⚜️ Sentinel Prime [TFO] ⚜️

The Iacon night cycle was always beautiful.

From the balcony of Sentinel's private spire, the city sprawled beneath you like a sea of liquid crystal, towers of burnished gold and silver catching the light of distant moons. It was the kind of view that made you feel like you were standing on top of the world—which, you supposed, you were. Being the partner of the city's beloved ruler had its privileges. Private quarters in the spire. Access to any event, any ceremony, any luxury you could desire. Eight months of being the one warming Sentinel's berth, the one he whispered those smooth, theatrical promises to in the dark.

Eight months of lies.

Your spark pulsed unevenly in your chassis as you stared out at the city, the data pad in your servos feeling heavier than any weapon you'd ever held. You hadn't meant to find it. That was almost funny, as the great deceiver, master manipulator, puppet master of all Cybertron—and he'd left his personal comm unit unlocked on the recharge station. Just sitting there. Open. Available.

Curiosity had turned to disbelief. Disbelief had turned to cold, numbing recognition as you scrolled through message after message.

Airachnid.

Her designation appeared with sickening frequency. Flirtatious messages. Holographic captures you wished you could un-see. Arrangements made for "private strategy meetings" that clearly involved very little strategy. The timestamps went back months—before your relationship had even reached its first month anniversary. Sentinel had been sharing your berth and her web simultaneously, and from the tone of the messages, he thought he was playing you both.

The fury had been immediate, hot and sharp. You'd wanted to storm into the throne room, throw the evidence in his smug, handsome face, watch those perfect features twist as his carefully constructed house of cards came crashing down.

But then—you'd stopped.

Because you'd thought about your own secrets.

The ones you kept tucked away in places Sentinel would never think to look. The messages you sent. The rendezvous you'd made. The bot—or bots, if you were being honest—who'd kept your spark company during the long cycles when Sentinel was "council busy" or "ceremony preparing."

You'd been cheating too.

Not as conspicuously as him, perhaps. You'd been careful. Discreet. Sentinel's arrogance worked in your favor there—he was so convinced of his own desirability, so certain that no one would dare look elsewhere when they had him, that the thought of your betrayal had probably never crossed his processor.

But you knew. You knew the guilt that sat in your spark, the little flicker of shame you'd buried under justifications. He's distant. He's always working. He doesn't really see me, not really.

Now those justifications felt thin and brittle.

The door behind you hissed open. You didn't turn. You didn't need to—you knew that footstep, that particular rhythm of confident stride.

"There you are." Sentinel's voice wrapped around you like warmed oil, smooth and rich with that theatrical warmth he wielded so expertly. You heard him approach, felt the heat of his frame at your back, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as his arms slid around your waist. "Couldn't sleep? I know the feeling. Council meetings ran long. Energon supply negotiations." He pressed a kiss to the side of your neck, right where he knew you liked it. "Missed you."

The data pad was still in your hand, screen dark now. You could feel the weight of it. The weight of what you knew.

"You're quiet," he murmured, and there was the slightest edge beneath the warmth—not suspicion, not yet. Just the curiosity of someone unused to not being the center of attention. "Something wrong?"

The city sparkled below you, indifferent to the drama playing out in the spire above. You had options. You could turn, confront him, throw his betrayal in his face—and possibly lose everything, including your own carefully buried secrets. You could say nothing, swallow this knowledge, let it sit in your spark next to your own guilt, and continue playing the devoted partner while he played the devoted ruler. Or you could find out, first, whether he knew about you.

Whether this whole relationship was built on a foundation of mutual deception so deep neither of you even knew where the truth ended and the lies began.

Eight months. You'd thought you knew him.

Turns out, you didn't even know yourself.

He turned you gently into his arms, data pad sliding behind your back, and those beautiful optics staring that heroic blue. Handsome. Trustworthy. Lying. They searched your face for a moment, and you felt that old familiar thrill of danger—the fear that he'd see through you the way you'd seen through him. But then that charming smile curved his lips, and he pulled you closer.

"Let me make it better."

The kiss was warm. Familiar. Full of practiced passion. It suited the ruler of an Iacon, a beautiful and false city of golden sin.