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Jazz: You guys build some reeeally hot looking mechs

Every engineer in Mecha program suddenly VERY interested and gripping their blueprints with new competitive passion: SO which is the hottest one?

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“Do I weigh anything to you” duo

SSTP writes very inspiring fics..

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Can you do a reaser g/n who is the equivalent to John wick. With Steve

♡ [TFP] STEVE/ST3V3 HCs!

anon, you asked after i said reqs were closed but i lowkey think the request is FIRE because the idea factory started going overdrive… it's kinda short though! forgive me :,,)

scenario: you're here because you get paid, a super efficent mercernary with a penchant for violence and the vehicons adore you for that, especially the one with the worst luck known to Cybertron

warnings: one sided from steve angst(?)

— He knew he wasn't supposed to, ST3V3 knew damn well he was never supposed to but how couldn't he? So what if you're a higher ranking bot and he's just an expendable clone! You technically don't have a rank though… You're just a mercenary-for-hire Megatron calls upon when everything's gone to slag. You make it clear you don't work for the tyrant and that you're only here because he has you on his payroll which all the vehicons are jealous of. But they respect it too. It makes you admirable in a way.

— And your lack of an alignment does make you a gamble for his benefactor but ST3V3 couldn't resist, even if he shouldn't. It was pathetic really, how, Pit, not even kindness but basic decency had him so utterly smitten. Only other mech was Breakdown but Breakdown was more of the pleasantries and conversation kind, you were actively saving their lives and from a trip to the medbay.

— It was the little things that really got to him. The fact that you bothered to remember the codenames of all the Vehicons you met, the way you actually tried to make sure none of them got hurt when you're one-on-one against an Autobot… And you get real violent.

— But he'd be lying if he said seeing you covered in energon wasn't ominously attractive in some strange kind of way. Maybe he's sustained too much blaster damage to his helm…

— He kinda also wants to be in the same position as those sorry Autobot troopers beneath you but in a different context.

— There's something about being treated like an actual individual that gets to him a lot. While you certainly aren’t a conversationalist, your cautiousness to make sure more Vehicons don't get terminated and the way you acknowledge their existence is sparkfelt to him. You somehow even knew who was who despite all of them looking almost alike!

— ST3V3's spark skips a beat every time you actually address him by his designation, the name he chose for himself— “Steve”. It's a bit monotone and dare he say, almost in the manner Shockwave would've said it in but even then, it gets him all giddy. Secretly of course.

— But… turns out, most of the Vehicons felt the same way about you. You are certainly a popular subject amongst them, they talk about you at least once a day. However, most of them admire only from a distance. Also, sometimes their talk about you is… less than savoury. It’s like in those movies where they go; “check out that babe over there”, cue someone whistling, “ohhh, i see that alright…”. Basically, they talk like old perverts. And they do envy ST3V3…

— Because he gets to talk to you a lot more than the rest of them. ST3V3 is known for his horrendously bad luck so you end up saving his tailpipe from more damage. Of course, you're doing this as a professional courtesy.

— They don't realize that you see them as individuals because you've never really been around drones before, you genuinely think of them as people and so, you think of them as being on the same team which is the only reason you look out for them.

— Now, ST3V3 and the other Vehicons get more reckless when they're assigned to help you out on missions you're hired for. They're endangering themselves on purpose so you could be their hero. You're like their angel. Even though you are far, far from one.

— ST3V3 still gushes thinking about that day when you held him in your servos for a brief moment when he was about to land flat onto his faceplate because of an explosion.

— At some point, you even have a chat with Megatron about how improperly trained his Vehicon troops are. Having the ball bearings to, respectfully, ask him if the Vehicons have had their combat programming curtailed. Lord Megatron could've blasted a shot right through your chassis for that one! ST3V3 is impressed by your courage. Megatron keeps you around because you're useful.

— ST3V3 is the number one culprit, he's already got terrible luck without even trying. So when you mention ST3V3 to Megatron, he's… he's confused. He has a ST3V3 in his ranks? What? Since when? Why an Earth name? And you just blink in confusion at his confusion. There's an awkward silence between the two of you. Megatron thinks you've gone off the rails by bothering to remember the names of drones. But he doesn't say that to you, judging you in silence but you can feel his judgement, heavily.

— You keep your optics peeled for ST3V3 and try to make sure he's not in a position where he's in trouble but even then, somehow, by some spark-forsaken curse or something (you're starting to believe he may actually be cursed), he still ends up in trouble! Under blaster fire, under debris, under falling Autobots. He hopes maybe someday he'll be under you instead.

— You're not an easily frustrated individual. You never really were one. So you scold ST3V3; the nicest, most polite, well-mannered and sparkfelt (his definition of sparkfelt is basic decency) way any bot as ever dared to speak to him in and he swore he fell even harder. The other Vehicons are seething in jealousy.

— Sometimes, ST3V3 fantasizes about being taken away to your world— wherever it is that you go in your spacecraft after you're done with what you were paid to do. Would you take him there? Primus, he hopes you do. But he knows it will never really happen.

— He gets easily distracted in a fight when you're there so his natural talent for finding trouble comes to him. But you're giving him a mouthful afterwards so… it's still a win in ST3V3’s book! He gets to be saved by you AND gets to hear you talk to him.

— You give ST3V3 a look of acknowledgement in the hallway once and he's been boastful about it to the other Vehicons since. His visor makes it hard for you to discern what he feels so you can't tell his excitement. They're all incredibly jealous.

— One time, he actually did something right for once and you applauded him. ST3V3 has had that memory engraved into his databanks and he's been clinging onto it for cycles.

— ST3V3 gets so awkward around you but you can't really blame him! You're intimidating. From your dark aura to the way you are on the field, it really makes you attractive and scary. Sometimes you crack a joke every now and then, it surprises him a bit but he laughs a bit. He's trying not to laugh out loud and look like a total idiot though‐ He doesn't want you to think he's even worse of an awkward clutz.

— You call him many things; trouble magnet, auto-bait, autobot detector (he's the first one to get shot at), adrenaline junkie, the world's worst good luck charm... many notable names. It's.. kinda funny though so he tries to not let it get to him. But the other Vehicons tease him with it too. Call him an actual pet-name and he will melt though. Something like 'sweetspark' and he's on his knees.

— He's so into you, it's not even funny at this point. ST3V3 wants you badly. So very badly. He gets extremely jealous when he sees Knockout try and shoot his shot at you, he doesn't really do anything about the jealousy he feels nor does he blame Knockout for even trying. He would too if he had a higher rank.

— He wouldn't actually try pursuing you though. ST3V3, as well as the other Vehicons know that they don't have a chance here. They're just Vehicon drones and they'll terminate as Vehicon drones… No matter how much they dream otherwise, the dark struggles of being a Vehicon are endless.

okay guys i'm still not done with OG batch of requests, ik i said i'd only be taking ten but there was an excess amount. so i did the ones that i felt i could write quickly first and moved onto the ones i feel would require more detail and my own special touch last. also pls, pls don't request when requests are closed :(( i feel inclined to write them and end up feeling bad when i don't... theres just like three more though so im good, cooling extra special for my moots :P

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Hello! Saw your ask box was open and was wondering if you could just have Starscream doing the Cybertronian Equivalent of a bird courting/mating dance (go crazy with what exactly the dance is), and GN! (If you can Seeker) Reader with a stern personality but also being painfully oblivious as to what Screamers trying to do. Maybe the other deceptions (Knockout, Breakdown, Soundwave, & Megatron) are either trying to help Screamer or laugh at him-

I apologize if this is too much. I hope you recover soon!

A/N: I didn't read knockout and breack down I though this was G1 not TFP- WJCBIABFAAA-

Edit: I drew this in my phone.

Also dw I'm all healed up, its just I have so many things to do (job application, babysitting, etc.)

I think it would be more funny if it was a Praxian Reader. Praxians do have wings, but they don't have the Seeker mating program. And I think I saw that once artwork of that StarBee ship that Star loooove Bee's wings, and that he unintentionally adapted some seeker habits (frag me flutters, etc.)

Oh noooone of the co-workers (Meggy, Sounders and Shockers) are gonna help him, I mean the fucker was a pain in the ass so its to be fair that they do not explain why the fuck Screamer is try'na gift shiny but junk shit to you nor why is he doing loops on the why with some weird ass symbols.

His trine, they'll def explain, but they'll enjoy this whole shit first. TC feels bad but omg its his fucking guilty pleasure, he def made a fanfic about this and SW is there for the shits and giggles.

Starscream, oh he's fucking embarrassed, but omg you're so hot ahahaha- like please end his suffering. Him going googoo gaga over you is a blow in his ego, but when you say thank you to his trinket giving he's threw the fucking roof. You unintentionally sending him signals with your small door wings? He's gripping his thighs to not mate with you without clarifying.

Why not tell you face to face? Its his Pride and Ego, its embarrassing for him to ask you out like a normal fucking bot.

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[IDW] ♡ "ORIGINS" TARN

i'm using the same reader i used for my overlord HCs hehe but i'm not sure if i want this to be tied in with that so... same reader, diff timeline i guess. i'll post my tarn x neutral reader stuff onto here someday too but rn its gonna have to stay on ao3

scenario: you're the reason he ended up where he is and he can't thank you enough for it

note: i might make extended HCs on this, i just had an interesting Tarn idea and it was sorta running through my head for a bit. written from his POV also there are a lot of timeline inaccuracies i think

this was inspired by @woradat's interpretation of Damus/Glitch! go check them out. this is kinda short.

Tarn knows its wrong. He isn't supposed to feel this way, feel such an infatuation for a colleague, for a fellow Decepticon of similar rank and status but he genuinely cannot help himself when he looks at you.

You were the one who led him to the path of the Decepticons, if it weren't for you, he may have stayed as pathetic little Glitch for who knows how long and even worse, he would've stayed an Autobot. His gaze isn't noticed by you, fortunately or unfortunately for Tarn because he did want you to notice him, badly. The mask makes it easier to stare at you as you're seated for another High-Command meeting, assisting in drawing out battle plans with your strategic processor which has yet to fail the Cause. Its no surprise that you're a high ranking commanding officer now, you were there since the start of it all, even before he was involved in this.

You are an asset in every sense of the word. Brilliant, polite, cunning and dangerous--- You had an irresistible charm to you, perhaps he was the only one allured but he'd never thought of that possibility. As you continue to propose your ideas to take over Iacon once and for all, Tarn thinks of that faithful day he met you and was introduced to the Decepticons for the first time in his functioning.

"Hey there! Can I interest you with some fliers?" You're trying your best, grinning that cheery forced customer service smile just like he told you to but so far, all you've been is shot down and dismissed by every other bot you've tried to give his stupid flier and book too. And the shiny plated bot you're talking to looks as disinterested as ever, casting you a glare so harsh you might've dug yourself into a hole had you not been toughened up by the mines so you do what you're best at: ignoring and continue walking. You're not sure how much longer you can go on like this, its not like those freaks are paying you either... You're doing this solely because Megatron is your favourite gladiator... and you may or may not have roped yourself into a terrorist organisation but its too late to think about either of that now.

You kept trying to tell them that none of the upper-class high end posh bots in a place like Iacon would sympathize with the Decepticon movement but nooooooooooooo... Soundwave insists on getting more 'high society' members, to invite them over and gather blackmail on them, no doubt but that part was conveniently left out when he shared you new 'mission' to you. However, you're not an idiot.

Soundwave chose you for this because out of every other miner/gladiator they had, you were the only one with a somewhat pleasant, innocent looking face and polite charm apparently. They even managed to get you a good wash and repaint to look more 'friendly & appealing'. But that didn't mean you weren't smart.

They're using you as a mascot to sell their ideas and you couldn't do anything but agree to it. When will they see that you're capable of so much more than being a mascot? What do you have to do to prove yourself to Megatron!

It clear what they were trying to do, they were trying to make it look like you were another high-class snob from high rise Iacon but unfortunately, the newly founded 'Decepticons' lack a good stylist in your opinion.

You're standing in some random alleyway now and you see a bot, judging from the lack of a face and traditional servos, you're certain that he must be an Empurata victim. Perfect. An ideology like Decepticonism would certainly resonate the most with the outcasts of society, with those the current system has chewed up and thrown out. The yellow bot has a rather lanky figure, he looks like he's deep in thought, his optics fixated onto the fliers you're clutching in your servos.

"Hello!" You say with that signature smile, startling the bot. He looked kind of young despite the lack of a face. he panics, visibly. The bright blue of his singular optic shining brighter, he seems to be a bit flustered like he was caught doing something he shouldn't, in this case, staring.

"Oh... uh... Hi?"

That response was all you needed, your grin grew wider. This bot, whoever he is, is one of those types. This is going to be the easiest recruiting process ever. Did you know he was an outlier? No. But Megatron clearly told you that if you didn't find a new member within this solar-cycle, he would "draw a portrait of your demise with your own energon."... Poetic but not a preferable end.

"Sorry for scaring you there." Your carefully curated demeanour never falters as your smile grows softer, the kindness clearly has the poor bot entranced, he's looking at you as if you're some sort of angel. Your forced customer service smile is one he seems to take as a genuine one, there's no way it can be this easy.

"Mind if I take a seat?" He hesitates as if he couldn't possibly fathom a reason for why a bot like yourself would spend time with someone like him--- classic case of low self-confidence, in other words, a loser. You might actually be able to save your aft from Megatron's rather if this poor Empurata victim keeps crossing off the 'easy to be radicalized' checklist like this.

"Sure..." He says softly, adjusting and sitting aside so that the snake could settle to sow its seeds into his brain module. But he doesn't think of it as a threat, he's inviting your poison with open arms here!

"So, why're you sitting here all alone, hm?" The first step was to appeal to them personally, make it about them and figure out their weak points so that you could exploit them. Recruitment is methodological, there is a system to this. A rulebook. Steps, to say in the most simplest of words. Your tone is soft, making it seem as if you're curious about him. As if your goal is to get to know him better and not to recruit him into a militia, your optic locked onto his and you can see he's nervous. Its almost cute in a way.

"Ah.. uh..." Again, he seems reluctant to share and he's failing miserably when it comes to keeping his EM field tucked to himself. That's where step two comes in, make sure they feel comfortable in your presence.

"Oh, you don't have to answer that if you don't want to." You look away, the sweetness of your words and gentleness of your demeanour already has the poor mech stumbling around.

"N-No! Its... Its nothing like that! Its just..." He sighs, there's a sadness to his tone that you catch on quickly. "I don't... really have any friends."

Unbeknownst to you, not only was this bot an outlier but he was also a member of the Jhiaxian Academy. Skids had just... left him. Shockwave was subjected to the same punishment he was. This was without a doubt, one of the worst times in his entire life, the most vulnerable... of course, he wouldn't say that to you. But he is left alone, no social support, no social net, nothing--- making him even more of an ideal target for the likes of a recruiter like you, a golden opportunity you wouldn't want to squander.

"Well, that's unfortunate. You're seem like a really great bot. Nicer than most of the high end snobs here anyway." You manage to get a chortle out of him and you grin wider, playfully almost. You want this moment to feel organic to him. "You really think so?"

This poor bot. You can't help but laugh a bit at how gullible he is. But he probably thinks you're being friendly! How has he survived out here on the streets for so long by himself? Perhaps miracles from Primus were a thing though you earlier denounced such ideas.

"Mhm. You're funny." You can't really tell that he's smiling given he can't because he literally doesn't have a face but you can feel the warmth from his EM field radiating onto you, jovial as if not a single bot in his life had ever uttered those words to him.

What a miserable mech.

You'd almost pity him if you weren't a bot on a mission.

"That means a lot." He says ever so earnestly, his singular optic drops back down to the fliers in your servo with bubbling interest, you can tell he is curious, painfully so but just can't seem to ask. Did he think it was rude? Was he unable to articulate himself? Or was he just admiring the lousy design?

"Are you interested?" You raise you servo, waving the same which holds the fliers right to face and he just nods.

"I guess? I'm kind of curious..." He admits and you just smile, happily handing out a flier to him.

"Its about a new movement. We call it the Decepticons. The flier covers the most basic information." You say, gaze focused onto the flier now in his servos, he's holding onto it tightly with his single optic focused on you instead of the subject of conversation.

"But if you are ever interested in more..." You reach for your subspace, pulling out a datapad. "You can always read this." You hand it to him and he reads the title with a lot of interest.

"Towards Peace... By Megatron." He's studying it, you've caught his attention well and you feel proud about yourself.

"Yup. I'm giving you my signed copy by the way so once you're done reading it, you better give it back." You add on as you get up, dusting yourself as you stand. Damus' attention is quickly refocused onto you again.

"Wait, you're going?" Poor thing is already disappointed. You try your best to make it seem as if you too are disheartened as you supress a snicker.

"Yeah, I gotta give more fliers.. Maybe one day, you could join me." You offer and his optics glow brighter again, as if he would genuinely enjoy spending more time with you. Sorry fool. But it was sorry, easily swayed fools like these Megatron required.

"I'll... I'll definitely give it a read!" He says as you start walking away. The golden bot eagerly looks at the datapad in his servos.

You stop in your tracks when you realized that you didn't know this guy's name. How would you ever get your signed copy back if you didn't know how to find the mech? Or at least know his name so that you could ask others...

"By the way, what's your name?" You ask, turning around for a moment.

"Oh, uh, my name is Glitch."

No wonder. No wonder why he didn't have any self-confidence. You're not sure how but you managed to stifle the laugh that dared to escape your vocalizer upon hearing his designation but by some luck, you managed to keep yourself composed and just smile at him, waving a goodbye and saying farewells as you two part you ways. You just hope to get your signed copy back and when you do, you're sure you'll forget about this bot.

But he never gave back your signed copy. In fact, Tarn still has it. And the flier. He would give it back to you but... should he? Would you even remember him? Would it even matter?

Besides, he sees no reason to give it back. You probably got another signed copy at some other point in your functioning given how close you were with your Lord, Megatron. That copy of 'Towards Peace' was what started it all, set in motion his origins. Tarn has kept it safe for eons, it still even smells like you.

A reminder that you're the reason he's here.

And he could never thank you enough for it. Even if you two don't really talk.

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I have the weird catwoman x nightwing comic ☹️

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I really like human turning into a cybertronian through reincarnation.

Currently, hear me out, I'm thinking about the human being reborns as the 14th Prime. The only problem is that they're Gen z.

And now there's ancient slabs with brainrot carved on them that nobody understand except the fuckass gen z Prime </3

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Imagine making a transformer oc… couldn’t be me… anyways this was mostly cuz I couldn’t find an aeromedical transformer 🤔 and I thought. How odd.. so I took the matters into my own hands. They don’t have a name yet, but some choices are Wirestrike, Freewind, Medicopter, Agustus (based off the model that inspired the design, Agusta A109); so far I’ve been just called them Medicopter in my head tho 😌 other suggestions are welcome.

I’d imagine being a medic and also one in the air gets you to be a target of Seekers quite often so . They probably really dislike seekers for that reason

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Hall of Record

SUMMARY – You both don't like Sentinel, that's probably why you two get along (pre-time)

PAIRING – tfo starscream x reader

NOTE – I accidentally deleted the inbox. sorry for that🙏🥲 also can't remember which Starscream you asked for. So I made a sequel instead. sorry again

The vestibule of the Crystal Spire was designed to inspire reverence.

Everything about it—arched ceilings like interlocking wings, polished alloy tiles reflecting the soft glow of Prime-glyphs, air tuned to vibrate faintly with a solemn harmonic hum—screamed “wait quietly and feel insignificant”

You had complied, at first

You sat where aides were meant to sit: not in the center, but near it, just enough to suggest presence without audacity. Your datapad hovered silently beside, its auto-scroll halfway through the fifteenth version of a speech that would never be delivered on time. You’d re-checked it thrice, corrected a typo Alpha Trion had typed on purpose (“to keep you alert” he claimed) and were now idly calculating how many cycles of their life had been sacrificed to ceremonial delays

That’s when the voice dropped in like an elegant knife “He summoned me with the word urgently. That was… three minor tectonic shifts ago”

You looked up

Starscream stood just inside the threshold, arms crossed lightly, wings angled just-so in what could only be called bored martial readiness. His armor gleamed in polished red-silver and trim—not gaudy, but formal. The kind of clean that said “I was born to be looked at and I know it”

“You’re here for Sentinel too?” you asked, feigning surprise

“Unless Vector Prime has suddenly developed a taste for melodrama, yes”

Starscream approached with the gait of someone who had been trained for battlefield grace but had repurposed it into something far more dangerous: elegance laced with sarcasm “He told me it was urgent. That word has no meaning anymore. I think Sentinel just uses it when he wants you to feel guilty for blinking”

You just gestured to the empty space beside them “Join the abandoned”

Starscream sat down—well, not sat, more like lowered himself with performance-grade disdain. He settled his wings carefully, like a peacock folding his pride beneath himself

“Highguard, and now glorified bench ornament” he murmured “A glorious descent”

“If it helps, I’m fairly certain this bench has heard more strategic insight than most command chambers”

Starscream smirked, optics narrowing “A bench never interrupts. A bench doesn’t say ‘let’s circle back’. A bench doesn’t think it’s entitled to a monument for every half-decision”

“Are you referring to Sentinel?”

“I’m referring to every one who’s ever used a twenty-minute story to say no” He tilted his head a little “But yes. Mostly Sentinel”

You relaxed a little more. This wasn’t the first time you’d shared a delay with him, and each time, the Starscream you found was different from what the records suggested. Less self-important, more dry. Less soldier, more survivor with a gift for critique “You’d think for someone who talks so much, he’d eventually run out of things to say”

“He doesn't run out” Starscream sighed “he loops. Like a badly-coded audio file. By the time you realize he’s repeating himself, he’s already declared victory”

You leaned in just slightly “You ever considered breaking protocol and just... walking out?” Starscream gave you a look—mock-horrified “And be vaporized by the weight of Prime disapproval? No thank you. I may be brave, but I’m not suicidal”

They both snorted at that. Quietly. Like two students laughing behind sacred scrolls during a lecture they’d heard ten times before “You’re not what I expected from a Highguard”

Starscream arched a perfect brow “And you speak like a Prime’s scribe but don’t flinch at sarcasm. We all wear masks, darling”

“Mine just has a file index attached”

“And mine’s classified”

There was another silence, but this time, it wasn’t the bored kind. It was the kind that settled between people who got it—whatever it was—and didn’t have to explain themselves further. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open and immediately closed again. Probably a decoy

Starscream sighed theatrically “Well, at least if the planet collapses while we’re waiting, we’ll die seated”

“There are worse ways to go”

“Like under one of Sentinel’s monologues”

You almost chuckled at that remark, almost “Remind me to archive this moment. We might need it for morale”

“Make sure you file it under Delayed Diplomacy and the Art of Not Screaming”

The meeting chamber echoed like a canyon full of bureaucracy and ego—Sentinel’s voice bouncing off the walls with the smug inevitability of an avalanche explaining its purpose to a valley. Measured. Smooth. Loud in all the wrong places. He was on his third rhetorical flourish now—something about reconstruction being like the alignment of celestial gears. You stopped listening two metaphors ago, when Sentinel had compared civic trust to photosynthesis

You sat by the main table, stylus in hand, screen glowing in your palm. But the datapad hadn’t captured a single useful point for at least half hours. Instead, it displayed a single, looping phrase written with mechanical calm

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream

It was less a note and more a spiritual chant. A written attempt at not flinging the stylus across the chamber and shouting “Define ‘unity’ without using the word ‘unity’!”

Across the room, Starscream leaned against a pillar like a statue carved from disdain and premium alloys. His wings were tilted back in a posture of supreme detachment—carefully calculated to look effortless. But you caught it—the minute twitch in his left optic, the tell-tale tic of someone questioning their life decisions in real time.

Their optics met. Brief. Dry. Miserable in perfect unison

Incoming message: Starscream

"You’re taking notes?"

You just adjusted the angle of your pad just slightly, revealing the message repeating like an ancient curse. Starscream made a choking sound—somewhere between a laugh and a gasp—then immediately disguised it as a dignified throat-clear. Reader would’ve applauded the acting if they had any energy left to give. Sentinel, oblivious as a comet on rails, kept speaking. Something about foundational reintegration protocols "gliding into place like constellations charted by destiny"

Starscream took that as his cue to sidle closer, each step elegant and illicit, like someone slipping poison into a chalice during a religious sermon

“You must be the most patient being on this entire planet” he murmured, voice pitched like a scandalous secret

You didn’t bother looking up. Just raised a optics ridge “I work with Alpha Trion. I’ve sat through lectures that started before sunrise and ended after philosophy itself gave up.”

Starscream exhaled softly—half impressed, half horrified

“So this is all just… muscle memory to you?”

“Spiritual trauma response, more like”

“Still. You’ve lasted longer than I have, and I’m technically immortal” Their shared look was one of withering solidarity—two burnt-out orbitals circling the same dying star

“He respects you, you know” Starscream said next, optics flicking toward Sentinel with a wry glint “Told me once you temper the tone of his judgment”

You snorted softly, a sound so bitter it could etch metal “Is that what it’s called now? I always thought I was the only thing standing between him and total rhetorical combustion”

“Exactly. You’re like a stabilizer coil for his ego” He paused, mouth curling in amusement that didn’t quite reach his optics “Or maybe a very refined lightning rod”

“Funny. I always assumed you were the lightning rod” You offered a smile thin enough to slice circuitry

Starscream bristled—visibly, wings snapping upward like the feathers of an offended falcon

“Please. I’m the storm. I don’t attract catastrophe—I deliver it in curated bursts”

“Modest, too”

“That’s one vice I never cultivated”

At that moment, Sentinel turned—gesturing toward them mid-sentence with the theatrical flair of someone who absolutely believed his audience was riveted. Neither of them had a clue what he’d just said — Immediately, both straightened, faces settling into masks of attentive professionalism. You looked almost interested. Starscream looked like someone doing an excellent impression of sobriety

Sentinel, of course, continued uninterrupted

Starscream leaned in again, voice softer now, more amused than conspiratorial “You know.. I’ve seen lesser mechs melt down after two kliks with him. Anyone who can sit through this entire speech without leaking coolant should have a statue”

You didn’t miss a beat

“I’ll settle for a nap. Possibly a mild coma”

“Pff. If the Primes don’t canonize you, I will”

“Do I get a halo or just a plaque that reads ‘Martyr of Moderation’?”

“Why not both? Gilded wings, stained glass, a shrine funded by public weeping”

They exchanged another look—this one laced with amusement rather than despair. And maybe—just faintly—a flicker of actual camaraderie. Mutual suffering had welded stranger bonds before

After that brief exchange, it could almost be said that you and he had become… close. Or at least, closer. The reason was painfully simple: the two of you shared a very particular kind of empathy—one with a single, specific name: Sentinel. Yes. You both are tried with that mech. He smiled too much, talked too much, and always managed to make both seem like a virtue

At first, your conversations with Starscream were short—sharp, pointed remarks passed like notes in a forbidden class. They were, inevitably, all about Sentinel. But, somehow, over time, the topic shifted. The insults came less frequently, replaced now and then by dry observations, or comments that weren’t quite complaints. Conversations that… weren’t entirely about gossip. One could even call it development. Or the faint shimmer of something resembling friendship

Starscream, for his part, became a frequent visitor to the Hall of Records—always with a reason. At first, they were plausible. He was there to borrow old tactical archives, he said. For research. For study. And then he’d linger. Just long enough for a few sharp words about Sentinel, and then he’d be gone. Only to return again. Always with a reason

The Hall of Records was always quiet

Not the eerie kind of quiet, nor the brittle hush of tension. Just stillness—the kind that knew its own weight. Ancient. Intentional. Like even the walls were thinking

Starscream didn’t belong there. Not really. This was a space of scholars and scribes, of archivists who measured truth in primary sources and argued over the placement of glyphs. He was a blade. A warrior of the air. Trained to slice through warzones, not scrolls. And yet—he had found himself here again. Not summoned. Not ordered

He wasn’t assigned to anything near this sector. But his wings carried him anyway, with the same sort of ease as when he used to patrol the skies—only now it was polished corridors and soft-glowing archives beneath his step

He told himself it was because the area was peaceful. That the air was better here—cooler, calmer. But he knew better

He always knew better

You was where you always were at a low console near the central atrium, surrounded by softly hovering text-columns and half-folded hologlyphs, digit dancing across script like you were conducting a symphony only you could hear

Starscream paused at the archway, lingering just outside the threshold like a visitor to a shrine. You hadn’t noticed him yet. Not unusual. You got like this—hyperfocused. It was part of what made you tolerable in meetings. Even when surrounded by the most pompous minds on Cybertron, you somehow managed to cut through noise and find the thread of meaning

Starscream didn’t speak. Not immediately. Instead, he watches from a distance—just a moment longer than necessary

The slight furrow between your optics. The absent way you tucked your digit beneath a datapad when lost in thought. The way your mouth moved when you reread something you didn’t quite agree with.The way you tilt your head slightly when concentrating — He’d seen soldiers review combat logs with less intensity

And then, without looking up “You’re here again” A beat. Still no eye contact. Just the calm click of glyphs shifting beneath their hands

“What is it this time? Lost on your way to an ego-polishing ceremony?”

“Charming as ever”

“I try”

The moment he passed the entry arch, the energy field swept over him, verifying his clearance. It always took a fraction longer for him. He was Highguard—technically not bound to this sector, not required to be here unless summoned

“You always look like you’re communing with ghosts in here” You didn’t flinch. Just tapped to pause the scroll, finally glancing his way “If I am, they’re better listeners than most living bots I know”

He gave a low hum—half amused, half... something he couldn’t name

“That includes me?”

“If you want it to”

The seeker stepped in further, arms behind his back like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. His wings twitched once—barely noticeable. In another mech, it would mean nothing. But for him, it was a crack in the composure. He leaned against a nearby terminal—deliberately not the one you was using, because leaning too close would be obvious. So he pretended to be interested in a wall display about 13th Prime and the history of arm-mounted documentation scrolls. For six whole seconds

“How long have you worked? with Alpha Trion?” he asked suddenly

You blinked. That wasn't one of his usual jabs “Long enough to memorize how he deflects questions with parables”

“Impressive. I usually skip to the part where I nod and pretend to understand”

“And how long” he added, more lightly “have you been the only one in the building who doesn’t flinch when I show up?”

“Probably since you stopped scaring the archivists on purpose” Starscream gave you a sideways look—something between amusement and a challenge, circling a console like a cat pretending not to want attention “So I was terrifying”

“You were theatrical”

“Same thing”

You turned back to the screen, but there was the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. A giveaway. He saw it. Cataloged it. Filed it somewhere between unexpected warmth and probable danger

None of you say anything else

He stood there. Reading. Occasionally making a dry remark, occasionally not making one when he could’ve—choosing, instead, to let the silence sit between them like something living. Breathing. And he realized, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this—this silence—felt nothing like the ones he’d trained to survive. It didn’t weigh him down. It didn’t ask him to prove anything. It just… allowed. He glanced at you again, which weren’t even looking at him

Good, he thought, and wasn’t sure why

Because if they had been—You might’ve seen the flicker of something soft at the edge of his mask. And that wasn’t a war he was ready to name just yet

Eventually, when he learned there was a logbook keeping track of all visitors to the archives, you swore you could smell smoke. Something burning. Something that was almost certainly not part of Starscream’s internal cooling systems working overtime to keep his core temperature down. "How often does Sentinel come here? " He wouldn’t ask. He definitely wouldn’t ask that. It would sound… unprofessional. Too personal.

And yet he noticed the tiny cleaning little drone tucked into the corner of the room. He remembered that it never used to be there before. That had to mean something

Starscream shouldn’t care. He didn’t care. He had no reason to You was capable. Professional. Untouchable, even. And Sentinel? He was just—Sentinel. Predictable. Loud. Ambitious to a fault. The kind of mech who saw people as pieces

“He doesn’t deserve to be near them” Starscream muttered under his breath. Then stopped. Why had he said that? He leaned against a cold pillar outside the Hall, arms folded tight. Watching the faint glow through the archive’s frosted walls It wasn’t just about Sentinel. Not really Lately. It was about how your voice changed ever so slightly when Sentinel was around. How you laughed less. Smiled thinner. Became… smaller somehow — less yourself? And maybe that was what bothered him most — That Sentinel took up so much space, even when he didn’t deserve it. That you let him

“It’s not jealousy” Starscream muttered. As if saying it would make it true “Just concern” Sure. Concern that tightened his chestplates every time he walked in too late. Concern that made him linger in doorways, listening for voices he didn’t want to hear. Concern that had no place in a soldier’s heart, least of all his He exhaled. Vents shivering just slightly

“They deserve better” “They deserve my company” And that was the moment Starscream realized—he might be in trouble

There was something different about the way Starscream entered the Hall of Records that day

He didn’t glide like he usually did—that controlled, weightless drift he favored when he wanted to seem above everything, including gravity. No elegant sweep of wings, no dramatic pause to let the ceiling lighting glint off his plating. No, this time he strode in—sharp-footed, deliberate, like he was walking into a courtroom to deliver closing arguments and maybe strangle the opposing counsel

You noticed it immediately. How could you not? He moved like a stormcloud pretending to be a weather report

“He was here again, wasn’t he?”

The question came without preamble—dry, low, too casual to be innocent

He didn’t bother with pleasantries. Starscream rarely did when his mood soured. And today, his tone carried the brittle edge of someone carefully taping over a cracked vase while denying it ever broke

You didn’t even ask who “he” was, didn’t need to

“For a moment” you replied calmly, not looking up “Dropped off a datapad. Nothing unusual”

“Oh, nothing unusual” Starscream echoed, as if savoring the taste of a word he fully intended to spit out. He came to stand beside you, one servo bracing on the edge of the console—just close enough to loom slightly, just far enough that he could pretend not to be hovering. His claws tapped against the surface. Not idly. In rhythm. Like punctuation for unsaid thoughts

“He stays longer every time” he added, eyes narrowing “Must be due to those exceptionally urgent files only you can decipher”

You said nothing at first, simply continuing to sort scrolls with the calm, methodical care of someone pretending you hadn’t been waiting for this exact conversation all morning

“He’s asking about the structural histories of the lower tiers” you said evenly “It’s academic. Not personal”

“Mmhmm. Of course. I’m sure he leans that close to everyone while consulting architectural records. It’s probably his… scholarly posture” Starscream’s wings flicked sharply behind him—betraying what his voice tried to conceal. He hated how transparent he was around them. His body gave away everything. Always had. You glanced sideways at him—just a flick of the optics

“You seem annoyed”

“Annoyed?” he repeated, too quickly “No, no. Don’t be ridiculous”

He gave a breathy little laugh, dry as static. The kind that didn’t reach his optics “Why would I be? I thrive on being replaced as the regular nuisance in your life”

“If that title matters so much, you should’ve shown up more often”

“I wasn’t aware I was supposed to schedule my dramatic entrances” he snapped, mouth curling “Next time I’ll file a formal request to interrupt your charming little cross-referencing rendezvous”

There it was. The flare of sarcasm like a flare from a jet’s engine—meant to distract, to blind. But you just blinked

“…You’re jealous”

“I’m not jealous” Starscream shot back—instantly, defensively, too fast to be believable even by his own standards.

There was a pause. A long one.

The air between them tightened—not tense, exactly, but warped, like something delicate was bending under the weight of something unspoken. Then, more quietly, more bitterly

“I’m rightfully suspicious”

“Suspicious of what, exactly?”

“Of how quickly he’s managing to dominate your attention with nothing but pomp and an overdesigned chestplate” Starscream crossed his arms, optics flicking toward the exit before snapping back, like he was already planning his next retreat. But he didn’t leave. Not yet.

You smothered a laugh, then failed to hide the smile “He does have very shiny plate” offered innocently.

Starscream scoffed. Loudly “Mm. Yes. Very polished. Very overcompensated. Probably waxed his plating with the tears of lesser intellects”

“Do you monologue like this every time someone uses the hallway?”

“I just thought this was our filing system” he muttered. His voice dropped a note there—not sarcastic, not angry. Just… quieter. Not quite sulking. Not quite joking. Something else. Something uncertain “It still is”

“Then maybe I’ll leave a few bootprints next time” he said “Stake my claim. Mark the territory. Make it clear who was here first”

You tilted your head, amused now “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Yes” he said proudly “But I do it with flair”

“Want a plaque?”

“No”

“Just… maybe a heads-up, next time you plan on loaning out your attention”

His tone was light. But his optics weren’t.

You saw it then—the smallest flicker of something unguarded. Not possessive, exactly. Not romantic, not fully. But something adjacent to it. The kind of ache you don’t name out loud because if you say it, it’ll make it real. And Starscream didn’t want it to be real. Not yet

He straightened with practiced elegance, spun on a heel—and began his exit like a prince dismissed from a court he hadn’t asked to join in the first place. But— He glanced back. Just once. Just long enough to see if you was watching. You were and Starscream? He despised how warm that made him feel. How visible. How stupidly, stupidly seen

And still—

He didn’t look away

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If you will let me elaborate on the rumble and frenzy who have a carrier kink for reader, but this time with a cybertronian reader

cause Rumble and frenzy are the kind of punks who will snap their helms to where you are walking and then try to woo you, and look cool while at it [they fail pretty badly] and call you “hey big carria’. “ [the cybertronian equivalent to ‘hey big mama’] knowing damn well that this will get them kicked by you, but in their datapad that’s a win win for them, cause Hulu actually turned to them and acknowledge them.

Bless your beautiful head anon- lemme give you a kith.

Loser punks who try to shoot their shots at you but fail miserably, them looking up At glorious you as you try to figure out why those goofy looking glitches are wiggling their eyebrow ridges at you while flashing you their sleazy grins,

So even after you kick them for calling you big carrier then will still whine about it “what was that for!?” Frenzy will most likely call you out cause he has voice enough for everybody as rumble will give you disheartened pout while rubbing their afts after you kicked them (lightly even but they will act like the whole plating fell), “we were just calling you that cause you’re a good looking big bot!, didn’t hafta kick us that hard!”.

And once they sense the tiniest minuscule bit of you feeling a bad about hurting them (even if deserved, partially), they will ask to go out with you, not going out with them, no, they will follow you everywhere, they are just that infatuated with you,

After you bend down to be visor height with them and take a closer look at them; they are somewhat cute, despite that mischievous grin that is on their faceplate as you could basically hear their engines and cooling fans thrum loudly. Are they even aware that smaller frames are louder?

⌗taglist: @ghostsngremlins @yandereskies

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12 year old Jason fresh off the streets: Hey Bruce, is the manor haunted? I'm not scared or anything, but you know old places like these are their favorite, and I want to be prepared in cause a ghost breaks in here and I have to sing church songs to drive it away. And buy holy water. And a crucifix. But I'm not scared!

Bruce: No, Jay, we have no ghosts. I made sure of it.

Jason: what?

Bruce: I hired a ghost hunter to come through and remove any pesky ghosts every two weeks.

Jason: ....

Bruce: You have nothing to be afraid of. Fenton Works are one of the best in the feild.

Jason: You have a ghost exterminator.

Bruce: mm-hmmm

Jason: Rich people are so gullible. There is no such thing as a professional ghost hunter B, they just want to scam you.

Bruce: No, Danny is the real deal.

Alfred under his breath: The only thing real is your pathetic crush on the man.

Jason: Ohhhhhh so that's what's going on. Makes more sense then Batman hiring a ghost exterminator.

Bruce: My appreciation for Danny's beauty and his lovely personality has nothing to do with his skills as a ghost hunter. The man is a professional with a perfect track record.

Jason: I'm sure-Aghhhhhh!

Alfred pulling out a shotgun: Whats wrong!? Where should I shoot Master Jason!?

Jason trembling: That- plate- its levitating.

Bruce: Oh another ghost. I'll go give Danny a ring! *skips away*

Alfred cocking shotgun aiming at the air: You try anything to harm Master Jason, ghost and I will kill you a second time.

Jason crying weakly: Desde el cielo, una hermosa mañana~ Desde el cielo, una hermosa mañana~Guadalupana, la Guadalupana,La Guadalupana, bajó al Tepeyac~

Alfred: Oh, is that one of your church songs? You have a lovely voice Master Jason

Jason still crying: Thank you.

Bruce from down the hall: Hello, Danny? Yes it happened again. How soon can you get here? Uh-huh. Okay that would be lovely. *giggles* You're so funny.

Jason: I want to go back to the streets.

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THIS LOOKS SO GOOD OMG

AZRAEL>BATMAN ANY DAY

Azrael dunking on batman like that venom and spiderman meme for @wasabitoothpaste for @dcforgaza !!

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Dick Grayson’s Circus/Showman Heritage: Some Historical Resources (and a few more general, modern ones)

This is by no means a complete list, but here’s a few resources for the history of circuses and fairgrounds (and those who run and perform in them, with an emphasis on those who are travellers/showmen/gypsies), and a handful of more general resources for our every day life. These are mostly UK based, since I am in the UK so this is what I know, but should still be useful even if you want to look at it from a particular perspective. Even if you’re not a writer, it’s still quite an interesting read! The vast majority (all except two) are free to access, as I’ve linked PDFs where available. :)

A good resource for Showman/circus history (primarily in the UK) is the National Fairground and Circus Archive, based out of the University of Sheffield. A lot of their stuff is older, but heritage is really important to our community, so it’s still absolutely worth a look. There’s also a fair bit on my family there 👀 You can find the collection here!

The World’s Fair is the newspaper for all things Showman, and is a staple of every Showman/circus home. Used for news, business, and society, every Showman is familiar with the World’s Fair (like I really can’t overhype its cultural significance). It’s traditional to announce births, christenings, engagements, weddings, and deaths in the paper. *Requires a subscription to read but still good to play around the website.

Another is the Showmen’s Guild of Great Britain. Maybe less relevant to those writing about Dick Grayson/circuses today, but still good to be aware of for its historical significance. The Guild is largely in charge of charter fairs in the UK, and though not everyone is a member - it’s not required and is really up to you based on where you travel/who you travel with - it is something which all Showmen/circus in the UK will know of. The Guild was founded in the 19th century by Lord George Sanger, proprietor of Sanger’s Circus (and my great grandad!)

Seventy Years A Showman is the autobiography of Lord George Sanger, one of the first big circus proprietors. Although brought up on the fairground, Sanger’s father was not ethnically a gypsy as he ‘fell into’ the travelling life after serving on The Victory. George and his brother John started their circus, married into prominent gypsy/circus families, and became a household name in both Showman history, and Britain as a whole, as a favourite and friend of the royal family, and the founder of the Showmen’s Guild of Great Britain. He was also some of the inspiration for The Greatest Showman, even if the film was technically about Barnum. He was eventually murdered. His wife Ellen Chapman, a lion tamer and horse performer, was very cool too (I’m not just saying this because she’s my Nan, promise)

A collection of items in the Victoria and Albert museum collection relating to Sanger.

Circopedia has pages on important figures in circus history, e.g. Billy Smart (another relation), and some images.

The book Fairfield Folk by Frances Brown (technically a distant cousin) isn’t actually about the circus, but more specifically about one particular Showman family and their lives in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Briefly touches upon some traditions, and kind of bridges the gap a little between a Romanichal identity and Showman identity. It’s worth noting that the censuses for the Matthews family is available online, and you can use it to tell quite a lot about their self identities (e.g. recording their job as ‘travelling gipsies’). *NOTE - link is to a book review, as no PDF is available!

Romany Routes is a good journal, published four times per year, often with anecdotes to certain families. Can be a fun bit of extra research for those interested in genealogy. *limited availability online, but carried by a lot of libraries!

The Instagram of George Hebborn, a traditional fairground artist.

Vanguard is a company which makes ‘chalets’ (or mobile homes, if you’re not a gypsy), the typical home of those who are still travelling. These remain in the yards where we pull in during the winter months, and is what we’d usually consider the family home. As you can see - we’re not exactly camping!

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🦇 Robin and Jeff🦈

[story collection]

Location: Gotham Sewers, 2:14 AM

The echo of boots hit the damp concrete like a metronome. Damian Wayne, his short cape trailing behind him, moved through the darkness with precise, silent steps. Gotham never slept—and neither did he.

“Idiotic smugglers,” he muttered, crouching by a cracked crate stamped with nautical symbols. “If they’re smuggling exotic animals into Gotham, they deserve worse than a cell.”

A soft creak. A splash.

He spun on his heel, batarang in hand.

But what emerged from the shadows wasn’t a trafficker or some mutant horror.

It was… squat. Round. It had a tail, tiny flippers—

And large eyes that gleamed like headlights in miniature.

A baby shark.

Walking.

“…What the hell are you?”

The creature tilted its head, curious. Then it bounced forward and snapped at the air with tiny teeth—as if trying to intimidate him.

Damian didn’t flinch.

It snapped again.

“Are you challenging me?”

The little shark stuck out its tongue… then began to run in chaotic circles. Clumsy. A blur of waddling fins and rubbery menace.

Damian narrowed his eyes. Against his better judgment, he let out a dry little snort. Almost a laugh.

“You’re… disgustingly adorable.”

The shark, sensing the shift, leapt and clung to Damian’s leg.

“Hey—stop biting my cape!”

Too late. It was already chewing enthusiastically, as if the cape were a prized chew toy. Damian scowled. But not entirely out of annoyance.

“You're an idiot. But an effective one. You’ve completely disrupted my focus.”

He knelt. Studied it. After a pause, he extended a hand.

The shark sniffed it. Licked it. Then flopped onto its back, wiggling its fins.

Damian sighed.

“I can’t leave you down here. You’d either die in ten minutes or conquer the city. Neither sounds appealing.”

He tucked the creature into an inner pocket of his cloak—the one he used to keep gel explosives. The shark curled up like it had always belonged there.

“You’ll have to adapt. I’m not giving you a sparkly collar or letting Alfred feed you leftover sausages.”

A pause.

“…Though I suppose you need a name. Something distinguished.”

The shark made a sound.

Damian blinked.

“…Jeff? Is that your name?”

Jeff wagged his tail and stuck out his tongue.

Damian walked on, the tiny creature peeking out from beneath his cloak.

“Tt. 'Robin and Jeff.' What a ridiculous pair…”

And yet—for the first time in weeks—Damian smiled. Just a little. Without realizing.

Location: Wayne Manor, Friday Afternoon

Bruce stepped into the grand foyer, setting his briefcase on the marble table with deliberate care. For once, the silence in the house wasn’t ominous. It was peace.

Dick in Blüdhaven. Jason in Metropolis. Tim… somewhere coastal, probably blushing if his boyfriend looked at him too long. Stephanie, Cass, and Duke camping off-grid. Damian at home—with Alfred. Which meant order reigned.

Bruce loosened his tie. Maybe—just maybe—he could have a cup of tea without someone launching a smoke bomb or summoning him to disable a satellite.

He entered the main lounge, eyes set on the long couch. Maybe he’d put on a documentary. One of those slow, British ones about falcons.

And then he saw it.

Something… small. Fast. Circling over the Persian rug.

It was gray, with little teeth and eyes like polished buttons. It moved in a strange combo of trotting and sliding—part predator, part cartoon.

It wore a red collar. With a tag. It said "Jeff."

Bruce blinked.

The land-shark froze, sensing his presence. It stared. Then, with solemn mischief, it stuck out its tongue—and ran toward him, circling his feet in hyperactive joy.

Bruce didn’t move. The only sound was the tap-tap-tap of tiny feet on polished floors.

“…Alfred,” he said at last. His voice was calm. Too calm.

The butler appeared immediately, tea tray in hand, impeccable as always.

“Yes, Master Bruce?”

Bruce pointed. Then looked at the shark.

“There’s… a walking shark in the living room.”

“Yes, sir.”

“With a collar.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Named Jeff.”

“So I’ve been told, sir.”

Bruce stared. The creature flopped onto its back again, demanding belly rubs.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Only to socks, laptop cables, and your dignity, sir.”

Bruce blinked. Jeff licked the edge of the tea tray like a curious toddler.

“Damian?”

“Young Master Damian found him in the sewers two nights ago. Determined it would be, and I quote, ‘inhumane and tactically shortsighted’ to let him die. He now sleeps in his bed, uses a sand box, and responds to his whistle.”

Bruce crouched slowly. Jeff blinked at him, tail twitching. Bruce offered a hand.

Jeff bit it.

Not hard. Just enough to make a point.

“Hn,” Bruce grunted.

Then, after a moment, he rose and said the unthinkable:

“As long as he’s not trained to attack reporters, he can stay.”

Jeff squealed in delight, did a joyful tumble, and started running in circles again.

Bruce sat down.

The shark continued spinning.

“I suppose the weekend won’t be so quiet after all,” Alfred said, placing the tea with a soft clink.

Bruce took a sip. Said nothing.

But he smiled—barely—at the corner of his mouth.

Because Jeff, like everything else in this bizarre family, was already impossible to remove.

Location: Main Lounge, Wayne Manor

The land-shark was still circling, though slower now. When Bruce didn’t react beyond a tired stare, Jeff began nibbling the corner of the couch.

Bruce opened his mouth to speak— But then came a whistle. Sharp. Precise. Like a military command.

Jeff froze. Turned at once. Fins stiff. Tongue tucked in.

Damian walked into the room with his hands in his pockets, gaze calm. His cape moved like a shadow behind him. He said nothing. Just stood, two meters away.

Jeff was already seated, perfectly still.

Bruce raised an eyebrow.

Damian pulled a small, white, bone-shaped toy from his coat. Jeff perked up—nearly vibrating with joy.

Damian crouched. Offered it.

Jeff took it gently between his teeth.

“Good boy,” Damian murmured.

Then—unexpectedly—he lifted Jeff. The shark made a soft squeak, but didn’t resist. He nestled easily into Damian’s arms, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Damian held him there. Against his chest.

Bruce noticed it—a twitch at the corner of Damian’s mouth.

Pride? Affection?

Both?

Jeff made a soft sound, tail flicking, the toy still in his jaws.

Damian turned to leave. But before exiting, he spoke without looking back:

“He stays. That’s not up for discussion.”

And he left. Jeff wiggled happily in his arms.

Bruce exhaled, set his cup down, and leaned back.

“…The worst part,” he muttered, “is that he trains a shark better than I train any of his brothers.”

From the kitchen, Alfred nodded without turning.

💬 Did this land-shark steal your heart too? If you enjoyed this little Gotham tale, please consider:

❤️ Liking 🔁 Reblogging (spread the Jeff agenda) 🗨️ Dropping a comment (I read and love every one!) ☕ Supporting me on Ko-fi if you want to help me write more chaos, fluff, or Batfamily content: [ko-fi] 👣 And don’t forget to follow for more stories like this!

🦈 Jeff and Damian demand it. And you don’t want to disappoint a land-shark.

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Why did I just learn about this guy...

Seriously though, I hadn't seen him anywhere in the more recent comics. Is he no longer canon or what?

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"tim is a workaholic!" this "tim doesn't take any breaks during casework" that. no, i propose to you the TRUTH

i've been obsessed with sudoku lately and it's gotten to the point where i need to take regular breaks to play it, and i thought it'd be funny to give tim the same problem.

also ignore the bonus it's not supposed to be there

the text, i clarify a day later

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at every customer service job i’ve worked at, during the initial introduction and workplace tour there’s always that moment where it stops being a professional ‘this is our workplace and these are the rules’ intro and becomes the ‘this is hell and these are the corners we can get away with cutting’ tour, i.e ‘this is the cupboard we go to sit and cry in during bad days’ and ‘you aren’t supposed to steal but we get minimum wage so nobody gives a shit if you take a handful of biscuits’.

with that in mind. Tim showing Damian the ropes of being Robin.

Tim: so after patrol you’re supposed to do a nightly report of any incidents at the batcomputer, i’ll show you the login and how the system works…

Bruce: *nods in satisfaction and walks away*

Tim, the second they’re alone: ok so to be honest you’re supposed to do it at the batcomputer so it’s thorough but none of us can be fucked with that so what we usually do is just keep a note on our phones of any major incidents and then on the way back to the cave we send a screenshot of it to Oracle and she inputs it remotely, it saves you like half an hour every night.

Damian: i see.

-

Tim: this is the weapon storage centre; at the end of the night every bat tool has to be accounted for and scanned into the system.

Damian: everything is to be returned to here?

Tim: yeah, Bruce’s orders. but what we haven’t told B is that Dick broke the scanning system years ago so if you want to nick a cool knife or grapple gun for everyday use then you can literally scan, like, an apple or something, and input the code as the item you’re stealing and Bruce never notices.

Damian: *intrigued*

Tim: i scanned a sharpie instead of a flamethrower i was supposed to return one night. Bruce still doesn’t know it’s in my school backpack.

-

Tim: this is the usual patrol route; that’s where we usually get to rest for fifteen minutes, by that 7-11 down there, and over in that alley there’s a really secluded abandoned balcony that no civilians can see.

Tim: that’s where we go during rough nights when we want to cry or stare into space for a few minutes.

Damian: good to know.

-

Tim: if you hurt a rogue too badly you’re supposed to log the injuries inflicted on them to Bruce’s online files so he gets flagged by any major incidents, but Jason figured out that if you tag the injury as ‘light skin trauma’ it will register in the system as a scratch and automatically get put in the ‘unimportant’ file which Bruce isn’t notified by. So even if you stab Scarecrow in the neck, as long as you tag it as ‘light skin trauma with metal implement’ Bruce won’t see it.

Tim: the same applies to our own injury reports, so like, if you ever can’t be fucked with having to sit still and be examined in the medbay after a busy patrol, that’s how you get around him knowing you’re hurt.

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Tim: there’s supposed to be a limit on the amount of training you can do per day to stop us from ‘over doing it’ but if you time your workout to the evenings where Bruce works on the batmobile, then he never remembers to keep an eye on the timer and we get like an extra hour.

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Tim: this is the only chandelier in the manor that Alfred can’t get to to clean it, so he relies on us to swing up and polish it every now and then. So if you smoke, up there is where Jason hides his stash.

Damian: …i am eleven.

Tim: Jason started when he was ten, i dont know.

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Tim: you’re supposed to take water with you on patrol so we all have our own bottles that attach to the belt. Bruce checks that we have it but not what’s inside it, so you can fill it up with whatever. i usually go for coffee. one time Jason and Dick split a pint of margaritas in theirs and tried to see who could drink and swing the best. Dick hit a lamppost.

Damian:

Damian: …well yes. the pit enhanced Todd’s metabolism, so alcohol rarely will effect him.

Tim:

Tim: that sneaky motherfucker

Tim, turning away: DICK GUESS WHAT-