#mugging

[one-time-i-dreamt]

I was mugged by a sentient cactus and had to give a statement in court.

[eetherealgoddess]

Hi! I love the way you write Kazutora and I'd like to request this specific brain rot I've been having about a female reader getting mugged by him and accidentally dropping and shattering her phone before she can give it to him, so he forces her to make up for the time and money he just lost, if at all possible with ar knife or gunpoint :)

Can’t believe I never thought of this even though I think of pervert Kazutora all the time. Also I think you meant noncon by “forcing her to make up for time and money,” so that’s what I wrote. Hope you enjoy!!♡︎♡︎♡︎

ꨄHow to Survive a Mugging ꨄ

Oneshot - Slight Yandere Mugging Au

Hanemiya Kazutora x Reader

Not fully proofread

MY TR FANDOM WORKS ARE ONLY ON TUMBLR, AO3, AND WATTPAD UNDER EETHEREALGODDESS! REPORT IF YOU SEE IT POSTED UNDER ANYONE ELSE BUT ME!!!

I apologize if I get any Japanese etiquette or culture wrong, I literally have to research the culture for some of my fandom stories so if anything is wrong, please excuse my ignorance.

Notice:

✩Y/n is 18+. I picture her as a black female but you can see her however.

✩Some parts of the story may not be realistic or factual. After all, this is a work of fiction.

✩Although it's a dark 'romance,' I do not condone any of the behavior displayed.

✩Dark content such as: gore, violence, triggering topics, graphic scenes, vulgar language, explicit sexual content, etc.

✩There may be scenes that involve non con and/ or dubcon so don’t read if that makes you uncomfortable

✩That being said, this story is for 18+ only.

Enjoy!

How to Survive a Mugging

Your hand trembles as you attempt to pull your phone out of your leggings’ pocket while the knife is held against your throat from behind. You had just been going for a walk, something you haven’t done in a while. You had walked for at least an hour in total, ready to go back home for the day. Deciding to make a shortcut, you went through an alleyway so you didn’t have to walk back in the same long direction you took from the beginning. Unfortunately, cutting through an alley was one of the biggest mistakes you had ever made.

The arm wrapped around your waist tightens as you fidget in the stranger’s grip, the breath on your ear intimidating as the sharp object is held against your neck. You hadn’t brought your purse so you left your wallet at home. Considering you had no money on you, the only thing you could give the mystery man was your phone, something you hadn’t wanted to give. So when you grabbed it you purposefully dropped it to make it look like an accident.

“Shit!” He hissed against your ear.

“I-I’m sorry! I’m just really scared!” You cry out as he turns you around and shoves you against the wall. You stare in shock at the beauty on the man’s face, as well as his hair that is messily pulled back. His expression holds a stoic expression as the knife is against your throat once more, his other hand planted on the wall beside your head. You could only eye him with discomfort as you glance at your shattered phone. Fortunately, you’ll be able to transfer whatever you need into a new phone, content with not having given it to the stranger. Your eyebrows furrow when a smirk forms on his face.

“You did that on purpose.” His eyes shift to your chest before they run down your figure. He makes eye contact with you before he releases a chuckle.

“You’ve wasted my time. I should kill you.” His smile drops, giving you a cold look as the knife touches your skin. You flinch as you swallow against the cold object. You could already see from where he had used it on someone else, the dry blood that stained it prominent. Your heart pounds against your chest as your fingers fidget against your palms.

You thought about fighting back but you had no clue how to. You were terrified and ashamed at how weak you are as an adult woman. You knew the dangers yet you’ve been too lazy to learn how to fight or at least have the resources to take a few classes. You thought about pushing him away, though you run the risk of your neck getting sliced, so you stay in place.

He pulls back from you slightly as the smile grows on his face. He drops the knife to his side as he stares at you, his tattoo prominent against his neck.

“Wanna make it up to me?” He teases, a thumb caressing your cheek as his palm rests against your cheek. You don’t respond, seeing where he’s going with the statement.

“Get on your knees.” You shake your head.

“Please don’t make me do this!” He only chuckles as a hand meets your shoulder.

“Your begging only makes me want it more. Knees.” He demands with a close eyed smile. You had no choice but to comply.

“Pull it out.” You angrily unzip his pants as well as yank them down, tears threatening to fall in humiliation. He grabs your hand with the hand that isn’t holding the knife.

“Woah there, relax.” He chuckles. “I’ll slice your hand off if you’re too rough.”

You remove the erection from his underwear. A hand on your chin forces you to look up.

“Treat it like it’s yours, yeah? Any teeth and you’re dead. Understand?” You glare at him while nodding your head.

Leaning in, you drag your tongue along the mushroom top, circling it as you taste his precum. His hand rests on your head as he bites his lip. You ease his head in as you suckle the tip, him eyeing the lips surrounding his cock.

“Fuck.” He whispers under his breath, slightly thrusting his hips forward to ease the rest of his cock in, your lips meeting the base as he moans. He pulls your head back until the tip is at the edge of your lips before pulling you back to his base. His mouth is slightly parted with a red hue on his face, orbs eyeing you under heavy lids.

“Look at me.” You comply as you bob your head back and forth, accelerating your speed as you give your all in an attempt to finish him off fast. The squelching sound echoes through the alleyway, a mixture of saliva and cum dripping from your mouth as you take him into your throat. Your hands grip his thighs as he thrusts into your mouth. His head falls back before he thrusts harder, bringing his attention back on you when he looks down.

“Yeah, just like that baby. Take this dick.” He whispers as his hand grips your head. Your eyes shut as his thrusts become overwhelming. Fingers pinch your nostrils as your eyes shoot back open.

“I’ll fucking smother you with my cock if you don’t look at me.” He chuckles with a dazed expression. “If you wanna breathe, you better listen.” He says before releasing your nose and placing his hand back on your head. Tears stream down your face as his grip tightens, fucking your mouth harder as his hips thrust against your face. Moans leave his mouth as his body tenses, golden eyes narrowed at your own orbs.

Your nails piercing into the skin of his thighs causes him to groan louder, the sting mixing well with the warmth around his cock.

“M’ gonna cum.” He mutters before shoving his cock into your mouth, holding it in place as semen shoots down your throat causing you to swallow it all. You grunt as you try to breathe normally again once he releases your head and pulls his cock out of your mouth. He demands you to put his pants back on, watching you with amusement. He leans over, the tip of his knife poking your chin forcing you to look up at him.

“You’re my new cockslut. Let’s get your phone fixed since we’ll need that to talk.” You look at him with confusion.

“I-I thought you were gonna let me go.”

“I never said that.” He puts his knife away. “Let’s go.” He grabs your wrist, forcing you to get up from the ground.

[ponzien]

- Home to you

Summary: Spencer expresses his concerns about how late reader works, she reassures him the next night

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Badass!fem!reader

Category: Pure fluff

Spencer Reid

That same exact nightmare for the 7th time in a row. They used to come and go and now they’re here. I felt myself crying, warm tears streaming down my cheek in fear of loosing her just like Maeve.

Suddenly I see her, gorgeous figure still in the doorway upon seeing my tears. “Oh..hi” I said awkwardly while wiping my tears. “Babe are you okay ?” She asked in panic, putting down the tray of food and wiping my tears.

“I’m fine” I say bluntly. I’m not fine. “But you’re not…is something the matters you can tell me anything” she cooed in an almost motherly tone. It was warm and soft. Instinctively, I leaned onto her, nuzzling into her neck. Y/N grabbed my waist, her gorgeous hair tickling my neck.

Her gentle gaze on me felt equal to the rays of sun on a spring morning. My saving grace. “Let’s eat, you’re probably hungry.” She smiled. “Can I be honest?” I asked, looking up at her through wet lashes. “Of course hun, anything” Y/N kissed my forehead. “I’m scared…” I said with a crack.

“Scared of what?” She hummed. “Scared that something will happen to you..what would I do without you..?” I began to cry again. “Oh Spencer… you have nothing to worry about.”

“But you work so late and walk the streets alone…” I insisted, watching her soft and swift movements. She’s a fragile looking woman. “I have to go to work but I promise you nothing bad will happen to me my love” She kissed my lips and walked out, leaving me with my thoughts in the empty room.

___

That same night I felt a slam against the door. I rushed to open it and saw a bloody Y/N. Fearfully I took her inside and saw her panting. I checked her pulse which was normal…weird? “Thanks I couldn’t find my keys” She panted. “Are You okay?!” I cried. “Yeah, this blood isn’t mine” she shook her head.

“What?! Did you…” I raised a brow. “No I almost got mugged, but I took Karate for 7 years and Boxing for 12, that’s why I told you not to worry about me” she laughed. “Are they…alive?” I asked. “Oh yeah just knocked out I called the cops on those suckers to prevent misunderstanding”

“Are You alright?” I asked again. “Just a Little shaken but it’s fine.” Y/N kissed me. I hugged her tightly with a huge smile, not wanting to imagine what it could’ve been.

“I’d fight a bear to come home to you remember that Spencer Reid”

[nurse-buckley]

Whumptober Day 7

Title:

Prompt: Written for anon but I changed it up a little. Maybe Buck and Eddie go out for drinks and when they leave, heading to their cars, they find reader in the alleyway next to the bar. Possibly mugged and not fully conscious. They start to come around and kind of cower away at first but then realizes they’re helping and clings to them like a lifeline. They go to the hospital and get a better introduction after they’ve been treated and are more alert.

Word Count: 1,489

Characters: Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Reader.

Pairing: Eddie Diaz and Evan Buckley x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: mugging, attacks and violence.

Summary: Your night off with Buck and Eddie turns to disaster when you're attacked at a bar. Written for day seven of @whumptober for the prompt "alleyway" but it also fits in with "can you hear me?"

Tags: @firemedicdiaz @winterreader-nowwriter @iamasimpingh0e @dayrin085 @hauntedmilkshakeghost @floralbuckleys @alexxavicry @cm1031sr​ 

Authors notes: beta'd by the fabulous @firemedicdiaz thank you so much love! Again, I said this yesterday but I really don't make a habit of writing anon requests. Please if you have something you want to request but don't want to be known message me and I can just omit your blog name when I post.

After a long shift, you, Buck and Eddie had decided to head out to the bar. You were all looking forward to a night off to unwind and play a few rounds of pool or darts with a couple of drinks and some good music. 

As the night wore on you began to feel a little overwhelmed by the noise and crowds of the bar, excusing yourself to get some air. The quiet and cool night atmosphere was welcoming as you walked away from the crowded bar. 

Little did you know, the night was about to take a terrifying turn. You had just passed the dimly lit alleyway that ran alongside the bar when two figures emerged from the shadows. Before you could react, the pair lunged forward and dragged you backwards into the alley. Your muffled shout for help was drowned out by the music and commotion from the bar.  

Panic surged through you as they roughly shoved you against the wall. One of the men leaned forward and slammed your hand into the wall to get you to release your phone before he tossed it to his accomplice. The same man then tore the bag from your shoulder, rooting through it to find anything of value. 

You thought their attack would end there, once they realized you didn’t have much to hand over, but unfortunately it didn’t. The attackers, obviously not satisfied with their gains, continued their attack as they took their aggression out on you. Your cries echoed through the night, being drowned out by the sound of the LA nightlife that left the rest of the world oblivious to the attack. 

Your vision blurred as your body was roughly slammed  into the wall once more, causing your head to crack against brick with a sickening thud. Your two attackers watched as your body slumped to the pavement, leaving your body bruised and battered, unconscious on the cold ground of the alleyway as they fled the scene.  

Inside the bar, Buck and Eddie grew concerned at your prolonged absence. “Shouldn’t they be back by now?” Buck asked. 

Eddie pulled out his phone, not noticing any new notifications from you informing him that you’d decided to call it a night. Eddie chewed on his lip with anxiety, “yeah…let’s go.”  

The pair threw a couple of bills down on the bar and abandoned their drinks to begin their search for you. They were walking along the street away from the bar when they heard the sounds of a struggle. As they walked nearer to the alley, they just about made out the figures of two men running away. When they rounded the corner, their hearts almost stopped as they saw a body slumped on the ground. 

There laid your unconscious and beaten body. Eddie skidded to his knees as he knelt beside you, his heart pounding as he pressed two fingers to your neck to feel for a pulse. The pair held their breath until Eddie uttered the words Buck had hoped to hear, “I've got a pulse.” 

The pair shared a sigh of relief at his discovery.  

“Y/N? Y/N, can you hear me?” A voice cut through the haze as you felt pressure on your neck causing your eyes to flutter open. 

As you became more aware of your surroundings, you caught sight of two figures standing over you and in your disorientated state you thought the men had come back for you. Fear overtook you as you started to lash out, swatting the hand from your neck away as you sat up, trying to back up against the wall in your attempt to get away. 

Rough hands caught yours causing your panic to rise further until you heard a familiar voice. “No, Y/N. It’s us. It’s Buck and Eddie,” Eddie’s voice was urgent but gentle. 

“We’ve got you. You’re safe now,” Buck added. 

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized you were safe and despite your injuries you threw yourself forward, clinging onto Eddie. “I thought they’d come back,” you sobbed into his shoulder. 

He could feel your body trembling with fear as he held you close. Buck’s hand came to rest on your back and with the two of them there you felt yourself begin to calm. Buck and Eddie continued to hold you, providing words of comfort and warmth, grounding you as you began to process what had just happened. 

When he felt your breathing even out and sensed that you had calmed some, Eddie finally pulled away to get a closer look at your injuries. He handed Buck his phone, instructing him to hold the flashlight over you as he began his assessment. 

The bright light illuminated your face, revealing your swollen features and the extensive bruising that had begun to form from the attack. 

“I’m just going to have a feel of your neck and back, let me know if there’s any pain,” he informed as he expertly ran his hands down the back of your head. 

You hissed as he pressed on a particularly tender spot. He pulled away, his concern only growing when his fingers came away sticky with blood. 

“Sorry,” he apologized with a tight lipped smile, “I’m just going to have a look here as well,” he said as he picked up your hands, inspecting the grazes from where you’d fallen. 

“Have you got any other pain? Any pain in your chest or stomach?”  

You took a deep breath, pausing when a sharp pain ripped through your torso, “yeah, it hurts when I breathe,” you admitted with a wince.   

He looked at Buck, the pair exchanging a concerned look before he turned back to you, “Y/N, I’m going to call an ambulance for you.” 

“No!” Your panic began to rise once more, “I-I don’t want to go to the hospital. I don’t want to involve the police. I just want to go home. P-please just take me home,” you begged the pair, tears streaming down your face. 

“I know you don’t want to, but your injuries are serious and we need to get you checked out.” 

“Please, can we just go home? You can check me over there,” you continued, trying to convince him. 

Buck stepped in, “I know it’s scary and it's the last thing you want but we need to make sure you’re okay and an ambulance is the best way to do that. We won’t leave you, promise.” 

You hesitated for a moment, torn between just wanting to go home and letting them call the ambulance for you. Deep down you knew it was the best option so you finally nodded, your voice barely a whisper as you agreed, “okay…call them.” 

“Thank you,” Eddie squeezed your hand as he nodded for Buck to call for help. 

Buck dialed the number and explained the situation, requesting the help you so desperately needed. After he’d finished with 911 he hung up and called Bobby and Athena, informing them of what happened and knowing you’d be more comfortable with Athena than a police officer you didn’t know.  

The wailing of sirens approached in the distance, signaling the arrival of the paramedics who were quickly at your side. You could feel your anxiety begin to grow as you saw them approach. 

Eddie and Buck remained nearby as the paramedics began their assessment, carefully examining your injuries and stabilizing your condition. As they prepared to move you, you reached out your hand for the pair, your voice trembling.   

“Don’t leave me,” you whispered. 

“We’re not going anywhere,” he promised. 

The medics allowed them to travel with you, recognising them from another rescue and understanding your reluctance to be alone. 

Buck and Eddie walked beside you, never leaving your side as you were loaded onboard and began your journey towards the hospital and towards healing. 

[envysparkler]

I'm curious about this Uno reverse batfamily adoption fic idea. What is it going to be about? All the batkids parents are alive and try to coparents Bruce and the robins?

The story starts when a newly minted Batman goes to a circus. He runs into a panicking baby Dick before the show starts, who claims that there's a bad man doing something to the ropes. Bruce rushes off to stop him, gets lightly stabbed, and decides to buy Haly's Circus so this kind of thing doesn't happen again.

The Grayson family happily adopt him. No amount of persuading will convince Dick Grayson that Bruce is not his new older brother. Alfred is happy to have more people looking out for Bruce. Bruce is defeated and resignedly accepts his new parental figures, since it appears that Haly's Circus is going to stay in Gotham.

[you can insert subplot about court of owls here or not.]

Bruce Wayne is in Crime Alley on the anniversary of his parents' death. He gets mugged, which causes a flashback and a panic attack, and a kind passerby coaches him through it while her son scowls at him the whole time. Catherine Todd invites him up for a cup of tea and Bruce meets her husband. He can see where Jason gets the scowl from. Willis gives back Bruce's wallet and keys without saying where he got them from. The car's tires, however, are a lost cause.

[honestly the dramatic tension here from Batman running into Willis as one of Two-Face's lackeys would be delicious. also feat Willis finally revealing Catherine's medical issues which of course leads to Bruce paying for treatment and Jason starting to trust him.]

This Batman has no Robin. This does not stop little Timmy's fascination with nighttime photography, which Janet encourages. Children need to spend time outside, she can brag about her baby's talent, and honestly all the traveling means she's up at odd hours when she's in Gotham anyway. But all that Bat-watching gets Janet thinking and she figures out that Bruce is Batman in a couple of months. Tim is his mother's son, after all. Janet, previously very annoyed with Brucie Wayne, now realizes the whole thing is an act, and is very amused. She can use this to troll Gotham's snooty high society and get a good laugh out of those stuffy galas. Jack is always game to go along with a good joke.

[The Drakes, frequent visitors to the circus ever since little Dick Grayson picked up baby Timmy and proclaimed that he'd do a special flip just for him, find out that the Graysons also know Bruce. They meet the Todds on another trip. If Bruce knew that there were three different sets of Gotham parents conspiring about him, he'd probably flee permanently to the Watchtower.]

Talia...well, it would be a bit awkward for Talia to adopt Bruce. But you don't have to change much to have Ra's be the kind of father that's obsessed with that One Boyfriend you brought for dinner five years ago and won't stop asking when he's coming back.

[Why, yes, Ra's does join the monthly meetings of the Bruce Wayne Protection Squad. If only to weigh in on the "who should Bruce date" debate. They're going to be his future in-law after all.]

Batman runs into David Cain and Lady Shiva on two separate missions, both of which end in injuries for Bruce, but a little girl sticks bandaids with colorful print on him so he guesses it's okay. Her parents have split custody of Cass and now apparently Bruce too, if the way they grouse at him about the proper way to take on assassins is any indication.

Batman ends up in the hospital and Crystal Brown is the nurse that's assigned to his care. The only thing that stops a delirious Batman from trying to get out of bed is Stephanie Brown's detailed stories. Some time later, Cluemaster kidnaps Batman--not to unmask his identity, but to interrogate him on his postoperative care because his wife and daughter were worrying.

Gordon's already pretty much adopted him, so nothing has to change there.

Bonus: Bruce is a fantastic babysitter. He's attentive and careful. Also, all the kids think he's super cool because he's Batman, which is very flattering. And whenever one of them starts making noises about joining him in fighting crime, he can drop them back off at their parents.

[ask-coppertop]

OH MY COGS YOU GUYS!! I GOT MUGGED AND WAS FINALLY ABLE TO HEAR MY BATTLE THEME!!!

Oh and I’m ok by the way, the guy gave up after a few minutes of not being able to stab me (I removed his stabbing sounds)

[tildeathiwillwrite]

All-Reliable: Fake Fainting Trick

Whumpril Day 1 (Limp), Day 5 (Reckless)

Now time to finish up Whumpril! :D

Whumpril Prompts List

The Legend of Orian Goldeneye Masterpost

TW: attempted mugging, collapse, head injury

-----

Killian nervously fiddled with his bag strap as he stole through the darkened streets of Iron Hollow. It was as confusing as Saint’s Shoal, and he couldn’t help but suspect he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere. The streets at night all looked the same. At least he’d gotten all the necessary supplies before getting lost.

He kept his head down as he passed a shadowy alley between two buildings.

“Hey you.”

Killian stiffened but kept walking, thinking of potential excuses for why he was out so late. He wished Jas was there.

“I’m talking to you!” Someone grabbed his shoulder and roughly turned him around.

“Look,” Killian stammered, “I’m not looking for trouble, but my sister’s sick—”

The person who’d grabbed him, a man a little older than Killian, barked a harsh laugh. “A likely story!” Light from the nearby streetlamp glinted off something in his other hand—a sharp, thin knife. “Everything in the bag, or I’ll cut it off your corpse.”

Two others emerged from the alley. Killian’s eyes darted between his three assailants. They all wore dark clothing—stained leather, maybe?—one had an unstrung bow strapped to his back, and all had swords. He recalled Diana saying something about how rare and expensive black leather was on this side of Atai, something about the dye?

“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked softly, heart hammering in his ears.

The pair behind the man glanced at each other, but the man who’d grabbed Killian shrugged. “So what if we are? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Killian forced a smirk. “You’re in a dreamshaper-controlled city, gentlemen.” With those hopefully ominous words, his knees buckled, and he went limp, collapsing to the ground. His head slammed into the hard stone, pain shooting through his skull, but he managed to keep himself from crying out.

Above, all three attackers cursed and fled, the sound of their retreat fading into the night. Killian slowly pushed himself to a sitting position and touched his hand to the side of his head. No blood, but a hard lump was already forming. He gritted his teeth, head throbbing with every heartbeat.

He could already hear Diana scolding him for doing something so reckless. But it worked, didn’t it? Jas would argue, it’s what I would do.

Leaning heavily against the nearest wall, Killian forced himself to his feet and began walking again. Hopefully, he wouldn’t encounter any actual dreamshapers before he found his way out of Iron Hollow. The last thing any of them needed was another kidnapping.

@fourwingedsnake @whumperofworlds @whumpril @pigeonwhumps

[offtovisityourmother]

Okokokok hear me out

So like an out of town, low level monster tries to do the monster version of mugging Percy (aka killing him and stealing his stuff)

But instead of like stabbing him or something

They drown him

Now there are two endings: "haha idiot THREE THOUSAND HURRICANES UNTIL YOU DIE" or he starts explaining how he's a child of Poseidon and he should research before he tries to kill people and the monster takes notes and then Annabeth stabs the monster

[themancorialist]

Police Street, Manchester.

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Whumptober prompts 19 (knees buckling), 28 (headache), alt15 (tears)

The man on the ground groaned.

Bruce turned to look at Damian. “Are you alright?”

Bruce knew he was. There hadn’t been time for anything to happen between the threat and the reaction. Still, he needed to hear it.

Damian blinked, looked from Bruce to the man on the ground and back again. “Yes, Father.”

Bruce nodded once, shortly, then bent at the waist, knee crackling as he dropped a card on the ground next to the man’s face, along with a couple bills.

“If you need money so badly,” he said upon straightening, feeling as if he were looking down at the crumpled body from a great height, “take that. In the morning, go to the address on that card. They’ll give you a job.”

That was the routine. Pickpockets and drug addicts, goons and con artists, anyone down on their luck who crossed Bruce Wayne’s path got that card. Sometimes it helped, giving those who needed it a rope to hold onto as they pulled themselves out of Gotham’s bottomless pit. Sometimes it didn’t, and Bruce would find himself giving familiar faces the same card again and again. All he could do was throw them the rope.

“Do we have to call the police?” Damian asked, tone surly with braced anticipation. Bruce understood. The police were a bother.

“No,” Bruce replied, but then paused and bent again to fish the man’s wallet out of his back pocket.

“William Lee Benson of Oak Drive,” he read from the identification inside, then tossed the wallet down next to the card. “I’ll remember you, William. There had better not be any more muggings in this area, for your sake.”

Bruce rubbed his knuckles against his pant leg, pressing out the sting. The gun in his pocket, now disassembled and bulletless, would need to be turned in to Gordon later. Bruce gestured back toward his son. “Damian. Let’s go.”

He left William Lee Benson crumpled on the asphalt and didn’t look back.

———

Bruce stared at the screen, brow drawn down into a deep frown. It was his thinking face, his working face, his do not disturb face, a sign deliberately hung when he needed uninterrupted time to think. The kids worked behind him in the Cave, busy but quiet. Earlier, Dick had hovered, needing something. Bruce hadn’t turned around or even acknowledged his presence and Dick, well versed in the unspoken rules of the Cave, had gone away again. Damian, less adept in nuance, more inclined to push, had tried to interrupt. Bruce had snapped at him, and Damian had retreated as well.

Bruce couldn’t have told anyone what case file he was even looking at. It was all a blur of words clustered like ants into black-block paragraphs, interspersed with photos of things no one should have to see. Things he had become far too accustomed to seeing. All just white noise now, a space for him to stare at and frown at to ward off everything else.

One by one, the Cave emptied, kids trailing away to beds upstairs or out to their own homes. He couldn’t have said when they left, only that they did. Soon it was late enough that even Alfred was likely asleep, and only then did Bruce push up from his seat and straighten with painful deliberateness. He paused halfway, easing his back into alignment, popping his neck, stretching his shoulder, then clomped down the platform steps.

He should go to bed. He hadn’t been sleeping well, plagued not so much by defined dreams as much as an unformed restlessness that left him blinking grit-eyed at his ceiling. Better to wring what sleep he could from his bed before the morning came.

Bruce sighed and turned instead toward the exercise equipment. Maybe he could tire himself out.

He ran with headphones on, a podcast droning on about something he had found interesting last week and unengaging now. Bruce turned the podcast off, switched the music on, and found himself skipping song after song. Eventually, it didn’t matter. It all faded into static in the back of his head as he ran.

The beam of a flashlight flashed on the wall in front of him three times in deliberate succession, startling Bruce out of his trance. He pulled the headphones from his ears and turned off the treadmill. His mileage and time run marked their final tally, both much higher than he had realized, then disappeared. Bruce turned to face Dev, who was standing by the table with his arms crossed, flashlight turned off next to him.

He looked tired, Bruce noticed absently, then staggered a little as his legs wobbled with his first step off the equipment. Dev uncrossed his arms but didn’t move to help. Bruce righted himself. Dev recrossed his arms. Bruce looked at his watch, blinked at the time.

“Don’t you have work tomorrow?” Bruce asked. His throat scratched with the effort. They were, he realized, the first words he had spoken in… a while.

“I do,” Dev agreed with suspicious amiability, given his crossed arms. “I’d told myself I’d wait for you to come up and have a check then, but you’ve gone and outwaited me. On purpose?”

Bruce grunted. No, not on purpose. He’d thought Dev had left hours ago. He should have. Between the hospital and on-call services at the Cave, Dev didn’t sleep enough. He carried bags under his eyes like he was training for a second career as a bellhop. Bruce scrubbed a hand across his own eyes, grimacing at the sting of sweat, and tried to think what this could be about.

He crossed to the mini-fridge and pulled a cold bottle of water from inside. Dev waited, arms still crossed, as Bruce popped the top and drained it dry.

“Is something wrong?” Bruce finally asked. He was irritated he didn’t know, and irritated he had to pry it out of Dev.

“You tell me,” was Dev��s reply. He needed a shave, Bruce noted, then scratched at his own stubbled cheek.

Dev waited. Bruce chucked the empty bottle into the recycling bin. It missed. He bit back a noise in the back of his throat as he fetched it and tried to think. He couldn’t sleep. That was annoying but nothing new. One didn’t become a nocturnal vigilante from a surfeit of excellent sleep habits. He reached for another water bottle.

“Do you know at least three of your children think you’re angry with them?” Dev asked, conversationally.

Bruce’s head snapped up to look at Dev. Dev had leaned back to rest his weight against the side of the table, hands now braced against its top like a car hood. He nodded for emphasis, but also as if Bruce’s surprise confirmed something.

“Maybe the rest do, too, but they haven’t spoken to me, so I can’t say.” Dev didn’t offer which children. Bruce could probably guess if he thought hard enough. It didn’t matter, because Bruce wasn’t angry with any of them.

“Alfie thinks you’re hiding something,” Dev continued. Bruce’s stomach did a strange twist that he didn’t understand. After a weighty pause, Dev added, “I think you’re hiding something, too.”

Bruce shook his head again. “‘M not.” He wasn’t. Everyone else was, though, if they were discussing him behind his back and over his head.

“Oh?” Dev pressed.

Bruce huffed. He was in no mood to attempt to prove a negative. “Goodnight, Dev.”

“Shall I ring Kent, then?” Dev offered.

That cut through the crackle in his head some. Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“You’re not sleeping.” Dev lifted a hand and began to count. “Your appetite’s decreased. You’re withdrawn. Alfie says you’ve not said more than two words to him unprompted. Your children are wracking their brains trying to determine what they’ve done to so badly fucking disappoint you. Dick says you’ve stared at that same case page for well over an hour without so much as bloody scrolling to the second half. Tim said you near about took off Damian’s head earlier.”

Bruce was becoming aware of a headache crouched behind his eyes.

“If it’s something medical, you need only tell me, Wayne, and we can sort it out,” Dev encouraged, voice the proper tones of a good bedside manner. “But if it isn’t medical and you won’t sodding talk to me…”

Clark was in Kansas. Martha had taken a fall. She was on the mend, but Clark had taken time off so that he and Lois and the boys could spend time on the farm. He’d come in a heartbeat if Dev rang, or he’d stay on the phone all hours with Bruce, but Bruce wouldn’t ask that of him, and there was nothing he could say to Clark that he wouldn’t say to Dev, if he could. Bruce himself didn’t know what was wrong.

Something was wrong, though. The knowledge of it built in him like the headache.

Dev levered himself up to sit on the edge of the table, long legs stretched out to skim the soles of his feet against the floor, and gave the tabletop an inviting little pat.

Bruce came reluctantly on creaking tinman knees and slumped back against the side, new water bottle still in hand.

“I’m not sleeping,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know why.”

“Dreams?” Dev inquired.

“No more than usual. Just…” Bruce frowned for a moment, as if the movement of his brow could brush away the problem, or clarify it. “Can’t sleep. Restless. I lay there and stare at the wall and can’t sleep.”

“Closing your eyes tends to help,” Dev pointed out blandly. It was a bad joke, but Bruce allowed him a pity huff.

“Insomnia, then. And loss of appetite.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” He hadn’t. Bruce couldn’t remember reveling in meals lately, but he hadn’t realized he had eaten any less than normal.

“You poked at more than you ate tonight,” Dev confirmed. He’d joined them for dinner, had sat in his usual seat next to Tim but with a clear view of Bruce.

Alfred had mentioned this morning that Dev was coming. So this had been a discussion brewing among the family before just tonight.

“Anything else?” Dev asked.

He hadn’t known about the food. How would he know if there was anything else?

“I have a headache,” Bruce offered. He rubbed at the corner of his eye, unable to get to the pain behind it.

Den shifted to peer into his face. “When did it start?”

“I don’t know. Just now?” Bruce admitted sheepishly.

Dev huffed and sat back, brow furrowing. He chewed on the inside nail of his right thumb and thought. Bruce let him, content to sit in the silence between them.

“You’re not always the most perceptive,” Dev said slowly. “Of your own body,” he finished, at Bruce’s grumpy noise. “You know your limits but don’t always mind them.”

The corner of Dev’s mouth had twisted downward. “Nothing else then? Truly?”

Bruce shook his head. “No. I feel…” No, he couldn’t even answer that.

“You’re not fussed at one of the kids, then?”

Another shake of the head. He’d wanted to be left alone, but not because of any of them. Something about the act of engaging had been grating lately.

“You’ve not commented on Damian’s latest drawing,” Dev pointed out, earning him another startled look. “Been on the sodding fridge for days now, not a word.”

Bruce made it a point to comment on Damian’s creative endeavors. His son had been raised to value warfare, strategy, and violence, and he excelled at those skills. Schoolwork, too, was too easily turned into a matter of proving his own excellence, of proving his worth. But Damian’s artistic ability had been actively stifled in the League and held no merit other than Damian’s own enjoyment. So Bruce treated each sketch, each painting, each doodle with the serious contemplation and earnest praise that it deserved.

“I didn’t notice,” Bruce admitted. He couldn’t remember seeing a new piece of paper on the refrigerator. “I’ll apologize to him in the morning.” For snapping, too. If Tim was mentioning it…

Dev made a contemplative noise. “I can run some bloodwork to be safe. I do suspect, though, that it won’t show anything.”

It was Bruce’s turn to grunt inquiringly.

Dev shifted his weight, as if uncomfortable, then crossed his ankles to stare out across the Cave. “I’ve been doing some reading in my off time. Trying to…” He waved his hand vaguely in the air around the side of his own head. “And with you lot, best to broaden my toolset.”

Bruce didn’t know what he was trying to say, but he didn’t mind waiting to find out.

“A minute ago, you said you felt… And didn’t finish. Could you finish?” Dev asked.

“I don’t know.” His body, at least, he could describe in careful, precise words, even if, as Dev put it, he wasn’t always aware of it. His feelings were another matter entirely.

Dev brushed the confession away as if he were neither surprised nor particularly concerned. “Don’t worry about your emotions, mate. Focus on that meat suit of yours. What do you feel?”

Bruce frowned and tried to concentrate. “I have a headache.” He’d already said that.

“Describe it.”

“Uh.” Bruce grimaced, feeling it more now that he was focusing on it. He touched his right eyebrow. “Behind my eyes, an ache. Eyestrain, I think. And at the base of my neck.”

From squinting at the computer for too long, likely. But now that he could focus on the headache, other sensations came into focus. “I’m sweaty.”

Bruce looked down at himself and the slowly drying stain across his chest that he knew was matched across his back as well. He remembered the numbers flashing on the treadmill readout. “My knees hurt.”

His knees always hurt now. And he hadn’t stretched before starting his run. His feet hurt, too.

Bruce pressed his hand across the sweat-stained fabric. “My chest feels tight.”

Dev shifted again, this time to study Bruce more closely. “Tight how? Any pain?”

“Not like that. Like…” He didn’t know like what.

“D’you know,” Dev began slowly, and Bruce braced for another thing that no, he apparently did not know. “D’you know you’ve been twisting that bottle between those gorilla paws of yours this entire time?”

Bruce startled and looked down. The unopened water bottle was still clutched between his palms, crinkling in protest as he wrung its midsection slowly.

“Tight like anxious or tight like angry?” Dev asked, with more patience than Bruce deserved.

Bruce sucked in a sharp breath. So there were some feelings he did know.

“It’s late,” he said, pushing off from the table. “You should go home.”

“Wayne,” Dev said.

“Goodnight, Dev.”

“You’ve not fixed it.”

“Goodnight Dev,” Bruce repeated, striding toward the locker rooms.

“I’ll call Kent,” Dev threatened from his spot at the table.

Bruce whirled, the anger he hadn’t known was there blossoming red-hot in his chest. “You’ve done your job,” he growled. “Now go home.”

Dev stayed seated, but his back stiffened. “So you can go back to distressing your family members and ignoring your own emotions?”

“Better than panic attacks on the floor,” Bruce snarled, and he knew, he knew it was the wrong thing to say the moment it left his mouth.

Kiran Devabhaktuni had come into their lives professionally brilliant and emotionally destroyed. It had taken months of work to earn any insight at all into his history and the trauma that lay buried there. Dev’s trust had been a gift, was still a gift, one that no one took for granted, least of all Bruce. And he’d kicked straight through it with one horrible, meanspirited moment.

“Kiran…” Bruce said weakly, apologies caught in the back of his throat, too few words to make up for too big a mistake.

Dev’s face had gone wooden, but he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t cursed Bruce out and stormed out as Bruce so clearly deserved. Instead, sharp eyes stared back, narrowed and thoughtful.

“I’d say that little outburst points to fucking anger,” he said, voice on the cold side of clinical. “But you’re the one who brought up panic attacks. Fucking cheap shot, by the by.”

“I know.” Bruce ran a hand down his face, regret too big for his mouth, for his chest. “I know. I’m sorry. That was…” Alfred would call it beastly. Bruce felt like a beast, big and dumb and snapping at shadows.

“Yes,” Dev agreed, tone clipped, but he still hadn’t moved. “Panic attacks a possibility currently, then?”

He hadn’t thought so. Hadn’t thought about it at all. But Bruce ground the heel of his hand into his chest and felt the sick there, the bramble patch lodged at the base of his throat and crammed down into his chest.

“Tried talking to Alfie about it?” Dev asked, knowing the answer, but his gaze sharpened further as Bruce’s expression twisted. “Is it about him, then?”

“No. It’s not. We’re fine.”

Then why did his stomach feel like he’d been sucker-punched?

“Cassandra noticed,” Dev said calmly, as if whatever came out of his mouth next wasn’t bound to be devastating, “a change the morning of the 15th. Mean anything to you?”

The 15th? Bruce blinked, thrown out of his own head for a moment by the scramble to reorient himself in time. Today was the 20th, or had been. He counted back the days, trying to remember what had happened that morning.

“There’s nothing,” he rasped at last. “I woke up late. Had breakfast. Tidied up some loose ends. Went on patrol that night. It was quiet. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Loose ends?” Dev echoed.

“Old case files. Already solved. Just cleaning up my notes.” He shook his head. “I can’t even remember them. They were nothing.”

Dev hummed thoughtfully. “Cassandra could be wrong.”

They both knew that was unlikely.

“Slept late,” Dev repeated. “Patrol the night before?”

“Night off,” Bruce said. “I took Damian—“

He stopped.

Dev waited.

“Wayne.” Dev’s voice was a command. “Sit down.”

Bruce squatted where he was, head bent low between his legs. Dev’s hand was on his back, a slight weight between his shoulder blades, ready to brace him if necessary.

The ventilation hummed overhead.

Bruce rocked backward and sat on the concrete, elbows on his scarred knees, face in his hands. Dev was next to him, grounding hand removed, allowing him space to breathe.

When Bruce’s gasps had evened out into something more control, Dev spoke. “Tell me about that night with Damian.”

“We went to an art gallery. A man tried to mug us on the way home.” A frightening sentence, for anyone else.

“Was anyone hurt?” Dev asked, though he had seen both Bruce and Damian since.

“The mugger.” Bruce’s voice was dry. “He stepped out in front of us and all I saw was the gun. I hit him.”

One punch, with all the power of thousands of repetitions. It was a miracle Bruce hadn’t killed him.

“It was over before anything could happen.” Damian had been fine. Bruce had been fine. The sting in his hand had disappeared before they reached home. He hadn’t followed up to see if William Lee Benson had minded his instructions, but there had been no further reports of violence that could be linked to him.

“Still an unsettling occurrence.”

But it hadn’t been. Their night had continued on as if nothing had happened, Damian chattering the whole way about a piece they had seen that would be delivered to the Manor later that week. It was only when Bruce had gone to bed that night and thought back over what had happened, and what hadn’t…

Bruce swallowed hard against the tight lump in his throat.

“My parents…”

Even now, he didn’t like to talk about the details everyone knew. His formative trauma had entered city lore, down to the blooded pearls now locked away in his upstairs safe.

“You know the story.” It was confirmation, not a question. Dev nodded.

“It reminded you of that night,” Dev guessed. Bruce’s turn to nod, little more than a jerk of his chin. “It frightened you?”

Bruce barked out a hard laugh. The bramble in his chest thickened, caught flame. “I wasn’t scared. I was angry. I hit him once, and it was done. It was easy. No one had to die.”

Bruce sucked in a breath, as if he could catch the words, reel them back in. This was what had kept him up, what he refused to think about, what he had emptied out his head to avoid.

He bowed his head again, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Angry,” Dev repeated, voice like fingertips tracing the edge of a wound. “At your parents?”

No sprang instinctively to his lips and burned away like a slug in salt. Bruce hadn’t been angry at his parents in decades, if ever. At the world, at the gunman, at Gotham, at fate, at himself, all of these and more, but not his parents. But he was now. He was furious at his dear, dead, buried parents.

They sat in silence for a little while, Bruce’s breaths ragged in the echo of the Cave.

“For dying?” Dev asked quietly.

Bruce shrugged, bewildered and miserable, face still blocked by his hand. Because he was. Once Dev named the feeling, he had known. He was a grown man, angry at his dead parents for not, what? Being secret vigilantes? For not being fast enough to knock a man with a gun unconscious before he shot them? It was stupid. Childish. He felt guilty for even having those feelings, so he’d refused to have them at all, shutting them behind static and white noise.

“For not… Anything,” Bruce tried to explain. “Handing over the money quickly enough. Fighting back. For going down that cursed alley to begin with.”

Thomas and Martha Wayne might have represented a generation of hope for Gotham, but they were still Gothamites. They should have known better. They took a shortcut with their child through a bad part of town, and they’d paid for it. They had all paid for it.

“They didn’t protect you,” Dev agreed, and Bruce blinked so that he didn’t flinch.

No, that wasn’t… They had. They had tried. They weren’t Dev’s parents, they were good, they were—

When Bruce closed his eyes, he saw his mother, sightless eyes open and staring past him, and blood black on the asphalt.

“They tried,” he rasped. “And they still died.”

Dev hummed, and his shoulder settled against Bruce’s, gingerly at first, and then with a heavier weight when Bruce didn’t push him away. The warmth grounded him, a light blinking in the dark. Bruce leaned in return and pressed his face into the side of Dev’s neck.

Slender fingertips carefully stroked his head, smoothing down the sweaty hair behind his ear.

“Why d’you feel you haven’t the right to be bloody angry?” Dev asked, voice as mild as his fingertips.

Bruce had no answer.

“You miss them?”

Bruce had to swallow twice over before he could speak. “Every day.”

He had thought the hurt would ease with age. In some ways, it did. He wasn’t the same little boy who went mute for years or the surly teenager who picked fights and broke curfew. He didn’t wake up screaming, Alfred by his bedside. But in some ways, the pain had only deepened, sinking from skin to muscle like a bruise he couldn’t rub away.

That night, William Benson Lee behind them on the ground, Bruce had looked at Damian, his son, and couldn’t imagine letting him go now. Couldn’t imagine disappearing from his life and not getting to experience all the firsts still to come. And yet Damian was already older than Bruce had been, when his parents had bled out in front of him.

Bruce heaved in a breath and lifted his head. Dev’s fingers lifted but the comforting weight of his shoulder remained.

“I’m too old for this,” Bruce mumbled, then felt stupid even before Dev leveled him with a look.

“Ah, right, I forgot, trauma ends at thirty, does it? Brilliant, so glad all my problems are solved. I’ll give the young ones a ring, let them know just a few years to go, just hang in there.”

“Dev.”

Dev’s turn grimace. “Never promised to be good at this, mate. But someone needed to crack open that head of yours.” He hesitated, as if feeling carefully for a trigger that might set Bruce off again before he said, “You’ve not spoken with Alfie.”

There was a question buried within the statement. Bruce leaned away and felt his own shoulders hunch up like a chastened little boy caught in the middle of a disobedient act.

“That’s the anxiety part of it, then?” Dev ventured.

It was, though Bruce hadn’t known until Dev said it aloud. They were twin aches in his chest, the anger at his parents chased in circles by the anxiety of Alfred knowing. Bruce, too angry at himself for being angry, had disconnected from his emotions, because he couldn’t bear to feel them. And he couldn’t bear disappointing Alfred again.

“He won’t be angry at you,” Dev assured.

No, he wouldn’t. Because he was Alfred. Alfred, who had borne Bruce’s silences, his tantrums, his grief, his despair, and all the years that had followed. Alfred, who had to expect him to be better than this by now. Disappointed was far worse than angry.

Dev, too well-versed in reading paragraphs from the lines in Bruce’s face, sighed. “I’m bloody shattered,” he confessed, pushing slowly to his feet and then offering a hand to Bruce.

Bruce accepted the hand but was careful to do most of the lifting himself. The ache in his knees made him wince, and Dev held firm until he was steady on his feet. Even once he was, Dev didn’t let go.

“Talk to Alfie,” Dev insisted. “He’s worried.”

Bruce didn’t concede, but he squeezed Dev’s hand and said, “Goodnight, Dev.”

Dev pulled away with a wave. “I’ll check in later. Write a prescription for sleep aid if you need it. Go to fucking bed, Wayne. And talk to Alfred.”

Bruce went to fucking bed. The run must have done something, or the talk with Dev, because he managed to scrape together a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. When he woke, the house was quiet. The hallways were empty, as was the kitchen. Muffins sat cooling on the counter. Bruce snagged one, stomach twisting with relief and then guilt that he felt relief.

It was one thing to avoid Alfred unknowingly, driven mindlessly by his own unconscious shame and fear. It was another to deliberately redirect his own orbit. Bruce couldn’t do that. But neither could he bring himself to seek Alfred out. Instead, he picked at the muffin, wandering from room to empty room, before pitching the uneaten half in a trashcan and grabbing his shoes instead.

The walk down the path was a familiar one, as worn into the muscles in his feet as in the earth itself. Bruce could walk it blindfolded, without intent or purpose. He did so now, eyes downcast, hands jammed into his pockets, not considering his destination until he stood before the two stone markers.

Thomas Alan Wayne

Martha Elizabeth Wayne

Bruce stared at the engraved names, at the small patch of flowers planted before each. His parents weren’t buried here, of course. The Waynes had a family plot in Gotham’s most exclusive cemetery, a mausoleum with somberly carved marble niches filled with generation after generation of dead and mouldering Waynes. Bruce would be buried there someday, when he died, he supposed. His parents were there now, and he visited them once a week to place freshly cut flowers in the vase by the door. But in between, there were the stone crosses in the side yard of the Manor, carefully placed along a maintained gravel path, and a stone bench set on the opposite side at just the right height for a young boy.

Bruce sat, hands clasped, aware of the layers of himself through time in this very spot. He used to come here when he was younger to talk to them, or to cry, or to fling himself as far from Alfred as he dared without risking a permanent separation. Some part of him had always worried he might someday go too far and lose his one remaining lodestone forever. He wasn’t afraid of that anymore, or he hadn’t thought so, except now his palms were sweaty where they pressed together, and his knees still ached.

A dark shape appeared in his periphery, resolved into a gray-checked jacket and slacks, then sat next to him. They didn’t speak, both choosing to stare straight ahead at the silent memorials.

“Do you remember,” Alfred said, his voice so sudden even in its gentleness that Bruce had to brace himself not to jump, “when you were eleven and broke the vase in the east sitting room?”

Bruce did. With the distance of age, he could place the incident in the proper perspective, but memory didn’t often respond to reason, and he had to fight back a cringe. He had been in the wrong from beginning to end—from being in the sitting room to begin with to carefully disposing of the shards once the damage was done—and he had known it. He had felt sick for days.

“And when you were fifteen and gouged the side of your father’s Mercedes?” Alfred asked.

Yes. He remembered that, too, though he wished Alfred didn’t.

“How about the first time you,” Alfred coughed politely, “watched the sunrise with Miss Kyle?”

“Alfred,” Bruce begged.

“Do you remember,” Alfred said again, and this time his voice was hushed, “when you were, oh, three or four years old and stole a chocolate from a box your mother had on her dressing table?”

Bruce did not.

“You weren’t meant to have it, and you knew it, so you hid, but by the time you had found a place to hide, the chocolate melted all over your hand. You tried to wipe it off, but did so all over the leg of one of your father’s suits.”

Bruce shook his head, bemused.

“We were all in a panic, your parents, the staff, myself.” Alfred shook his head at the memory. “No one could find you. Your father was on the phone with the police when your mother found you in the lidded window seat.”

Bruce didn’t remember this at all, but he believed it.

Alfred held out his hand, palm up. Puzzled, Bruce unclasped his hands and rested one atop Alfred’s. Alfred’s other hand closed over the top, skin warm and raspy.

“I can always tell when you feel ashamed of something you’ve done,” Alfred explained, “because you won’t look me in the eye.”

Bruce’s gaze swung sharply toward Alfred’s face, but hovered somewhere just above the top button on his shirt. Alfred’s thumb swiped across the back of his hand.

“You outgrew lidded boxes, thank heavens, but one’s own head isn’t much better, if I may say so, sir.”

It surprised Bruce how much effort it took to drag his eyes up, up, up until they met Alfred’s warm, tender gaze.

“What has happened this time, Master Bruce?” Alfred asked.

Bruce could feel his face fracture, collapsing and then shoring up again with a shaky, sucked-in breath like wreckage caught in the tide. Alfred waited while he composed himself, then, piece by piece, Bruce laid the story on the bench between them.

When he had finished, Bruce waited for judgment, feeling again like a little boy tilting broken pottery into an outside bin, like a gawky teenager, recklessness long spent, dabbing spit on gouged paint in futile hope.

“My dear boy,” Alfred said, upper hand leaving Bruce’s to cup his chin, “why do you feel you haven’t the right to be angry?”

The surprise of it drove the air from Bruce’s lungs, and he ducked his head, hiding his face. “That’s what Dev said,” he murmured. “More swearing, though.”

“He’s topped up the jar.” Alfred said, brushing aside the matter of Dev’s swear tab. “And it doesn’t seem profanity made you believe him any more than me.”

Bruce tried to laugh, but the noise came out strangled and wet. “They’re dead.”

“Yes, they are,” Alfred agreed, and not gently. Bruce flinched at the heat of it, but Alfred wasn’t done. “Do you think I haven’t spent my own time angry with them?”

Bruce lifted his head to stare. He couldn’t fathom it. Alfred wasn’t watching him now, his own eyes on the silent crosses. “I’ve spent many a quiet night profaning your poor parents, I’m afraid. And bearing my own guilt for it, too.”

Alfred caught Bruce’s expression out of the corner of his eye. His mouth twitched in a mournful smile, and he gave Bruce’s hand a pat. “One of the stages of grief, I’m told, and one we all return to often. And in some ways it’s easier to bear the thought of what might have been, in another life, than to accept that this is our fork, our path.”

A hard right hook. Just the right words to soften or scare. Pretty tears from his mother, or Alfred at their side with a gun of his own. So many other paths. But this was theirs.

“I wish they could have…” Bruce stopped, unsure if his voice could carry him further. He was older now than they had been, and the weight of his days hung heavy around his neck. There was so much more they could have done and been. There was so much he wished he could share with them.

“I as well,” Alfred sighed, knowing all Bruce couldn’t voice.

He lifted one arm wide and Bruce leaned into him, cheek buried into Alfred’s shoulder like a little boy stumbling out of a nightmare.

“Why does it still hurt?” he croaked. “Why does it still hurt so much?”

Alfred didn’t answer, just held him tight and pressed a kiss to his brow.

[one-time-i-dreamt]

My friend mugged me in the city at night to steal my shoes, but I took them back and ran away. She proceeded to chase me around the city with a metal bar.

Also, the dream was constantly narrated with text, and the narration had a strange focus on the Virgin Mary and ninja stars.

[thewolfrabbit]

Don't threaten Trevor's friends. While Trevor may seem like a friendly bear, he's inherited his father's habit of making terrifying faces when angered.

Art by SunnyFolf on Twitter.

[robobrainrot]

The Knack

Chapter 3: Deus Ex Machina

Notes: its a Knockout-Centric Fic with a human OC. Breakdown is alive and well. Optimus is alive and well. Set in the Prime Universe: Post Predacons Rising, Pre-RID15

Updates weekly...ish

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2]

Trigger Warnings for this chapter are tagged below

One of his off days landed on a Thursday so Knockout decided he’d return to his favorite parking spot. It had been awhile since he visited. They had exchanged a few comments back and forth online, but never in person. Nothing in their interactions had given him solid evidence if the human definitely knew he was a giant space alien that turned into a car. They were always very cordial.

It was getting dark and there was still no sign of the artist. Maybe he’d missed them? That was unlikely. He checked their social media page. No posts today.

He shifted gears (ha) and decided to investigate. Knockout drove down to the human’s home. There was no sign of them. Their curtains were open, but he could only see so far into the room.

The ex-Decepticon circled the block in frustration. Maybe the Autobots were making him soft. What was he doing caring about where some human was? It was only a year ago that he had been on the side of the war that would’ve cyber-formed the planet into an inorganic ball of metal. Albeit, he had never been keen on that part. Knockout enjoyed Earth and its culture. Any species that could make such fine automobiles had to be alright… sometimes. Certainly they weren’t worth destroying at the whims of a coked-out warlord.

Knockout drove up to campus then back down the street.

This would be so much easier if they didn’t change their appearance every day. Or just picked a color to stick with. He saw a couple of humans, but as soon as he got close, he realized it wasn’t Kylan. A group of frat boys hollered and whistled at him as he passed. This was not the kind of attention he prefered.

He pulled into a driveway to rethink. It was past time to give up at this point. He was bored. The human was probably fine.

A gunshot down the street broke him of that thought.

Knockout peeled out of the driveway towards the noise. Even if it wasn’t the human he was looking for, it was their neighborhood. Plus, he was trying to be a better Autobot. Saving humans was kind of their whole thing.

There was yelling up the street. The aggressor was dressed in baggy gray clothes and a knit hat. The victim was slightly smaller in frame, and wearing a long bright orange skirt. They had a heavy looking backpack, which seemed to be the motive for the altercation.

A half-empty trash can clattered into the street as one of the smaller got pushed into the row of plastic containers. They were leaning back against the largest bin now. The gray-clothed thug seemed to be getting impatient.

Knockout’s alt. mode was not subtle. Even with his headlights off, he was still a cherry red luxury car. He could go from 0 to 60 in 3.1 seconds. If he wanted to be loud AND flashy, he certainly could.

The aggressor was noticed the Aston Martin as soon as he turned onto the street. Knockout also noticed a very familiar haircut on the cornered human.

“Frag.” The Cybertronian swore to himself, then sped up.

“Time’s up. That's my ride." He bluffed. "The bag or your life, I'm leaving with one of them.” The rev of it's engine startled them both but the man gestured to the oncoming car.

That glance to the side was all the smaller one needed. Kylan swung around, switching places with the largest trash bin. The thug was pummeled with trash as Kylan stumbled out into the street.

Without thinking, Knockout flipped into robot mode to avoid hitting them. His back wheels kicked up to flip the entire car then he landed on his peds 10 feet away on the other side of them.

That was way too close.

Both humans screamed. Surprisingly, Kylan’s was not higher-pitched than the other.

The artist tumbled to the asphalt from shock. They scrambled backwards away from the massive robot.

Knockout caught their gaze for a second. He could see the whites all the way around their eyes. Their bangs were blown back from the WOOSH of his sudden transformation.

Meanwhile, the thug fired at him until he ran out of bullets. He missed six shots, but the other four dinged Knockout’s armor. Considering the size of the target, that was a pathetic ratio. The robot glanced down at the dents then narrowed his optics at him.

The thug went sheet pale. He dropped the gun, and ran like hell. Or, at least he tried.

The Ex-Decepticon grabbed him by the back of the shirt. He hoisted him up to eye level. Through gritted denta-plates, he sneered. “You should consider a change of hobby.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He yelped. “Please don’t-!”

Before he could finish that thought, Knockout tossed him into the trash pile. It would hurt, maybe break a bone or two, but it wouldn’t kill him.

“And that’s how you take out the trash.” He laughed. He dusted his hands off on each other before dropping back down into vehicle mode.

By this point, Kylan was hyperventilating on the curb 30 feet away. They backed away onto the sidewalk as Knockout approached. He opened the passenger side door.

“Get in.”

They stared at the car for a long, terrified moment, paralyzed by their own bewilderment.

“Kylan. Get in.” He repeated through the radio.

“‘Kylan?’” The artist blurted incredulously. “Y-you… you’re a… wh-”

“I will tell you if you get- the fuck- in.” Knockout rolled a few inches forward. “I need to leave, and I’m not leaving you here. I’ll bring you back but you need to get in. Now.”

Flashing blue and red lights reflected off the buildings around the corner.

Of course people had called the cops. Between the yelling, gunshots, screaming and weird-robot-thing noise: it had devolved into a whole scene. The artist momentarily wondered if anyone caught it on video. Or maybe all of this was a sleep deprived, paint fume induced nightmare.

The revv of the sentient car’s engine snapped their attention back to reality.

The artist clamored up onto their feet and into the passenger side. As soon as their butt hit the seat, he was off. The seat belt snapped around them as soon Knockout wasn’t focused on getting out of view of the incoming police cars.

[gameguy20100]

Does anyone remember that episode of Friends were It was revealed Ross was mugged as a teenager, and when it turned out that Pheobe did that to him, everyone mocked him and laughed?

Like, "Hey, that traumatic incident that scared you for life was done by a girl? Wow, Ross, that's so funny. You're so pathetic, what a pussy."

Sitcoms from the 90s and early 2000s have aged like milk.

[defensive-tactics]

As difficult as it must be to do (thankfully, I’ve never been mugged, but I can imagine it would be difficult), if you are mugged don’t fight over your possessions. Phones and purses/wallets can be replaced. But people have rarely been brought back from the dead.

[nurse-buckley]

Whumptober Day 9

Title: Shift of Fate

Prompt: Mistaken Identity

Word Count: 1,162

Characters: Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Bobby Nash, Hen Wilson and Chimney Han.

Pairing: None, just firefam feels.

Warnings: attacks, mugging, mentions of death (not major character)

Summary: An accident leads the 118 to believe they have lost one of their own. Written for day 9 of @whumptober with the prompt 'Mistaken Identity.'

Tags: @firemedicdiaz @winterreader-nowwriter @iamasimpingh0e @dayrin085 @hauntedmilkshakeghost @floralbuckleys @alexxavicry @cm1031sr​ 

Authors notes: I wish this was longer and it wasn't the way I imagined it but here is day 9. I am not sure how much longer I will be able to keep up but 9 days in a row is a good effort! Thank you as always to the amazing @firemedicdiaz for reading over this for me!

The sun had just begun to rise over LA as Buck left his apartment, threw his duffle into the trunk and climbed into his Jeep, ready to start the drive to the firehouse. 

As he drove down the streets, the city still half-asleep, Buck couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. He brushed it off, putting it down to tiredness and pre-shift jitters at what the day could bring. No matter how long he’d been working at the station, he always had those butterflies.  After all, the 118 seemed to be a magnet for weird and wonderful moments. 

As he approached a red light, he slowed and his mind wandered to the 118 and all the crazy and life threatening moments they’d been through together, as well as all the good. How this group of strangers had easily become his family and how he wouldn’t change it for the world. 

The light seemed to be taking forever to change and Buck sighed impatiently. He couldn’t lie, the thought of running it did cross his mind as there seemed to be no traffic coming down the road. 

A tap at his window broke him out of his thoughts as he turned to the side and saw a man standing there, with short blonde hair, not much older than himself. Buck pulled down the window, “hey man, everything alright?” 

The man’s eyes darted around and he shifted on his feet, Buck could tell he was on something. Just as he was about to pull up the window and drive forward, the man reached in and opened the door from the inside. His other hand slipped inside his jacket as he pulled out a gun and aimed it at Buck. 

Fear gripped his heart as he realized the gravity of the situation. He slowly raised his hands, careful not to make any sudden movements or upset the man. “Easy, man. I don’t want any trouble.” 

The man’s eyes were wild as he frantically looked side to side and he waved the gun in Buck’s face, “keys and wallet,” he demanded, “phone too. Now.” 

Buck kept his movements slow as he held one hand up and reached into the center console for his keys and wallet. Before he could hand them over, clearly tired of waiting, the man lunged forward and pistol-whipped Buck across the side of his head. 

White-hot pain exploded in Buck’s head as he cried out in agony. Dazed and disorientated, he fumbled for the keys still in the ignition in an attempt to get away. The man, one step ahead of him, grabbed Buck by the collar roughly and yanked him from the car, throwing him to the ground. 

The hard tarmac scraped his palms when he hit the ground and caused pain to explode in his wrist as he fell on outstretched arms. Clearly not satisfied with his assault, the man got in a few more kicks for good measure before he climbed into the Jeep and drove off. 

Buck stood quickly, being able to do nothing but watch as his assailant drove off erratically into the distance. For a moment he stood there, stunned, before he retreated to the side of the road. Realizing he had no way to call for help or contact Bobby to let him know he’d be late, Buck sighed and continued to make his way on foot to the firehouse. He knew he’d be safe there, they’d be able to call Athena and patch him up there. 

Meanwhile at the station, the 118 gathered, ready to start their shift as Bobby briefed them. They exchanged worried glances as the minutes ticked by and there was still no sign of Buck. It wasn’t like him to be late and if there was any reason he would be, he was always sure to text one of the team or Bobby to let them know. 

Before they could worry any further, the call bells went off, signaling they were needed. “Let’s go people, Buck can join us on the next one.” 

Eddie couldn’t help but feel something was desperately wrong as he piled onto the fire engine. He sent a quick text to Buck, asking if everything was okay before sending another to Maddie to see if she’d heard from her brother that morning. 

As they raced towards the scene of the accident, more details came in as Bobby relayed them to the team. “Multi-vehicle accident, a car crashed into a barrier on a busy stretch of highway. Multiple victims.” 

When they arrived on scene, their hearts sank as they recognised a familiar vehicle. It was Buck’s Jeep, crumpled and destroyed. Another firehouse and ambulance were already on scene triaging patients, but there was no sign of Buck. 

Bobby’s face was pale as he ordered the team to wait back, needing to find out what happened before they intervened. Eddie’s heart was in his throat, he couldn’t have lost Buck. He returned moments later, the tears clear in his eyes as he approached his team. 

“The driver was DOA. The body was in a bad shape but they’re sure it’s him. They found his wallet, phone, and keys next to him,” Bobby just about choked out. 

The ride back to the firehouse was filled with silence, each of them mourning the loss of their friend. 

When they arrived back at the station, spirits were at an all-time low. Each hung their heads solemnly as they filed into the loft, they were greeted by a sight that they struggled to believe. It was Buck, battered and bruised, but he was alive and standing in the middle of the ambulance bay. 

They all stood there in shock as they stared at the man before them. 

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Buck awkwardly chuckled. 

Bobby, Chim and Hen were first to rush to his side, relief washing over them as they pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. It was only once they pulled away that they really got a look at him, at the bruises and scrapes on his hands and the nasty wound on his head. 

“We thought we lost you,” Hen’s voice shook with emotion as a tear rolled down her cheek. 

Eddie made his way over, still not believing his eyes at what he was seeing. He pulled Buck into a half-embrace, careful to not cause him any more pain, “I’m so glad to see you.” 

Buck leaned heavily against him as exhaustion from the day's events finally hit him. With the help of the group, Eddie guided Buck to a nearby bench and sat him down. He cradled Buck’s face gently in his hands as he assessed Buck’s injuries. Eddie’s expression was a mixture of worry and relief as he began his assessment. Buck had a split lip and his face had begun to break out in a mess of colorful bruises around the wound on his head, but he was alive and safe.