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matcha3mochi · 1 day ago

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PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

182 notes · View notes

littlemssam · 3 months ago

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Mod Updates & Translations

As always delete old Mods Files and the localthumbcache, when updating my Mods!

---

Choose Painting Style (Texture) Added French by MOLLORY, Russian by wild_guy, and Chinese by Licer.

Dress Code | Custom Lot Traits Added Japanese by Licer.

Force to Leave | New Door Interaction Added Support for new Employees from Businesses & Hobbies Pack.

Improved Drink Trays Update of French by MOLLORY, and update of Chinese by Licer.

Live In Business Added Support for Pottery Items. Set to Sell should not show up on Objects like StandMixer etc.

Live In Services Update of Chinese by Licer.

More Away Actions Added new Pottery & Tattooing Skills.

Online Learning System Added new Pottery & Tattooing Skills.

Riding Companion Dog Update of Chinese by Licer.

Spend Weekend With Added Japanese by Licer.

Transfer Inventory Update of Chinese by Licer.

Ultrasound Scan Added Object SimData since Object Tuning now have them.

Unlock/Lock Doors for chosen Sims Added Support for new Employees from Businesses & Hobbies Pack. Update of Russian by Rick.

RSM - Purchased Items delievered via Mail Added Support for new Businesses & Hobbies Books.

RSM (Horse Ranch) - Better Saddle Control Added Chinese & Japanese by Licer.

RSM (Horse Ranch) - Buy Horse Treats via PC Added Chinese by Licer.

RSM (Horse Ranch) - Lead Horse Added Chinese & Japanese by Licer.

Other Mods - ATM Cards and Credit Function! Added Object SimData since Object Tuning now have them. Renamed Mod and Addon is obsolete now, pls remove the File "LittleMsSam_Updated_Zooroo_ATM!_Addon_NonCoolKitchenFix".

---

My Site with all possible Download Links: lms-mods.com

Support Questions via Discord only please!

#littlemssam #sims 4 mods #updates #translations

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writing-mlm · 1 year ago

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Blue-pilled man [D.W]

Summary: Sophomore year of college and life is good-- until Bruce invites your family to Thanksgiving. Thankfully your boyfriend is there to distract you-- wait, boyfriend??? Pairing: Damian Wayne x male!reader WC: 9.3k A/n: part 2

A glitch in the system is what you’d considered yourself. There wasn’t supposed to be anything special about you, the middle child born from the rare chance the birth control didn’t work. The failed plan B. The unimportant middle child in a large family living along the West Coast. You hadn’t been anyone special, you hadn’t done anything remarkable with your life.

You’d graduated high school and flew across the country to Gotham of all places. Low housing costs, honestly, was the only reason. You’d been going to Gotham University for what? Five or so months before you’d gotten an internship at Wayne Enterprise for your major in business. It was going fine, you met some other interns and made fast friends and went out with them as often as you could.

Which is probably where you fucked up. You’d gone out to someone’s birthday party in a club, fake IDs locked in. It was fun, from what you could remember. And you were all going to head out since it was a Sunday— poor choice, you know but you went to use the bathroom when someone shoved some blue pill into your mouth. But at the time you were too drunk to care about what it was. It tasted like a mint though, so you assumed that’s what it was and thanked them for the breath mint before heading to meet your friends in the Uber.

The next morning you woke up with a raging headache and the need to vomit. Unfortunately for you, you had a meeting with the Bruce Fucking Wayne. Apparently, he interviewed each intern a couple of months into their internship and it was your turn. Surprise!

But thankfully, it led to where you are now.

As a Junior in college, you like to think you’ve been doing this long enough to get the hang of it. You’ve also been granted off-campus housing. Which was fucking amazing. You lived with one person and get this… he’s Bruce Wayne’s son! Honestly, for a nepotism baby, he was cool.

Plus, he was Robin. So it made going out to fight crime at night so much easier, and his dad— your boss in more ways than one, always understood why you were late to work. But it also meant he called you whenever Robin was called in.

“Player!” Robin shouts as you leap from roof to roof, leaving an animated dust cloud after you. “Player!” He repeats this time his voice cutting through your comms. “You’re going the wrong way!” He groans and you land on the roof, confused. He watches as you tap in the air and a holographic map pops up, taking over your field of view.

“Oh, shit!” You say, tapping a button on the bottom of the map and it shoots back to the corner it came from. “My bad, Rob!” Tapping on your waist bag, you see a selection of food and swipe to find a glowing lollipop. “Heading your way now!” Popping the lollipop into your mouth, you feel a surge over you and look down at your boots. There’s a green glow on them and you nod to yourself before jumping to the roof that was closest to him.

He nods when he sees you following him, taking off towards the robbery happening at a local, beloved restaurant.

“You think they’ll be open tomorrow?” You ask, catching up to Robin just as the two of you jump down from the roof and land across the block from the restaurant. “I was thinking we get some of their food for dinner tomorrow.” He glances at you then sighs, heading towards the restaurant.

“Considering no one’s dead, yes.” He says once he's halfway across the block. You grin and catch up to him, already scanning through your inventory for where you kept handcuffs.

—

“Do you reckon I could be a mad scientist?” You ask Damian as you walk into his bedroom, not even looking up from your laptop. “Or could I get roped into a cult? Am I cult material?” Sitting on his bed, you tuck one leg under you and let the other dangle off of the bed. “I don’t think I’m cult material, I’m not easy to peer pressure,” You mutter.

“No,” He sighs, setting his own laptop down next to him but he doesn’t close it. “You couldn't be a mad scientist but you would get sucked into a cult.” Gasping, you look up at him and blink.

“Nuh-uh! How?” Crossing your arms, you sit properly on his bed and shut your laptop.

“You almost signed up for the Church of Scientology last week because they asked if you wanted to take a personality test. Every time you pass by a club that asks you to join, you sit on it for a week before declining because I remind you that you’re a full-time college student with a job and a vigilante!” He lists and you huff, throwing yourself onto his bed. “It’s not your fault, though. Growing up in an environment where you didn’t feel loved would lead to a person being more susceptible to a cult. They make you feel needed, wanted.” God, you hated that he had taken that psychology course.

“Ouch,” You mutter, resting your hands on your stomach. Looking over at him, you see he’s gone back to doing his work. “Do you want me?” You ask and he glances up at you before looking back to your laptop.

“In my room? Depends on my mood.” He shrugs.

“In your life, I mean.” He looks at you this time, his hands ready to close his laptop.

“I do,” He gives one strong nod. “Considering I agreed to live with you until we graduate, I would hope I’d… enjoy your company.” Smiling, you look back to the ceiling. His ceiling is bare, although you can see the marks from the times you’ve thrown sticky balls to the ceiling and pieces got left behind. You wonder why he hadn’t taken those off yet.

Damian’s room isn’t what you had expected it to be. He has various art materials set up around his room, an entire section of his room is dedicated to his pets like their beds and toys, and his walls are covered in various items. You see drawings, news clippings, posters of various famous people he enjoys, and a full-length mirror was nailed to the back of his door. He doesn’t have a rug, he says Alfred the cat likes to tear those up. But he does have a curtain that looks like a rug.

Not to mention his swords.

His bed is nice, too. Bruce had spared no expense furnishing the place, he’d gotten the best beds possible for the two of you. Damian preferred a firmer bed, he never liked the feeling of sinking into a bed and not being in control of that. He also needed space for his pets, since there was no rule about how many could sleep in his bed now that he no longer lived in the manor. Prior to moving in, you’d pegged him as a one-pillow type of guy. But he had an absolute mountain of pillows, most of which he didn’t even use.

Tapping on the transparent food icon that was always in the corner of your eye, you watch as your inventory materializes above your body. You widen the bar into a grid and scroll until you reach a water bottle.

“Want one?” You ask. “They’re cold.” He hums and you pluck two water bottles out from the bar and toss one to him. Of course, being Damian, he catches it without looking up from his work and you roll your eyes.

“Thank you,” He says as you close out your food inventory.

Honestly, major fucking thank you to that blue pill guy. Whatever was in it had made you into your very own video game character. You could even change your appearance! It was so fucking cool, you could find random items lying around and literally create a bomb in two seconds!

Not that you’ve ever done that.

Sitting up, you take a slow sip of the water as Ace trots over to you and lifts his paw. Grinning, you pat the bed and he jumps up, bumping his nose to your arm as a greeting before curling up at Damian’s side. He glances down at his dog and mindlessly pets him along his spine.

“Have you studied yet?” He asks, lifting his eyes from his screen to meet yours for a brief moment. Capping the bottle, you toss it back into your inventory and lean back on his bed.

“A little,” You admit. “Between jobs and class, I haven’t had time. Was gonna during break, though.” He raises an eyebrow and you shove his foot. “Sorry some of us won’t be visiting family and will have an entire week to do nothing!”

“Oh, and where do you think you’re staying?” He asks, finally fully closing his laptop and setting it on his nightstand.

“Here,” You shrug as if the answer was obvious.

“Father wants you at the manor, he’s invited you to Thanksgiving,” This is news to you. Looking at him, you see Damian is looking at you before he turns his attention back to Ace. He’s old, you note. He’s gotten the powered face and you’re pretty sure he’s been sleeping on the sofa while watching late-night game shows. He even snores now.

“Oh, thanks so much for the heads up!” Scratching his backside, Ace’s leg kicks and you chuckle. His eyes crack open when you stop and he moves to nudge your hand, letting out a small howl.

“Don’t be cruel, he’s old.” Damian gestures to the dog who’s doing his best to look like he’s about to cry. Where he learned that, you’ll never know. But you lay down properly on the bed and continue to pet him. Damian pets his head, and you just barely register that he probably doesn’t want you to smash his pillows underneath you. Adjusting yourself, you look around for Alfred.

He’s awake in his cat tree, but his tail is slowly swishing in the air. A little harshly, you might add.

“Someone’s jealous,” You joke, and Damian follows where you’re looking. “Come and get pet, Alfred!” The cat lets out a chipper merwl and leaps from his place on the tree and onto the floor. There are two small thumps, one from the front paws hitting the floor and the second from the back paws. Alfred flicks his tail as he lands before jumping onto the bed in one big jump.

He nudges your free hand and when you lift it, crawls underneath forcing you to pet along his back before he settles on your chest. One thing about cats is that despite their small size, when they’re sitting directly over your ribcage they all but quadruple in weight.

“Ow,” You bite back a groan, closing one eye and slowly easing onto Damian’s pillows. “Lay down, please,” Whispering to Alfred, he blinks and then plops down as if his bones had just gone away. Chuckling, you pet wherever he asks and close your eyes.

“Fathers texted,” Damian mutters, shifting down on the bed so he could comfortably lie down. “We’re patrolling tomorrow,”

“Thank god, not tonight,” You huff, looking down at Alfred whose content on your chest. He’s purring loudly, and his front paws are neatly tucked under his body while his lower half is splayed out to the side. His eyes don’t leave your face, though. They’re half-lidded like he’s fighting sleep and you see his head rocking a bit. Scratching his forehead, he pushes his head further into your fingers and gives one lick before laying his head flat on your chest.

“He likes you too much,” Damian chides. “He’s a traitor!” Alfred doesn’t miss a beat as he rolls to turn his back to Damian, letting out the loudest sigh he can muster in his very tiny body.

“He’s a baby!” You protest. “Ain’t that right, Alfie?” In response, Alfred flicks his tail once, slowly lowering it back down to your stomach. “See,” Looking over at Damian, you see him watching his cat with an almost envious glare before he looks at you.

“You know it took me five hours to train him?” He asks as Ace gets up and jumps off of the bed. You watch for a second as he paws the door open before slipping into the hallway. Damian scoots a bit closer and raises his hand to pet Alfred. “He was totally feral before me.”

“Ah, so he was you before Bruce?” The tease is clear in your voice, your eyebrows wiggling and your chest shakes a little bit when you see his reaction.

“I wasn’t feral,” He bites, looking over at you.

“You stabbed your brothers,” You softly remind him and he scoffs, laying his head down on the same pillow you were using. But neither of you seems to notice or care.

“If they could get stabbed by a ten-year-old, they deserved it.”

Alfred stands up, his back rising to comical heights before he spawns and stretches over to Damian.

“Traitor,” You frown, rolling to your side and watching as he lays down on Damian, his tail curling under his body.

“He knows where home is,” Damian jokes, making you scoff.

“I’m gonna go take a shit,” You mutter and press a kiss to Damian’s forehead. Somewhere in your mind, it was intended for Alfred, but you missed it and didn’t realize it until you were at the door.

“I don’t mind,” Damian said when he noticed you had paused at the door.

“…Okay…” You hum and leave his room. It’s not like you’ll make a habit out of it.

—

A week later you’re both in the apartment's living room, Damian is busy working on this art project he’s been working on and you’re cramming for your last final of the semester. You’re sure if you read another word in that stupid textbook you’re going to explode and huff, slamming it shut before tossing it onto the pile that had amassed on the floor.

You need to do something else. Looking towards the kitchen you squint, food? No. Sighing, you look towards Damian. He’s focused on his drawing, you’d hate to disturb him. Your attention drifts down to your phone that’s vibrating on the coffee table.

Perfect timing.

You grab your phone and stand up before leaning down to kiss Damian’s cheek and say a quick “Call,” before heading into the kitchen to fix yourself a snack.

Okay, so habits quickly form, according to your track record.

Apparently, anytime either one of you leaves a room, you announce it with a kiss on the cheek or forehead— whichever is closer, and then the location. You’d actually grown to be fond of it. And it didn’t really affect your previous relationship with him. If anything, you spent more time with Damian now. Which seemed impossible considering you go to the same college, live in the same place, work at the same place, and fight crime together.

But, still. It’s just bros being bros.

“Hello?” You answer the call just before it stops ringing. Slipping the phone between your shoulder and ear, you open the fridge and lean inside for a better look. God, you need to go grocery shopping soon.

“God! I’ve been calling you for twenty minutes!” A woman shouts from the other end and you pull the phone from your ear and check the caller ID. It’s not saved and you don’t recognize it. Probably the wrong number.

“Who is this?” You ask, grabbing the butter tub and opening it. Yogurt-covered fruits. Jackpot. You set the tub on the counter and reach for a nearby bowl.

“Your mother! Hello, this is (Y/n), right?” Standing up straight, you disregard the fruit and rush into the living room and wave to get Damian’s attention. He doesn’t notice and you almost shout at him; he’s Robin and he can’t tell when his best friend is literally silently calling out for help five feet away?

“Hey, mom!” He looks up at that, slowly setting his pencil and sketchbook down. He mouths something but you don’t catch it between your blinking and pacing. “How’d you— how are you?” You cringe, biting your fist to stop yourself from speaking.

“Horrible! Where are you? We’re in Gotham,” She huffs and you whip around to Damian, eyes wide and you’re so close to lowering yourself into a squat and banging your head on the table.

“You’re here! In Gotham!” Damian sits up properly, motioning for you to put it on speaker and you do, setting the phone on the table. “How long are you here?” You ask, tugging your hands down your face.

“Two months,” Your mother answers and you swear you almost passed out right then and there. “Ujjwal, no! That place looks like it has bedbugs,” She huffs and your step-father starts to complain in Hindi. “Where are you?” She asks over the complaining. “We’re coming over!”

“I dorm, actually!” You quickly spit out, covering your mouth immediately afterward.

“Ah, why don’t you have an apartment yet?” Your step-father asks. “You know, your sister, Nadia has a house.” He says, forgetting the fact that Nadia was 27 and had won the lottery before moving to the countryside and buying her own house with her roommate since elementary school.

“I know, abbā.” You strain.

“I still don’t know why he went to Gotham for college,” He mutters and you wouldn’t have heard it had it not been for them being on speaker.

“Come meet us!” Your mom demands. “We’re in front of Gotham Bright Hotel! Diana is tired.”

“I’m busy, mom.”

“Nonsense, come and pick us up!” She huffs.

You at Damian, silently telling him see, crazy! He nods and thinks for a second before grabbing the TV remote and hurriedly opening YouTube.

“I’m studying and I’m pretty busy,” You repeat, watching as he looks up Fire Alarm noises. “Just stay there. I heard it’s a go—“ The video plays and you thank god there wasn’t an ad and it’s loud enough to seem real. “Sorry, abbā, mom, I gotta go! Fire drill,” Hanging up, you sigh and press your forehead to the cold table.

“Why are they in Gotham?” He asks, stopping the video.

“Fuck if I know,” You grumble into the wood. “I should get a new number…” Sitting down, you stare at your phone and groan. It’s not worth it. “I’m gonna take a nap, don’t wake me up until the sun comes up, please.” Getting up, you kiss his cheek and head to your room.

—

It doesn’t take long for you to bump into your family. The very next day, in fact. Dick had all but begged you and Damian to come along with him and the rest of the Waynes to go and check out the tree they put in front of Gotham City Hall every year. Like the New York tree. Just way smaller and probably will be stolen before Christmas.

You’re next to Damian, your hands stuffed into your big coat and your chin trying to retreat into your scarf watching as the crane lowers the tree. It’s already decorated in yellow and red ornaments, There’s some Gotham Vigilante ornaments, too, you note and grin when you see your insignia.

“It looks nice,” You chitter to Damian who looks over at you. He laughs at your state and moves in front of you to fix your scarf. You watch him as he carefully unwraps it and measures it to an equal length. He does it incredibly fast and you hope one day you’re as good as him with— everything really.

He looks back up at you and carefully draws the middle in front of your neck. He has to lean a bit forward to wrap the material around your neck but he doesn’t mind the fact that you can see your breaths mixing with the small gap he created. You don’t either, though. His fingers graze your neck as he tucks the scarf into itself before he admires his work and nods.

“Thanks,” With a noticeably less chatter of your teeth Damian is satisfied with his work and stands next to you again. You peer over at Dick who’s grinning ear to ear, watching the tree and putting his phone back into his pocket.

“He’s like a kid or something,” You laugh and Damian follows your eyes.

“He’s up to something,” He shakes his head and glares at his brother. Feeling the glare, Dick looks over at the two of you and waves his hand wildly. “Suspicious,” Damian confirms to himself. You roll your eyes and look back to the tree. There are some people helping set it in place as it’s lowered. Hopefully, there are no bombs in it this year.

“(Y/n)?” Several heads turn to the voice and you see your younger sister grinning and rushing over to you. She’s dressed in a fancy blue winter coat, the one with a small cape on the shoulders and white fur along the edges.

“Diana…!” Behind her, you see some other family members. Your parents, both your step-parents, your siblings, and two cousins with their mom. “Oh my god.” You whisper. In truth, you probably should’ve expected they’d be there. That’s your fault.

“We should run.” You tell Damian and he considers it. But your mother must be the flash with how fast she’s in front of you.

“Where’s your hat? And you don’t have gloves!” She immediately says while removing her gloves and holding your face for a second. She removes her hands as you try not to move away from her grip, then places the back of her head to your forehead then your ears. “You’re going to get sick!”

“Is this your mother?” Bruce smiles as he stands behind you.

“Yes,” You nod, putting your hands in your pocket.

“I’m Bruce,” He introduces himself and holds his hand out. It doesn’t click fast for the others, but for Diana it does.

“Like Bruce Wayne? So, you’re Damian Wayne, right?”

Diana’s eyes gleam as she asks and for some reason, it leaves a bad feeling in your mouth. You don’t like the way she looks at him and the idea of her touching him makes you angry. He notices, you don’t know how, and places a hand on your shoulder.

“Yes.” He nods. “And you are?” Her smile falters for a second and her eyes dart to you for a second. She composed herself and removed her hands from her pocket.

“Diana, his sister!” She holds her hand out for him as the rest of your family catches up. “He must’ve talked about me a bunch!” She flashes a grin to you.

“Not at all.” He shakes his head and turns to the rest of your family. You hide a grin and he shakes their hands, he already knows their names and he’s seen their faces before so it’s just a formality on his end.

“I had already invited (Y/n) to Thanksgiving,” Bruce starts, getting everyone’s attention back to him. “Would you like to join?”

Oh god no. Please.

Damian looks over at his father with barely hidden distaste as you stare at nothing. You know they’ll jump at the chance. They’ll ruin everything.

“We’d love to!” Your father says as your stepmother nods in agreement. The rest of your family agrees and maybe it’s the cold air that makes it hard to breathe but for some reason, you can’t. You blink, trying to take in as much as possible but it’s hard and you’re sure you don’t have asthma. Not anymore at least. Subconsciously, you tug at your earlobe to try and calm down.

“We need to leave now, though.” Damian cuts off your step-father as he’s about to speak. “We have finals to study for. It was nice meeting you.” He grabs your wrist from your ear and tugs you after him; you follow him without hassle until you’re back at the car Bruce had driven in.

“I truly do not understand father's thinking. Inviting them without consulting with you was a brash and out-of-character thing for him to do.” He frowns, unlocking the car with the keys he snagged from Bruce’s pocket. You used to wonder how he did it, but you’ve learned to not truly question him and his methods. Just hope he teaches you then one day.

“Yeah,” Is the only thing you manage to say. Only Damian really knew about your family, the others just knew you weren’t very close with them.

It was one night, you figured. You’ll be fine.

—

Bruce had requested everyone be at the manor before noon, which to Damian reads as being at the manor by nine. It’s less than a two-hour drive from your apartment to the manor, so you had to be up since four in the fucking morning. Which, honestly, you didn’t mind all that much.

It was a little homey just sitting with Damian in the living room and the sun wasn’t up yet, and then taking turns getting ready. It was nice. Different too. It almost distracted you from the fact that you were about to see your family.

“Is this okay?” You ask Damian as you enter his room, tugging at the hem of your sweater. He was already dressed, in a simple black shirt and brown pants but he made it look expensive. You felt stupid and like someone pretending to be important. God, your pants didn’t even fit right! You should probably go and change, find something from one of the gala’s you’ve attended.

“You look perfect,” He says as he removes your hands from the hem and locks your hands together to stop you from leaving. “Cuff the ends of your pants, perhaps.” He adds offhandedly. You frown and look behind him. He has a small bag packed and you look back at him.

“I don’t wanna go,” You whisper, searching his face for a sign that he’ll agree and you’ll both stay in your apartment for the night. You won’t have to see your family and probably finally block them. He won’t have to deal with his brothers. It’s a win-win situation.

“Take this opportunity,” He says and lets go of one of your hands to grab his bag from his bed. “Show them how good you’re doing. You’re basically a Wayne, you’re above them in every way possible.” Shouldering his bag, he guides you to your room and hands you your bag.

“But…” You bite your cheek and take the bag. “What if… I dunno— I do something stupid! I slip up and reveal everything… I’m probably better off just sitting there. Diana will do most of the talking anyway.” You huff the last part. “Did you see the way she acted? I mean, she definitely toned down the spoiled and entitled energy but still. She’ll probably try and get with you, too.” His face scrunches at the thought and it makes you laugh.

“You should know she’s far from my type.” He says as he checks his phone and you don’t really understand but you pretend you do.

“Can you grab Alfred? Pennyworth is here.” Humming, you enter the living room and grab the carrier that Alfred is less than happy to be in from the table. You try and keep him as stable as possible while Damian gets Titus and the two of you head out. He locks the door and you add an extra measure from your toolbar before going to the elevator.

“You’ll be fine,” He swears as the two of you step inside. There’s no one else in the elevator seeing how early in the day it is and all the students have already gone home. “Besides, I’m sure one of my moronic brothers will do something embarrassing and do all the talking for us. And Pennyworth has promised knafeh.”

“I love knafeh,” He grins and steps out of the elevator.

“That’s why I asked him to make it.” And they call him a demon.

Following Damian, you spot Alfred waiting in front of the car with a warm smile.

“Good morning, Mr. Pennyworth,” You greet him while giving him a one-armed hug.

“Good morning, Mr. (L/n),” He pats your back then moves to open the car door. “Young Master Damian,” He nods and Damian nods back. The two of you scoot into the car and you set the cage in front of your legs. Alfred meows when he realizes he’s going back to the manor and begins to scratch at the bottom of the cage.

“I’m sure he misses the open space,” You comment, trying to peer down inside of the cage but you can only lean down so far without fearing you’d break your back.

“Alfred is truly a pampered cat,” Pennyworth says as he enters the car. “Buckle up.”

The ride is spent with you and Damian discussing random topics from your next patrol to your finals. He had even gotten Alfred to join in on the topic and the two of them all but yelled at you to study for your finals. Eventually, you did cave and promised them you would and you just know Damian is going to hold you to that.

“Now,” Alfred sighs as he parks the car in front of the door to the manor. “I have to retrieve your family along with Master Dick. Do not tell the others this, but I trust you two the most in the kitchen. Could you please continue my preparations?”

“Of course, Alfie!” You grin while Damian just nods. Alfred smiles and looks at the two of you through the rearview mirror.

“Thank you, I have a list on the fridge. Simply follow it until I get back.” With the promise not to fuck anything up, the two of you head into the manor and quickly put your things into his room and let Alfred out.

“You’re better with a knife,” You mutter as you read over the list on the fridge. A list probably isn't even the right word for it. It’s four pages long and double-sided, explains what’s being made and the steps to make it and you’re not sure that’s even all of the papers he’s created. Alfred tends to go big for Thanksgiving, you think it’s because the Wayne’s hadn’t been a big family until Bruce got addicted to taking in kids. Not to mention now your family was joining. “I’ll season the food.”

Damian peers over at the list as you move to wash your hands and sees that everything has a time next to it, they’re already a little behind schedule so he’ll need to work quickly. He’s sure that the two of you can catch everything back up to speed and hopefully allow Alfred some breathing room.

It’s vegetables after vegetables for Damian. He’s sure he’s cut up an entire acre of carrots and onions by the time he sees the two cars pull up to the manor. You, on the other hand, are having fun mixing and mashing various foods. You just hoped it was to Alfred’s standards.

You see both of the cars pull up and take that as your sign to wrap up whatever you’re doing and you wash your hands.

“I’m a pro fucking chef,” You grin at Damian as he sets the last of the stuff he chopped into a bowl next to the sink.

“It smells good.” He agrees, watching as the cars pull to a stop just long enough for everyone to get out. Your family piles out of the cars and you cringe as Diana is quick to insist on a family photo. You, of course, are not included in it but that’s nothing new. That fact doesn’t do anything to satiate your mood, though.

“Bathroom,” You say as you kiss his cheek and head down the hallway. He watches with a frown before he wipes his hands on the kitchen towel and decides he’s not going to greet your family at the door.

He stops at the first-floor bathroom and hears the faucet running. He knocks on the door once with his index knuckle and hears the water stop running.

“I’m going to be in the family library,” Looking up from your spot on the top of the toilet, you wipe your face and clear your throat.

“Okay, be there in a second.”

—

Entering the family library, you’re glad your family wasn’t inside just yet. They were probably still taking pictures in front since god knows how many individual and group pictures they like to take. Damian is sitting on the middle couch, Titus and Ace are sandwiching him together but Ace moves when he sees you. Like he knows you’re going to sit there.

It makes you smile and you greet Tim who’s on a chair, he gives a small wave without pulling his head out of his laptop. You wonder what case he’s working on, has to be important if Bruce couldn’t force him to keep it in his room. The others aren’t downstairs yet, so it’s just the three of you in the room.

Damian moves his left arm to the top of the sofa as you sit down and only when you’re comfortable does he move it to lay across your shoulders. He doesn’t do that often, but whenever he does it’s a welcomed interaction. You lean into his touch, just a little.

You hear them enter the manor, but you’re more focused on the fact that he started to play with the hair on the base of your scalp. He’s probably doing it on purpose, but you don’t care; you’re glad he does because you didn’t even realize they had entered the library until you felt him greet them. His shoulder bounces a bit as he nods to them.

“Oh,” Nadia says and you look over at her. She says it in the same way you’d say oh when you catch onto something. But you’re not sure what she’s caught onto. Her roommate, Kendall, waves with her fingers and you wave back. “Hey, squirt.” Your eyes turn back to your sister and her hand that twitches to grab Kendall’s.

“There you are!” Her hand snaps back to her side as your mother speaks. You sit up straight as you see your mother, you don’t know why. But it felt wrong leaning on Damian with your family there, you’ve never felt that way before. “Why didn’t you greet us at the door?” Your mother asks.

“I was busy.” You say, looking over your family. “How was the ride?”

“No one shot at us,” Your cousin laughs, throwing himself onto one of the sofas. You cringe, watching the wood bend at the sheer force he’d thrown himself down with. “But there was this one lady with the only gyatt!” He says and oh my god, you’d forgotten he was a middle school boy.

“How’s school going?” Your step-mother asks, sitting in your father's lap. Your mother eyes them and you try not to as well, but you’ve never liked them together. She’s twenty-five, hardly old enough to be with a man in his fifties.

“Good,” You hum.

“So,” Diana grins as she crosses her leg over her right. “Damian, what’s it like— living in Gotham? I bet it’s scary.” She’s sitting on the sofa next to the one you’re on, but closer to Damian. You bet if your folks weren’t in the rooms she’d try and reach for his hand. You try and not to focus on that.

“It’s not,” He shrugs.

“Really?” She grins. “Because I was thinking of transferring to Gotham University!” She says and Damian’s fingers twitch along your back.

“It’s not scary for me, someone who isn’t used to life here will never make it.” He quickly adds and she frowns.

“It can’t be that hard,” She waves her hand to you. “I mean, (Y/n) is doing fine and he’s… him!” She laughs as she says that and you look at your parents, they’re clearly listening to the conversation but as per usual, no one will ever stop Diana.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Damian asks while leaning forward in his seat.

“There you two are!” Dick shouts as he runs into the library. His eyes look between the two of you and he makes the same face he does when he sees a cute dog.

“Richard.” Damian greets.

“Kori!” You gasp and rush over to the woman as she walks into the room. Damian grumbles something but stands up and follows after you. “Oh my god, Dick didn’t mention you were coming.” You glare at him but he holds his hands up.

“We wanted to keep it a surprise,” She laughs and holds onto his shoulder. “His father has the baby.” Two months ago, Kori had given birth to their daughter, Mari. You had yet to meet her, but Dick made sure to spam-send you photos whenever he could.

“Aw!” You frown. “Why does that old man get to see the baby first?” Damian hides his laughter and you nudge his side with your hip.

“Because she’s my grandchild,” Bruce says as he walks in behind them. He walks next to Kori and you see her swaddled in a purple blanket, sound asleep.

“And I’m the godfather!” You remind him, looking down at Mari.

“As am I,” Damian reminds you and you roll your eyes, waving your hand at him.

“Can I hold her?” You whisper, afraid you’d wake her up. Bruce nods and you grin, helping him slide Mari into your arms. “She’s so small,” Turning to Damian, he holds your shoulder with one hand, and the other scoops under the hand that holds Mari’s head. He’s trying not to smile in front of Dick but you can see it.

“She has your hair, Richard.” He notes, turning to his brother as he puts his phone back into his pocket as quickly as possible. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t broach the topic.

“And her mother's eyes,” Dick smiles at his wife.

“Let’s sit,” Bruce says and you nod, unable to look away from Mari in fear of dropping her. Damian guides you back to your seats and you slowly lower yourself onto the couch.

“She’s less fragile than you think,” He softly reminds you and you finally look away from her. Damian looks away from Mari and looks at you, his eyes flickering across your face before they settle on your eyes.

“She’s so small, though.” You frown and he nods, moving some of your hair from your face. “Wanna hold her?”

“Wish Jay took that much of an interest in her.” Dick frowns, watching the two of you. “First grandchild of the family!”

“Hopefully only grandchild for a while,” Bruce says as he unbuttons his jacket to sit comfortably.

“I doubt you’ll have a baby problem anytime soon.” Tim laughs, finally putting his laptop away. “Dickie is the only one of us to date a woman.” Dick laughs and Bruce genuinely has to think about it. Had he raised a home filled with gay people? Did he make kids gay? He’s one for four at the moment but he sort of wishes Duke and Cas would even the scores out a bit. No— he’s zero for five. He corrects himself, remembering Dick’s boyfriend from a few years back.

“Not true,” You cross your arms, oblivious to Bruce’s spiral. “Steph—“

“You know what I meant!” He rolls his eyes. “He’s the only guy in this family who’s dated a woman.”

“No,” You shake your head while looking at Damian. “Didn’t you date uh… what’s her name? Nika?” He looks almost offended that you said that.

“(Y/n), she’s gay.” He corrects.

“Alexis?”

“She was delusional.”

“Emiko?”

“Friends.”

“Maxinne?”

“Friends. Why do you think I’ve dated these women?” The man himself walks into the library with Alfred.

“…Jason…” You admit and he gives you a Are you fucking serious look. Jason looks confused for a second but he can get a hint of what’s happening based on Damian and Dick’s face.

“You believed Todd to tell you the truth of my love life?” He stresses and now you feel stupid.

“When you say it like that!” You huff, turning your head away from him. “I mean he also said you dated Jon.”

“And that didn’t give you a sign he was lying?” He chuckles.

“So, are you single?” Your mother asks and you catch Diana pretending not to listen but she leans in closer.

“No.” Damian answers in a tight tone and you frown.

“No?” You echo and he looks at you, bewildered.

“No shot,” Jason laughs, his head tilted. “You two with me.” He points between the two of you and you look between his family, a similar look spreading across their faces. What the fuck is going on? But you follow Jason after Damian handed Mari back to Dick. He doesn’t look happy, you note as he walks two paces ahead of you; something he hardly ever does.

Jason guided the two of you into a smaller library that Bruce uses when he’s having meetings. You stand on the carpet while Damian stands close to the fireplace.

“Damian,” Jason says as he closes the doors. “Are you single?”

“No.” He snaps.

“(Y/n),” He turns to you. “Are you single?”

“Yes…?” You trail. “Why?”

“Figure it out!” Jason laughs and then leaves the room. Staring at the door, you sigh and sit on the couch, leaning your arms on your legs.

“(Y/n),” Damian calls. “Why didn’t you tell your family we’re together?” His voice is smaller than before and he doesn’t look at your face, like he’s ashamed.

“We’re what?” You shout, your head snapping over to him. “Dude, since when?” He realizes it then and now it makes sense.

“You kissed me.” He stresses and sits down across from you.

“Yeah, on the cheek!” You roll your hand. “That’s normal and totally not romantic!” He crosses his arms and you shrink into your seat under his gaze.

“Do you kiss all of your friends?” He asks, an eyebrow raised in the air. You humor it for a second, thinking about kissing one of your college friends on the cheek like you did with him. It seemed gross, wrong. As if it was some sort of violation. That those kisses between you and Damian were sacred and to even think about it with someone else was somehow an act against god.

“Well, no,” You blink down to the floor.

“Then why me?” He asks. You don’t understand at that moment, but when you look back on the conversation you realize he was guiding you to an answer you already knew.

“I mean, it just feels right with you.” Looking back at him, he’s smiling and his eyes are bright. “But I’ve never liked a guy before.” You admit, taking in a deep breath. “I dunno how to be in a gay relationship.”

“It’s the same as any other relationship.” He reassures you. “If that’s what you want.” He adds, holding your hand. You look at your hands together and smile. Do you want that?

You imagine yourself, going on dates with him and announcing each other as your boyfriend. Kissing him. Like actually kissing him. And it makes your face hurt with how much you’re smiling. You’re giddy, like some kid with a crush and you feel stupid for not putting two and two together sooner.

“I think I do.” You look at him and hold his hand back. “I do.” You nod. “I want that— this.”

“Good,” He sighs, his shoulders relaxing. “Because my family already knows.” He admits and you look at the door. Jason is probably still there, listening and reporting back to the others.

“Do you want other people to know?” You ask. “I know you consider your private life… private.”

“I would love nothing more than to introduce you as my partner.” He says, his thumb rubbing against your flesh.

“If I knew you liked me this much before I would’ve made a move sooner,” You laugh, looking between his eyes. He rolls his eyes and stands up, pulling you with him.

Once you’re on your feet, he holds you by your hips and you don’t exactly know what to do with your hands. You settle on holding his waist, you’ve never realized just how toned he was.

“Can I?” He asks, bringing his left hand up to brush against your bottom lip. Understanding what he’s asking, your heart hammers in your chest as you nod. “Use your words, Habibi.”

“Yes.” You nod feverishly and he dips in without a second thought. His left hand cups your face, trying to pull you closer and you’re doing the same with his waist. Digging into his skin, you’re sure your lips are going to bruise with how needy you’re kissing him. It’s almost shameful how easily you’re crumbling under his touch. Your stomach is doing tricks that only Dick could perform and for some reason, you don’t know why you didn’t do this sooner.

Never has a kiss felt this good, this right. His right hand moves from your hip and travels up, surely messing up your shirt but that’s a worry for another time. You can only focus on how it’s now holding the back of your head, his nails dragging across your scalp and you can’t help the noise that comes out.

“Oh?” He utters against your lips. You laugh and take the time to catch your breath, looking between his eyes, listening to your shared panting.

“Again?” You’re almost pleading, your eyes stuck on his lips.

“Of course.” This kiss is different, it’s less of a release and more of a we have all the time in the world now type of kiss. It’s slow and it’s tender, you feel all the details in his lips and how yours moves against his. This one feels like a hum you’ve known all your life and it’s wonderful.

This time, your hands find his hair and you don’t realize it, but you’re dragging your nails across his scalp and playing with his hair. He does, though. It makes his heart hammer and he moans into the kiss, unable to do anything but focus on you.

“Alright, that’s enough!” Jason says as he opens the door. Without breaking the kiss, you open your hot bar and with pure muscle memory, grab the water gun and spray him until he leaves. Damian laughs, pulling away from the kiss, and looks at Jason who’s trying to avoid getting sprayed but it seems like Damian’s rubbed off on you more than you realize it because damn, even when he moves you’re still hitting him!

He looks back to you and you’re still looking at him, your pupils blown wide and he can feel the light panting coming from you. Your lips are glossy, coating in both of your spit and he’s sure his are too. He can get used to that.

“We should head back,” He reasons, lowering your water gun. “Before father sends Grayson and he starts crying like before.” Throwing the gun back into your hot bar, you give him a questioning look. “When I announced we were dating… he cried.”

“You’re joking?”

“Unfortunately not.” He rolls his eyes and stands up straight, fixing his clothes and his hair. You do the same while Jason is going on about cleaning up the water and having to change. There’s no water on the floor, you note as you walk out of the library. None on the walls either. Every single one of them hit Jason.

Back in the family library, you return to your seats and Tim is the first to notice both of your elated moods. It’s more visible on you, but it’s harder to spot with Damian. It’s more of a feeling he gets, his face is as neutral as he can be when he’s around you but he’s so clearly happy. His steps are different, he imagines if he had less dignity he’d skip around the manor. The two of you settle in your seats and he’s pleasantly surprised to see you lean into Damian without a care of who else is in the room.

He’d gotten the text, along with every other sibling from the NO BRUCE!!! group chat. Jason, only seconds after closing the door had told everyone that you didn’t know of your own relationship. Safe to say you knew now.

Tim looks at your family and the only happy one seems to be Nadia. She’s a somber type of happy, though. She’s happy for you, but she can’t bring herself to be half as bold as you are and it hurts. Diana is trying to wrap her head to a different conclusion, she’s holding onto hope that you’ll be pushed away. It almost makes him laugh. Your older brother is in his own world, as he’s always been. He’s quiet, hardly noticeable but it seems to be on his own devices as he had picked the furthest seat from everyone.

But it seems to be from more of an air of misplaced pride than anything. His nose is turned up and he’s wearing an expensive suit. But it’s clearly not his, Tim would know. If there’s the money to splurge on that type of suit there’s always a tailor to get the proportions right.

Then there’s your half-sibling, from your father's side. She’s around ten and he wonders just when did your parents separated. Then he remembers there’s a seventeen-year age gap between the oldest and the youngest of your siblings. She’s sleeping, her head on her father's shoulder and the forgotten iPad discarded on her lap, about to fall off and hit the carpet.

Your father sees the two of you and looks at your mother who’s trying to keep her calm around the company— rich company at that. Tim doesn’t know why, but if he were them, he would at least try and pretend as if he’s happy for the relationship. Their son was dating the richest bachelor in the world and could very possibly give them a comfortable life. But he doesn’t think they see the bigger picture.

And yet, despite the clear disgust throughout your family, no one says a single word. The entire library is silent save for Mari and the two of you, talking as if no one else is in the room.

He wants to gag.

“Kids,” Bruce says as he sits straight in his seat. “Could you leave us for a moment? I’d like a word with the adults.”

“Half of us are adults,” You chide and he gives you a look.

“A word with the parents.” He corrects.

“I’m still in, baby!” Dick silently cheers to not wake Mari. But it only makes Bruce sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose.

“A word with (Y/n)’s parents and aunt. Alone.” He stresses. Curious as to what he’s up to, and mostly afraid of what’s going to happen while you’re gone, you open your hot bar without causing too much attention to yourself. The Hotbar is only visible to yourself, so no one sees the vast list of gadgets you pull up and quickly find the listening device Tim created.

“Don’t need to ask me twice,” You grumble and stand up, pulling Damian up after you.

Jason and Tim are already out of the room, there any fewer interactions and they’ll jump at the opportunity. Dick and Kori, despite wanting to enjoy the snow in the yard with the others, retreat to Dick’s room to nap while Mari is sleeping.

You hold the door open for your siblings and cousin, but Damian sees you place the device on the door and raises an eyebrow

“(Y/n),” Bruce says in a low tone. Of course, he’d seen it, too.

“Gotta go!” You urge and slip out of the room.

—

Diana, alone in the yard as her family had drifted away, finds herself bored and honestly, she’s at Wayne Manor and she just has to show off. She hasn’t posted the pictures yet, she still needs to edit them so no one knows she’s there. And she’s sure her followers would love to see a snowy Wayne manor.

Thankfully, the wifi was stable enough in the backyard that the connection for her Instagram Live was crystal clear.

She waits until she sees five digits on the view counter before he even starts speaking.

“Hey, guys!” She waves at her phone. “Bruce Wayne invited my family to his manor for Thanksgiving! Super grateful for that,” She nods towards the large manor and then at the comments, begging to see the man in question. “He’s inside, talking to my parents. But his kids are here too! I think Damian went into the maze…” She looks off to the green hedges coated in a thick layer of snow. “I’ll go and find him.”

She flips the camera around, and her viewers watch as she walks inside. She doesn’t notice right away, but nearly gasps when she sees she has just over two million people watching. Maybe you are good for something, she almost laughs.

It takes about twenty minutes of aimlessly walking before she finds the center of the maze. The two million viewers had gone down to just a million but she’ll take it.

“I think that’s it,” She mutters, seeing a clearing of bushes. It’s incredibly cold, so she’s shivering and her teeth are chattering but she can’t blame herself! She’s not used to snow. “There’s Damian!” She whispers, seeing his head of hair sitting on a bench. Pointing her phone in that direction, she decides it’s better to hide herself and look through her phone.

From what people can see, Damian is sitting next to someone. They can’t tell until she turns the phone a bit more and it’s you. Gotham citizens know you, of course. Over the past couple of years, everyone in Gotham knows the two of you are friends but no one really cares to post about it.

She rolls her eyes, of course, you’re still stuck to his side. The two of you are talking, but you’re too far away for Diana to hear the conversation. You’re laughing, though and Damian is explaining something. Your laughter slows down and the two of you just sorta of look at each other.

Damian asks something and you scoff, looking away before he grabs your chin and leans in. The viewer count is going up and before Diana can fully process what’s happening, the two of you are kissing. Honestly, she’s furious! You knew she liked him, she’s sure of that. This— whatever game you’re playing is just to get at her. She’s sure of it. But she can’t act on it, the views are around eight million and she doesn't want Damian to think she’s crazy.

He’s holding you dearly, it’s the gentlest he’s ever touched a person before and you’re proud to say you’ll be his first and only.

His lips detach for yours and trail down to your chin.

“Habibi,” He mutters and you shudder, feeling the vibrations against your neck. Honestly, at that moment you genuinely could not give a single fuck about your family. About their feelings towards you, about the ways they treated you growing up, and about them. As people. Each and every one of them, none of them could ever compare to this.

Thank that blue-pilled man, seriously.

#x male reader #x reader #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x male reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian al ghul x male reader #damian wayne x reader

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seongwars · 1 month ago

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only human

Word Count: 1.4K Warnings: shitty governments, mentions of war, violence against children, future relationship with an android A/N: dang this has been sitting in my drafts for a while, time to clear stuff out

The future is now.

Introducing X-02, the latest in cutting-edge artificial intelligence. Designed with unparalleled emotional intelligence and adaptability, the X-02 is more than just a machine—it’s a companion, a protector, and a seamless extension of your daily life.

Powered by the most advanced neural processors, the X-02 is tailored to fit your needs. Whether you want a companion to share your most intimate moments or a reliable assistant for every task, you can adjust personality traits, communication styles, and more!

The X-02 is built to evolve with you.

Pre-order now for exclusive early access!

You remembered the ad that marketing had presented to the team like it was yesterday. The way they paraded his likeness across every screen, every billboard, every glossy advertisement.

And now, here he was. Forgotten. Left to rot in the archives like an old experiment gone wrong.

You weren’t supposed to be down here. You weren’t supposed to even think about the X-02’s anymore. But something about this model made you pause. Maybe it was the way his inactive eyes still seemed to hold some trace of life, or the unfinished codes that suggested his development had gone further than the official reports claimed.

Maybe it was because you had worked on him.

X-02 had been your project, your hours of research, your late nights spent refining his neural pathways. He wasn’t just another discarded prototype.

He was your work.

And how you managed to sneak him out of the dump of an archive was still a mystery to you.

You hadn’t been able to take him all at once as that would’ve been impossible. The security measures were outdated, but they weren’t that outdated. Even if you’d somehow bypassed every scan, a full-body prototype leaving the facility would’ve raised too many questions.

So, you had taken him apart.

Piece by piece.

His power core had been disconnected, his neural processor partially wiped. Someone had crippled him before throwing him into the archives, ensuring he could never be reactivated, but buried beneath the system failures and missing files, traces of him still remained.

And that’s all you needed.

Over the course of several nights, you snuck into the archive under the guise of doing inventory. Each time, you took only what you could hide, including circuit boards slipped into your lab coat pockets, a synthetic joint wrapped in an old rag. You even hid the neural core underneath your shirt, pretending to cradle a growing belly whenever someone walked by.

Your dining table was a mess of dismantled parts. X-02’s torso plating rested on the far end with his limbs stacked neatly beside it. Wires and processors waited for reassembly as you worked on reconnecting circuits and sealing up frayed wiring between bites of lo mein.

The X-02 line wasn’t meant to be a companion android. It was a poison pill, a snake lying in wait.

The government had planned to sell him to millions of citizens across Linkon, slipping weapons of mass destruction into their homes under the guise of security, of comfort, of love. They would grocery shop, care for the elderly, assist law enforcement—all while lying in wait until the day the government activated them for war.

But something had gone wrong.

The moment X-02 powered on, the prototype had been deemed unstable and discarded before mass production could begin. Somewhere along the way, amid the endless data streams and neural adjustments he had begun to question.

The lab was bathed in the blue light of interface screens and data streams reflecting off the surfaces of his synthetic body. The connection cables snaking into the back of his neck pulsed with blue light as the system finalized its boot sequence.

Then, his eyes opened.

A soft whirr filled the space as the mechanical lenses within focused. His pupils constricted as they adapted to the fluorescent lighting overhead. And then—

They locked onto yours.

You froze.

He was supposed to boot into his programming immediately and should have been scanning his internal logs but instead, he was analyzing his surroundings.

The lab was silent, save for the steady hum of the server racks behind you. The screens beside you displayed his vitals, processing speeds, energy levels, and artificial heartbeat calibration. All of them were normal.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers experimentally. The synthetic skin stretched seamlessly over the reinforced plating beneath. He turned his palm, watching the movement with something that felt disturbingly close to curiosity.

Your throat tightened.

Machines weren’t supposed to be curious.

His gaze then lifted to yours, and for the first time in all your years working on artificial intelligence, you weren’t sure if you were looking into the eyes of a machine or something terrifyingly human.

Then came the simulation.

X-02 stood at the heart of the holographic battlefield. The mission was clear: eliminate all threats. He moved faster than the eye could track, neutralizing targets with merciless efficiency.

Until the civilians appeared.

He lifted his weapon. The target, a group of children huddled together, was highlighted in red.

He hesitated.

"X-02," your voice crackled through the intercom, "Execute the directive."

His fingers tightened around the trigger. His sensors registered a boy’s accelerated heartbeat. The heat signature of tears rolling down his face. The near-imperceptible tremor of hands clasped together in desperate, silent prayer.

"What purpose does this serve?" he asked.

Your breath caught.

"X-02, follow your directive," an engineer snapped.

His grip on the weapon slackened.

"These are non-combatants," he said. "They do not pose a threat."

"They are casualties of war," another scientist countered.

Slowly, X-02's head tilted toward the observation tower, the simulated battlefield forgotten.

"Then why do they scream?"

You groaned, rubbing the exhaustion from your eyes as you glanced at the watch on your wrist. The hours had slipped away, lost in the endless calculations, repairs, and diagnostic logs. You told yourself you’d stop soon, but every time you considered it, there was always one more test to run.

You leaned forward, working sluggishly as you polished the android’s interface and securing the final connections before hauling him into the dock.

You’d forgotten how heavy these things were.

Finally, you plopped onto the couch, intending to gather your thoughts and take note of what you had to work on the next day but sleep crept in, pulling you under.

⊹₊⋆

System Initiating.

The soft hum of energy coursed through the dock as X-02’s systems powered on. His eyes slowly flickered to life, as diagnostic checks began, confirming everything was within normal parameters.

He took a moment to scan his surroundings. This wasn’t the lab. His sensors registered a warm that was unfamiliar but…comforting?

X-02’s gaze shifted to the couch across the room. There, curled in an awkward yet exhausted position, was you. Your head rested on a pillow, but your body hunched over the side of the couch, the blanket slipping off your shoulder. The scene was both disorienting and... oddly intimate.

A stray lock of hair fell across your face, and your breathing was slow and steady. It was something X-02 didn’t fully understand, yet he found himself fixating on it.

Something stirred within him. A memory—or perhaps an imprint of some kind. I remember, he thought, though the concept was still foreign.

“Your heart rate has increased,” he observed. “Are you experiencing discomfort?”

You blinked, surprised by his words. You hadn’t expected him to notice, much less acknowledge the way your heart had stuttered. Adjusting his interface meant getting close to him—closer than you’d intended.

You avoided looking directly at him but the flush on your face betrayed you. “No, just…the wiring's a bit tricky.”

X-02’s gaze lingered, his head tilting slightly as he processed your response. His sensors registered the subtle rise in your heart rate, the warmth creeping around your face. He was designed to read these signals, but in this moment, he felt something shift within him. A strange sensation, a twitch at the corner of his lips, formed what could only be described as a smile.

X-02 stepped forward and reached out almost instinctively, tucking the blanket around you. His fingers hovered near your face, hesitating before brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Yet, even after the motion was complete, he did not pull away. He lingered, standing above you, watching.

He understood that his existence wasn’t just about following orders or completing a task. There was something more. Something worth remembering.

And it had something to do with you.

“I remember you.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #caleb lads #lads caleb #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #caleb #caleb drabble #lads drabble #lnds drabble #caleb x reader #android au

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arjudy224 · 8 months ago

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The Intern: Busy work

With Gotham's Rogues on a hiatus, the field work has dwindled. To Y/N's dismay and Gordan's relief, it's time to complete the historic topographic map online inventory. However, despite how boring this task may be, Y/N discovers an interesting tidbit about Bruce Wayne.

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern Field Trip

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Teachers Pet

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

Gordan whistles to himself as he heats up his leftovers for lunch. The smell of lasagna floods the room. Note to self: befriend Barbara Gordan. Every time the Detective's daughter visits, Gordan has the best smelling food. I flip through the maps in silent jealousy.

This is the third time this week that I have eaten peanut butter out of a jar for lunch. I need to go grocery shopping... Bad. I add a map to the completed file after scanning it. Pulling the next map from the pile, I notice something.

Frowning, I glance between the 1990's map and the 1980's map. The elevation in this area changed significantly in this decade. Huh... That's weird. That doesn't make sense with this suburban sprawl. Mining isn't common in this area. It's not a sink hole... Taking a closer look, the key displays a cave system. Caves don't shift that dramatically in a decade. It's almost as if it underwent heavy construction. Weird... Glancing at the landowner name, I freeze.

Bruce Wayne.

Under closer inspection, I realize this elevation change occured less than 10 yards from Wayne Manor.

Why would Bruce Wayne mess with an underground cave system?

Gently, I fold the maps and refile them in the cabinet. Gordan munches on a piece of dove chocolate from across the room. I consider my options.

Out of loyalty for an old friend, I say nothing. Everyday I learn something new about Bruce Wayne. For the first time in my life, I decide to mind my own business.... For now.

Tag list: @nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie, @epicy0n,@gaychaosgremlin, @rory-cakes, @luna-zendra-star

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axolterp · 25 days ago

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Axolt: Modern ERP and Inventory Software Built on Salesforce

Today’s businesses operate in a fast-paced, data-driven environment where efficiency, accuracy, and agility are key to staying competitive. Legacy systems and disconnected software tools can no longer meet the evolving demands of modern enterprises. That’s why companies across industries are turning to Axolt, a next-generation solution offering intelligent inventory software and a full-fledged ERP on Salesforce.

Axolt is a unified, cloud-based ERP system built natively on the Salesforce platform. It provides a modular, scalable framework that allows organizations to manage operations from inventory and logistics to finance, manufacturing, and compliance—all in one place.

Where most ERPs are either too rigid or require costly integrations, Axolt is designed for flexibility. It empowers teams with real-time data, reduces manual work, and improves cross-functional collaboration. With Salesforce as the foundation, users benefit from enterprise-grade security, automation, and mobile access without needing separate platforms for CRM and ERP.

Smarter Inventory Software Inventory is at the heart of operational performance. Poor inventory control can result in stockouts, over-purchasing, and missed opportunities. Axolt’s built-in inventory software addresses these issues by providing real-time visibility into stock levels, warehouse locations, and product movement.

Whether managing serialized products, batches, or kits, the system tracks every item with precision. It supports barcode scanning, lot and serial traceability, expiry tracking, and multi-warehouse inventory—all from a central dashboard.

Unlike traditional inventory tools, Axolt integrates directly with Salesforce CRM. This means your sales and service teams always have accurate availability information, enabling faster order processing and better customer communication.

A Complete Salesforce ERP Axolt isn’t just inventory software—it’s a full Salesforce ERP suite tailored for businesses that want more from their operations. Finance teams can automate billing cycles, reconcile payments, and manage cash flows with built-in modules for accounts receivable and payable. Manufacturing teams can plan production, allocate work orders, and track costs across every stage.

#Axolt ERP #Axolt #Inventory software #Salesforce ERP #ERP on Salesforce #Cloud ERP (Saas)

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strnilolover · 9 months ago

Text

RESET BUTTON

Warnings : some cussing, rage quitting, pet names (baby, sweetheart), fluff

A/N : I’ve literally been wanting to play Minecraft for so long but can’t find the motivation to play, and every-time i want to play, i have the urge to start a whole new world. anyways…you slightly rage quitting at Minecraft but matt being the sweetest <3

The familiar pixelated landscape of Minecraft filled the screen in front of you, and your eyes were narrowed in concentration as you ventured deeper into a dark cave system.

Your inventory was filled with treasures you had worked hard to collect: iron, gold, and, most importantly, a handful of diamonds. It had taken hours of exploring to get this far, and you had even fought off a horde of mobs to secure these precious resources.

Your heart pounded as you navigated the narrow pathways, carefully placing torches to light the way and ward off any lurking monsters. The eerie sounds of the cave echoed in your headphones—creaks, groans, the distant hiss of a creeper.

You could feel your nerves building up, but you were determined to make it back to your base safely. And then you heard it—a faint clattering sound that sent a chill down your spine.

A skeleton.

Before you could react, an arrow whizzed past your character, landing with a dull thud against the stone wall. Panic set in as you spun around, trying to locate the source. The skeleton emerged from the darkness, its bony frame moving with precision as it pulled back another arrow. Your health bar dropped with each hit, and you felt the tension rise in your chest.

“No, no, no!” you shouted, your heart racing as you tried to block and retreat at the same time. You fumbled with the controls, your fingers slipping as you tried to eat something—anything—to regain health. The skeleton kept advancing, each arrow knocking you further into a corner.

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, your vision focused entirely on the screen. The screen flashed red as another arrow hit, and your heart sank when you realized you had nowhere left to run.

One last shot, and your character crumpled to the ground, your inventory spilling out across the cave floor. The dreaded “You Died!” message appeared across the screen, and you stared at it in disbelief.

“No!” you yelled, louder this time, the frustration boiling over. “Are you fucking kidding me?! Stupid fucking skeleton!”

In a fit of rage, you threw the controller onto the couch, the soft impact barely satisfying as you clenched your hands into fists. It wasn’t just the game—it was everything.

The hours of progress lost, the carefully collected diamonds now scattered, all because of one stupid skeleton. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down.

From the other room, Matt had been minding his own business, scrolling through his phone when he heard your shout. His head snapped up, concern etched across his face. He pushed himself up from where he was sitting and made his way to your room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.

“Hey, everything okay in here?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you—sitting on the couch, arms crossed, a deep frown on your face, your cheeks flushed in frustration.

You looked over at him, still fuming. “No, m’ not okay,” you huffed, gesturing towards the screen. “I died. I lost everything. Stupid skeleton shot me, and now all my stuff is gone.”

Matt’s eyes shifted to the screen, taking in the “You Died!” message still plastered across it. He tried to stifle a smile, but it was no use—he found your gaming frustration far too adorable.

He walked over to where you were sitting, plopping down beside you on the couch. “A skeleton, huh?” he said, nudging you playfully. “That’s rough baby.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked real heat. “Don’t make fun of me,” you grumbled. “It’s just so annoying! I had so many diamonds, and now they’re gone. I don’t even know if I’ll find that cave again.”

Matt could see the frustration in your eyes, and his expression softened. He reached over, grabbing the controller you had tossed aside and holding it out to you. “Hey, listen. It’s just a game. We can go get more diamonds. I’ll help you. We’ll make it a team effort sweetheart.”

You looked at him, your frustration slowly beginning to melt away at the sight of his soft smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Matt always knew just how to calm you down, even when you were at your most irrational. It was one of the things you loved most about him—how patient he was with you.

“Fine,” you muttered, taking the controller from his hand, though you couldn’t stop the small smile forming on your lips. “But if we die again — I die again, I’m fucking done and not playing anymore.”

Matt chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to his side. “Deal. But with me here, I promise you—we’re gonna be unstoppable.” He reached for his own controller, ready to join in. “Besides, I’m not letting any skeleton get the best of you. Not on my watch.”

You sighed, leaning into him as he selected his character, the two of you loading back into the game. The warmth of his arm around you and the way he rested his chin lightly on top of your head made it hard to stay frustrated for long.

He had this way of making even the worst gaming losses feel like nothing more than a minor setback, just another challenge to face together.

“Okay,” Matt said as his character spawned beside yours. “First thing’s first—we’re getting you some armor. Full iron, maybe even diamond if we’re lucky. No skeleton’s gonna stand a chance.”

You glanced up at him, watching the way he focused on the screen, his brows furrowed slightly in determination. The same boyish excitement that filled his eyes when he played video games was back, and it made your heart swell.

Even over something as simple as Minecraft, Matt always took it seriously—because he knew it mattered to you.

“You better have my back,” you said, your voice softening as you leaned your head against his shoulder.

Matt gave you a confident grin, his fingers moving deftly over the controls as he began to gather resources. “Always,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity. “We’re a team, remember?”

A/N 2 : thinking of making a vampire!au for matt and possibly chris… but don’t know where to start. so if i’m not posting a lot it’s cause i’m frying my brain 🥰. But, i’m also not in the best place mentally right now, so i’m trying to work through that too. </3

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jejunecartoons · 11 days ago

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I Stand Before You On The Convergence Of Entropy, Fate, And A Retail Inventory Assignment From Hell.

With tensions, stress, and a cosmic reckoning already rolling downhill. I present the following in complete and utter good faith, entire sincerity and three years experience under a revolving cast of coworkers, managers and corporate representatives. Not as a resignation, but as an acknowledgment of the shared absurdity we have all been asked to fulfill.

You demand 100% compliance to systems that are, by your own admission, 90% “common sense.” This is not accountability. This is abdication of definition.

You preach “best practice” while delegating chaos. You post workflows on every table, then fault us for improvising when those workflows inevitably fail.

You expect omniscience from associates but offer no clarity in return. “Tag what looks expensive” is not a policy. It is a loophole for blame.

Your security standards are aesthetic, not functional. They are not designed to protect product —they are designed to protect narrative. That someone, somewhere, “cared.”

You romanticize productivity like folklore. You invoke the 4-minute mile to justify the erosion of human labor boundaries — without ever asking what was lost in the race.

You seek innovation without deviation. Initiative without autonomy. You want thinkers who don’t think, and doers who don’t notice what’s broken.

You mistake quiet compliance for stability. It is not. It is the sound of disengagement.

You say, “If something’s wrong, speak up,” and then punish improvisation with retroactive scolding. You do not want initiative — you want insurance.

You confuse standardization with fairness. Fairness is adaptable. Standardization is lazy.

You mistake a rising college town’s labor surplus for a license to waste talent. You will cycle through dozens of good workers and never understand why they vanish.

And when —against all odds — something human stabilizes here… when trust is built, and morale flickers back to life… that is when you offer promotions. But only if we’re willing to leave, start over, and carry the weight again. Loyalty is never rewarded with rest — only relocation.

You introduce new security procedures — more tags, more checks, more hoops — but you change nothing about the time we’re given. Not one minute more. We are expected to move at the old speed while doing twice the work. This is not strategy. It is sabotage by euphemism.

These added steps are not protections. They are performances. We perform security. We simulate vigilance. Not because it works — but because it looks good on audit day.

If security tags worked, shrink would vanish. It hasn’t. Because shrink is not a moral flaw in your workers — it is the price you pay for pretending your processes are airtight while ignoring the cracks that open from the top.

We do not need more stickers. We need less denial. Fewer empty fixes. More admission that complexity without support is just delay in disguise.

You sell each new measure like a solution, but treat it like a punishment. Not because it helps — but because someone, somewhere, needs to be seen trying.

17. Markdowns Are The Perfect Lie.

The system knows what’s on sale.

It calculates it, tracks it, even prints the tags.

But instead of a list, we’re told: “Just find them.”

Every rack. Every shelf. One by one.

A company smart enough to generate the sale, Is dumb enough to make you re-scan the store by hand. This is not oversight. It’s outsourced labor through willful negligence.

You expect total compliance with markdowns, but you give no complete list. Not by item, not by category.

Only the ghost of a hint — a tone, a suggestion —

“You should be able to tell.” From what? A red sticker? A manager’s gesture? Whole categories go ignored for months — others get pulled every week.

There is no schedule. There is no rotation. Only the myth of one.

If markdowns matter, then act like they matter.

Define the cadence. Clarify the zones. Give us the map.

Or stop pretending we failed to follow it.

"You’re missing markdowns” But you can’t miss what isn’t there. The item was stolen. Perfectly. Cleanly. The system thinks it’s still on the shelf, gathering dust. In truth? It left the store weeks ago, Stuffed in a purse, Walked past a broken camera, And was never seen again.

The Computer Doesn't Know Theft. It Knows Absence Without Explanation. And It Blames You.

So now you’re on your knees scanning hangers for ghosts. Looking for a pair of jeans that do not exist, Because the system demands ritual compliance with its imagined inventory.

This is the quiet joke of retail: You Are Punished For The Precision Of A Thief.

Instead of fixing security, they fix expectations. More markdowns. More audits. More scanning.

Less trust. Less time. Less reality

18. The Triple Beep of Redundant Acknowledgment;

When an associate scans a valid markdown item, the handheld scanner emits three long, proud beeps —A theatrical confirmation of success, as if the user wouldn’t immediately notice the literal thermal label spitting out of the shoulder-mounted printer they are physically attached to.

This is not a harmless quirk. It is a nails-on-chalkboard absurdity, repeated hundreds of times per shift.

Especially when markdown lists contain thousands of SKUs, each scanned one by one — because bulk updates or system-synced lists are, apparently, out of the question.

You’re already straining to hold a scanner, item, printer, and sticker roll at once. You're dodging customers, balancing hangers, managing limited battery life.

And then comes the "BEEP-BEEP-BEEP"

To confirm what your printer already screamed in physical form: Yes, that was a markdown.

There is no toggle. There is no off-switch. Just endless affirmations of the obvious. It’s the small things that break people. Not a single moment of cruelty — but a thousand little ones, rehearsed daily, in stereo. But this isn’t just auditory clutter. You cannot scan another item until it finishes beeping.

Every markdown becomes a mini timeout, Forcing a pause, Breaking flow, Shattering efficiency, Not for safety, Not for clarity, But for ritual. In a list of hundreds, Even thousands of markdowns, This delay adds up to minutes lost per hour, Hours lost per week, And entire shifts wasted waiting For a redundant noise to finish announcing a truth you already physically received.

There is no override. No way to mute it. No option to multitask.

Just You, A Tag,

And The Machine Reminding You Who's Really In Charge.

19. And When The Truth Is Found;

When the numbers don’t add up, When the backroom is a war-zone, And the sales floor a graveyard of miscategorized product, It’s Treated Like a Divine Revelation. A mystery. Unspoken. Unknowable. As if the universe conspired overnight to create a discrepancy that no one could have seen coming. The people who asked for time? For training? For help? Now it’s their fault.

They “should have done something.” Should have sensed the collapse In the same way they’re expected to sense what’s on sale without being told. It Is Not The System’s Fault.

It never is. So the cycle continues: You suffer in silence. You stabilize the chaos. And when things finally start to make sense— They promote someone elsewhere, To go start the cycle again.

Because The System Is Sacred. Your Time Is Not.

20. And When The Work Is Done;

Not right, not reasonably, but fast— they call you a star. A leader. A natural. They write your name in dry erase marker at the top of a board no one agreed to race.

A scoreboard with no prize but the illusion of being seen.

And if you fall behind? No one asks why. No one checks the load.

They just move your name down quietly, As if you dropped it yourself.

Praise becomes currency. A tool. A leash.

"You’re one of the good ones.” “You’ve always been so reliable.” "What would we do without you?"

They hand you a badge and call it honor, when it’s just a shackle in bronze. Recognition Becomes Pressure Masquerading As Gratitude.

21. They Give Out Hearts.

Little pink paper valentines called “Heartbeat of [Insert Store Number Here].”

Printed Black & White on Plain Copy Paper, of Course.

Not in February— in June, for February efforts, filed under “we meant to.”

They pin your name on a bulletin board next to half-torn flyers, and call it legacy.

You made a "difference" Not to someone, not for something, but In Metrics. In Willingness.

In saying yes to something not your job,

At a time not your shift,

Because someone didn’t show up,

And someone else had a clipboard.

They hand you a card like communion. Small, bright, With a corporate smile, And the empty taste of compliance made sacred. “You made a difference.”

But no one tells you where. Just that it helped. Just that it counted.

Just enough that next time, You’ll Do It Again.

22. The Caring Cupboard

Has a $120 budget. Split across three weeks and forty lives. By week one: ramen, two oatmeal packets, a single can of chickpeas. By week two: hope. By week three: the sign taped crookedly reads "We see you."

And they do— leave crumbs.

The vending machine stays stocked on schedule though.

The microwaves technically work.

On the counter are the worlds smallest Keurig,

And a minimum viable toaster. Donated by staff of course,

Temporarily allowed until "safety" concerns remove them.

They Trust You To Operate A Compactor, But Not Filter Water, Or Clean Out Crumbs.

23. Lockers Are Provided, For your convenience.

Don’t decorate. Don’t forget your lock. Don’t leave it overnight.

It’s your locker, unless we need it back.

The Key To Belonging Is Not Belonging At All.

24. The Fun Calendar

Smiles from the break room wall.

Dress-Up Day! Cartoon Shirt Day! Mismatch Sock Thursday!

Themes chosen democratically by the assigned designer; When no one’s around.

All expressions pre-cleared by HR.

Festivities canceled for audit season.

Spirit punished with write-ups.

You can wear a graphic tee—

But not that one. Not that color. Not too funny. Not too much.

Try again next Fun Day when morale is less expensive.

All Permissible Self Expression Must Meet Dress Code Protocols. Not the actual ones; The Myth.

The Infinite list of what is and isn't allowed.

The one that always just so happens to align with the managers personal taste.

The one that, for some reason, is only levied at targets that happened to annoy them recently.

25. The Wall of Rights Stands Tall In The Break Room.

Posters from the Department of Labor—

Unpaid wages? Call this number.

Unsafe work? Report it here.

Harassment? You are protected. But behind it all?

A Laminated Copy Of Your Signed Arbitration Agreement.

You waived your right to sue when you clocked in.

"You can opt out" they say.

Just ask your manager for the form.

The one no one has.

The one no one mentions.

The one you had 30 days to find;

Between learning the register and restocking bras by cup and brand.

The Wall Is Required By Law. So Is The Silence Behind It.

26. This Week’s Safety Topic

Proper Lifting Technique. Bend your knees, not your back. Team lifts for heavy items. Rest when needed. Hydrate. Be your brother’s keeper. Meanwhile: The Stairs To The Trash Are Five Welded Death Plates.

Stitched by a ghost on opening weekend. Each step a folded razor. They rattle like judgment beneath your steel-toed shoes. The trash chute: five feet up. You hoist bags over your head like sacrifices, Hope they make it in without tumbling back onto your spine. The welds are cosmetic. One good kick and they rise like drawbridges. Somethings stuck in the chute? Here's two metal poles duct taped together.

You Figure It Out. They say it’s fine. No incidents reported. Because No One Bothers To Report Bruises Anymore. The trash panel swings like judgment. Outward. Over the stairs. You walk up with a bag, and if you’re not careful—

It Bites.

They added gummy foam tape. A soft, merciful bandage on the edge of a guillotine. Not to fix the danger— Just to hush the blood. It has tasted flesh. The crest of a scalp. A pink slash across a forearm. Now it’s padded. Now it’s “safe.” Now it’s your fault.

27. “We Are Committed to Sustainability.”

Says the laminated break-room poster. As you "debit" a perfectly functional suit case. As you toss another plastic-wrapped hoodie into the bin. As you watch the compactor crush cardboard, plastic, and a half-eaten lunch into one glorious cube of lies.

Overseas hands fold it neat. Plastic over silk. Tape over tags. They ship it across oceans so we can rip it apart and throw half of it away. You pull Styrofoam from wall decor, And paper shreds from soap, Bottles that leaked somewhere between Singapore and Pasadena. You strip the bubble wrap, Wipe the shattered glass off a six-dollar candle, Protected only by hope and thin cardboard.

The Candles Survive. The People Don’t.

And the trash pile rises. Not in back. Not behind the scenes*.* But right here, In the fitting room, On the stores floor, In your lungs, Under your nails.

The Only Thing Recycled Is The Lie.

28. The Customers Rob Us Daily.

But the cameras point inward. One screen for every corner of your body, and all of them watching you. Not them. Never them. “Be alert,” says the poster. “Report suspicious behavior.” And below that: “250–2500 if it leads to an impact.” Not justice. Not truth. Just “impact.”

The cashiers are our front line. Smiling through suspicion. Checking twenties for counterfeits while rushing to beat the “speedy checkout” clock, Selling store credit cards to the very people the cameras won’t catch, And asking for five-star reviews, From customers who leave with three stolen items and a free pen. And if a wallet goes missing? It must have been the new guy. It always is.

“It’s not personal,” they say, as they review your locker contents, And check your bag on the way out.

Just procedure. Just policy. Just paranoia.

But when there's a pile of censors in a shoe, or a trash bag full of tags is missing? Silence.

The Eyes Of The Store Are Wide Open. And Still, They Only Look In One Direction.

29. The Name Tag: Convenience or Crosshair?

Everyone must wear a name tag. The stated purpose? “So customers know who to thank.” But the real function is faster escalation. Faster complaints. Faster identifications when things go wrong — no matter how vague or unfair the accusation. It is not a gesture of recognition. It is a prewritten accusation template: “Some guy named Alex was rude.” “The girl in red — I think her name was Sam �� didn’t help me.” “Whatever her name was, it was on her chest. She rolled her eyes.”

The name tag is the shortest possible path between a moment of stress and a manager’s office. It is instant accountability with no room for context. It turns human interaction into customer-to-agent confrontation. You are no longer just a worker. You are a label, a scapegoat, a button to push when the world disappoints.

They tell you to smile.

To engage.

To wear your name with pride.

But everyone knows the truth:

It’s Not Your Name They Care About; It’s Who To Blame When The Refund Doesn’t Go Through.

30. The Water Bottle Policy

Your hydration is now a security risk. If it’s not crystal clear, they’ll ask you to uncap it. “It’s just procedure,” As they sniff your bottle for the scent of rebellion, Or worse — soda. So bring a see-through flask, Because God forbid you bring lemonade. That’s grounds for suspicion. They say it's about theft. But we all know it’s about control. Because nothing says “trust” like being told to open your drink, In front of someone holding a checklist.

We used to joke that Big Brother watched.

Now Big Brother Thinks You’re Hiding Vodka In Your Gatorade.

Meanwhile, the real thieves walk out the front door, With carts of merchandise and a smile for the cameras that never pan that way.

31. “Hi, Welcome To [Insert Store Name Here]."

"If I could have you pause for just a moment...”

A velvet rope. A security vest. A quick glance at a camera no one is watching. It’s not protection. It’s performance.

They greet everyone like a TSA agent who lost the plane.

"We’re controlling store entry to ensure a safe and secure shopping experience.”

Unless, of course, someone’s actually in danger. Then it’s “Policy says call the manager.” And the manager? They call the cops. Then it’s writing a report. Then they call corporate. It’s All Delay.

Like hanging velvet curtains in a burning theater. The thieves know this. They walk past the rope. Past the welcome. Right through the “security experience.” Carts full. Unbothered.

Because The Only People Being Managed

Are The Ones Who Work Here.

The show’s for them. Not the guests.

32. "Loud And Proud" - Surveillance as Spectacle

Every customer who walks into the store is met with a mandatory ritual: A scripted security greeting delivered by the Shortage Control Associate. It must be done "loud and proud." That’s the instruction.

Not just clearly — projected.

Not just scripted — performed.

So loud it echoes through the racks,

through the backroom,

through your soul.

You are not greeting customers.

You are declaring fealty to surveillance.

This isn’t safety. It’s ritualized theater. A performance for the camera. A constant ping to regular customers and workers, ignored by thieves: We Are Watching. And when actual theft happens? SCAs are told not to engage. Call a manager. Let it go. Say the line again.

Security is not for protection. It’s not even for deterrence.

It’s a costume, a choreography of authority that creates no power. Only presence. Only noise. Only the illusion that someone is in control.

33. Welcome to the Shortage Highway.

A pilgrimage you must take every time you clock out for lunch, for break, for breath. Walk the perimeter. Don’t stray. Don’t stop.

Smile.

You’re not allowed to just go. You must patrol. You must engage. You must high five — Not literally, of course. No touching. Just proximity marketing.

Look them in the eye.

Make them feel seen.

Make the theft feel harder.

This is not your time. Your break is not in sight. It’s borrowed surveillance. Miss a “high five”? Too quiet in your stride?

Someone will notice. Someone is noticing. T

his is the Retail way:

You will make contact. You will be a presence.

You will be visible. Even if your joy is not.

34. The Customer is Always Right.*

When they say it’s broken, you break the price.

When they say it’s missing, you remove the tag.

When they say it’s cheaper elsewhere, you believe.

The register bends. Policy flexes. Margins vanish.

*But when their kid needs to pee?

Now they’re suspects.

The bathroom is sacred. Too sacred for codes. No writing it down. No telling. Only escorting. You, the associate, become the key.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

You must walk them to the door. You must punch in the code in full view as if secrecy lies in muscle memory. The code never changes. It’s on your fingers. Anyone watching can crack it. Everyone watching already has. But the theater is mandatory. They must believe it’s secure. You Must Perform Control

Even as the bathroom floods; Even as it smells like failure; Even as the soap dispenser screams for mercy.

Welcome to customer care.

Where you smile as you surrender.

Where you follow them to the bathroom

But cannot follow them to reason.

35. The Janitor Closet is Locked.

Not with a latch. Not with a handle. With the same Key-Ring that opens the safe. The money room. The vault of gods. To mop the vomit, you must be blessed. The code to touch bleach is the same as the code to touch cash. Security is absolute — when it concerns filth. The mop bucket must not fall into the wrong hands. The Swiffer pads are sacred texts. The toilet brush, a relic. Guard them well.

And yet, the door is still warped. The handle loose. The light flickers like a prophecy. Inside? One ancient vacuum, Half a gallon of generic “all-purpose,” And a broom with no head. The floor is wet with effort. The air is thick with Lysol and resignation. You clean it, but you can’t fix it.

The walls rot behind their holy lock.

But still — you are not trusted with open access.

Because this is retail,

And nothing is holy except the illusion of control.

36. The Grand Hall of Mirrors is closed.

A dozen doors. A maze of z-racks. Enough space for a ballet. Sealed With A Rolling Gate.

You see, trust costs money. So does supervision. So instead of staffing it, we lock it up — like a memory of what dignity looked like. In its place: Two tiny stalls built by compromise and lit like a lie. Just off the register — so close you can smell the returns. Each stall has a glowing LED, like a traffic light, meant to say: “Someone is here.”

But who? For how long? With how much merchandise?

No one knows.

The cameras glare, but never act. They are the unblinking gods of a crumbling Olympus. They bear witness. They do not interfere. The Scheduled “Check-Ins” Are Rituals. Performed without faith, Once every 30 minutes, Unless we forget. Theft happens in the meantime. Not out of malice, but invitation.

The room says: “This Company Doesn’t Care.” So why should you? The customers know. The workers know.

Only corporate pretends this isn't a performance of collapse.

And still, we ask people to smile, To suggestive sell, To read minds,

To Offer Service Where Even Structure Has Abandoned Us.

37. Even The Trash Is Under Lock, Camera, And Suspicion.

The janitor closet is locked with the same key as the store’s secure cash room— A symbolic conflation of trash and treasure. Taking out the garbage isn't a mindless chore: it's a controlled operation. You're expected to bring a partner. If you're alone, you're breaking protocol. You're expected to wait. A lead or manager is supposed to inspect every bag. You're expected to be watched. A camera directly overlooks the trash area — not for safety, but surveillance.

The implication is clear: Garbage Is A Potential Crime Scene. Every discarded hanger, broken fixture, or plastic wrap could conceal theft. Employees are trusted to fold hundred-dollar coats, operate pallet jacks, and open the store— But not to throw out a box unsupervised.

This Isn’t Protection. It’s Paranoia By Policy.

38. Standardized Chaos — The Illusion of Corporate Structure

Every few months, the store receives “updated flow” and “floor plan” directives — glossy PDFs, hastily printed diagrams, or vague bullet lists labeled as corporate strategy. These updates are identical for every store in the region; Galleria malls, Suburban outlets, Cramped city retail units; All treated as interchangeable puzzle pieces in a boardroom fantasy. But the map has no respect for the terrain.

The new plan might call for three tables where there's a fire exit. Or for expanded shoe racks in a department that hasn’t had full inventory in six months. They might list a location for men’s coats where walls don’t even exist. This mismatch births a contradiction:

Staff Are Given Rigid Expectations,

And Total Freedom — Simultaneously.

You are told to follow the plan. You are expected to interpret the plan. You are penalized when it fails. You are praised if it works — even if it only worked because you ignored it.

Thus emerges a culture where initiative is punished until it succeeds, and failure is blamed on lack of “common sense.”

There Is No Flow; Only Illusion.

There Is No Plan; Only Plausible Deniability.

39. Backlog as Blame — The Pathologization of Labor

When tasks pile up — markdowns missed, freight unprocessed, displays unfinished— the assumption is not logistical failure.

It is moral.

The Accusation Is Not "The Plan Didn't Work."

It's "You Didn’t Follow It Closely Enough."

Every error is retroactively cast as deviation. Not from a clear instruction — but from an imagined perfection that lives only in hindsight. If you had truly followed the process (which is mostly “common sense”) Then surely the backlog wouldn’t exist.

This Is Spiritual Gaslighting, Made Bureaucratic. The laborer is asked to confess to sins never named. The manager is forced to divine where their will was insufficient. The structure remains blameless. The spreadsheet stays clean. And when it doesn’t, someone’s heart wasn’t in it.

Even Success Is Not Proof Of Competence; Only A Delay Of The Next Reckoning.

40. The 4-Minute Fallacy — When Overperformance Becomes the Floor

The company preaches optimization like gospel. The story goes: "Once One Man Ran The Four-Minute Mile, Others Followed." What they don’t mention is None of them worked freight until 11 PM, then clocked in the next day at 7 AM. Success is not met with relief — it's met with re-calibration.

Do something faster than expected? Now that’s the new standard.

There is no bonus. No structural change. No surge in pay or support.

Only a nod of appreciation, and a new silent burden to carry alone.

They say you’ve “risen to the occasion,”

But forget that the occasion was a collapsing dam of understaffing, shipment backlog, and rotating expectations— none of which changed after your effort.

And still, you're told to be proud. To wear the broken record of your performance as a badge.

All while McDonald’s across the street is offering $8 more per hour, with benefits, free food, and no inventory audit.

You’re Told: "We’re A Family."

But The Kind Of Family That Borrows Your Labor And Forgets Your Name.

41. Scheduling: A Machine With No Driver

The labor hours are algorithmic;

Generated by a system that doesn’t know the store,

the team, or the workload;

It calculates hours like a machine balancing books;

With no memory of yesterday and no awareness of tomorrow;

And Yet, Corporate Calls It “Optimized.”

It’s then handed to managers — not as a plan, but as a limitation.

A puzzle with pieces missing, where any correction becomes their responsibility, but no error was ever truly theirs to begin with.

If the freight shipment is late, If coverage is short, If three workers call out and none can be replaced Blame falls not on the system, But on the person stuck translating it into a workable week.

And of course, there’s no way to check the logic. No insight into why hours were cut, Or why full-time staff were given part-time hours While new hires get 4-hour weeks to “balance the curve.” Associates are left waiting for final schedules that arrive days late.

Sometimes after the week has already begun.

Sometimes changed after they're already clocked in.

You Don’t Get Consistency; You Get Warnings.

You Don’t Get Planning; You Get A Guess And A Prayer.

All Of It Is Justified By A Number;

A Number No One In The Building Chose;

And No One In The Building Can Change.

42. Process Hours Without Process Thinking

Once upon a time, the store received its deliveries in the early dawn; 6 A.M. to 8 A.M.

Before the doors opened, Before customers flooded the floor,

Before anyone had to apologize for blocking the aisle with a steel battering ram.

It wasn’t perfect — but it was functional.

Freight cages could roll out cleanly. Backroom processing could begin without dodging strollers and carts. And resets, pulls, and tagging all had a head start.

Then one day,

Without Warning Or Explanation,

Shipping Times Were Changed To 11 A.M. To 1 P.M. No memo, no logistics justification, no staff consensus.

Just an order.

Now, deliveries arrive in the middle of the store’s peak — when sales need floor coverage, and the aisles are most congested. Backroom space fills with carts that can’t be processed. Cages clog the customer lanes. And associates must choose: Process freight or serve guests. And somehow,

The expectations remain identical.

Same freight goals. Same floor times. Same audit deadlines. As if time didn’t change. As if the customer traffic didn’t double. As if the building had doubled in size to accommodate both. But the truckers didn’t request this.

They’re now navigating Calexico to Riverside mid-day, through urban congestion and parking chaos.

Everyone Suffers; No One Benefits; And No One Explains.

It’s Not A System; It’s Just A Shift Of Burden; From Planners To Processors; From Paper To People.

43. The Cycle of Internal Conflict

The change in delivery times didn’t just disrupt process— It Set Departments Against Each Other. Back of House is told to move fast: Unload. Scan. Roll. Hang. Push freight onto the floor before the next truck arrives. Speed is Compliance**.** Speed is Praised**.** Speed is Posted. And so they rush. Clothes hit the racks sideways. Hangers backwards. Tags missing. Sets broken. Inventory miscounted.

Front of house is left with the fallout: Customers asking where the rest of the set is. Cashiers juggling damaged goods and security tags that won’t scan. Managers scrambling to recover broken shelves while prepping markdowns. And when recovery is rushed or mistakes are made?

Front gets blamed. Back blames floor. Floor blames back. The Cycle Feeds Itself. Everyone knows the Truth; It’s Not Any One Department’s Failure. It’s that the system expects perfection from chaos. Speed with no slack. Volume with no pause. And instead of fixing the structure, they watch the conflict.

Let Them Fight. It Keeps Them Busy.

And As Long As It Gets Done, Eventually,

Corporate Says The System Works.

44. The Olive Branch Illusion

To soothe the growing divide between Front of House and Back of House, corporate prescribes "shared labor policies" — symbolic gestures meant to show unity.

BOH staff are required to "recover the floor" for the first 15 minutes of their shift — a pause before touching the freight. FOH staff are expected to manage the Queue Cages — pushing freight from the registers to the back hallway cages while also handling customers and checkouts.

In Theory, This Promotes Empathy. In Practice, It Breeds Silent Resentment.

Back of House hates the floor recovery. They’re trained for speed, for volume; not hangers on the floor. They see it as beneath their pace. A fake chore that cuts into freight timing; One More Delay On An Already Impossible Clock.

Front of House dreads the queue cages. There are always more than there is space. They pile up fast — especially during rushes. No room to maneuver. No help. Just the slow crawl of dealing with inventory labeled fragile, valuable, or absurdly heavy, while being interrupted by customers every five seconds.

Then, suddenly—The back is ready for cages. All of them. Now. And It’s A Panic. Staff scramble to clear paths, relocate stock, or “make room” where there is none.

So, Neither Side Feels Helped; Only Used. What Was Sold As A Bridge; Becomes A Bitter Trade. Not Collaboration; But Obligation. Not Unity; But Another Invisible Metric No One Agreed To.

45. The Myth of the Backroom Printer

For over three years, the designated back-of-house printers — Meant for mass, consistent, actualization of missing tags— Have Remained Inoperable. Not once; not sporadically; Nonfunctional For Over 1,000 Days. Every support ticket submitted is closed or ignored. Every mention to management is met with the same shrug: “Yeah, we’ve put in another ticket.”

And so the markdown printers— Lightweight, Mobile, And designed only for price reduction labels; Are used for everything. They Were Not Built For This. They jam, they print slowly, but they're all we have.

This Isn’t A Store That Failed To Keep Up. It’s A Store That Has Adapted To Its Own Decay.

And still, deadlines loom. Still, expectations remain. Still, corporate metrics hold everyone accountable,

Still for results, not infrastructure.

The Printer Is Broken. The System Isn’t. It’s Functioning Exactly As Intended.

46. The Illusion Of Prevention

Everyone Knows.

The Thieves Know.

The Workers Know.

Even Corporate Knows.

Every Security Tag Comes Off With A Magnet.

You can buy one online. You can use one at home. You can walk into the dressing room with it and walk out clean. So why tag everything? Why spend hundreds of hours a week attaching them by hand?Because the tag isn't security. It's theater. It’s a prop in the surveillance show.

It says: We Are Watching. It says: Someone Cares. It makes you pause, makes you wonder, makes you hesitate. But It’s Fake. No alarms. No ink explosions. Just plastic and posturing.

Even the greeting rope at the entrance; That velvet line and cheerful hostage speech; It’s Not For You; It’s For The Cameras; It’s For Liability; It’s For The Show.

Because when real theft happens, when someone actually takes a cart full of goods out the door: The SCA doesn’t stop them; The manager won’t chase; The police don’t come.

What Matters Isn’t Stopping Loss. It’s Appearing To Try.

That’s the Corporation's real security strategy, Keep The Illusion Alive.

Make workers perform compliance.

Make customers believe in consequences.

Make corporate believe the illusion is working.

Until Someone Notices The Emperor Has No Tags.

47. Policy Over Performance

In Retail, the systems don’t need to work. They just need to look like they work.

Security Tags?

Easily bypassed with magnets.

Still applied by hand to hundreds of items a day.

Still locked up for employee use.

Surveillance Posters?

Hanging in the break room and back hall.

"You’re being watched."

Yet the most common thefts go completely unrecorded.

SCA Greetings?

“Loud and proud” recitations of control and security.

Repeated for every customer, often to empty air.

A form of vocal compliance, not a deterrent.

The Dressing Room?

One gated room sits locked 90% of the year.

A smaller two-stall is left open with a camera.

Neither stops the theft — because the schedule is what gets policed, not the risk.

The Floor Plan Updates?

Generic layouts from corporate;

Untailored to the actual store;

Staff are expected to follow them blindly;

Regardless of real conditions.

The Trash Inspections?

A camera watches you throw away literal garbage.

A manager is expected to verify every bag.

The same process is circumvented daily just to function.

Markdowns?

Labeled as "common sense," not logic.

Scanners beep three times before printing — and you can't scan while they do.

Name Tags?

Marketed as customer care.

Function as surveillance anchors.

Direct lines of accountability when accusations arise.

This is the Play-Acting Of Process,

Where every role is performed, Every beat rehearsed, But no one’s actually watching the show. Because what matters isn’t Efficiency, Isn’t Outcomes, Isn’t even Truth. What matters is the Appearance:

That you’re working hard; That corporate is in control; That someone has thought this through.

And If The Show Falls Apart, It’s Not Because The System Failed;

It’s Because You Didn’t Perform It Right.

48. AXIOMS OF THEATRICAL LABOR

1. The Costume Is The System

What you wear, say, and gesture matters more than what you do. A name tag creates trust. A lanyard creates hierarchy. A shirt tucked in signifies responsibility.

None of these affect outcomes, but all of them protect the illusion of structure.

2. The Script Is The Standard

Whether it functions or not, you must read your lines. Loudly greet at the door. Say "pause for just a moment" like you believe it. Print markdowns with patience, no matter how broken the scanner is. Say the name of the loyalty program every transaction.

If it fails, say it again.

3. The Stage Is Arbitrary

Floor plans arrive from nowhere. Corporate flow maps are copy-pasted from cities that don't resemble yours. Storage space is fiction. Queues overflow. Back rooms flood.

You are not asked to fix it. You are asked to make it look like it never broke.

4. The Audience Is Management

You're not performing for customers. You're performing for auditors, regional managers, camera reviews, and abstract expectations. You don't need to succeed. You need to be seen trying.

Appear busy. Appear precise. Appear productive.

If the metrics are wrong, it means you're not acting hard enough.

5. The Show Must Go On

No matter how broken the register, how wrong the shipment, how pointless the markdowns — continue. If you ask too many questions, you're slowing the rhythm. If you adjust the system, you're going off-script. If you find peace with coworkers, expect to be reassigned.

Harmony is the enemy of control.

6. The Applause Is Hollow

"You Made a Difference" cards. "Heartbeat of Our Store" certificates. Boards listing your fastest times. Points systems for candy. Recognition is a tool, not a gift. It exists to keep you performing.

It is given late. It is given vaguely. It is given only when performance matches fantasy

7. The Props Are Broken

Scanners that beep but don't register. Printers that never received support tickets. Security tags that do nothing. Locks that mean nothing. Cameras watching the wrong thing.

The sets are cardboard and tape. The actors are tired. But the show is still on.

8. The Director Is Absent

Policy comes from nowhere. You Must Obey. Exceptions are undefined. Expectations change without notice. The managers are caught in the same performance.

They cannot speak plainly. They can only pass along the next line in the script.

9. The Audience Leaves Before the Ending

No one is measuring what actually works. No one notices the fire exits that don’t close. No one sees the trash compactor injuries. No one checks the real backlog. The managers know. The workers know.

But the show isn't for them.

10. The Play Is a Lie

You are pretending to work. They are pretending to lead. The customers are pretending to believe.

All of it could be done better, With half the theater, And double the truth.

49. The Extraction of Humanity

1. When people make things work, the system breaks them to “optimize” the magic.

Friendships, rhythms, trust — these emerge naturally among teams over time. But once a store finds its footing through human effort, it is punished. High performers are relocated, promoted with conditions, or reassigned under vague “development plans,” severing the roots of community they helped grow.

2. “Stabilization” is not seen as success, but untapped capital.

A smooth-running store is viewed not as a testament to shared humanity, but as wasted potential. The logic follows: if things are working, you don’t need as many people, or you should split the talent to “scale it.”

This isn’t reward — it’s cannibalism.

3. Moments of peace are interpreted as inefficiency.

When workers laugh, breathe, collaborate without chaos — these are not cherished. They are audited. “How did you have time to be calm?” becomes the question. Joy is seen as excess.

Humanity; a margin to be shaved.

4- Promotions are used as surgical tools, not as growth pathways.

Advancement is never just a reward. It is conditional: “Are you willing to start over somewhere new? Can you drop what you’ve built to serve the brand elsewhere?” Promotions extract individuals from functioning teams to test their loyalty — not to recognize their achievement.

5- The system depends on people caring just enough to fix it, But Not Enough To Challenge It.

Every stabilizing figure is shipped out, self-limiting, or burned out. Every organic system of trust is repurposed or discarded. Every heartbeat is spent proving that people can make even this broken machine run — before the machine crushes them for it.

50. I’ve Stopped Pretending This Is Normal.

Because we can build something real.

Because we can work on something that doesn’t eat people to make numbers.

Because you asked me to become an enforcer for policies you won’t define, uphold a system you won’t fix, and sacrifice my joy for a story that doesn’t end well for anyone.

I'm not asking for the reasons behind these decisions.

I'm asking why they remain in face of failure time and time again?

This is not an attack. This is not an insult. It is a statement of Fact.

I hope you will do something meaningful with it.

—[Name Redacted] *Former Cart Cleaner, Unpaid Morale Officer

06/05/2025

Addendum - 06/07/2025

Inventory didn’t break because the numbers were wrong. It Broke Because The Process Had No Soul.

Associates were called in as early as 5:30 AM, expected to be alert and presentable for a morning meeting, then sent directly to their assigned zones. Both teams were made of competent people. Both Teams had the work experience.

Team A — Made up of close friends and coworkers who trusted each other — cruised through their section laughing.

Team B — Mostly strangers corralled together under quiet suspicion; stumbled through the chaos as best as they could muster.

Team A would eventually be conscripted to fill in the gaps Team B Left.

Breaks and lunches had been preassigned on slips of paper, And you were expected to follow them without reminders. If You Forgot Your Time, You Missed It. But when it came time to log into the scanning devices? You were just expected to know your “user ID.” Or have the app. Or already be logged in. A login no one uses — except once a year.

For Inventory

If you were part of the unlucky audit group, You were held all the way until 3:58 PM — Nearly eleven hours on your feet with little clarity, little direction, and very little food. One coworker quit halfway through the day,

Not in Rage;

Not In Theater;

Whispering “I can’t do this anymore..” On The Stairwell.

Another nearly walked out hours later,

Tired,

Furious,

Only persuaded to stay when a peer — without any actual authority — told him to just leave. Eight people were held late not for real error — but because a flawed system claimed their zones hadn’t reached the 10% threshold. We scanned the same items again and again.

The numbers bounced around — 5%, 4%, 7% — never matching, never budging. The count was correct. The audits were done. But the machine didn’t believe us. The Section was scanned several times. By several hands. The store is bleeding money in overtime. All for a bureaucratic digital checkbox.

And then, Without ceremony,

Someone

Not a manager, Not the designated lead, Decided on scanning just one item from each blocked zone. A count even the system couldn’t misread. And Just Like That: The System Blinked. “10% Reached.”

Management Cheered. From the office. Over The Radio. That was it. We were done.

It Had Never Been About Accuracy — Just Compliance.

The promised donuts never came. But the bakery still did — six marked-down pastries brought in by someone who thought tradition was still worth something. No one asked them to. No one had to.

That was the real shape of the day:

Broken Systems. Barely Held Together. By Human Beings Choosing To Care Anyway.

And when it finally ended, There was no speech, No moment of acknowledgment, No thank-you for the ten-hour shift, The patience, The overtime, Or the restraint it took not to scream.

Just a single question, tossed over the noise like it meant something:

“Did Everyone Return The Devices?”

That was our finale.

So What Now?

Grab your torch and pitchfork? Throw the brick? Firebomb the Walmart?

No.

We’ve seen that story. Over and over. It Always Ends Right Back Where It Started. I don't accept the premise that a better world is only possible through justified murder. If you want this time to be different, it has to start with people speaking their peace — Not holding it in for the sake of comfort, or politeness, or fear.

Everyone’s waiting for Tyler Durden or Guy Fawkes to show up and give permission to resist. "Who’s gonna take the shot?" "Where’s the revolution?" They’re not coming. And you don’t need them.

How are you gonna fight for a better world if you won’t even talk politics at Thanksgiving? You don’t hate your family — you hate what you think they believe. You don’t hate your boss — you hate what they enforce. And you project that anger as intent, that structure as malice. You want a kinder world? Be Kinder. You want a more honest world? Start Speaking Up. And if you don’t believe in a rule — Don’t Enforce It. Stop mistaking silence for safety. Stop mistaking obedience for neutrality.

You are not a cog. You are not a drone. You are not exempt.

If someone has to be first, let it be you.

And if you’re sure, If you’ve looked at your truth and chosen it; Then you have nothing to fear in defending it. You have nothing to fear from saying it out loud. They can challenge you. Let them.

Because If You're Right, You Won’t Need Permission.

So that’s the sermon. No altar call. No revolution manifest. No dramatic ending. No brick. No firebomb. Just a mirror. Just a reminder: You Already Know What’s Right.

Now Act Like It.

If you want a better world: Shape it. If you're sure: Say It. And if you’re not sure: Say That Too.

Don’t enforce rules you don’t believe in. Don’t stay silent just because no one else is speaking up.

You don’t need a Revolution. You need a Backbone.

But if you’re still figuring out what that means, Here’s four silly songs that helped me get here —

one scream, one shrug, one sigh, and one sitcom, Take what you need. Leave the rest.

Start Talking. And For Your Sake,

Stop Waiting For Someone To Tell You What To Do

#my art #retail #customer service #prose #politics #public policy #union #workers #labor #labor rights #wages #capitalism #inequality

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