#the overlord protocol

[metalgeartwo1990]

compilation of wing being the sole winner of the idgaf war

[spotaus]

If I have energy I want to draw out some designs for an au I'm spontaneously writing.

(Medieval times, there's a Prophecy. Nightmare rules over this kingdom and is supposed to complete this prophecy, he refuses to because it would harm the people. Dream was sent away and banished by Night because he was dis-illusioned into thinking the prophecy was a Good Thing abd what he was raised to complete. Night collected his Knights (Killer, Dust, Horror, and Cross most recently) and trains them and tells them the truth of the prophecy. They're loyal to him. One day the magic of the prophesy (Apple Magic) leaves Nightmare unexpectedly, returning him to the state he was in before he accepted the mantle. This puts a target on his back and gives Dream a huge advantage in maybe making a comeback. The Knight's decide that their King (newly a young lad and variably scared and frightened) must be protected and they run the kingdom as he normally would, while also ensuring he survives and that the prophecy can't be completed.)

[caracarahoney]

That Scene In OP:

Nero: I don’t understand- what madness inspired you to do this? Money? Power? Revenge?!

Cypher, high on at least two painkillers and severely concussed: I miss my wife :(

[buildoblivion]

that episode was three distinct vibes and I adored all of them

[askvectorprime]

Dear Vector Prime,

How much weight does a Phase Sixer pull? Black Shadow could apparently aterilize worlds but the DJD took him down with a half-dozen elite bots. Are they just very destructive but not as ultra-deadly as they tend to think they are?

Dear Phase Phinder,

The Phase Sixers were powerful warriors indeed, and armed with a variety of incredibly lethal weapons, but ultimately they were just one cog in Megatron’s overall war machine. Ordinarily, the Phase Sixers were only dispatched to planets that had progressed to phase six of the Decepticon infiltration protocol, and been subsequently marked for destruction—meaning that the local Decepticon cell had already turned the planet’s inhabitants against each other, captured or neutralized strategic arsenals, erected impregnable planetary fortifications, and generally ensured that neither the local sapients nor any Autobot operatives had a chance at mounting an organized counterattack. Phase Sixers could indeed sterilize planets… but only because many other Decepticons had carefully maneuvered everything into place so that they could deliver the killing blow.

The Decepticon forces could simply have used one of their many battleships to incinerate a planet’s atmosphere and achieve largely the same effect, but the fact of the matter was that the Phase Sixers relied heavily on psychological warfare. A rumored legion of invincible, unkillable super-warriors capable of singlehandedly breaking worlds kept the lesser Decepticons in line and the rank-and-file Autobots on their guard.

However, loyalty through fear has its downsides. Many resentful Decepticons soon realized that they were doing most of the hard work, only for Black Shadow, Overlord, and Sixshot to take all the credit. It didn’t take long before resentful Decepticons began referring to the Phase Sixers as “glorified janitors”, “J-class soldiers”, and other such derogatory appellations—though only when the Phase Sixers themselves were well out of earshot!

[psalmsofpsychosis]

people that need the proper context and label for every single fucking thing in their lives and need it defined by Some Invisible Authority TM bore me to death. "this is the X space. X space rules state that X space is for doing Y and Z. Therefore in this space we do the assigned Y and Z functions and NOTHING ELSE, because that was not defined within the parameters of the space and IT'S INAPPROPRIATE." "this is a café; here you order coffee and food and do your job only make eye contact with people you've brought with you or keep to yourself" "this is a club, here you dance and drink alcohol and grind on strangers and suggest sex to people" "this is the supermarket; here you buy grocery and then go home" "this is the feminism circle; here you talk about women according to vague criteria and dont bring up anything else" what if i tell you that you can make a Barista's day brighter by pulling a baby duck out of your pucket and mimicking a duckie voice thanking them and wishing them a lovely day as they're registering your order? what if you debate Hegel's philosophy with someone in a club and you both find out that you've been trying for ages to look acceptable and well-within-the-shallow-lines and you dont have to? what if you go to the supermarket and a grandma asks you to tell them the name of earlier mentioned Duckie and you end up befriending a grandma that introduces you to the best 70s underground obscure psychedelic bands?

The point is, no space is truly defined to contain the full spectrum of spontaneous human expression. You cannot assign protocol behaviors to different "contexts" in a way that doesn't inherently diminish your humanity and kill you inside. the "Normalize blahblahblah—" you dont need normalization, you need your fucking personhood back. The context is you; you happen, other people happen, let yourself happen for fucks sake. "you can't chat a stranger up while you're both standing in line to get movie tickets" listen to me— their bag had a Batman and a Stitch keychain hanging from it, i wanted to tell them that i think Batman and Stitch would be best friends actually, in fact; i did! because here is the thing; i'm alive and i can show love when i feel it and i can do whatever the fuck i want. <3 I'm not gonna wait for some Almighty Invisible Authority TM voice to tell me which parts of my personality are green lighted for which artifically structured context, i'm a whole person, not a fucking puzzle, you dont get to tell me which parts of me do i pick out and leave outside the door as i enter a space. What dies within the inflexible bounds of "expected and appropriate behavior in expected and appropriate spaces" is the intelligent and exhilarating instinct of creativity and spontaneity, and you know what? not on me or my duckie's watch.

[scenteddelusion5]

Hi, can I request a platonic Rosie(or several overlords if that’s okay) with a Female reader who’s a teenager overlord who accidentally became an overlord?

The Overlord of Disasters

Fem teenage reader x platonic Rosie (and other overlords)

This got way too long so I tried to shorten it, hope you still enjoy it.

Word count: 2886

Note: I actually am working on a young adult/teenager oc that has the powers to become an overlord, so the fact that this is my first request is very funny. When I've finished her design, I'll write about her. But for now, here is the story of Y/n the overlord of disasters.

Y\n had to admit that she wasn't the nicest person but she never expected to end up in hell. HELL, like yess she was a bit of a troubled teen... she was a petty thief, yess, but some of her peers were much worse. Besides, she was only fifteen when she died. She never had the chance to do better. That should've given her at least some leeway? Right?? RIGHT???

But no, she ended up in hell.

When Y/n first arrived, she roamed the dangerous streets looking for shelter. Her face and slim goat-like stature was hidden by a torn cloak. She tried to be inconspicuous, discreet, low-key but she overlooked one thing... Our Y/n was ridiculously clumsy. So when she tripped over her own foot, her arm bumped into the light pole causing it to fall over onto a postal van. That in turn caused all the letters to fly out on the street. Some of the papers got carried up by the wind, eventually getting stuck onto the cord of a power pylon. Then there was fire, which spread onto a building...

Everyone's eyes were focused on her, including a set of hollow eye socket. It didn't take long for the demons that lived in the now burning building to storm her.

"YOU FUCKING BITCH!!!" One incredibly tall shark demon took the lead. "I'm going to rip fucking longs out of your chest and feed it to those CANIBAL FREAKS!!!"

At first Rosie didn't want to intervene. It really wasn't her style to get involved into random street fights, even though she found Y/n's disastrous display hilarious. But now that the loan shark insulted her people, she felt it was her duty to step in.

"Gentlemen, whatever might be the problem?" Rosie stepped in between you and the threatening hoard and flashed her sharp teeth to them. "You aren't bullying this poor newcomer, right?"

"Uhm, n-no miss, uhm Rosie. We're sorry." Before Rosie could open her mouth again, they ran back into the still burning building.

The overlord then turned to you. "Now darling, I take it you don't have a place to stay?"

Y/n shook her head.

"Then you can stay with me. I'm quite the powerful demon."

From that day on Y/n stayed with Rosie. During the years of living together, the two grew quite close. The overlord took over a motherly role for the teen. Everyone in cannibal town loved the unofficially adopted daughter of Rosie, they were even willing to put up with Y/n's clumsy nature.

Rosie truly loved her and when Y/n accidentally called her mom while helping out in the store, she was the happiest demoness in all of hell.

From that day on Rosie introduced Y/n as her daughter to anyone and everyone, even some of her fellow overlords.

Alastor and Y/n had met many times and often had tea together. The man often joked about how it's never boring with her. She had also met Zestial and Camilla a few times, but she wasn't as close with them as Alastor and Rosie.

One day Y/n had to make a trip to the Doomsday district. Rosie had, reluctingly, sent you to deliver a dress to a customer. She was all alone, her hand rested on the angelic steel knife on her belt. Rosie had given it to her so she could protect herself, just in case. Most people knew you were close to several overlords but you could never be more careful, especially Y/n.

Y/n was repeating her 'safety protocol' in her head.

Stay away from the walls

stay away from the poles

stay away from the demons

Stay away from the fire

Look where you step

Hold th-

She walked into something and fall back on her but. Looking up was a demon she recognized... An overlord, he was in charge of the Doomsday district.

"WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?!!!" This situation seemed awfully familiar.

Y/n clenched her shirt. "I'm sorry sir, I didn't mean to."

"I DON'T CARE!!!"

The demon was menacingly towering over her. She crawled back and pulled herself up. Seeing as this wasn't going to be resolved with a pleasant conversation over tea, Y/n pulled out her knife. Her arms were shaking and the knife felt heavy in her hands.

"What do you think that toothpick is going to do?" He stepped forward and you stepped back. On and on until she hit the wall... OH no... she hit the wall...

Her elbow hit the random waterpipe on the side of the building and broke it. Water spewed out right into the overlord's face. The demon fell back. The water had landed on the street, causing a car to slip and running over the overlord and crashing into the wall. This in turn caused the satellite aerial to fall down and slightly bumped your back. The knife shot out of your hand right into overlord. The aerial send out a weird frequency.

"Spare me... Please..." The overlord gasped out.

Y/n was still shaken up. "What?... Uhm I don't plan on killing you." her voice sounded unsure, which the overlord took way different than you meant.

"Please!" He wailed. "I'm begging you... You can have all my souls, just please."

"I don't uhm..."

"PLEASE!!! TAKE THEM!!!"

"... Sure...??" She said very confused. "I'll take them." The two shook hands and immediately, Y/n could feel the pure power flowing through her veins. "Alright... Bye now?" As she stepped away a shadow covered the overlord. Before Y/n could look up a piano hit the demon, pushing the knife deeper in effectively killing him.

What the fuck just happened?

Everything was quiet. All eyes were on her, again... As always, only this time, she doubted she would be saved this time. She was prepared to be killed again... Only nobody did anything, no demons threatening to kill her, no stray bullets that got way to close to her head, not even another butterfly effect disaster... The demons around just stared.

One small demon with black eyes walked up to you... "What are you going to do to us?"

"What...?"

"What are you going to do to us?" He repeated. "You are the new overlord of the Doomsday district, you own our souls."

"I... I don't." She awkwardly grabbed at her sleeves. "I'm not an overlord."

"Yes, you are. You defeated the previous overlord of doom, took over his souls and territory, you became an overlord." Y/n stayed silent at this. "How about we talk in private?" He took her into a smaller building nearby, away from all prying eyes. "Let's start over. I'm Piper. You own my soul." The small demon introduced himself.

"Uhm... Y/n, and I'm no overlord. Overlords are like scary, like WHA!" She made grabby gestures with her hands. "And BOE! I'm anything but that."

Piper looked at her like she had just grown another head. "How about this? I'll keep your territory in control while you think this over a bit? And in turn, you'll keep me in high up in the social latter here."

Her mouth was dry. "... Deal..?" She was so confused.

From that day on Piper took care of the Doomsday district for her. Y/n never went to Rosie about this. She always wanted to keep her daughter safe and would be so mad to find out she got into trouble again... At least that's what Y/n convinced herself.

Even though Piper took care of most of the problems in the Doomsday district, word got around of the new overlord of disasters; a terrifying force of nature that shouldn't be reckoned with. So of course there were demons that wanted to challenge her. Every other day y/n needed to sneak out of Cannibal town to 'fight' these challengers. See 'fight' as in accidentally defeating them.

Y/n was filing her bag with a cloak and a mask she picked up to hide her identity when a knock came from her door.

"Y/n darling! It's me and Alastor." Rosie opened the door and summoned a table. "Please sit down, we want to talk to you."

She sat down in the Victorian style chair, but not before stumbling a bit.

"Little lamb, your mother is worried about you." Alastor broke the silence.

"Deary, you've been sneaking out a lot and staying away for longer and longer and when you come home you're exhausted-" Rosie took a deep breath "- what I'm trying to say is that you can talk to me if something's wrong... You know that right?" Her cheeks were droopy, a frown plastered on her porcelain face, it made Y/n's stomach turn.

"I'm fine, mom. There is no need to worry about me." She lied.

Alastor's eyebrows down, almost like he wanted to frown, but he still had that giant smile on his face. "Are you sure? If somebody is bothering you, we don't mind serving them for tonight's dinner. Hahaha." He joked, underneath, however, he was nervous. The Radio demon had grown quite fond of her and, knowing how clumsy she could be, he couldn't help but worry.

"No, one is bothering me... Thank you for offering though." At this point, Y/n had grown used to the cannibalistic tendencies of the people around her and so shrugged Alastor's joke off.

Rosie had a bad feeling about this. "Can you at least tell us where you've been sneaking of to?"

Shit

Y/n didn't have excuse for this. "J-just some friends... I.. I didn't want them to be scared off, so I didn't tell them about you. I'm sorry mom." Tears filled her eyes, she didn't want to lie to her. Rosie had done so much for her... She was planning on giving this whole being an overlord up anyway, there was no reason for Y/n to tell the truth now. It'll be like it never happened and then she can go back to her normal life with her mom.

Rosie stared into her cup. "Alright deary, but please make sure to be careful. Genuine friends are rare in hell."

"Thanks mom." Y/n stood up again and left the imperium, through the front door this time.

Alastor squinted his eyes, following your silhouette. Something was wrong, you were lying. He could feel it... But this was Rosie's responsibility, so he should leave it up to her. "She is lying."

"I know but if she isn't ready to talk about it, then I'll wait."

"On a different note, did you hear that the Doomsday district has a new overlord." Alastor took a sip from his 'Oh, Deer' mug. "They've been defeating demon after demon. I've been meaning to meet them for my radio show, would you like to come with me?"

Y/n was walking down the street to the Doomsday district. I should've just told Rosie the truth. She thought. But she had panicked and lied, only making it harder for herself.

Stepping into the same, small building where Piper first dragged her off too, Y/n put on her overlord disguise.

"You didn't break anything, right?" Piper asked, dressed in a brand-new suit. "I don't want to fix the sewerage again."

"It went fine!" She put up her thumb, before knocking over a chair that landed on a vase, breaking it in two thousant pieces. "Sorry."

Y/n and Piper walked around the district for a while, more so to let the demons know that the overlord of disaster was still around and that they were close with Piper. She caused chain reactions all around her, letting people know she got her title for a reason... Not her fault the denizens of hell took it the wrong way.

The two were rounding the corner when a familiar set came into view... What were Rosie and Alastor doing here? Y/n's panic only grew once she realised Alastar was trying to get her attention. Did they recognize her? What was happening?

As the two overlords came closer and closer, Y/n ducked into an alleyway and seemingly disappeared~

The dumpster wasn't Y/n's first choice of hiding place but it was the only one she had.

Piper was left alone on the burning streets with two dangerous overlords heading straight for him.

"Where did she go?" The woman, who Piper recognized to be the cannibal overlord, asked. "I swore she was just here."

"And what relation do you have with this new overlord, my incredibly short fellow." The second man Piper knew all too well. The terrifying Radio demon. "I was hoping to speak to her."

"Ah, I- I'm incredibly sorry... B-but the disaster overlord doesn't like dealing with overlord stuff, so she makes me represent." Piper sputtered.

"I see, but you see I want to speak to the REAL overlord. Not some pathetic representative." Dials appeared in Alastor's eyes and strange symbols started floating around. "GOT THAT."

"YES!"

"Lovely, then you can set up an audience for me. How does Friday sound?"

"Perfect, Friday at 5 p.m."

"Great, I can't wait to meet her." The two overlords went on their merry way again through the streets of Doomsday district.

Friday came around and nothing. Alastor had waited for twenty minutes, yet there was no sight of the disaster demon or her little pet. This was rich, never before was the overlord stood up like this. Who would dare to waste his time?! Alastor's stature as well as his antlers grew. That day there was a very horrifying broadcast and Y/n was at home with Rosie. She had to admit she almost peed her pants when Alastor openly threatened her on the radio broadcast...

There was no way she could come clean now. From that day on, you didn't show your overlord self once. Always letting Piper deal with everything.

That was until he came running to you, a letter in hand. It was an invitation to an overlord meeting, one she wouldn't be allowed to send Piper to. At first she didn't want to go, but Piper thought that would be a surefire way to piss off even more overlords. She had to go.

That's how she ended up, dressed in her cloak and mask, in front of an office building in Carmilla's circle of the pentagram. Stepping into the building the place was quiet, no one was around... Was this a trap? Y/n continued on the conference room, although more cautious. Room 666.

Everyone was already there. Were you supposed to come early?

"Disaster demon, glad you could join us." Carmilla spoke first. "We weren't sure you would show up anymore."

Y/n kind of shrugged trying her best to hide her voice.

"How rude, this new generation of overlords ought to know their place. Don't you think so Zestial?" Alastor commented half-jokingly.

"Yes, I must agree." The oldest overlord answered.

You wobbly sat down in your seat, but in doing so breaking the seat. A metal leg shot out to Vox, who protected himself. It ricocheted to the chandelier, which luckily kept hanging. Unluckily though, one of the more heavy ornaments fell down onto the table. It broke in two.

With each sound and broken item, Y/n hugged herself more and more until she resembled more of an hedgehog than a goat. She felt incredibly awkward, tears came out of her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"I'M SORRY!!!! YOU ALMOST BROKE MY SCREEN AND DESTROYED THE CONFERENCE ROOM AND ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY IS SORRY?!!!" Vox screamed, he was about to launch over the broken table but Alastor stopped him.

"Not a step closer my pal." Alastar's horns grew, showing that he was serious in protecting the newest overlord.

"There is only one demon in the entire universe who could create such a mess." Rosie spoke to herself. "Y/n is that you?" Rosie almost couldn't keep herself from smirking when she removed her mask.

"Yes... I-"

"Alright, everyone out this meeting is over!" Carmilla said. The demons left but only with some push. "Not you three."

They were all looking at you, Carmilla, Zestial, Alastor and Rosie, waiting for an explanation.

"Be- Before you get mad at me, this was an accident."

"I'm not mad about my conference room, now explain." Carmilla's eyes stayed focused on her, like lion waiting for its prey.

"I don't just mean the conference room, this was an accident." Y/n points to herself. "I didn't mean to become an overlord. It just kind of happened and I thought you would be mad at me and then I dug myself into a deeper hole, and now I'm here dressed like this embarrasing myself in front of everyone." The tears that had been slowly building up, started flowing.

"Oh deary." Rosie stood up and gave you a big hug. "I could never be mad at you. I just wish you would've told me. We can work this out together, besides this means you have the power to protect yourself. You don't know how worried I was if you would ever find yourself in a sticky situation alone."

"Thanks mom." Y/n hugged her back.

"If I may interrupted your lovely bonding time, but how exactly did you 'accidentally' defeat the previous overlord?" Alastor asked.

"Oh, I didn't defeat him." She explained. "He got runover by a car, then he decided to give me all his souls and a piano dropped on him."

"Excuse me?"

Masterlist/request guidlines

[thethronezone]

Trazyn's Concubine

Listen, if I can write about us being Big E's perpetual consort, there's no reason why I can't write about us being Trazyn's necron spouse.

You both got together while you were still flesh and blood necrontyr. Trazyn was the Chief Archivist and you were a scribe working under him. You both hit it off but because you were so much lower on the social ladder than him, Trazyn could not take you as a consort and had to call you his concubine instead. It wasn't ideal but it was the only choice the two of you had.

Trazyn misremembers much of his past as a necrontyr due to the self-protection protocols he himself put in place. Why did he do this? A large part of it has to do with you.

As Trazyn remembers it, you and him both were forced into the Biotransference that turned you into the soulless necrons you are today but the truth is that Trazyn embraced it. You, on the other hand, were hesitant. But Trazyn persuaded you, urged you to trust him and that he would never let anything bad happen to you. And didn't you want to live an eternal life by the side of your beloved? His altered memories are due to the fact that he couldn't bear with the guilt that he had caused the loss of your soul.

As a necron, you kept your role as a scribe and the status as Trazyn's concubine. Most of it was spent by his side, helping him catalogue his ever-growing collection and listening patiently as he showed them off. Trazyn loved showing off to you, impressing you with his intelligence, tenacity and charm. With your attention, he flourished, head held high and arm linked with yours as he waltzed through the halls of Solemnace.

During the War in Heaven, you were given the important duty of keeping track of any notable changes in the enemy, be it a shift in leadership, troop formations or tactics. For your astute observations and knowledge about the enemy, you were given the title of 'the Insightful'.

When it was time to go into the Great Sleep, you were entombed in the same room as Trazyn. It was meant less as a privilege for you and a given right for him as in necrontyr society, Overlords always had their concubines buried with them when they died. Though now deathless necrons, the practice remained and your tomb was placed beside his.

Trazyn awoke prematurely from the Great Sleep, while you were still asleep. Upon finding that you were still asleep, Trazyn spent a couple of centuries waiting for you to wake up before finally deciding to make better use of his time by expanding his collection. Despite this, Trazyn would regularly return to your side, visiting you as you slept on and telling you all about the new additions to his collection and the places and species he had seen. He longed for the day of your awakening, when he could once again show you his grand collection.

[tnight877]

Friends Throw Wrenches for Each Other

"I wish you were here."

Optimus sat at the edge of his berth, his servos trembling in his lap as he stared blankly at the floor.

He couldn't figure out exactly where everything had gone so wrong. Was it breaking protocol and saving Jazz in the mines? D-16 hadn't seemed outraged, even when they returned to the barracks after each receiving a fist to the face. In fact, that only seemed to solidify their bond.

It must have been the Iacon 5000. D hadn't wanted to race yet Orion had forced him to. That outraged Darkwing, led to them being dropped down to sub-level 50 where they found the map, which led to the truth about Sentinel, the gift (or curse) of a T-cog, and everything spiraling from there.

It's all my fault.

Why had the Primes chosen him after he'd made so many mistakes? He was the reason their planet was slowly being dragged into war. If Orion Pax hadn't been so reckless, none of this would have happened. Sure, Sentinel would still be in control and Orion and D-16 would still have been miners, but they would have been together.

He could never forget the look in D's optics as the High Guard cheered for him after he'd nearly killed Starscream. He could never forget the fear he'd felt in that very moment, feeling his dearest friend slipping from his grasp.

Knowledge was a curse, Optimus decided, pushing to his pedes. He needed to do something. Anything. He needed to fix this.

~

"You do know it's not your fault, right?" Ratchet didn't look up at Optimus as he patched a hole in Ironhide's armor, the glow of the welder glancing off his white plating. "None of this is."

"I wasn't--"

"You were thinking that. That's why you're in here. For the record, you can't help Starscream's violent impulses. He probably would have launched a missile at Ironhide whether or not Megatron was his overlord."

"He's right, Prime," Ironhide agreed. Ratchet made a gesture towards the red bot as if to say I told you so. Optimus' finials perked slightly.

"Now, did you need something?" Ratchet asked, side eyeing the Prime. "Hate to point it out, but you're not the smallest bot around and this lab isn't the biggest."

Color flushed into Optimus' cheeks and he moved to duck out of the room. "Apologies," he said hastily. "Er...Ratchet, might I have a word with you later?"

"Sure. I'll meet you at MacCadam's when I get off."

~

MacCadam's is going to have to take a raincheck.

Perhaps he should have been concerned that that was his first thought as Starscream, who was apparently puppy guarding the entrance to the surface, let off a round of shots, several pinging off Optimus' armor.

"Are you stupid?" B-127 shouted from Optimus' side, the scout's battle mask deploying and his blades unsheathing. Starscream transformed and landed, forming the blasters on his arms and pointing them at the pair.

"Who's got the high ground here, bug?" the seeker sneered. His voice still sounded glitchy, grating on Optimus' audio processors. In an instant, he was back in the cave, D-16's servos choking the former king of the High Guard, Starscream egging him on.

"Bear witness! This is the last time I show mercy!"

Optimus was brought back to reality when his backstruts hit the ground, B charging towards Starscream and taking a flying leap towards the seeker. The Prime pushed himself up, shaking his helm and engaging his battle mask.

Starscream grabbed B by the throat, swinging him around and slamming him against the wall, pounding his fist repeatedly into the scout's mask. Optimus unsheathed his axe as he ran forward, though Starscream turned at the last second, taking B with him. Optimus faltered, his axe swinging upwards and dragging him backwards to avoid hitting B, the scout kicking furiously at the seeker.

"You're so clumsy. The Primes must be ashamed," Starscream laughed. B raised his fist, his blade elongating just before he drove it into Starscream's shoulder, the seeker shrieking and hurling the scout to the side. B rolled backwards to his pedes, digging his blades into the ground to slow his skidding stop.

Optimus stood, shoving his axe against Starscream's throat as the seeker struggled to recover. He squeaked, pawing at Optimus' wrist.

"Please!" Starscream rasped, pressing himself against the wall in an attempt to give himself room to breathe. Optimus' optics widened slightly at the plea. "I beg of you!"

"This is the last time I show mercy!"

Optimus jerked his axe away from Starscream, the weapon retracting as he moved to grip his helm. Stop it. Stop it!

He grunted when Starscream kicked him from behind, hitting the ground on all fours. He turned just as Starscream kicked him again, pointing his blaster at B as the scout moved towards him. The seeker pressed his pede against Optimus' backstruts, leaning down.

"How satisfying would it be for me to kill the last Prime?" he sneered.

Would he be wrong? The Matrix can only be held by someone worthy. Starscream couldn't take it. Maybe it would be better if Optimus wasn't there to keep making mistakes, keeping driving their planet further into conflict.

Starscream reared backwards as something collided with his helm with a solid clang. The seeker stumbled back, gripping his helm with one servo, waving his blaster aimlessly with the other.

"What in the Pits of Kaon--"

"Beat it, Starscream," Ratchet snapped, beating a wrench against his palm. He pulled the tool back over his shoulder. "We're done here. You're trespassing on Autobot territory, and you're here without backup. Get. Out."

"Don't make us tell you again," B snarled, his blades flaring.

"Alright, alright!" Starscream relented, taking a step back before flipping backwards and transforming, taking off and creating a cloud of dust in his wake.

Ratchet waved the dust off half-heartedly as he approached Optimus, offering his servo. The Prime took it, allowing the medic to pull him to his pedes.

"You can take Megatron but not his second in command? The whiny seeker?" Ratchet asked, arching one optic ridge. Optimus sighed, rubbing behind his neck.

"I...there are some things I need to...work through."

"Well, I'm officially off duty. Let's head over to MacCadam's. You can tell me about it there." Ratchet offered him a small, genuine smile. "Doctor's orders?"

Optimus stared at the medic, then found himself returning the smile and lifting his shoulders in a shrug. "If you say so," he replied. He turned to B. "Would you care to join us?"

"I was going to meet up with Elita and run some recon," B said, waving off the offer. "But maybe we'll catch up with you guys later tonight. Have fun talking about old people things!"

Ratchet glared at the scout, lifting his wrench. B squeaked and transformed, taking off across the smooth terrain. The medic huffed, tucking the wrench back into his subspace and moving back towards the road leading into Iacon, Optimus following closely.

~

"I'm lucky you were there today," Optimus admitted as he sat down with Ratchet, a waiter bringing them each a cube. The Prime nodded gratefully, Ratchet shaking his helm.

"I'm sure you would have managed. But it's been a long day and I was ready for a break. Besides. You look like you've got something on your mind. Perhaps I'm not a therapist, but I can prescribe sleep and less work."

Optimus huffed a soft laugh, circling his digits around the cube. "It's nothing important," he said quietly. "I've made a bigger deal about it than I should have."

"It's D-16, isn't it?"

Optimus' gaze snapped up to Ratchet, his optic ridges furrowing. "How did you--"

"You blame yourself for everything that's happened because of him. You do realize he's an autonomous being, right? He makes his own decisions."

"I know that," Optimus muttered, glancing away. "But it's not only that. I...he was my best friend. I wanted to change the world for him. I..." He groaned softly, resting his helm in his servos.

"I'm sorry."

He glanced up as Ratchet lifted his cube to his intake, closing his optics briefly as he drank. He set the cube down, folding his servos atop the table. Optimus blinked. Ratchet glanced down at his servos, his intake twisting slightly.

"I know it hurts," the medic said plainly. "And it leaves a gaping hole in your spark. I know. You wake up expecting someone to be there but they're not. But holding onto that pain is only ever going to hurt you. We have our reality now. It's time to accept that." His optics softened even as Optimus prepared himself for the verbal blow. "It's time to let D-16 go."

"I know," the Prime whispered, his voice breaking, his digits curling around his finials. "I know. But I don't know how."

He startled at the tap on his helm, Ratchet setting his servo back on the table as the Prime looked up. "How about starting with that?" The medic nodded to the untouched cube. "I know it doesn't work on you, but maybe we can use the placebo effect."

"I don't think--"

"Sh." Ratchet downed the rest of his cube in one go, tossing the empty cube aside. "Your turn. Five seconds."

"What?"

"Drink it in five seconds."

Optimus stared at him, but Ratchet didn't blink. The Prime glanced down at his cube, his digits curling around the sharp edges.

"I don't have all night."

Oh, what the heck. Optimus lifted the cube to his intake and downed it in one swallow. Ratchet let out a sharp cackle, slapping his servo on the table.

"Oh, boy," the medic said with a vicious grin. "We're going to need refills."

Optimus' gaze softened as Ratchet turned to flag the nearest waiter down, and for the first time in a long time, he found he didn't miss D-16 so much anymore.

[papiliovolens]

Ccino Drabble- Occurs between Ch. 22 and 24

the drabble i said would be done yesterday is done todays! huzzah! it's another exploration of nightmare's personality, so it's got that focus, with a bonus of ccino and classic kitty :D

this was inspired by Boop's adorable animation!

also important clarification: Ccino does not usually nickname the kitties. He instead calls them by their counterpart's name.

Challenge: can you guys see the part I just had to go back and add, which ended up changing where the entire scene took place and thus warranted a rewrite and delay?

overlord

Five minutes.

Ccino blearily blinked as he stirred, taking his time to free a hand to check the message. He read it slowly as he yawned loudly and then checked the sender.

"oh, shit," Ccino cursed, his sockets flying open, and he swung his legs off the couch. He froze as he tugged on the blanket, and it refused to budge as a lump underneath made a soft meow. Carefully, he extracted himself from the couch and tucked the blanket around whichever cat had joined him for his impromptu nap.

Grabbing the apron flung over the corner of the couch, Ccino slipped it over his head and tied it behind him as he sped-walked onto the cafe floor. He didn't bother to close the door fully, allowing the light from the hallway to seep into the dark cafe. Slipping behind the bar, Ccino pushed the ON button for the coffee machine, rubbing his face with a sigh.

Thank the stars Nightmare preferred his coffee straight, Ccino thought as he grabbed a fresh bag of Robusta coffee beans. He gripped the counter's edge and watched the coffee drip into the cup, his mind drifting tiredly.

As if in an afterthought, Ccino straightened and turned, glancing over the cafe. Perhaps they could sense the incoming presence, but the cats had vacated, and Ccino heard none of the usual scratching and soft breathing from the cubbies. Ccino shivered as the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees, and he took a deep breath out of habit as he checked the coffee.

The shadows in the corner of a booth rippled, and Nightmare's form leered out from the reaching shadows, his tentacles gripping the edge of the black portal to boost him out. A familiar sense of heaviness settled on Ccino's body, pressing in on him from all sides, and he forced his jitters to still, his soul freezing and thawing rapidly as it always did as it adjusted to Nightmare's aura.

Ccino looked over his shoulder as Nightmare's eyelight latched onto Ccino. The corner of his mouth curled up as he smiled, deceptively sweet. "Ccino," he purred, the portal closing silently behind him. "I hope I am not intruding."

"i was just sleeping. since, you know, it's the middle of the night," Ccino grumbled with a raised browbone. "i'm gonna need more than five minutes if you want your coffee to be ready."

Nightmare's grin grew as he slipped into the seat directly before Ccino, linking his fingers politely on the bar. "And yet it seems you still have enough time to make it," he pointed out, nodding at the machine as it beeped to mark the coffee was finished.

Ccino hung his head and slid the drink across the counter. "that's because i rushed."

Nightmare gripped the drink lightly, slowly sipping as he watched Ccino clean the machine, setting the cup down only once it was empty. "What do you know about the Sans named Classic?" he asked, cutting to business.

And there it was. Ccino turned and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms as he swallowed. "right," he muttered. "well-"

He cut off as the blanket he had left on the couch hopped onto the far end of the bar, the corner getting caught under its occupant's paws and nearly sending them sliding to the ground. They rose slowly, awkwardly trouncing forward as the blanket attempted to restrict movement.

Nightmare and Ccino watched incredulously as the blanket stopped between them, swaying side to side, and then collapsed flat, making a small huff of exertion.

Ccino stared at it, unsure what the protocol was. "um-"

One of Nightmare's tentacles grabbed the blanket and lifted it off, the cat underneath going limp.

The cat's identity was either the multiverse's greatest coincidence or fate's greatest laugh.

Classic's counterpart, a white and blue-furred cat, rolled onto their side, half their fur raised from the blanket's static, and blinked at them. Their wide eyes relaxed, and they shot a look at Nightmare that screamed, "really?"

"Is this one defective?" Nightmare asked, sounding genuinely confused, and Classic's cat narrowed their eyes. "They are not running."

Nightmare's aura was potent, especially to those unused to its heaviness. Animals seemed extra sensitive to it, and the cats rarely stuck around to keep Nightmare company. It seemed Classic was an exception, which Ccino was starting to believe was the norm.

Ccino snorted and rolled his eyelights. "no, none of the cats are defective, i can assure you."

"Yet this one seems to lack the common sense the others possess."

Classic met Nightmare's gaze, ears flicking as if a fly had buzzed by.

"Will they leave?"

"probably not," Ccino admitted. Nightmare raised his skull, narrowing his socket suspiciously. "how much did the others tell you?"

Nightmare sat back slightly. "The same as you are about to tell me."

"did they tell you about what happened between classic and your counterpart at the cafe?"

Nightmare scrunched his face in distaste and snarled, "If you are referring to that travesty of a picture, yes. I am aware."

Ccino nodded as he stroked Classic from head to tail. "well, guess who this guy's counterpart is?"

Nightmare's browbone raised as he glanced down at Classic, keeping his hands off the bar as he frowned. Something sparked in his eyelight Ccino couldn't place.

"Is that so," Nightmare said, seeming to decide to resolutely ignore the cat's existence and fixed his gaze on Ccino. "Tell me everything you know."

Nightmare's voice softened as he gave the request, and Ccino sighed, feeling his soul tug. It was rare, but there were times when Nightmare, intentional or not, let a few of his genuine emotions slip through. And as Nightmare stared at him expectedly, Ccino could spot the genuine curiosity piercing behind his gaze.

The peaceful mood continued as Ccino started from the beginning, explaining how Classic had first come to the cafe. Nightmare didn't react when Ccino mentioned Swap nor Fell and nodded when Ccino repeated the explanation for Error's unexpected visit that day.

Classic seemed content to lay between them, tail occasionally twitching, until Nightmare huffed, "Do you know any other details of that day?"

"no, sorry. i didn't see the fight myself-"

Classic stood and moved closer to Nightmare, sitting at the bar's edge and leaning forward. They attempted to sniff Nightmare, who pretended they did not exist. After Nightmare did not react for a few seconds, Classic reached forward and pawed Nightmare's cheekbone, just under where his missing socket would be.

Nightmare stiffened, his tentacles sharpening, and Ccino slowly reached forward, planning to move Classic out of the way should Nightmare lash out. Classic lowered their paw, letting out a mrow as if in apology.

Ccino bent forward, frowning in concern. "nightmare?" he called out, Nightmare immediately relaxed, his tentacles returned to their lax positions and instructed Ccino: "Continue."

Quick to comply, Ccino kept an eyelight on Classic as he continued. The cat seemed hesitant to touch Nightmare again until one of his tentacles accidentally got too close, and Classic wasted no time swatting at it.

Ccino stopped again, and Nightmare took a visible breath. "Are all your cats this insufferable?"

Classic seemed to smirk as Ccino responded in the negative. It seemed the evening was going to be a long one.

[aseuki]

hiya stell! i hear you take care of parhelic anima, with repairs and defence as it travels through the cosmos!

i was wondering if you ever have to attend to maintenance on the outside of your comet, and if so if there are any protocols for those sort of repairs! are there codes of conduct to maintain your own safety while doing it, or to ensure bits-and-bobs aren't lost in space; or are those simply not issues for you?

(Removed: -1 Screwdriver) Don't worry. They always have a backup. @alagaesia-overlord

@kirbyoctournament

[metalgeartwo1990]

i need the debrief conversation with nero regarding this so bad its not even FUNNY. 'so then we let hivemind access the entire internet' 'you did fucking what'

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXVIII. “eleventh hour”

parts: previous / next

plot: witnessing the breaking of Bruce, your desperation reaches new heights.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of suicide, description of panic attack/psychosis, light gore, angst, hurt/comfort, ableism (internalized; ‘crazy’ etc.), manipulation/lying

words: 8.8k

a/n: if you do not wish to read this, I will post a blurb at the front of the next chapter to summarize what happened in this one so you can still follow along. this is the last chapter for a while to talk about it explicitly.

prev. chapter summary (XXVII): You visit Bruce at Arkham, and share a tender moment. Bruce is moderately injured. Dr. Crane explains to you the protocol for interacting with patients who experience schizophrenia or psychosis, including not directly engaging with their delusion. Bruce remembered a powerful, owl-like creature attacking him, but it was ruled a suicide attempt. Bruce visits your apartment after his hold ends, where he tells you he didn't try to kill himself. Frustrated at not being believed, Bruce leaves, with no intention of getting medication or therapy.

In the afternoon you awoke, even more upset than the night before. Sleep allowed the weight of your task to internalize—you nearly passed out peeking at the news on your phone, fully anticipating news of his death—though you found nothing, the fear wasn't alleviated. A look at Scypher proved no one knew he'd been to Gotham General or Arkham, either. As day crept into night, you found yourself pacing about your apartment. Your mind's current fixation was on whether or not you should go to Alfred, and if so, whether to leave now or later. Now would increase the odds of Bruce seeing you, probably as he donned the suit and left the tower for another shift; that could leave him agitated. Leaving later would increase the odds of danger finding you, make it a sketchy Uber driver or chancing a walk across town in the total dark; neither option bode well, but there was no chance you would stay here. Every tick on the clock felt like a drop of blood spilling out of Bruce.

You paid extra for Uber Luxe, hoping that might decrease your chance of being assaulted or beheaded. Your taser sat thick in your sweatpant pocket, jostling with every step. You'd given the driver instructions to drop you off a block before Wayne Tower grounds, at the last convenience store. The drive was unfortunately short, leaving little time to plan what you wanted to say. Alfred would likely still be awake, waiting up for Bruce who was ever so ungrateful to have someone waiting and praying for his safe arrival.

Walking up the grounds was ominous; this wasn't what you thought a celebrity's house would be like, and you cringed thinking of him that way. There were no overlording guards, security staff peppering the outskirts, or someone watching the door. It was empty, quiet, and dark. The steps to the main entryway were broken concrete. The door was thick wood, double the height of a regular door, and equally wide. When you knocked it hardly made a sound.

The door opened without fanfare, the only sound the echoing creak of the door hinge bleeding into the foyer. Alfred's eyes brightened momentarily, and only slightly, at your arrival. He gave a watery grin and stepped aside for you to come in. "Miss Y/N. Master Bruce told me you visited at Arkham." You were struck by how different he seemed; his previously warm, jolly demeanor was replaced with all-encompassing fatigue, dread swaddling him with a sweaty blanket. "If you want to check on him, I'm afraid he's out." He walked to the unlit kitchen and grabbed a glass from the counter, drawing water from the sink before taking a gulp. His hand rested on his waist, his head facing the ground as he sucked his teeth. He rubbed his eyes.

You shut the door behind you, crossing your arms round your waist. "He looked pretty beat up."

Alfred gave a solemn nod. "Did they tell you what happened?"

You reciprocated. "About his great grandfather too." You paused. "Doesn't seem like he believes it."

The sigh the man heaved could've moved mountains. "I've tried to get through to him." His voice cracked. "Only seems to make him more resentful." He laughed hollowly.

Your heart hurt for Alfred. Maybe you'd only scratched the surface and the old man was some abusive piece of shit, maybe Bruce was perfectly right to disregard him, maybe it was all a show, but from what you'd experienced with Bruce, he seemed unwilling to consider his impact on others, not the other way around. "Did he seem worked up at all?"

Alfred, though exhausted, easily sniffed out your not-so-subtle attempt at gathering info. "I see—the psychiatrist brought all hands on deck." He'd wondered why you'd visited; it was hard to believe that Bruce would have asked for you, even if he'd wanted you. The boy hadn't even asked for him—though that could've been his altered consciousness after the attempt, or shame, embarrassment. On a good day the boy was tough to crack. He hadn't heard a thing about you since your leaving the mansion in the spring.

When Alfred got the call he panicked, quite literally dropping what he was doing to rush to him, but it was when he was pulled into a private room with the doctor that his heart shattered. How alone did Bruce feel? How isolated, lonely, and helpless had he felt? That night when Bruce arrived home from Arkham he'd had a long, heartfelt, one-sided conversation with him while they waited for his med timer to go off. He went on about whether Bruce would attempt again, and how Alfred could help prevent that. Bruce averted his eyes and listened, for a while. Eventually he stood with dewy eyes and told him he hadn't done it. The ensuing argument was steeped in desperation from both sides; Alfred hadn't slept a wink since. He checked on the boy every half hour as he slept and hadn't left his general vicinity until he slunk off in the suit.

"You know him best." The hallway cast an echo to your words. "Do you think there's anything you or I could do, or say? To make him get help?"

Alfred's laugh startled you. "That's precisely the issue, Miss. Bruce has an unforceable hand." He set the glass down, body tense. "He has to want it for himself. And he doesn't." The way he planted himself into the dining chair had you wonder if the sink wasn't actually filled with vodka. It almost looked like Alfred had given up. It pissed you off—not at the sorrowful man before you, but at Bruce. If your mom had begged like that, you wanted to believe you'd try something. This path of destruction he was on...

He interrupted your fuming. "Is that why you paid him a visit, to convince him to seek help?"

You nodded but his back was turned. "Yeah. Dr. Crane seems to think I can get through to him. No idea how. Said I was the last point of contact."

He huffed. "At this point anything's on the table." So maybe he hasn't given up hope... or maybe he truly sees no scenario where Bruce makes it out.

Footsteps sounded from the shadowy hallway at the back of the kitchen and before you knew it, Bruce arrived in the suit. His black eyeshadow had smeared at the edges. The cowl hung in his left hand.

"Master Bruce,"

His voice was terse, still hoarse. "What's she doing here? Did you call her?" He strode past Alfred in the kitchen to rip open the fridge and grab an apple. God, you wanted to scream. As he moved toward the elevator, you nearly flew off the handle at the combination of his back facing the two of you and his disgruntled sigh. With how fast he was escaping, that rage was unable to be tempered in time for a measured response. "So you're gonna act like I'm not here?"

He stopped but didn't look back. "I asked him a question."

"I didn't call her, Bruce." He rubbed his temples, a migraine forming. Alfred sighed and excused himself to grab an aspirin upstairs. Bruce kept forward. His stomach twisted into knots seeing you here again—intrusive, meddling, righteous. He took massive care to avoid limping.

The scene was poetic: Bruce disdainfully walking away while his butler (and only guardian) went to medicate for a stress-induced ailment. Metal clanking signified his nearing departure and you snapped. "Do you see how much you're hurting him?"

That was the single most aggravating and entitled thing you did: pretend you had any damn idea who Alfred was or had even a crumb of knowledge about their relationship. He spun around. "You know nothing about him—"

"I know he's exhausted and miserable waiting on you, he's alone in the kitchen at 10 pm with his goddamn head in his hands—"

"I told him he doesn't have to worry."

You could've laughed, but your body wouldn't let you. "You are genuinely risking your life, how the hell are we not supposed to worry?"

His eyes flashed at your pronoun choice. "You're ridiculous to think you're in any alignment with him."

"Are you?"

He stepped out of the elevator, his chest thick with tense breathing. "You don't know when to stop talking, do you?"

You shot an icy glare. "Is that a threat?"

He snarled. "Observation."

Heat rose to your cheeks for reasons you couldn't yet decipher. The longer he stayed arguing with you the less time he'd have for seeking behavior, but you had to toe the line. He was getting too riled up. "We-I just want you to be safe."

He stared at you for a good few seconds, trying to do a temperature check. You were hard to read. Ever since you'd come back he'd been decidedly disappointed in your intermittent composure. These glimmers of bite made him feel curiously alive, in ways both delightful and infuriating. "You got what you wanted from me. Why are you still here?"

It was like he was ignoring you on purpose; like he hadn't cried into your touch a day prior, like he couldn't fathom if he had been successful, Alfred would be planning a funeral right now. You shrugged, your chest procuring an exasperated sound to accompany it. "Do you not know how serious this weekend's been, or do you not care?"

He paused only briefly, enough for him to shoot a dagger stare. "It's not serious in the way you're painting it."

"Can you suspend your disbelief just a moment?" Please. Please. Please. You began to sweat.

"I could say the same to you."

You were losing him, you knew it. Whatever thin string tied you to him was threatening to sever. You opened your mouth but he cut you off, knowing if he gave you space to speak he would implode. "I know what I saw." His hands flexed in and out of fists, trying desperately to metabolize the stress, to temper the helpless rage bubbling in his stomach.

No idea what to say and at an utter loss, you stood and looked at him. The moon only lit up your half of the kitchen. The air was tense and brittle as ice. Dr. Crane's voice was a subtle pulse cocooning every sentence you thought you might say. "I know you saw that, I believe you."

His jaw set. He responded with a colossal eye roll and scornful jeer. "You don't believe it happened, you believe I experienced it."

Your voice lost its gusto, your mind going blank. "I don't know what else to say."

"Say nothing. It's not needed." He moved to turn and you reflexively tossed a lasso.

"You're needed; who will protect Gotham?" You paused too long in the middle there.

He cackled—a jarring, unsettling sound in the chilled air. "There's no line you won't cross."

Fuck. You wanted to stomp your foot, and throw a tantrum to shake the house; this visceral experience of exasperated compassion fuzzed your restraint. "No line you won't ignore."

He stopped turning and scowled, his voice devastatingly cutting. "Says the person loitering."

He needed to know how serious this was; all arrows pointed in one direction. "If you'd been successful, we wouldn't even be t—"

"I didn't do it!" It was the first time he'd really yelled around you, and definitely the first time at you. It peppered goosebumps across your skin and hitched a few breaths. Clamoring steps and Alfred entered, brows raised after a quick scan of the room. "What's going on?"

Bruce turned on his heel and made haste to the elevator, slamming his palm against the button before he rocketed down to the cave. His heartbeat pulsed in his ears, tears springing up for the umpteenth time this weekend. The second the doors opened he bolted through the basement, his cowl catching on the corner of a particularly obtrusive desk in the center of the room. He tossed the cowl, and as he felt the helplessness punctuate into his chest he began ripping off the suit until he was nothing but spandex base layers. He sprinted through the subway doors, past the car, and barreled north. The chilled air slapped his flushed cheeks, the pain in his foot and torso going silent as he sprinted through unlit sidewalks and alleys. He'd find it. Find something. Find anything. His weak ankle slipped on a patch of oil, and he landed swiftly on his back. Unprotected by the suit, the thud knocked the tears out of him, and they slid silently down his cheeks until they joined the puddles on the ground.

Alfred turned toward you and searched your face. "I heard shouting?"

You whipped out your phone and dialed Dr. Crane. He picked up on the second ring; you put it on speaker for Alfred to hear. "Ms. Y/L/N. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know. I went to see Mr. Pennyworth, and Bruce caught me there and, we had an argument and he just, he ran off." The adrenaline rush of his shout lingered much like sweat. You fought to catch your breath as tsunamis of guilt and fear crashed into you. Would he hurt himself right now? Is he gonna die? Dr. Crane sighed. "Certainly not ideal..." Another sigh. "Did he make any threat against his life, or anyone else's?"

"No."

"Did he seem oriented to place and time?"

"Yes."

"Unfortunately there's not much we can do at this point."

Your hands shook. Alfred placed a hand on your arm to steady you. "I could go after him, I don't, I don't know,"

"No." Dr. Crane was quick with it. Alfred shook his head at you too, but remained quiet. "That might push him further. Mr. Pennyworth has this number, let him know to call me if he doesn't come home in the next few hours. Anything else I can do for you?"

God this was hopeless. Guilt ravaged through you, and you barely contained a sob while telling him that was all. You stowed the phone in your pocket, callously wiping hot tears from your face. Alfred dropped his hand from your arm, face empathetic but grim. "Miss. This is not your responsibility."

"I need to leave, I'm not making this better,"

"Let me drive you."

You shook your head. "I need to walk. I have a taser, I'm fine." You brushed past him before you melted into a pile of dust and became unable to command your legs.

Alfred walked across the kitchen and pulled off a piece of paper towel. "At least take my number. I'm a call away." The soft lull of his accent and the smooth feel of the fiber grounded you enough to walk out the door and brace yourself for the two-mile walk back, after a brief embrace and thanks. You stomped along the sidewalks with your arms across your chest, both grateful and suspicious at the lack of people around. Glints of flickering street lamps caught your attention on the wet cement. It shocked you that Gotham still got rain in the summer—much less, yes, but the littering of puddles and slick pavement was an ever-present ghoul.

The sidewalk curved to the left, jutting out to various side streets and alleyways. Some faint yelling punctuated the otherwise quiet evening, but that was usual. As you walked further however, it grew louder, sounding distressed. You grabbed your taser and held it in front with the trigger ready, safety off. The screaming kept an insistent space in the ambiance. Shuffling, hitting, thudding, scrambling. The fuck? Curiosity outweighed the fear that criticized every step toward the noise pollution. By this point the main street's light source had waned, rendering your phone the only way to not trip and break your nose against disgusting concrete. You yelped when someone ran out in front of you—it took a full ten seconds to realize it was Bruce.

His clothes were completely torn up; he wasn't in the suit, which confused you. Is it lying somewhere? Someone could easily trace it back to him. He turned quickly and paced back from whence he came, a small alley littered with garbage and decaying leaves. You could make out even less of what he looked like now. Every time you moved your light up he flinched, turning hard away from it. The puddles refracted the light off your phone, allowing just enough to frame his expressions and movements. He was hunched, shaking like he was in an earthquake, and shreds of his shirt and leggings were strewn about. "Get away from me." He grumbled, loud, his voice bloated and cracked. The hoarseness from earlier had devolved into a scratchy sound, almost like his throat had open wounds. He spoke too loudly, with some words emphasized and shouted while others sounded more swallowed, drowning in the tears he sputtered on as he choked out shouts and screams. You didn't bother to hide your wince; with sounds that heartwrenching and lights so low, it would be futile to suppress. Upon closer inspection some of his bandages had been ripped off too; as if on cue he began ripping more of them off, digging underneath his shirt, sniffing, huffing, and heaving.

"Bruce,"

He looked at you like he'd seen a ghost. "How do you know my name?" He shrieked, doubling over into the fetal position while he anxiously ran his hands through his hair, smearing the bloody, blackened tears into his hairline. His next few breaths were desperate and shallow, and you heard the sound of air sucking through his teeth. You stood about ten feet from him, unable to step any closer due to his erratic movements. He fell onto his ass and grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking violently as he rocked back and forth. Spit launched out of his mouth and dangled in the corner of his lips, the hiss of strained airflow clenching your gut into knots. You gulped, your limbs beginning to numb. "I'm calling Alfred."

Your hand shook nearly as much as his as you tried to squint to read his number. After too long, every second passing like ten minutes with the state Bruce was in, he picked up. "Alfred,"

"Miss? Everything—"

"Bruce needs to be picked up." You didn't realize you were gasping until you had to speak through it. It was at that second that Bruce acknowledged you, jumping to his feet and racing to only a foot's distance. "NO!" His pupils were blown, eyes rapidly shutting and squeezing. Crouched to be at eye level, you could see how his lip trembled under the weight of the sweat and tears pooling beneath his nose. His bleary, soaked, inflamed eyes threatened to impale yours with the intensity of their focused attention. He opened and shut his mouth a few times without speaking, and when he did, flecks of spit landed on your chin. A few unsuccessful regulating breaths and heaving exhales later, he whined into the phone. "Don't tell Mom and Dad about this."

Palpable silence. Alfred was the one to break it. "I'll be there in three minutes." The phone sat heavy in your palm after he hung up. Bruce sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to the wet ground. He bloodied his knuckles beating against it. His screams became muffled as you stood, frozen. He gazed at the alley's dead end and shouted unintelligibly, his agitation mounting until Alfred arrived and helped him into the backseat. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and the man had to walk you to the passenger seat. "I'll take you home first, Miss."

"You won't tell them, right? I can't be out this late." Bruce wrung his hands together and looked out the window anxiously. You and Alfred exchanged a solemn look. Alfred nodded. "It'll stay between us, Master Bruce. I promise." This was bad, and you both knew it. It was sad, too. Would he wake up wondering where his parents were? Would he have any recollection of this in the morning? Would Alfred have to break the news to him that his parents had died years ago? Did this warrant an inpatient stay? What would Dr. Crane think? The hum of the cabin air was the only distraction from Bruce picking at his fingernails and sniffling up sobs. If there had been any more breathing room in there you would've joined him. But you had to wait until they were gone. Wait until the only thing around you was dark, empty silence. You directed Alfred to your apartment, and soon enough you arrived.

Pulling up to the curb of The Moore, he waited for your door to open before locking the rest. He stepped out and walked over to hold the lobby doors. His steps were slow and a bit shallow. He saw tears streaming your cheeks and stopped before grabbing the handle. "Miss,"

Now that you were out of the car you couldn't contain yourself. "It was my fault, I'm fucking meddling,"

His mouth settled into a tight frown. "As far as I'm concerned you saved him tonight. Who knows what could have happened if you hadn't been there?"

You shook your head, his words not penetrating the layers of guilt. "He wouldn't have been like that if it weren't for me. I'm inserting myself where I'm not needed."

Alfred placed a hand on your shoulder, waiting until you met his eyes to speak. "Efforts to save a life are never misplaced." With that, he nodded and bid you adieu. The walk to your room felt like a million years with the weights on your ankles. Your room was cold, a liminal space between before and after, then and now. If only I hadn't left.

Bruce had woken up screaming five times that night. The first two times he'd bolted out of his bedroom in his underwear, needing to be coaxed back to bed with firm reassurance and breathing exercises. Alfred took to sleeping in a makeshift cot in front of the boy's door to make sure he didn't slip past. When morning came, he hadn't recalled a thing; his head ached, his body felt like it'd been struck by lightning, run over by a car, and chewed on by twenty dogs. Seeing Alfred sleeping at the foot of his door prompted a conversation about what had happened last night—he'd glazed over by the time he was told what he'd said about his parents, though it didn't help the sting.

As much as he wanted to rot in bed the rest of the day until he could go out as the bat, his stomach grumbled to the kitchen. It was there that Alfred threw out the idea of going to see you. "Miss Y/N is the one who found you. She called me." After a few hours of avoidance that only propelled the day to early afternoon, he caved; the hovering presence of Alfred made his embarrassment and frustration peak, and if he'd stayed a moment longer he might have lashed out. So... he found himself once again at the door to your apartment. He felt strange being there, like he wasn't supposed to remember where you lived. He figured a text would have been worse.

You opened the door wearing black sweats and a white tee. You looked exhausted. "Alfred wanted me to stop by."

It hurt more than it should have that it didn't come from him. Moreso than desiring any self-indulgent recognition, you wanted to feel like he didn't hate you. Regret had kept you up the entire night to the extent of wicked nausea. Your knees still ached from kneeling in front of the toilet for hours on end. I'm sorry caught before it passed your tonsils, evaporated before reaching your tongue. All night you'd ruminated about how ridiculous and intrusive you'd been. All you'd done was fuck up his life. Why had you even gone over last night? Because some man in a blazer with a fancy degree gave you a crash course on mental illness meant you had any right to meddle? Those thoughts stormed against others that saw the pain and dangerous denial plainly in him, like a ticking time bomb.

Dr. Crane had called you earlier that morning to warn you about his condition. "It appears he's in a state of delirium. This is the worst-case scenario outside of another attempt... which is usually imminent soon after." His words echoed through your best attempt at listening. You'd have to remove 'works well under pressure' from your resume after this weekend. The call had ended on a sobering note, such lethal stakes nearly forcing you into complete apathy. You'd sat on the edge of your couch with the phone on speaker, sitting on your hands that grew colder the more he spoke. "The gravity of his current condition cannot be overstated."

"Me talking to him only hurt him." Your voice was dry and raspy from lack of sleep. "It sent him into a spiral, I can't do that again." Your arms wrapped around your torso in a sad excuse for a hug. Walter would've been great company right about then.

"Ms. Y/L/N, I assure you: such a high-caliber reaction could not be spurred solely by asking him to get help." But you didn't believe him. At this point you snapped, wanting to drill into him that you were making it worse. "He does not like me. He only gave me the interview because I wouldn't leave him alone, I have been a stain in his life for months."

Dr. Crane sighed. "Y/N." This was the first time he'd addressed you so informally. "I am aware he might dislike you. I hear what you are telling me. My professional judgment remains."

"Wouldn't someone you hate telling you to get help only make you want it less?" This thought had plagued you between dry heaves, the thought of your assistance only exacerbating his refusal. If someone you detested—and barely knew—came barging into your home demanding you get help and told you how much you were hurting your parents... you'd want to slap the shit out of them. It was embarrassing how entitled you'd acted the night before. "I'm making the problem worse. I need to be hands-off."

"I did my graduate studies on interventions for schizophrenic populations—I focused on the different outcomes between estranged and aligned families. Some of these guardians were outright abusive and thoroughly hated by the patient," He spoke the next part emphatically. "Yet regardless of how polluted the relationship, the data was clear:" He needed to drill every syllable of the next part into your very spirit. "Once the patient entered delirium, the families who took a 'hands-off approach' had an 87% increased rate of patient mortality within one week."

If the phone had been in your hands you would've dropped it. "Whatever you need to do, make sure it gets done. Nothing is too far when it comes to saving a life. It's the eleventh hour."

You stepped aside and Bruce walked in no further than required to shut the door behind him. He looked worse than ever. How did he even walk up here in the light of day? If even one camera got a picture of him it would be plastered to the front of every tabloid, he would have to come out with a statement...

He stilled. He saw the strain in your breath, how your chest rose rapidly, the slumped defeat in your body, your swollen under eyes and chapped lips. "I also wanted to apologize." He certainly hadn't meant to, but the anger was dissipating with every second he looked at you. "Last night I wasn't myself."

Maybe he'll say it himself. Maybe this is it, maybe he came to accept it. Hope fluttered against your ribs. No more fighting, no more arguing. "I'm sorry for inserting myself. I shouldn't have said that about Alfred. I'm a stranger." After the call with Dr. Crane, you'd wondered about playing docile, but this wasn't a ploy; this guilt was desperate to purge itself, and he was an altar edging it out.

He blinked at the ground. "You weren't wrong. Alfred is suffering." It hurt to push those words past his teeth. "But there's nothing I can do about that." He snuck a look over, seeing your mouth open. He cringed. "Don't tell me to get help." He grit his teeth and balled his fists, the tension in his body overwhelming. When you didn't respond, he spoke again, trying to show you plainly and clearly how suspicious it was. "It's an anonymous witness. No footage."

You wanted to talk about how the witness probably stayed anonymous because he was Bruce Wayne, someone so rich and powerful they might have feared retaliation if their identity was on record, but the other times you reminded him of his status had sent him spiraling. You wanted to talk about how the city budget was so misused that most of the security cameras around town were out of order, especially in dark alleyways that businessmen didn't frequent—that was the only purpose of justice in Gotham anyway, to protect and serve the elite. But the tension was visible and unnerving; you and Bruce together at a fragile crossroad. That mortality rate sat like a boulder in your gut. Every option was bitter on the tongue.

The one thing you thought to do was the one thing Dr. Crane said to never do; engage directly with his hallucinations. Did you even care about that anymore? Was he even right? Was Bruce right? Probably not. He'd been so beyond himself he thought his parents were still alive, staring at the back of an empty alleyway like someone was out to get him. That couldn't be reasoned with. Another refrain ran laps around you: one week. Seeing Bruce Wayne in your kitchen after hearing that... it seemed the odds were more likely you'd attend a public memorial than speak to him next weekend. Oh. Fuck.

He chased after the shift in your body language. You had that look again from city hall. The expression of being far away, on another planet. It instilled in him an unquenchable urge to thrust you out of it. "Last night... It was like I'd been drugged."

Any explanation to keep him in denial. You shook yourself out of it, immediately replacing the dismissive thought with something more just. It's a lot to accept. Of course he's struggling with it. The most you could manage was to stare at his shoes. Your eyes still glazed. The room muffled. Unaware of every breath. You hadn't dissociated this hard since the first call from the doctor seven years ago. Therapy had helped back then, letting you know this served a function. Holding it compassionately wouldn't do a damn thing right now, locked in your gridlock, dipping your toes in the apathy that lusted to infiltrate your bloodstream. My apathy is deadly. My apathy could cost him his fucking life. But you couldn't shake it. You couldn't look up at him, you couldn't even speak. You burst into tears... or thought you did. You'd heaved an enormous sigh and sat with your head down, unable to well up tears in such a detached state. Even if you could, you wouldn't cry in front of him if you could manage; he didn't need that.

Your sigh had a whimper at the end of it, sending a jolt through him. The stillness of the moment had him noticing the details, like how you hadn't changed since the night before. Your apartment was still disassembled. The time on the stove read 4:18. His mind wandered. Gordon got off on weekends at five; the mask would conceal most of his injuries, and the ones it didn't would make sense. He could investigate it more with him, explore the evidence room... But there you sat. And he didn't want to leave you like this. His tone was tender, like yours had been. "I'm safe."

Arkham. "I don't know what else to do."

"Believe me." He pleaded, a gravelly whine fraying the end. Dr. Crane had warned you about this on the phone call. He asked about your plan if he came over; you hadn't had one, wanting to ignore the possibility entirely. Dr. Crane said it was likely he'd draw more desperate. You'd asked about humoring him. Tried to express how stubborn Bruce was. Nope. Not a possibility. "If you want to throw gasoline on a fire."

Your lids were heavy with sleep, stress, anxiety. You could see how much you stressed him out. How he was on the edge of leaving. How desperate he was to be believed. Fish hooks in your sides threatened to cut you in two, tugging equally left and right, splitting each layer of your skin at the belly button.

At least if you stuck with Dr. Crane's plan and it ended horribly, you would have someone else to blame... You hated yourself for letting that cross your mind. Bruce wasn't an experiment, and this wasn't a low-stakes outcome. As much as the situation juiced your heart until it was throbbing and weak, he was the one with the most to lose, and he couldn't think clearly. He needed you to stay the course. Trust the science. Listen to the data, to reason, not what tugged at your heartstrings. You took a deep breath. "I know it hurts to not be trusted, but you have to weigh the pros and cons."

All he did was glare back at you. You couldn't hesitate, refusing to waste another second. "Worst case scenario is you have some temporary side effects," You ignored how visibly agitated he was becoming, how his hands twitched and his eyes looked away as his jaw clenched. "Worst case scenario of not trying them is you do that again, and not even know it's happening."

He'd far surpassed his limit; every syllable slipping past your lips trying its best to gaslight. You'd been persistent when getting the interview, he should've seen the red flag in your tenacity. "You're never going to believe me?" Posed as a question, meant as a statement. His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer. "Why are you pushing this?" Why would you of all people be shelling this so hard?

It was simple, and you said it as such. "I don't want you to die."

Bruce didn't give it time to linger. His face was sour with a scowl. "Doesn't change what happened."

"Weigh the options. One outcome is far worse." Please. You crossed your fingers behind your back to summon the universe's luck. Please. He just glared at you. Small shaking of his head. You pressed on. "You don't even have to believe anyone, just humor—"

He scoffed, the sound like a slap across the face. "Take medication to humor..." Your audacity... fuck. He could've laughed. He could've rolled his eyes, stormed out, any number of things. His was instead welded to the floor. It didn't make sense. Any of it.

"Please." God, the way you whined. The smallest, most minuscule seed of doubt entered him. Terrified of it manifesting into slipping resolve, he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

He kept walking. The squeak in your voice, the haze of desperation, the exhaustion weighing you down—had you stayed up all night thinking about this? You couldn't have. He reached the doorknob just as you jumped toward him. "Please, stop,"

He winced. "Stop sounding like that." Your begging was pointless. He'd made up his mind. He'd leave, he wouldn't even look back... he wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't think about you, you wouldn't get to him.

At this point your heart was beating so hard you swore Bruce could hear it. As soon as he slipped out of your apartment he would be unreachable. Every other time he'd left like this, something terrible had happened. He could be dead by the end of the night. The end of the hour. When he turned the doorknob you could've jumped out of your skin. Your vocal cords constricted from overwhelming dread. This is too much. "Where are you going?"

"Don't need to concern yourself." He opened the door and you grabbed his arm; his head whipped around to look at you, startled by the forcefulness of your grip. Through his sweatshirt he could feel how ice cold your fingers were.

"I do,"

He shrugged his arm away. "Keep telling yourself that." The door opened wide with a quick snap; the snarl in his tone, the glare set in his features, you had about two seconds before he was down the hallway to god knows where to do god knows what. Popping into your mind was his insinuation that no one had seen it; no evidence, no corroboration, and you made a split-second decision as he stepped into the hallway.

"Because I saw it." A disorienting combination of emotions swarmed you; immediate regret at having lied, and immediate relief in seeing Bruce freeze, no longer rushing out to his demise.

"Saw what?" His voice lowered and he stilled, like he knew exactly what you implied but hoped you didn't mean it.

It was hard to stay quiet through the sudden flush of tears down your cheeks. The lie ended up gasping out of you. "I saw you jump, I'm the person who called."

You barely contained a sob of relief when he stepped back inside and shut the door. He peeked at you, his eyes searching your face slowly, deliberately. This was the first time you'd had any feeling at all that he was willing to listen. This was your last chance, his last chance, anyone's to get him to safety. "I felt bad about how the interview ended, so I went looking for you."

Bruce could barely hear you, and he could only hear you. The world, his thoughts, everything but the crackle of the flaming pitchforks his defenses held faded away. It would make sense it hadn't leaked to the press yet if it had been you, but.... He said this like an accusation, eyes narrowed with skepticism. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

He was giving you an inch, you were taking a mile. You were yanking him close to you and holding him there. You would've imploded if you had to see him in a casket, knowing you could've done more. Even if it wasn't your responsibility, even if you barely knew him. "I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. Thought it'd be easier."

His heart was in his throat. Hope was lying nearly dead in his chest, gasping for air before a final death rattle. His voice was strained, weary, haunting. "You saw me jump?" His brows knit together just barely, daring you both to be honest and to spare him. "Off a building?"

You bit your tongue until a searing sting. Jesus... You couldn't hesitate. Not with him, not now. Not with him looking at you like that. Not with his pulse hanging in the balance. You nodded and strangled the words out from where they clotted in your throat. "It was horrifying. I thought I watched you die."

Bruce flinched as you said it, your words evoking a visceral sensation of being stoned. Brick by brick it hit his chest, teleporting him to the night his parents died; the feeling of watching blood pour out of their bodies, shucking sounds of it glugging against the wet concrete, seeping into puddles. Like a flipped switch, he had no choice but to believe you. This was his line. The notion that he had caused someone to experience even a fraction of that feeling... no matter how deep his denial, no matter that he saw the creature clear as day, he would have forgotten his own name if it meant sparing someone. If he suffered through the truth, fine; if it harmed anyone else, it was over. Folded. Hard limit. Fear was a tool, but not like this.

You witnessed a clear shift in him. You were too busy swimming in fragile relief to think about why that had connected. Your body was buzzing, and you watched on with bated breath as he stood in silence. If you listened hard you could hear his deep nasal inhale. His shallow, quick exhale.

He felt embarrassed, ashamed, and afraid. He hated how much he still wanted to drill you. How desperate he was to corroborate his experience and dismiss everything else. He wouldn't force you to rehash it. he wouldn't make you relive something like that. The walls began to close in as his reality rapidly dissolved; the owls hadn't been real, the creature hadn't been real, he'd really jumped off a building and his mind was so unreliable he hadn't known? Ooh, this was... this was...

You sniffed. It brought him back to space and time. He couldn't lose it yet. "Do you, uh," He squeezed his eyes shut, his mind completely numbed out. Save the spiral for later. "What do you need?"

You felt absolutely disgusting. What did you need? It churned your stomach. Why did he have to have humility now? Flashbacks to him screaming and hitting the pavement as spit flew out of his mouth. Taped down to a psychiatric bed. The scabs beginning to form on his face, neck, and hands... the pain that surfaced so quickly when you'd even barely touched his cheek. You pursed your lips and blew out a shaky breath to ground yourself. Save the spiral for later.

"You want me to get meds, therapy?" Desperation coated his tone. Like he was counting the seconds until he could leave, or explode, or both.

Your eyes were wide and bleary as you made contact with his. You couldn't bring yourself to nod, or even look him in the face longer than a few seconds. "I just want you to be safe."

He didn't speak for another minute. You couldn't tell what he was thinking, but he certainly wasn't at peace. You hadn't expected him to believe you. You hadn't imagined a universe where he would ever believe a word you said. But then he nodded. Lost in thought, eyes darting across the floor, breathing labored, and said things you never thought he would. "I'll pick some up in the morning."

The dizzying haze of shock annihilated him. He walked to the door but felt stumbled, like his saliva was thickening in his mouth, blood rushing to his core to sustain him, keep him upright, thinking, moving. When he grabbed the doorknob he couldn't feel it. In a blink the door opened and he didn't remember opening it. The zigzag pattern on the hallway rug floated, fuzzy, spotting the edge of his vision.

He walked calmly to the door; you couldn't see his face, no idea what he was thinking, and it killed you. "Are you gonna be safe tonight?"

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to reassure you he wouldn't do anything now that he knew you were involved. He wanted to tell you he didn't think he'd ever attempt to kill himself, but apparently that wasn't real. You'd witnessed him try to end his life. He was obviously unstable, an unreliable narrator, and he was afraid. The pieces were falling into place; the wear in your body, your meddling... He heard the elevator ding from the end of the hall and shut the door, leaning his sore, bruised forehead against it. What had he done to get that? He couldn't remember where half of his injuries came from. Alfred said he'd panicked the night before. Was out of his body. The last thing he remembered was staring up at the cloudy sky, wishing, pleading the universe to be believed. Then it was all black.

He spoke in a whisper, though unintentional. "I don't know." He didn't trust anything now. Was he even here? Was this even happening? Were his feet planted against your flooring, or was he actually in a field by himself? He couldn't do this now, he couldn't, he couldn't make you take care of him, you couldn't feel responsible, you weren't, this was crazy. He was crazy. His heart began to race when he heard you step behind him. He shook his head hard. "I'll stay inside tonight."

"Bruce," A plaintive cry.

He spun around. His shaky, blurred vision dialed in to your slick, puffy face. His jaw hung slack. "I'm sorry I put you through that."

It's worth it. He's getting help. No more bruises, cuts, jumps. I did what I needed to. He's not gonna die. He's not gonna die. He's not. gonna. die. You flirted with hyperventilation the more you sat under his gaze. "It's fine,"

"It's not." He wasn't going to leave you like this, alone and crying. Had you gotten flashbacks like he did way back when? Did you need a hug as badly as he did after taking their bodies away?

"You're okay, so." He stepped toward you and you jumped. He searched your face and goddammit, tracked every tear again. He is not gonna take care of me. STOP CRYING! You stammered for anything to say that could shift the focus off of you as you forced your tear ducts to close. "I can call Alfred if you want to be picked up," Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. I'm a fucking liar. I'm lying. I'm lying.

He didn't answer. You gulped, feeling increasingly like you were about to pass out. "The smog's pretty bad today, um," Your hands shook, you needed to find something to tether them to. Heat flooded your lashes again, fuck. "I think I have some tea, if you're walking it might, it might help."

Your hands quivered against the lavender mug as you pulled it from the cabinet. "With your throat, you know." Your hands were going clammy, your forehead felt sticky. He watched your trembling fingers search the drawers, finally procuring a packet. He'd traumatized you—he wouldn't let you take care of him too. He tracked your eyes to the microwave, and moved to open the door. You filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave for two minutes.

Just walking those few steps made him queasy; on top of everything else he was late to taking his pain meds. Inside, he frantically plugged a cracking dam. Would he be able to go out as batman anymore? How would the psych meds affect him? Had anything else happened that wasn't real? Did you even know he was batman? Was batman even real? Was batman a way for him to channel his sickness into something productive? What memories were real? He held his hands in front of him. The dam was breaking.

You turned around to grab a paper towel, but saw Bruce standing a foot away staring at his shaking palms. The blueness of his eyes was exaggerated by his constricted pupils. Unsure of what to do, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, you stared at the mesmerizing spin of the mug. Round, and round, and round. The light hit his cheek, emphasizing the scabs and cuts. The beat of his rising chest pulsing in your ear propelled you forward; maybe it was the rapid fluttering of his lashes or the first tear that fell, but you grabbed his suffering hands and the room went quiet.

"Hey, hey." You squeezed his lukewarm hands with your cold ones, nearly making a self-deprecating joke about not being able to warm him. He was staring blankly over your shoulder, his bottom lip ragged from biting. The whir of the microwave came faintly back into earshot, until Bruce looked back at you. A crest of tears balanced in his waterline.

His entire body vibrated. He wanted to tell you how terrified he was, but he was sure you could see it. He could see it in you, too. He still didn't want you to have to care for him, but that was rapidly deprioritized as more fears crowded in. You could almost see the dreams dying in his eyes; uneventful, hopeless, and frustrating like a dud firework. You swallowed back bile as you grasped for anything you could say to him, repeating a mantra to stave off the nausea. I didn't cause this pain. This was the only way. This has to help him. This is worth it, it has to be. You didn't believe it, but having him alive and in your sight helped muffle the self-hatred.

The microwave sounded. When you pulled back to open it you felt resistance—he squeezed your hands lightly, his breathing heavy and deep. You hesitated before giving another reassuring squeeze; you'd acclimated to each other's temperature, your fingers no longer feeling like ice against his. His hands were calloused and rough, and your palm rubbed on the scabs when you pulled back. Before your mind could wander further, before you collapsed in a puddle of tears, you slipped your hands out of his and busied yourself with steeping the tea.

Bruce lowered his hands to his sides, gently flexing them to remember the shape of yours. He ached to hug you; he ached to go back and stay just a little longer after the interview. He could've helped you pack more. Could've called Alfred for a ride home. What had it looked like? Had there been sounds? Body fluids? Did you race after him, or stay away out of fear? Had he needed CPR? Had there been a pulse? Did you see the impact? Did you run to catch him? Were you close, were you far? How vivid was your memory of it?

"How do you like it?" You didn't have much, just some sugar and honey, some old oat milk in the fridge.

He concealed a gasp as you broke his feverish spiral. He shook his head. "It's yours."

You didn't bother fighting him on it; the warmth of the mug and taste of the ginger would be a welcome distraction until he left safely with Alfred. You placed a plate over the mug and pat your sweats for your phone. "Did you want to call him?"

"I got it." He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a regular-degular iPhone, shocking you more than it should have. You went to grab the honey while he spoke to his butler. You sat in a valley between; you wanted Bruce to leave as quickly as possible so you could throw yourself into the shower and cry, then hibernate in bed until Thursday, but it scared you to have him leaving these walls.

"He'll be in the parking garage soon."

Crap. "You need a key to open it, one of those fob things." You put a scoop of honey and mixed it in, the tremble in your hand coming back. "I'll walk you down."

The mug was cooling in the building's AC, the whoosh of the elevator doors hastening the process. The ride was quick and painless, the walk to the garage the same. Bruce had pulled up his hood, cinched it around his face, and put on sunglasses before leaving. He was actually pretty unrecognizable, but part of you wondered if that was just because you knew people would never suspect him out with someone like you; unknown, working class, in dirty sweats and flip flops.

Alfred came swiftly, giving you a wave as he pulled up. Bruce turned to you before getting in the car. "I'll keep you updated." He nodded, then sidled into the passenger seat. A second later, tint enveloped all the windows, leaving the car completely anonymous as it drove off.

The walk to the shower was excruciating. Every step felt like you were walking on legos. The shower offered a sliver of relief, but it didn't warm your conscience. It wasn't until Alfred called a few minutes after you had toweled off that you could let yourself breathe.

The old man was tearful, sniffing after every word. "Miss Y/N. Bruce asked me," He blew his nose. "To get his script tomorrow morning." He tried to catch his sobs, but they were getting away from him. "I don't know what you did, but thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

I truly believed it was the end."

[storm-angel989]

Sorry if I've been the one filling up your inbox and it's annoying and my requests don't make sense but could you do a Valentino's daughter where shes m0lested by her teacher sorry if it's to dark or anything but I would really love to see this in your style love your work and style thank you (and reader is like 17-18)

Hi there,

This is a very real and intense traumatic experience that so many people have been through. I don’t write explicit scenes involving minor characters, and with my lack of personal experience within this topic, writing anything as such isn’t something I’m confident or comfortable doing. That being said, I didn’t want to not honor your request, so I tweaked it slightly to make it Valentino’s reaction to his daughter’s horrific ordeal. I hope that my writing justifies the trauma that reader has gone through and perhaps helps someone, somewhere find healing. 

<3 Mandy 

Valentino couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about the way his daughter had been acting lately just felt off. 

“She’s just growing up, Val,” Velvette reassured him over coffee one morning. “She’s a senior in high school. Probably worried about college. Didn’t you say she was thinking about going up to Ozzie’s territory? Or Mammon’s? That’s a pretty big jump from here.” 

“Not to mention quite a long way from her family,” Vox added. “Add in the stress of senior year? No wonder she seems a little bit more tired than usual.”

Still, despite their reassurances, Valentino couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. It didn’t take him long to decide that he would get to the bottom of this, one way or another. A conversation definitely seemed warranted- light prodding, just to assure her someone was here if she needed to vent. Make sure she knew she was loved, and had support around her. 

And to start, he decided, he would pick her up from practice himself that night. 

Signing into the highschool wasn’t technically necessary- after all, he and the other V’s owned the building in which he stood. But he wouldn’t brush aside the safety protocols. After all, they were in place for a reason. He made his way down the hallway towards the gym, pausing when he watched a plethora of laughing girls emerge from the locker room. He recognized several of them as her teammates. 

“Excuse me, ladies. Have you seen my daughter, ehm, reader?” He asked.

He wasn’t expecting the uncomfortable silence that greeted him. Several of them looked away. An odd feeling settled in his gut and his eyes met the eyes of the girl he knew reader considered her best friend. 

“Readers Best Friend, where is she?” He asked softly. 

“Mr. Cavallero’s room,” she muttered. “ It’s her turn. You might not want to….”

Valentino didn’t wait for her to finish. One of the perks of owning the school- he knew each room, each teacher and the layout of the building like the back of his hand. As Valentino silently rushed his way towards the classroom, that bad feeling in his gut solidified. 

Half dressed. Eyes glazed over. Apologies. Daddy, I’m sorry. His jacket, wrapped around her bare shoulders. The scene blurred together as Valentino’s anger took over. He grabbed the so called teacher by his neck and slammed him against the wall. 

“Baby. Go call Uncle Vox and tell him to come pick you up. Right now.” 

To him, his voice sounded calm. But as soon as his daughter left, he unleashed the fury reserved only for the worst offenders. By the time Vox arrived, there was nothing left- no trace that such a teacher had ever been in existence. Slowly, he took a drag from his cigarette and stared at the disheveled desk before shifting through the papers. 

Minors. The son of a bitch was going after girls he had no business touching. Valentino’s lip curled in disgust. Even he, as the overlord of lust and depravity, ensures that no child would ever cross paths in his studio. No being would participate in his lucrative business until they were of age, able to understand and consent to what he was offering. He could feel his blood boil and suddenly, an eerie calm washed over him. 

“I want every data point on this creature,” Valentino said to the open room. “I want every girl on that team to speak to someone, and I want to ensure that whoever hired him loses their job, and whoever hired that person also loses their job.” He lifted the cigarette to his lips, “and I want every single classroom, corner and crevice in this school and all the others to be equipped with cameras. And a team hired to monitor them.”

“Val, are you…” 

Valentino ignored him as he turned and walked out of the room. “Where is my daughter?” 

“She went home with Velvette, Valentino, what did you do?”

Valentino exhaled a cloud of red smoke as he walked out the front door of the building. “I eliminated a problem, Vox.”

Vox stared at him as understanding washed over him. His fingers flew over his phone and in seconds, there would be no consequences for Valentino’s actions. There would be no court case, no trial, no follow up and dramatic, made for tv rehashing of the trauma these girls had gone through. With the existence of that monster gone, the beings he had hurt would be able to get the help they would need to continue on with their lives. 

Vox  followed him out the door and got into the limo next to him. A quick ride later, and Valentino extinguished his cigarette just before he walked into their flat. 

“Daddy, I’m so sorry,” her words echoed as he made his way down to her bedroom. He felt his anger begin to rise and he took a deep breath before he knocked on the door. 

“Bebita?” he asked softly as he surveyed the room. 

His daughter, curled up and crying as Velvette sat next to her. Velvette looked at him and he made his way across the room. 

“Daddy, I…”

“You have no reason to apologize and I need no explanation,” Valentino replied calmly. “Let me be very clear, mi amore. I am not angry, I am not upset, and I do not blame you. But I do need to know if you’re physically hurt.”

To his relief, she shook her head no. 

“Good. We can talk in your own time, when you’re ready but for now…for now baby, know that I will protect you..” Valentino reached out, an offering of his arms. To his relief, she wrapped her arms around him and he held her in a hug. 

“No one will ever hurt you like that again,” he said softly. “I promise.”

[mraprilfools]

I just realized I never actually linked this to my Tumblr! VOX FANS HAVE SOME VOX SMUT.

Word Count: 5.6k

Rating: E Pairing: Vox x F!Reader

CW/TW: None

Summary: The Vox-Tek Employee handbook is over 500 pages thick and you're expected to memorize every word. Your boss, Vox doesn't seem to understand why that's an unreasonable expectation. What's worse? After so many infractions he decides to call you into his office to punish your flagrant breaks of company protocol! Preview under the cut

The Voxtek employee handbook was so thick you could beat somebody to death with it. You knew that because you assaulted some creep on the way home with it one night! It was well-organized, you gave it that! But with so many different rules, standards, and procedures you struggled to memorize it all. You’d read the thing front and back multiple times and STILL found yourself breaking some obscure stupid protocol somewhere.

And your fucking boss was a grade-A asshole.

Vox didn’t let a single one go, no matter how minor. When you first started working there you had a phone that wasn’t under Voxtek regulations. So he confiscated it until after work. When you brought in a magazine that was doing a story about the mysterious Radio Demon’s reappearance? He fucking set it on fire and told you that propaganda toward Overlords other than Vee’s was also a violation! Eating anywhere but the break room? Forbidden. Even the food you could bring in had to be Vox-tek approved locations for takeout!

You SWORE you were safe to at least browse on your phone during lunch breaks. To rant about how your boss was an uptight little prick who didn’t know how to unclench his metal butt-hole once in his life. Your bestie on the other end listened to you vent via text messaging, and the two of you even shared some jokes. It was a good way to let off some steam in a place you always had to be on high alert at all times.

A peace that was shattered when Vox came strolling into the break room. The sight scared you straight in your seat, you immediately hit the power button on your phone to hide the conversation. The man had the usual dashing smile that he always wore in public. But you know he was fucking plastic. Fake.

It was unusual for Vox to ever come into the break room. You had a feeling it may have to do with the fact you were alone right now. Normally he’d send Papermint or one of his other secretaries to pick up his coffee but here he was in the…not-flesh grabbing it himself. The smile never left his face as he strolled over, setting his metallic hand on the table beside you. The familiarity he took with you put you further on edge. The coffee mug in his other hand, branding his hatred toward Alastor freely. What a salty cunt.

“Hello Sweetheart! How are you settling into our company? I know we’ve… had a rough start but it’s only because I see so much potential in you. I’d hate to see you wither on the branch!” He was sickeningly cheerful as if his constant reminders of your rule-breaking weren’t annoying, and you couldn’t say a word.

Through clenched teeth, you answered with a fake smile, “I’m doing my best Sir! I’m SO glad to be working here! It’s a real honor.”

The artificial cyan smile spread from frame to frame, a whimsical chime echoing for his speakers. “So glad to hear it! Always glad to see an asset join the team. And-- you have been good? No further questions or infractions?” Vox held the coffee cup forward as if to pull forth a confession from you. The slandering you both on company time was technically against policy but, as long as he didn’t go through your private messages? What could he know?

And you also did have that novel in your bag you bought on the way from work that was more ‘propaganda’. Again, secure in your locker and never opened so what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. With confidence, you answered, “Not at all sir! I’ve taken great care to memorize the entire handbook!”

You’d seen it on the news segments multiple times, how he strangely managed to drink coffee with that screen of his. And you got to see it in person for the first time, sighing with satisfaction when he drained the bitter brew. His head was one of life’s greatest mysteries. “Excellent! That’s what I like to hear!” Vox stood up, making his way to the exit. The sound of his heels clicking against the polished floor. You felt yourself relaxing, dropping your shoulders and letting out the breath you were holding to slump in your chair. You couldn’t relax around that guy.

“Oh--!” Vox snapped his fingers, making you sit up straight in your chair all over again, mechanically turning your head to look his way. “I almost forgot! I need you to come by my office at Seven, I want you to bring me the reports on the new Voxflix pilots aired this week. I don’t need to remind you what to do with the other two copies right? Of course not-- you’ve read the handbook. I’ll see you then!” Vox waved farewell before you could stop him, the door clicking shut before you could explain that no, you did NOT.

Dick.

From what you could remember protocol required a second copy for the record room! You’d completely blanked on the third. But your lunch break was not long enough you could fish out the employee manual and double-check it. With a sigh of resignation, you hoped that you’d remember when it came closer to seven.

[luciferfemme]

fuck it have some Alastor likes to Spoil Angel headcanons

being an overlord and one in Hell as long as he has been, Alastor has a great deal of money, he doesn't tend to spend it on himself much but when he really cares about someone he's all too happy to spend it on them.

when they start dating the gifts are sort of casual thing, Angel mentions something that he likes or saw in a store and Alastor just gets it for him no questions asked. He takes him to nice restaurants because Alastor does like nice and fancy things

At first Angel doesn't think much of it but as their relationship grows Alastor gets him more and more things. Clothing, makeup, shoes, pretty much anything Angel has ever wanted he can have and when he realizes that he's kind of like I can buy my own stuff I do have money... except people treat him nicer when he's on Alastor's arm. People look him in the eye when he's with him. He get's respect. Hell he is kind of feared too.

And maybe he hates that he kind of likes that. He's never been feared before never been seen as intimidating in a major way but now that he's with Alastor it almost feels like he's unstopable.

Alastor would gladly give him anything he wanted and does and reminds Angel whenever he feels bad about it that he deserves it. He's had to suffer a lot after all. He deserves to be happy and enjoy himself.

There's a part of Angel that wants to believe it and another that's so terrified that it will all go away. That Alastor will get bored and leave him because nice things don't last. Equally there's a part of Alastor that he doesn't actively acknowledge that's worried if he doesnt' give Angel everything that maybe Angel will get bored and leave him. He's never dated anyone. Ever. What is the proper protocol in these sorts of situations? He's read about it all but reading it and experiencing it are two very different things.

So maybe they end up talking about it. Charlie is a big factor in that. She wants to see them succeed (to everyone's surprise). They both came to her separately with how they were feeling and that's when Charlie decided she needed to kind of step in.

They manage to laugh when they both admit how they feel, and Alastor calms down on the extravagant stuff. He still spoils Angel in other ways. He's kind and adoring, and possessive but in a way that Angel feels empowered. Everything they do makes Angel feel empowered and adored and the two only fall more and more in love.

And when they do get married, Alastor may have gone a little overboard with the ring but hey... how many times does one get to marry the love of their afterlife?