicts occur, it’s usually Rodimus who takes the hard aggressive stance and Optimus ends up backing off. He's not an inexperienced rookie in need of guidance, he's part of the Autobot high command, equal rank to Prowl, outranked only by the Prime. (Screencaps for those panels here) Not that rank is ever a deterrent for Rodimus for anything. He gives advice to Optimus as much as he receives them from him, to which Optimus listens. He also bosses Optimus around sometimes and Optimus never says anything just acts all submissive about it

Long post, so read under cut:

Optimus is someone who, though filled with desire to improve the world, has always looked to others to bring about change. He placed his hopes on Megatron, Shockwave, Zeta, and is betrayed each time, all the while stuck in an unfulfilling career where the lines between right and wrong becomes increasingly blurry until he isn’t even sure if he’s the hero or villain anymore. His heart is good but his stance isn’t firm; he ignores Roller’s warning about Shockwave’s suspicious activities and lets himself be pushed around by Zeta. He’s constantly in action, but it’s always reaction, to either ideas or threats initiated by others. It took Megatron backstabbing him down a hole and the Matrix literally shoving itself into his chest for him to finally step up and lift his own torch.

In contrast, Rodimus took over leadership of the weak and starving of Nyon and was planting bombs to defy the government by himself as a young bot. He’s the one who sought out Orion because he believed him to be different, forced him to look at what the government is doing to its people, and gave him an ultimatum: you either side with us or them.

The dawn of their meeting. After so many years of wavering uncertainty, Rodimus is the one who finally forces him to choose a side. Rodimus is the catalyst for Orion's denouncement of the old government, though Zeta's insanity nailed the coffin.

When Zeta came, Orion told him to find a way to get everyone out, that he’d buy them time, but Rodimus knew that they were in no condition to evacuate and there was no time, so he didn’t even try. He blew everyone up.

He made the decision to bomb the entire city of Nyon to thwart Zeta’s vamparc ribbon. He decided that the citizens were better off dead at his hands than Zeta’s, so he killed them himself. 

And it wasn't even a spontaneous decision like the usual kind he's famous for making. The bombs around the city were pre-wired as a contingency plan. He'd premeditated this.

Like this guy would have aced the trolley problem. A weaker-willed person - a more self-doubting person - would have quailed at the prospect of taking responsibility for so many deaths. Even if the citizens would have died either way, what right did he have to decide which side they would die for? Who was he to decide the necessity of such a sacrifice? Was there absolutely no other way? Could he not have taken the opportunity to evacuate even a few lives to safety? 

—These are questions that Optimus would have asked himself if he'd been in Rodimus’ place. He would have hesitated over the moral dilemma. These questions and moral hang-ups are what forms the essence of his leadership, as both the source of his strength and weakness. He's the kind of person whose response to the trolley problem would be to find some kind of insane (and often self-sacrificial) third option like jumping in front of the trolley. (Not that Rodimus wouldn't have jumped in front of the trolley in a heartbeat if he could, but he's also logical enough to realize when that wouldn't work.) If it had been up to Optimus, he would absolutely not have pressed the detonator.

But he defends Rodimus to Bumblebee, and acknowledges him as a worthy candidate for the Matrix, because he recognizes the necessity of the action, even if he might not agree with it. He tells Rodimus that leadership is making hard choices, that the price is to carry the guilt and loneliness and self-doubt.

And thus is the heart of their divergence: Optimus views leadership as something to be suffered over, as a burden he is forced to carry because there is no one else to do it. This makes him reluctant, always questioning his own worthiness, second-guessing his decisions, whether his actions are preventing destruction or causing more of it, whether it's right to decide the lives and fates of other people.

Rodimus, on the other hand, is self-absorbed. He actually enjoys being in charge. Not the responsibility or the mundane management part of it, but the "everyone do what I want and what I say goes" part. He has no problems whatsoever with wielding authority over other people. His self-doubt is the kind that's mostly repressed and god forbid other people from criticizing his actions - Ratchet's assessment of his character is spot-on:

He views leadership as a path to freedom, to steer everyone towards a future that he wants, and while he also feels the guilt deeply when someone dies on his watch, it's always as an aftereffect; it never stops him from taking risks or making the necessary sacrifices without hesitation nor heed to counsel.

His guilt over the loss of his team on his first time as mission leader does not lead him to caution in future missions. Nor does it prevent him from continuously putting his crew members' lives on the Lost Light in danger.

The Nyon situation is not a one-time occurrence. In Chaos Theory, Rodimus wants to destroy the Kimia facility when it got turned by Galvatron into a weapon, Optimus refuses because there might still be Autobots in there. But Rodimus insists, with the argument that there are also Autobots out here; the sacrifice of a few is needed to ensure the survival of the many.

And Optimus gives acquiescence. Note that Rodimus also didn't wait for him to agree before taking action.

It's clear that Optimus doesn't like what Rodimus is doing, but allowed it anyway because 1. Rodimus has the initiative, 2. there didn't seem to be a way to save both ends as they have no way of knowing what's happening inside the Kimia facility. Yet it isn't a decision that Optimus makes voluntarily. Again it's Rodimus who makes that call, Rodimus who makes the hard choice, while Optimus, the undisputed leader of the Autobots and the high commander of an army for four million years in war, is dithering over innocent Autobots and lost lives and morality issues and what ifs. The same source of compassion that makes him hesitate probably looks down upon Rodimus in judgement, but the leader part of Optimus, the logical part that ultimately allows Kimia to be destroyed because he knows it to be necessary, probably also envies him for his ruthless resolution.

(Also he's extremely competent in this issue, like this scene here)

In part Optimus' judgement is true; Rodimus is able to make these sorts of decisions because he does have less moral scruples than Optimus. Which is normal, as Optimus sets a ridiculously high bar. But when that high bar gets too inconveniencing, past Rodimus’ ability to understand or tolerate, he doesn't hesitate to put his foot down and lash out in accusation:

He literally bullies Optimus into letting him lead a rescue mission into what's obviously a trap (hence why Optimus was reluctant to send the mission in the first place). Optimus gives in to his demands without saying anything to defend himself. Then Rodimus proceeds to ignore every single word of warning from Optimus about keeping the mission clandestine, overrides Ironhide who Optimus sent to watch over him - "It's my mission, I'm in charge," barges in the front door straight into the trap, and gets Ironhide killed.

More detailed post about the event here.

By this point Optimus is already grieved by the toll of destruction the war took on both the Autobot forces and Earth, hiding from the humans and unable to help. Ironhide's death is the last straw.

The red text box is Optimus. He takes full responsibility for Ironhide's death, thinks he failed in his leadership, and resigns as prime to surrender himself to the humans.

Rodimus, who's the one actually responsible for the whole catastrophe, doesn't say a peep during Optimus' resignation speech. Then this 🔽 is his reaction:

Like wow. Cold much? Someone just died because of you. Someone else just took the fall for your mistake. They were your friends. But all Rodimus cares about is now we can finally get out of here no one's gonna stop me.

Optimus' surrender is a culmination of events, but this is still the breaking point. Of which again Rodimus is the catalyst. All the Autobots were dismayed by Optimus' decision, but Rodimus was the only one who had solid reason to talk him out if it, if he so chose. He only needed to step up and take responsibility for his own actions. Even if Optimus' mind had been made up, he could still have alleviated his guilt, or at least shared the burden of it. But he stays silent and scoffs at Optimus afterwards for freaking out.

It's not that he doesn’t feel guilty. It’s not that he doesn’t care. The first thing he does when he sees a revived Ironhide is to apologize. But right here right now, all he can think about is leaving the planet. Everything else is low priority. As for Optimus' emotional state? Other People's Feelings have always been a nonexistent point for him. (i.e his treatment of spotlight Trailbreaker and Red Alert). He can be extremely insightful at reading people and has a knack for knowing exactly the right words to say if he applies his mind to it, but callousness seems to be the default setting.

He wants to leave, so he's going to leave. He doesn't bother himself with the predicaments of those who choose to stay behind. He doesn't look back.

In essence he and Optimus does the exact same thing here. Both abandons the Autobots to do what they think is right, except their decisions are based off very different mindsets. Optimus leaves because of guilt, entrapped by his own morality. He thinks that surrendering himself to the humans is the only way to end the violence. Rodimus leaves because he wants freedom. For him, shedding responsibility is a liberation; he feels guilt but is never encumbered by it. 

Rodimus and obeisance in the same sentence. This is about the only time in the whole series that Rodimus is this level of deferential to Optimus. After getting hit in the face with a combiner-sized mistake that turned everyone against him and which Optimus had to bail him out of, stealing Ultra Magnus’ shuttle, dying, an enlightening revival and bonding session with the Matrix, meeting a bunch of people who were supposed to be dead, and seeing the danger that Cybertron’s in, Hot Rod finally reaches the point of character growth where he officially graduates to Rodimus. Not that he’s any less impatient and unmoving to council as Rodimus, but still. It’s a huge step forward. 

Because Rodimus’ behaviour on the Lost Light shows that he’s the type of person who’s very aware of the power of his position and has no scruples about utilizing that power to do what he wants. It’s easy to forget that he’s the top authoritative figure on the ship when you’re looking at his everyday interactions with the crew, he’s friendly, he’s down-to-earth, he’s buddy-buddy with everyone, but when he wants something done, either for ego or for the thrills or just because he thinks it’s a good idea, he will get his way and make people do things his way because he knows he has the final say. e.g. Asserting his position over Ironhide and Magnus when they try to question his orders, using Rung as sparkeater bait, ordering Swerve to shoot Fort Max, taking advantage of Chromedome’s injecting abilities, taking his team towards the Necrobot guilt attack (and thus playing into Getaway’s plans), etc. If people dies, he feels terrible, but the burdens of death only weighs on him after the fact - it doesn’t stop him from leading everyone headfirst into danger the next time it comes around. 

For him to have held the power of the matrix in his hands but willingly choose to give it back is no small feat. He’d wanted that power all his life. He’d wanted to be Prime. But at this point he’d realized that it isn’t just Optimus’ power and acclaim that he wants, as he later admits in the dead universe - it’s the entirety of Optimus’ ideals, his morality, his decency. He recognizes his own inadequacy when he recognizes those values to be true, but they are things that he cannot ever live up to for himself. 

(And also he’s never an actual Prime in this continuity so there’s no reason for Optimus to rename him Rodimus other than an indulgence for Rodimus’ liking of the name.)

After Megatron surrendered himself in Chaos Theory. Rodimus is the only one in the High Council to directly call Optimus out on his bias towards Megatron. 

Rodimus’ account of his Matrix experience:

Rodimus’ matrix experience What Actually Happened:

Rodimus just straight-up lied lol. Maybe he did it to cover up his own insecurity about not wanting to sound as if the Matrix didn’t like him or something but can you imagine how this must have messed with Optimus’ mental state. Optimus was already upset by Megatron’s goading and had just admitted to Ironhide about his self-doubt over whether he’s being too reliant on the matrix’s wisdom affecting his judgement. Rodimus threw him in for a further loop.

And then in response Optimus does the same thing as Rodimus, aka lying about his matrix experience, presumably for the same reasons Rodimus did. The whole conversation is a lie leading to a lie.

Rodimus’ view of the Matrix as the ultimate source of indisputable divine-right autocratic power is more absolute than Optimus’. Here in DoOP when Optimus comes back, Rodimus’ solution to dealing with the NAILs is to have Optimus use the Matrix to assert his authority. When he’s dealing with the Galactic Council and Thunderclash, he calls himself Rodimus Prime to sound more important. Unlike Optimus, who feels guilty about exercising the Matrix’ influence on the colonists, Rodimus doesn’t have qualms about using the Matrix as a power flex.

But at the same time he also treats the Matrix as a tool, not a sacred artefact: he used the Matrix to power his ship when he bonded, and when the Matrix’ energy got depleted, he bashed and cursed at it. When the Matrix was needed to save Vector Sigma, Optimus was reluctant because he thought destroying the Matrix would mean destroying the last of Cybertron’s culture, Rodimus said don’t worry about it. He shattered the Matrix to stop Tyrest and recounted it to Optimus as no big deal.

Yet he believes in the Knights of Cybertron and insists on going looking for them to restore Cybertron’s culture and the Golden Age as soon as he learned of the Matrix map, despite it being pretty clear to everyone that there was no Golden Age, all at a convenient time when everything’s a mess on Cybertron. He takes 200 Autobots on his ship, a lot of them part of the elite, when they are outnumbered 100 to one.

This whole interaction made me crack up so hard, I can't even tell whether OP is being sarcastic or not.

Roddy's internally fuming, but Roddy can't say anything, because "incredible progress" lmao.

Like this is probably the closest we'd get to the "Optimus is Disappointed" thing the fandom loves. Optimus obviously doesn’t believe in the Knights of Cyberton and all the religious crap surrounding it, he probably thinks the Lost Light is on a fool's quest, the whole thing is a waste of time and resources, Rodimus is merely using this as an excuse to get out of the mess on Cybertron (Yeah Hardhead, stop JUDGING), he’d given up his life and name for Cybertron and entrusted Rodimus and Bumblebee to take care of things after he's gone, but Rodimus just went nope and gallivanted off without a backward look, leaving the remaining Autobots at a even more severe disadvantage than they were in before and let Starscream get the chance to oust them as leader. 

I guess if you're really into the Disappointed!Optimus thing then this disappointment could be read as stretching all the way back to the Autocracy trilogy, when Optimus admired him as a worthy successor candidate for the Matrix, but as time went on it would have become more and more clear that Rodimus did not match his idea on how the burden of leadership should be borne. They were constantly at odds on Earth, then the whole bad judgement with Swindle happened, then Rodimus decided to redeem bad judgement with more bad judgement by stealing a ship and going solo into Megatron's lair to steal the Matrix back. The Matrix bonding, when it happened, also didn't magically change Rodimus into a more responsible leader. And leaving when Cybertron is in most need of leadership in pursuit of a dream just further cements that disappointment.

But here again they are making the same choice, just for different reasons. They both leave Cybertron in pursuit of their own ideals, they both abandon the Autobots in their hour of need. Optimus says in the end of DoOP that his self-exile is a uniquely selfish choice, that by leaving the mantle of Prime behind he is finally free. Responsible for no one. Beholden to no one. Except that it's still a decision forced by circumstances, flavoured by betrayal and guilt and his own perceived failings. Yet Rodimus is able to make the same decision with no emotional burdens - leaving's what he wanted, he feels no attachment or responsibility to those he left behind, he's just happy with his choice in general.

People hate on Optimus so much for this scene but does anyone notice, like, how flippantly Rodimus confesses his Overlord fuckup? Oh I smuggled a Decepticon prisoner on board, he escaped, people died, I let my best friend take the blame, I felt guilty about that later so I fessed up and apologized, and now 89/101 of my crew wants me gone. But that's all right because note to self: you gotta win them back, Rodders!

And he even leaves out a good half of it, such as how the Overlord incident is only the last one in a long list of bad decisions and abuse of power and poor treatment of his crew that made them lose faith in him, how the Decepticon prisoner is actually Overlord and they were trying to recreate phase-sixers for Prowl, and how he didn't fess up because he felt bad about Drift, he fessed because Magnus got so fed up with his bullshit that he tried to go to Tyrest to remove his captaincy.

Like it's pretty clear that the 89/101 vote got him hard because it was a blow to his ego. That the vote happened at all is still a big step of personal growth - but the main note he takes from that incident is to win the 89 naysayers back, thus making the failings of his leadership into a completely personal issue, instead of, say, taking a more introspective reflection upon his behaviour regarding concepts such as transparency, responsibility, and accountability. Or taking actual measures to amend his mistake by, idk, sending a message to Drift.

Optimus’s response is definitely not very supportive and is likely projecting his own discouraged mental state more than a little bit - after all, he resigned his position, never mind if it's not actually the wisest choice - but it definitely did strike the truth right where it hurt, as Rodimus practically admits that he made the confession with the expectation of getting a pep talk. He didn’t confess because he feels ashamed or obligated, he confessed because he wanted Optimus to say things that will make him feel better, not actually criticize his actions. He isn't looking for approval, he's looking for validation and absolution. Optimus saw through it and didn't spare any feelings.

This is the second of the two only times Optimus reacts harshly to Rodimus. The first time is when Rodimus called him out as being "too cozy" with Megatron, but Optimus' anger then hadn't been directed at Rodimus, specifically, he was angry at both everyone and himself.

Optimus was perfectly respectful of Rodimus' captaincy when he thought Rodimus was doing a good job at it when he first came aboard the Lost Light.

Orion reclaimed his identity as Optimus Prime because of Rodimus' words. Rodimus addressed Optimus' fears and insecurities while also acknowledging his own.

This is the exact opposite of the "Rodimus wants approval" stereotype. Rodimus is the one that gave Optimus the will to rise above his uncertainty. It's Rodimus' faith that brought back Optimus Prime. It's seeing Rodimus hurt that gave him the strength to defeat Nova.

Just like how all those years ago, it's Rodimus' faith that led him to finally defy Zeta.

Rodimus yells at Optimus again lmfao. Optimus gets cut off mid-sentence and sits through a whole rant before going uhhhh no I just wanted to say. It's as if he's the subordinate.

"Perhaps you could give me a brief update on your progress." This is a perfectly reasonable question, right? Phrased in the most courteous way possible. But Rodimus' response is all passive-aggressive. In the most un-informative way possible. Oh I broke the matrix why are you so hung up about that honestly it wasn't very sturdy to begin with anyway. Like your Chief Justice just tried to commit genocide, maybe that's worth elaborating a bit to your faction leader?

Optimus didn't not tell Rodimus about Megatron's co-captaincy himself on purpose. He couldn't tell Rodimus because Rodimus wasn't answering his calls.

And also Optimus is fully within his right to arrange captain assignments on the Lost Light however he wants, it's been said in the MTMTE that the Lost Light is an Autobot ship, according to Ultra Magnus he has the right to take command, and in the end it's qualifiable for requisition. Yeah Drift did buy it with his own money but it's like, donating a ship to the Navy.

Rodimus knows exactly why Optimus put Megatron on the ship. This panel, along with the "cozy" comment and his motivation speech to Optimus in the dead universe, and also to a certain degree the accusations he made before the mission that got Ironhide killed, all shows that Rodimus understands Optimus very well. He knows how Optimus' mind works, his ideals and fears and shortcomings.

But here in the last panel it show that Optimus does not understand Rodimus at all, and likely never did. He's cautious in their interactions because he cannot be sure of Rodimus' reaction, even after four million years of familiarity.

This is the last time they see each other before Optimus dies in Unicron, when Optimus is asking the Lost Light to return to Cybertron for Caminus' integration ceremony. As the leader of the Autobots it is well within his right to issue commands. But his whole attitude here is careful, phrasing everything as requests and placations. Not to mention that he barely manages to get in a word edgewise over Rodimus' many (albeit understandable) complaints. And it's Rodimus who cuts off the call.

The thing to keep in mind when looking at these two is that it's almost always Rodimus who holds the reins in their interactions, from their first meeting in Nyon to their last conversation in the Lost Light facetime call. During their first meeting it was Rodimus who lured Optimus to the Acropolex and chose him as the leader to follow despite Optimus and Megatron both trying to recruit him with more or less the same words. And the last time they spoke it was also Rodimus who hung up the phone on Optimus. 

It's worth mentioning that from the moment Optimus put Megatron on the Lost Light, he and Rodimus stopped exerting influence on each other's lives. From that point on, the changes and growth to Rodimus' character no longer has anything to do with him. His role in Rodimus' life is replaced by Megatron.

The last thing Rodimus said to Optimus in that call was “Megs says hi.”

[dailyadventureprompts]

Mystery: The Inheritance of Old Havoc

 After earning the favour and trust of the up and coming orcish trade magnate Kardin Havelock, it seems your party’s next adventure will be crashing a potentially violent family gathering. Kardin’s aging father earned great renown and a noble title some decades ago for his work as a privateer, but has been cagey about who will inherit the title since the death of his eldest child. Fearing the rash action and jealousy of his siblings, Kardin has hired you all on as bodyguards and passed you all off as servants as he joins his family at a distant coastal fortress. 

Hooks:

This adventure can either be run as a oneshot, with the party made up of sellswords and trusted employees in Kardin’s enterprise, or as part of a larger campaign. With the latter option, I’d suggest having the party run a mission or two for Kardin first to establish their relationship, perhaps defending his cargo from pirates or sorting out the difficulties when a monster decides to make a home in one of his warehouses.

I primarily built this adventure as a living example of my “how to run mysteries in d&d” system, so if you’re interested, pop over there to see how this is run under the hood. 

Secrets, betrayal, pirates, witchcraft, and murder. All these and more await you under the cut as I go into detail about this mystery’s many moving pieces. I had a lot of fun writing this one, and I hope you enjoy it too.

Briefing: Who the party knows, and what they can easily find out.

Kardin is the youngest child of the Havelock family, largely overshadowed by his brothers and sisters growing up, he struck out on his own as a merchant sailor and has done quite well for himself trading in ports both foreign and domestic. Thoughtful, though ambitious, Kardin believes his father sees him as the logical choice in inheriting the family title, and has only withheld from naming him as heir for fear of his sibling’s reactions. 

Kazdak is the family patriarch, a widower of some fifteen years, about whom the title of Count hangs uncomfortably as a fine silk shirt on a grey brindled boar. A born fighter who’s been forced to resign himself to old age, Havelock earned himself the nickname “Havoc” in his younger years, by carving a bloody swath through the pirates who prowled the kingdom’s coasts and tradeways looking for plunder. Kazdak was so effective the crown awarded him with with a title and a generous pension, on which he retired after surviving a pirate raid that killed most of his crew. Since then Kazdak has been cold towards most of his family, distant in person and communicating mainly through letters. In recent months he’s taken to staying up late writing or staring into the fire, having only his new dog for company. 

Akado, Oldest of Kazdak’s surviving children and a captain in the royal navy, described as a swaggering brute by her rivals ( and siblings). Growing up Idolizing her father and wanting nothing more than to continue her family’s reputation as terrors of the sea, Akado became a soldier of the crown and has been collecting scars and trophies from various battles for the past twenty years. Captian Akado believes she should inherit the title by virtue of being oldest, but deep down fears that her father has deigned not to do so because she has failed to live up to his expectations, or the name of Havoc

Zaddak (or Zak to her friends) is the imprudent socialite middle sibling, who used her father’s title to catapult herself into good society and all the bad habits that comes with it. Living for scandal, over indulgence, and illicit substances, Zaddak might be a total writeoff if she was not also a prodigiously talented mage capable of wielding lighting and famously once rending a deadly hurricane in half before it made landfall. Zak doesn’t care much for the title of Count itself, but whoever inherits will control the small fortune Kazdak made in selling commandeered ships to the crown, which means they can cut her off from the money that goes to feed her gambling debts and various addictions. 

Alyo (deceased). Wife to Kazdak, put much of her ambitions as an artist and own life aside to raise their four children nearly by herself while he was off privateering. Beloved by all and encouraged each of her children’s interests while allowing herslef to fade into the background, silently suffering from an illness that took her life a little over ten years ago. Kazdak has the only portrait of her but has kept it covered out of grief.  

Dalyk (deceased). Kazdak’s eldest son who died nearly fifteen years ago while at sea. Born before his father set off in service of the crown, mentored Kardin in sailing and was swept overboard when a vessel the two of them were in was caught in a storm.

Sequence of Events:

Kardin and the party arrive at Breakreef lookout by skiff, the skies promise a storm, as does their employer’s on edge mood.  Kazdak meets them on the stairs as they make their way up from the dock and welcomes his son up, directing him to his rooms and the party to their place in the servant’s quarters.

The party is allowed to get settled and do a bit of nosing around while Kardin and his father catch up, talking to the servants (and potentially being roped into preperations), poking around the fort, and potentially running into the other siblings: Akado is on the ramparts inspecting the old siege weapons used to hold off pirates back in the day, Zak is bored and has sulked off to the foretower, using her magic to doodle on the clouds. 

The Storm breaks. Zak and Kardin have tea together and gossip, during which Kardin encourages the party to go snoop around. Akado, a canny judge of character has sussed that the party aren’t infact servants and goes to see if she can goad the most dangerous looking one into making a move, confirming her suspicions that they’re hired muscle. 

Dinner is a shitshow, Kazdak has the portrait of his wife brought out and hung on the wall making all the siblings feel uncomfortable and Zaddak has gotten high to deal with her nerves and keeps wandering in and out of lucidity. Kardin and Akado quickly grow tired of talking around the reason that their father has invited them there and nearly get into a shouting match over the matter of inheritance as Kazdak gets more and more evasive.

In the middle of all the chaos the dog starts barking and the servants panic, apparently a ship (not a skiff, but a full on brig) has dropped anchor outside the fortress and those aboard are currently climbing the stair. The doors crash open with a peal of thunder and who should walk in but Dalyk, clearly alive, flanked by a dozen or so rowdy pirates sailors, soaking wet from the rain and chastising his old man for starting dinner without him. Kazdak doesn’t seem surprised by the fact that Dalyk is alive, though he does take exception to the crew of armed miscreants currently dripping all over his hall. If the party isn’t careful here, Akado and the frightened servants might just start a brawl, which Dalyk seems more than happy to join in with, though their father will put a stop to things before anything comes to blows.

With a promise by Kazdak that all will be explained in the morning, Everyone retires to their rooms, with Dalyk’s crew posted up in the hall. The servants are all a buzz and the siblings are in an uproar, but Count Havelock is master of the house, and folk tend to follow his commands.  The party will have to be careful if they want to investigate, but creeping about in the dark will let them spy on the secret dramas that play out over the next couple of hours. 

In the dead of night, with the storm not yet abating, those still asleep  will be woken up by the cries of servants. Akado apparently sent them searching after Kazdak half an hour ago when she went to talk with her father but couldn’t find him in his quarters or anywhere else sensible. They discovered him in the disused tower on death’s door, passed out from bloodloss, chilled to the bone from an open window, and with a strange dagger carving a terrible wound in his midsection. The siblings demand to know what happened, blame and accusations fly, and if someone doesn’t start answering questions soon, it’s very likely that Breakreef fortress will see battle once again.  

Some time after the party have become fully embroiled in the mystery and each of the Havelock siblings have barricaded themselves in a different corner of the fortress , the Count’s dog will rise from its place by the fire, stand up, remove his magical disguise, introducing himself to the party as Deacon Riax servant of the witch god, and inform them that unless they want a lot more people to die, they’re going to have to have to ensure Kazdak Havelock dies before dawn. 

Mysteries: Things the party can uncover, with minor requiring only a little snooping but major requiring the party to win trust and gather clues.

 (minor) Both Kardin and Zaddak are terrified of Akado, who bullied them relentlessly as children, once going so far as to nearly drown her sister when she stood up for herself. This latent fear and Akado’s history of military sanctioned violence spurred Zak to learn magic in order to defend herself, and prompted Kardin to hire the party in the first place.  Who knows? All the Havelocks, the oldest servants.

(minor) Kazdak has known that Dalyk has been alive and acting as a pirate for years, having maintained a lengthy correspondence with his apparently castaway son. The Eldest Havelock sibling apparently wants nothing to do with the title, despite his father’s insistence that he return home. Who knows? Kazdak, and anyone who reads the many letters stashed away in his office.

(minor) Alyo was a follower of Wee-Jass, a forign goddess of power, death, and passion, working much of the witch goddess’s iconography into her paintings. This includes a skull-ruby medalion which she wears in the portrait unveiled at dinner, and which Kazdak has carried since her death. Who knows? Anyone with theological training that looks at the portrait or the pendant. The Havelock siblings remember the pendant but don’t know much about religion between them, and their mother was private with her faith.

(minor) Count Havelock has been having terrible dreams this past year or so, and has been in frequent council with a mysterious foreign priest by the name of Riax who comes and goes from the fortress without anyone seeing how. The servants often hear them talking, but enter the room to find Kazdak alone.  Who knows? The servants, though they’ve been sworn by their employer not to speak to the siblings of the red robed priest.

(minor) Both Akado and Zaddak are well aware of Kardin’s ambitious streak, and have a sneaking suspicion that their younger brother had something to do with Dalyk’s disappearance. Ruthless Captain Akado believes it far more strongly than the ever sympathetic Zak does.  

(minor) Though muddled by blood, rainwater, and the actions of hasty servants, the disused tower room Kazdak was found in bears signs of being used for some occult ritual.

(minor) After dinner, Kardin snuck out to talk to his father but had to double back when he say Dalyk walking through the halls. For his part, Dalyk maintains that he didn’t get to talk to his father, hearing him having a stressed conversation with an unknown voice through the door.

(minor) Akado will patch up her father using some field medicine and whatever help the party can offer. In her estimation, anyone else would have died from a wound like Kazdak suffered, but like her, Old Havoc was toughened by many years of combat and held on by a thread. The knife itself is odd, ornamental though still sharp, not her first choice for a murder weapon.

(major) Though most think he made his name and fortune as a hunter of pirates and raiders, Kazdak supplemented his commission by engaging in the crown-sanctioned persecution of a local coastal people known as the Valtal, destroying their villages to push them out of land the kingdom wanted to occupy. An old man no longer proud of the bloody deeds that won him his title, guilt ways heavily upon the Count, doubly so that the navy continues his brutality as a matter of policy. Who knows? Kazdak, Dalyk and Akado, though she takes pride in being the hobnailed boot of the state.

(major) Lost at sea, Dalyk was taken in by the very people his father was set to exterminate, Outlaws and Valtal people forced into piracy through desperation. He rose in their ranks, and eventually married into their culture, renouncing his father’s name and swearing an enmity against the royal navy. Who knows? Dalyk and Kazdak, though the Count thinks he can convince his son to come back.

(major) Kazdak’s dreams are symptoms of a fiend’s bargin coming due, a thing of violence and fear that had been feeding off his evil deeds for years before he was struck down in a clash with pirates. On the edge of death and with a mouth full of blood, Kazdak wished more than anything to see his family again, which the fiend took as terms, driving its talons into his soul to afix it to his body until his flesh could heal. Dwelling on this unwitting pact during his recovery and long journey home, Kazdak developed a fear that if he ever saw his family all at once, wife and children together, that the fiend would take them in his place. Avoidance worked for many years, until dreams of his children’s violent death convinced him that the fiend was tired of waiting for him to fall into its trap.  Finding no solace in local temples, the Count sought out a priest of his departed wife’s god and enlisted his help. Together, he and Deacon Riax formulated a plan, gather his family and subvert the pact by performing a blood sacrifice before the demon could claim his due on the anniversary of Kazdak’s averted death. This likely would have worked had Old Havoc not been so hardy, or had his body not been found. Now time is running out and the only way to avert disaster is for the party to finish Kazdak’s self-assassination. Who Knows? Kazdak (unconsious) and Riax ( disguised as a dog)

From there the story branches: None of the siblings will be on board with killing their father and will likely think that any explination as to why is part of a botched scheme orchestrated by one of the others. Zak or Dalyk could possibly be convinced to help and Kardin might step aside, but Akado will hold out until the end. Right up until dawn breaks, the fiend possesses her father’s exhanguinated body, and snaps her neck.  Unless somehow exorsized, it will persist until it has killed each of the Havelock siblings, then retreat allowing Kazdak see his family one last time before his body gives out from under him.  A tragedy the party will be hardpressed to prevent unless they are lucky, tactful, and act very quickly on the words of a man who was pretending to be a dog for most of the last week.