#An egg cracking open a person into a pan

[doitwrite]

From The 3 A.M. Epiphany

Exercise 15: "TWO IMAGES SEPARATED AT BIRTH. Think up a vivid, haunting image. Work hard to construct this image so it is not only visible to the reader but exciting and thought-provoking. Then think up another unrelated but equally vivid image. The key to this exercise is to work at comparing two unrelated images, two scenes or situations you do not think are part of a story. Then write a story fragment out of the two images. 600 words"

Family Breakfast

Tom yawned open a mouth the size of a small cave. The humans didn’t scream or cry like the old ones. They sat quietly in the rollercoaster, right up until the moment the car flew into his mouth and vanished down his unending maw. He pouted after swallowing everything in one noisy gulp.

“Mom! Are these a different brand or something?” A smooth white egg as large as a mountain turned from the stove and glared at him. He could always tell what expression she was making, even thought she didn’t have a face.

“Now, now.” His stepbother Raymond, a 4D being that existed on a different plane, shook out a newspaper that was phasing into the table. Matthew shot him an irritated look.

They’ve been saying that organic humans are much healthier! Her voice was shrill as it echoed in their heads. She was a Tyverant, a species that didn’t have mouths, so they communicated directly via brainwaves. If they’re quiet, it means they’ve been raised in a cage-free environment. No more of that GMO stuff, she added. Matthew had long since stopped wondering how his mother managed to sniff when she didn’t have a nose.

She placed another roller coaster cart of humans onto the track. It was a huge wire contraption that folded out of the ceiling and snaked around the kitchen like a massive steel python. Matthew watched, apprehensive, as another cartful of those creepily quiet humans raced along the track. He was used to hearing them scream in terror. It helped wake him up in the mornings. But instead they just watched him with blank, beady eyes as they raced towards their deaths. Reluctantly he opened his mouth and swallowed the car.

“It’s no fun if they’re not screaming,” he tried. She ignored him.

With a pair of milk-white hands she pulled a dull-eyed man from a carton and neatly cracked him open over the smoking black pan. His skin pulled apart with a satisfying snap, intestines dropping and sizzling in the heat.

Dear? Would you like another helping? She asked, addressing Raymond. He lowered the paper. Was he looking at his mother? Matthew wrinkled his nose. He could never tell where Raymond was looking, and since he always spoke in that dreadful monotone, Matthew could never guess at what he was thinking or looking at.

“Yes, please, dear.” She neatly ducked under the spiraling track of the roller coaster with the pan and carefully scraped the steaming pile of warm meat onto Raymond’s plate. He folded up the paper and set it on the table, but it disappeared.

“Whoops.”

I keep telling you to remember to return things to their 3D form when you place them down, remember? His mother sighed. Matthew gulped down the mouthful of human and reached for his glass of gakberry juice to wash it down, using it to hide the face he was making.

“Sorry about that, darling.” He scooped up the meat with his fork, and Matthew peeked over the glass while trying to pretend he wasn’t looking. As much as he disliked him, watching Rayond eat was always fascinating. Whatever he put into his…face? Mouth? (What did you call the hole where food disappeared into a 4D being, anyway?) just seemed to dissolve into nothing the moment it touched him, and on more than one occasion the utensil vanished too, much to his mother’s chagrin.

His mother turned and yelped.

It’s 35PM! You’ll be late!

Raymond gulped down the rest of the food.

“Come on, sport. I’ll drive you to school today.”

“Don’t call me that,” Matthew mumbled as he climbed onto his foot.

#not my prompt #The 3AM Epiphany #writing #writing exercise #the two images I came up with were #A massive humanoid and monster with huge black eyes devouring a rollercoaster of people who are not screaming and just sit there #An egg cracking open a person into a pan #yeah this was another trippy and weird one haha #also weird that this is the second piece in a row I've written with the word “breakfast” in the title

[markatoto]

fan of breasts?

chicken breasts? yeah! they are, maybe & arguably, one of the most delicious part of the chicken. well, maybe next to drumsticks (which i personally prefer for things like fried chicken, or soups). in particular, i like to use chicken breasts for making katsu, which, lemme tell ya, i'm no expert cook, but id like to think that i do a pretty good job.

matter of fact, if you want an extremely simple recipe, here's how i personally make chicken katsu (all off the top of my head, so some slight details might be missing, so please bear with me):

you'll need a few ingredients

panko (any sort of breadcrumbs will work, but panko is just the brand i use)

cookin' oil (usually simple vegtable oil will work)

the actual chicken breast, of course

the ol' traditional: salt and pepper

one egg (u dont need any more than one egg, typically)

if u wanna make things extra crunchy, having some corn starch mixed in with garlic powder + onion powder for some extra seasoning. maybe even a scoosh of paprika for that yummy (i personally like using this filipino chicken mixture called "crispy fry", which is usually used for fried chicken, but it works here too. it's usually meant for fried chicken drumstick, but what is katsu but a different kind of fried chicken)

anyways, here's how u wanna do things:

take out your chicken breast, pat it down with a paper towel so that it aint wet on the surface and either: slice it so that the chicken breast is about inch and a quarter (or so) thick OR use a mallet to make it around that thickness. youll want your chicken flat as possible, but not too flat! i think you know what i mean.

salt and peppa that mothafucka, both sides (OPTIONAL STEP 2B: it's at this point id probably mix my chicken breast with the starch mixture/crispy fry. it just gives a lil extra flavour and crunch that i enjoy. but this is just me, u dont really gotta do it)

crack open an egg and put it in a bowl. MIX IT UP

put your flattened (and maybe crispy fry seasoned) chicken in the egg. get it drenched, you want that panko to stick to that shit

what i like to do is i like to put panko in a plastic container with a lid, then i put the chicken in the container, close the lid up and just SHAKE it so that its nice and evenly coated. super simple and fun and WAY cleaner to deal with after the fact LOL

pop your oil in your pan. put in generous amount, enough that your chicken wont necessarily be drowning, but enough that your chicken will be sufficiently fried. heat that up until the oil reaches that perfect temperature of around 350'F (that is THE temp for doing any deep frying)

pop your chicken on the pan and leave it frying on the one side for, id say, approximately 4-5 minutes. youre going to have to keep a close watch on it. make sure that panko is that GOOD crispy brown on each side. over all it should take you like…. 7-9 minutes for your katsu to be done.

BEFORE YOU EAT... make sure the internal temp of the chicken is around 160 - 165'F. if it is, it's good to go. take it out and, what i like to do is get a plate and pop on a paper towel to let the katsu dry off all the excess oil. even though its off the pan, that shit is STILL cookin, so youll want to leave it alone for like… a minute or two. plus if you eat it now you'll totally burn your tongue and that's the WORST feeling in the world

and after all that, your katsu is done! get some jasmine (white) rice, put on some katsu sauce and some japanese mayo with a lil bit of furikake for that slight seaweed flavoring and youll be GOOD to go!!

so yeah, i guess you can say i'm a fan of breasts.

#the questions

[desi2go]

Fluffy mornings

pairings: Changbin x reader

Warnings: fluff

summary: you and Changbin enjoy a morning on a day off together.

author's note: Happy birthday Hyunjin!

You loved mornings like this.

Changbin layed next to you. Well, technically, above you. His head layed on your chest while his hands circled your waist. Even his leg was over yours.

He was still deep asleep, even though it was already past eight. It was his day off so he could sleep all day long. And he definitely deserved it.

Yesterday night, you two decided to go to a bar to dance and drink a bit. And if you are honest, you didn't thought that you'll be home late. But that wasn't so bad. It was also your day off.

The sun that perked through the curtains woke you up. As you saw your boyfriend laying on your chest, you couldn't help but chuckle.

Your short king loved to cuddle, especially because you were slightly taller than him, just a few inches.

But every time you cuddle, he demands to lay on top of you. Even in his sleep, he liked that. And you felt so safe in your strong boyfriends arms. He was like a big blanket that was thrown over you and brought you not only comfort but also warmth.

He was your personal heater. Whenever you cuddled, you never need an comforter.

In thoughts, you brushed through his curly black hair, detangling some strands.

In sleep, he sighed and snuggled even more up into you. You smiled and messaged his scalp.

You were so jealous for his beautiful silky hair. You wished, you had such great hair.

You stayed like this for a while until you felt him stirring in your arms. His eyes fluttered open and he yawned. He turned his head and layed his chin on your chest. A sleep driven smile danced over his rosy lips.

"Morning" he whispered.

"Morning, sleepyhead" you answered.

He snuggled further into you. You laughed at his clinginess. "My cussion moves too much" he grumbled at the vibration of your chest.

"Sorry, my love. But I need to go to the bathroom, ya?" Only with protest, he lifts his body from you and gave you free.

Quickly, you jumped out of bed because you knew that Changbin would try to catch you again. You slipped into your house shoes to protect your feet from getting cold.

They were stray kids themed, well technically dwaekki themed. They were pink and on the front was the face printed on them. Even his up standing ears were sewed on the fabric.

You bought them a year ago when your boyfriend was on tour and you missed him so much. Via a video call, you showed them to him and he loved them. Sometimes, you need to fight for them because he wears them too.

In the bathroom, you brushed your teeth and used the toilet. Then, you decided on making breakfast.

You quickly re-entered the bedroom to throw over one of Changbin's hoodies and saw that he was still sleeping. Deeply, you inhaled his scent. It was like coming home. You made your way to the kitchen.

You chose to make some eggs with bacon. Without big noises, you pulled out a frying pan from a cabin. You waited till the pan was heated, then, you cracked the eggs and fried them.

Two strong arms circled around your waist and sneaked under the hoodie.

"You didn't come back" he complained and placed a feather light kiss on your neck.

"Sorry, wanted to make some breakfast" you answered and flipped the eggs.

"Smells amazing" he stated and caressed your sides. "You're wearing my hoodie" he added.

"Yeah, I was cold. Do you like it?"

"Of course, sweetie. But why do you choose a hoodie over me, your personal heater?" He exclaimed.

"It seemed that my personal heater was charging" you answered playfully and fried the Bacon.

"Fortunately I'm here now and can warm you up" he mumbled into the fabric of the hoodie. Even through the thick hoodie, you felt his comforting warmth. Just slightly, you leaned against the strong chest and enjoyed the moment.

You loved mornings like this.

#stray kids x reader #skz imagines #stray kids fluff #skz x reader #changbin x reader #changbin x y/n #changbin stray kids #changbin x you #stray kids imagines #stray kids fanfic #skz x you

[techs-goggles9902]

Soft!Crosshair and fem!reader please

Maybe with something about his hand tremors?

Why did you wait for me? - Soft!Cross x fem!reader

REQUESTS OPEN FOR ALL LISTED FANDOMS. READ TERMS BEFORE REQUESTING ON MY MASTERLIST

Word count: 767

Warnings: none? Lmk if I missed something

A/N: Hey, I really wanna know who these anons are or if they’re the same person so I can thank you for these requests!!!! Sorry if this feels rushed or anything. I will happily rewrite it next week if requested. I’ve been sick since Sunday and I feel like trash :P

Ever since he came back, he’s been… off. His calloused fingers, his eyes, his voice, all once so familiar, now somewhat foreign.

But he’s your Crosshair, he always comes around. You’re his girl. This is no different. Right? And, he always comes back. It’s only been a few hours since the Marauder landed on Padu’s upper level, your home, at the crack of dawn. You were roused by that familiar chime on your comlink.

What the hell, Hunter, you thought when you woke. Couldn’t he wait a few more hours until your alarm went off?

He couldn’t, which you now know.

You met the batch while they were on leave a few years back, fell in love with that tall, lanky sniper of theirs. Once Order 66 happened, Hunter advised you to come with them since Crosshair wasn’t the man you met anymore.

You found Pabu, where you settled down while the boys didn’t. Could you blame them, though?

“Stop staring at me like that, Cross,” you say as you cook him breakfast in your warm kitchen, feeling his gaze dig holes in the back of your head as he sits at the island.

“I’m sorry… I just can’t…” he pauses, swallowing. “I can’t believe you actually waited for me.”

“How could I not? You’re you. No matter what Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum say,” You turn, about to scrape the eggs onto his plate when you see his watery eyes. Those dark irises that usually pierce into people’s souls now desperately gaze into your own.

“I… I did a lot of bad things. Why do you still love me?” He whispers as you slowly put down the pan of eggs. You step around the island to embrace the sniper, his face buried into your sternum.

“Shhh… You didn’t have a choice, back at Tantiss.” His shaky hands lock around the fabric of your shirt. He doesn’t make any sound, just lets the tears stream down his narrow face, catching on his stubble.

“That doesn’t answer my question, love.”

You sigh, cupping his tear stained face in your soft palms. “I loved you during the war, loved you when you left on missions, I loved you when you joined the Empire. This is no different. You’re mine, I’m yours.”

His eyes widen ever so slightly as he gazes up at you, for once.

“How ‘bout we get some food, real food, in you and then we’ll talk?” You softly ask, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead.

“Yeah… Yeah, okay.” He nods and you let him go to slide the eggs onto his plate. Watching him eat, you see the muscles working in his jaw as he chews, his temporalis bulging with each bite.

You haven’t seen him since… Kamino. You begged, pleaded for him to join the batch. You remember how he declined and begged for you to join the Empire, they’ll understand, he said.

He finishes eating and you scoop up his plate, turning away to put it in the sink. When you turn around, he’s gone off to your bedroom. You follow, thinking, I bet he hasn’t slept in a while. I mean, really slept.

He stops in the doorway of your room, turning back to you. He quietly asks, “Can I…”

“You don’t need to ask me for anything. What’s mine is yours.”

You sit against your headboard, his head in your lap. Before, you used to card your hands through his silver curls. Now… You make due with caressing his growing follicles, careful of his lumpy, dented scar.

His hands tremble as they lie against your knee. You tap his fingertip.

“Are you scared?” You ask.

“What? No, why?”

“Your hands.”

“Oh… It just came one day.”

“Tell me… What happened?” You tenderly take his shaking hand in your own and you run your fingers over his too-short nails. Hemlock must’ve had them cut so he wouldn’t claw someone’s eyes out.

Poor Cross… Hemlock’s dying for this.

“You remember the shadows?”

“Mmhmm. The clone assassins.”

“He… Hemlock tried to recondition me into one… I was tested…” He doesn’t have to finish his explanation.

You’re quiet for a beat before you say, “I’m sorry, Cross…”

“Don’t be. You couldn’t do anything.”

“You know, a friend of mine has tremors, too. We can try exercises to… help cope, if you’d like,” you say, pressing your thumb pad down onto his knuckles for a gentle massage.

“I’ll give it a shot, love,” Crosshair says, rolling onto his back to look up at you.

“I love you, Crosshair.”

“I love you too, riduur. You’re my girl.”

Riduur = spouse in Mando’a

Taglist: @will-is-silly @fionajames @sevdidntdie @dangraccoon @skellymom @hellhound5925 LMK IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED OR TAKEN OFF TAGLIST

Dividers by @ saradika

#Sha speaks #star wars #clone troopers #tcw #the bad batch #tbb #the clone wars #tbb crosshair #the bad batch fic #the bad batch Crosshair #the bad batch x reader #crosshair #clone commando crosshair #Crosshair x reader #crosshair x female reader #crosshair x you #tbb spoilers #tbb season three spoilers #tbb season 3 spoilers #tbb season 3

[liminal-space-lesbian]

Breakfast in Bed

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x fem!reader

Warnings: Sam being a bit intimidating??

Summary: (request) You wake up and decide to make Tara breakfast in bed. You and Sam have a conversation about Tara in the kitchen as you cook.

Words: 1,296

Friends Family (part two)

a/n YOU GUYS I'M SO OBSESSED WITH THEM ITS NOT FUNNY ANYMORE

You woke up slowly, feeling Tara's warmth pressing against you as you sighed contentedly. You slowly peeked your eyes open to see your girlfriend's peaceful face. Her lips were parted slightly as she breathed deeply, her face serene as she slept. You couldn't help but smile, warmth filling your chest to the point of bursting. I love her so much.

You carefully extracted yourself from her embrace and tiptoed out of the room, heading to the kitchen. 'I'll surprise her with breakfast in bed, she'll love it.' You thought with a faint smile as you padded around the center island to rummage through the fridge. You planned on making Tara her favorite omelette with cheese, tomatoes, mushrooms, and peppers along with some toast and bacon.

You quietly placed a pan on the stove, turning the burner on as you cracked four eggs into a bowl. You then begin chopping the vegetables, humming softly to yourself as you worked.

"What are you doing up so early?" A gruff voice came from behind you, causing you to flinch in surprise. You glanced over your shoulder to see a disgruntled looking Sam standing in the hallway. You offered her a small smile.

"Goodmorning. I'm just making Tara some breakfast in bed. Do you want some?" You asked as you placed some bacon in the pan to sizzle quietly. You glanced back at her when she didn't respond immediately, and you saw her giving you a strange look.

"No I'm okay, I'll just make myself some coffee." She says simply as she shuffles over to the coffee pot. You nod, not taking her demeanor too personally. Sam wasn't really a morning person.

"So what did you two do last night anyways? You guys left halfway through the movie." Sam says as she pours the coffee grounds into a filter, placing it in the machine. You glance at her, feeling a bit nervous. You didn't want to make a bad impression with Sam, she was Tara's sister. She didn't seem to like you already, but you knew she was a good person, and Tara loved her.

"Yeah, sorry about that. I have a weak stomach and don't really like gore, so Tara suggested we go to her room to watch something else. We ended up watching Legally Blond, which was nice. I am sorry if us leaving disrupted the night or made anyone uncomfortable though." You apologize hastily, glancing at Sam to gauge her reaction as you flip the bacon.

"Oh, don't apologize its okay. Nobody was particularly put out by it. Aside from Mindy being Mindy of course." Sam added the last bit in a grumble, looking slightly irritated. She sighed and rubbed her eyes, biting back a yawn.

You awkwardly turned back to your cooking, not sure what to say. The silence was awkward as Sam pulled a mug out of the cabinet, pouring her now ready coffee. You tried not to wrinkle your nose at the smell. You hated coffee, much to Tara's dismay.

"That's really nice of you, you know." Sam says after taking a sip of her probably too hot coffee. You glance up at her in surprise, not sure what she was referring to.

"What?" You ask, confusion creasing your brow as you pause whisking the eggs to look at Sam. She gestures to your cooking with the hand that isn't cradling her coffee mug.

"You making her breakfast. It's a nice thing to do." She says, her eyes drifting from the food to your face. You feel yourself growing flustered, a blush burning at your face as you squirm under your gaze. You were never good with compliments.

"Oh! Well- I mean why wouldn't I? I mean, it'll make her happy so..." You trail off, awkwardly turning away from Sam as her gaze felt all too heavy. 'Ew, why did I say that that sounds so performative.' You mentally berate yourself as you take the bacon out of the pan and pour the eggs into it.

"You know, I always thought I'd hate whoever Tara ended up dating. Like, I imagined it'd always kind of be me against them, in a way." Sam admits suddenly, sounding thoughtful. You feel anxiety burst in your chest at her words, nervously shifting your weight from one foot to the other. 'Sam hates me?'

"But with you it's not really like that I guess. I mean I know you'll always do what's best for Tara, and take care of her." Sam's tone shifts to something softer, and her words cause you to snap your gaze to her in surprise. Was Sam seriously being... vulnerable with you right now?

"You're one of the good ones (Y/n)." She says as she steps closer to you, so she can gently pat your shoulder. You stare up at her wide eyed, and you don't know if you want to laugh or cry. Sam doesn't hate you. Sam likes you. She approves of your relationship with Tara.

"Thank you." You manage to choke out, feeling a lump rising in your throat. Sam offers you a small smile before pointing at the pan.

"Don't burn your eggs." She says with a wink before giving you a final pat on the shoulder and heading to the living room. You quickly turn back to your omelette, hastily flipping it right before it crossed from overcooked to burnt. You quickly assembled the omelette and buttered the toast, plating the meal before carrying it to Tara's room along with a glass of orange juice.

You carefully entered the room, setting the plate down on the end table as you kneeled on the bed, smiling down at your sleeping girlfriend.

"Tara." You whispered, gently brushing your fingers along her shoulder. You didn't want to startle her awake, which had happened more than once when you were waking her up. Tara was a rather jumpy sleeper.

"Mm." She hummed sleepily, turning her head in your direction before slowly squinting her eyes open. She took a deep breath and smiled up at you, her hands coming to gently rest on your forearms.

"Goodmorning beautiful." You murmur, leaning down to kiss Tara's forehead. She smiled wider, her hands moving up to cup your face so she could guide your lips to hers. You kissed her gently, melting into her. her lips were slightly chapped from sleep, but they still were as plush as ever. You could kiss Tara forever.

"I made you breakfast." You mumble against her lips when you finally pull away, unable to fight a smile. You pulled back to look at her expression, and you felt your heart soar at the way she was looking at you. Her eyes were impossibly soft, her bottom lip jutting out in a minuscule pout as her eyebrows pulled together.

"Oh baby, you're so sweet, you didn't have to do that." She whispers as she sits up and sees the meal you have prepared for her. You shake your head and smile as you gently hand her the plate, unable to stop smiling.

"I'd make you breakfast in bed for the rest of my life if I could." You murmur as you sit beside her, your shoulder brushing hers slightly. She leaned further into you, her eyes welling with tears.

"Aww baby." She coos as she kisses you again, unwilling to pull away. You gently push her away with a smile.

"Eat it before it gets cold please." You plead as you gesture to the meal. She nods and begins to tuck into her food as you watching her contentedly. You couldn't help but remember what Sam had said. 'I know you'll always do what's best for Tara, and take care of her.' In that moment, you knew you would do just that.

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x fem!reader #fem!reader #puppy!reader #tara carpenter x puppy!reader #tara carpenter #sam carpenter #sam carpenter x reader platonic #platonic!reader #scream 6 #scream VI #scream x reader

[parrythisucasual]

Can you do Jax X Reader who secretly loves cooking and dancing? Like never shows it but he finds out?

Jax x Reader (Who secretly loves to cook and dance)

HOPE YOU LIKE ITTTT

Humming. It’s four in the morning and someone is humming. Jax groaned, rolling over and pulling his pillow over his head. Seriously, why did his room have to be the closest to the main room?

He managed to block out the humming, but something else caught his attention. Something smelled good? SOmething was cooking… A terrible feeling of homesickness washed over Jax as he sat up, staring at the door. Should he…?

Jax stood, trudging to the door and cracking it open. He followed the sound of humming down a hall he’d never noticed before. A room at the end of the hall revealed the singer.

You. You were swaying your hips side to side, a beautiful melody emitting from your throat. You were expertly cracking open eggs, two at a time using one hand, mixing them with vegetables in a pan.

A timer dinged and you stepped back gracefully, the movement only adding to the little dance you were performing all alone.

You slipped a mit on, pulling a half dozen muffins from the oven. They smelled like cinnamon, and maybe walnut. You return to the omlet after you set the muffins aside, flipping it and setting it on a plate.

Jax hadn’t realized he might be intruding until you turned and shreiked. Jax jumped, “Hey! Quiet! Don’t you know what time it is?!”

Your face flushed, “Jax! What are doing here?!” He grins as he walks in, shrugging, “Someone was bein’ awful loud and woke me up. What is this place, anyway? I’ve never seen it.”

You stare at the ground, shuffling your weight back and forth, “Um… I had Caine make me a kitchen… I like to cook, but it’s not something I really… share.”

“Well why not? These look almost professional,” Jax struts to the counter, pulling a still-warm muffin from the pan, “everyone would love them.”

“It’s just personal, okay?” you snap, “so don’t tell everyone!” You move to grab the muffin from him, but he chuckles and holds it away from you easily before shoving half off it into his mouth.

“Jax!” you start to laugh, playfully smacking him a few times. He snorts, almost dropping the rest of the muffin, trying to say something despite his full mouth. He finally manages to swallow, “(Y/N), dang, trying to kill me?” You laugh, stepping back, “Sorry, you just looked so funny like that,” you puff your cheeks full of air to mimic him.

“Alright, alright, shut up,” Jax shoved your face and laughed, “I won’t tell anyone about this. IF!” he added suddenly, pointing at you, “you make me food too. Yours is better than Caine’s.”

Grinning, you roll your eyes, “Sure, big guy. You’ve got yourself a deal.” He reached out, rubbing your hair, “Cool. Catch you later,” he winked and grabbed another muffin, walking out of your little kitchen. Your face blooms pink and you find yourself looking forward to him turning up again.

#the amazing digital circus #jax #jax x reader #tadc #tadc jax #tadc jax x reader #tadc x reader #the amazing digital circus jax

[mokulule]

The Number You Have Called Cannot Be Reached 4

Part 1|Part 2|Part 3

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Warnings: angst/depression and canon typical violence

A sunbeam from the crack in the curtains hit his eyes and he turned over burying his face in his pillow. Belatedly Jason registered that it was at least afternoon because the windows faced west, but it didn’t really matter. He was much too warm, and comfortable to get up. He drifted - things were good. He dreamt of a low rumble in the distance, barely on the edge of his hearing, easing the tightness, turning him liquid.

It was another half hour before he awoke properly, registering his bedroom around him dimly lit by the single sunbeam. He yawned and stretched before getting up. He felt loose and relaxed and as he opened the dark curtains he was greeted by one of Gotham’s rare days of sunshine. A smile tugged on his lips and for a moment he stood there in the sun, letting the warmth soak into his skin. He wasn’t in any hurry.

Down in the street someone held the door open for another whose arms were full of groceries, smiles were exchanged and the person moved on. The sounds of kids playing on the nearby playground reached his ears when he opened the window to air out the room. Somewhere someone practiced the trombone and they weren’t half bad.

Peace settled in his bones, these were his people. Even Crime Alley shone from its good side.

Stretching again, he walked into the kitchen and started rooting around his fridge in search of ingredients for breakfast.

There was a thought nagging at the back of his mind as he cracked three eggs in a bowl, added a small dollop of sour creme and some salt. He paused, musing, something he’d forgotten… He hummed thoughtfully, trying to grasp at the thought, but it just didn’t seem that important and with a shrug he took out a pan turning it on medium heat. On the way to the fridge, he popped two pieces of toast in the toaster. Unlike whatever was nagging he knew he had forgotten the butter - a small piece went into the pan and he left the rest out so he could butter the toast. He rinsed a handful of small tomatoes he set them aside on a plate.

Something happened yesterday, he finally decided, as he walked back over to the open window and cut off a few stalks from the chives plant by the window sill. He paused there for a moment listening; a saxophone had joined the trombone and they were now playing sweet jazz with each other from across the road through open windows. A small crowd had gathered below to listen. Amused, Jason wondered if more musicians would be lured out.

Sizzling from the pan, drew him back to the kitchen.

He set aside the chives, quickly whisked the egg mixture together and poured it in the pan. Grabbing a spatula from the drawer he absently flipped it in his hand as he watched the eggs. Judging the pan had adjusted to the cold eggs he turned the heat on low and scraped across the pan in long smooth moves, freeing the already cooked eggs and allowing the still liquid mixture to sink to the pan.

The toast popped up from the toaster, and it was a matter of moments before he had them buttered and were stirring the eggs again. They had solidified now but were still glistening slightly when he transferred them on top of the bread. He quickly chopped the chives and sprinkled them on top.

Looking at his handiwork he nodded in satisfaction. Time to eat.



A glass of orange juice in one hand and plate and utensils in another he moved to the table. He cut off the first bite of egg on toast and close his eyes in pleasure: Crunchy toast, smooth eggs wiith a hint of salt and just a bit of sharpness from the chives.

It felt like ages since he’d just allowed himself to enjoy the moment like this. It wasn’t like he didn’t cook normally it was one of the things, along with reading, he still enjoyed despite everything. He was always just so busy, always so angry.

Like a click in a lock he suddenly realized what he was forgetting. The pits, the Ghost, the cave and Bruce asking him to stay. The thought was an ache in his chest and he set the fork down rubbing his forehead. He wanted… he wasn’t sure what he wanted. For the longest time he’d convinced himself he was agreeing to working with the bats because it was easier, they’d get less in his way like that. He’d told himself he barely tolerated them. Now, with the pits calmed or whatever they were, he found himself inexplicably fond:

DIck’s persistence even when Jason pushed him away, he always had so much hope, despite Jason giving him absolutely no reason to. Tim who he’d had so much misplaced anger towards, who was so smart, and yet so stupid. Damian, the absolute brat, who behind the arrogant facade cared so much about his family and friends, but was so afraid of rejection.

Bruce was… Bruce was complicated. The pits hadn’t invented his resentment, he had been so hurt to find out the Joker had gone free, that he’d been replaced, that he’d meant so little to Bruce - to his Dad. But without the pits to stoke the resentment, he was just left with this tired old ache. Lashing out had never helped him and he was just exhausted by the constant fighting. He wanted his dad. Not Batman, Bruce, the Dad who would drink his tea in the library while he was reading just to be in the same room with him. The embarrassing proud Dad who would brag about Jason’s grades in the same breath he would brag about Jason nearly stealing the tires of his car the first time they met.

He still had the hurt and the anger, but the longing far outweighed that. He rubbed at his moist eyes. The realization hurt, because he really didn’t know how long this effect lasted or if this realization would stick once the Pits were back - it was just too much to hope this was permanent.

Jason never had that kind of luck.

He needed to talk to the Ghost, but he never appeared so soon again after a theft. For a moment his thoughts dwelled on the device they’d recovered yesterday, some kind of calibrator, if he took it, maybe he could lure him out… but the thought was dismissed almost immediately, even if he took it, he’d have no way of informing the guy he had it.

They really knew next to nothing about the guy.

Jason sighed, and looked down at his now cold breakfast. He started eating again, starvation was something he would never forget and he was not about to waste food. Dwelling on his family, the pits and the ghost, wasn’t getting him anywhere.

It was distressingly easy to push the thoughts aside instead of obsessing with no angry whisper in his ear. Was this how normal people dealt with emotions? Without everything having to be a fight? As easy as deciding he’d dwell on it later when he could actually do something about it?

Helpless laughter bubbled up in his chest. This was so dangerous; it was way too easy to get used to.

next Masterpost for subscription

I feel I need to apologize for the lack of Danny again, but Jason kinda took over and had some more angst to deal with. I promise, next time we’ll get back to Danny’s misery!

#dp x dc #dead on main #MIssed Connections #Jason is catnip to Danny #so sorry we will get back to that part #Jason just needs to get over his existential crisis #realizing he just really misses his family #Yeah you're getting this on a scene by scene basis more or less #when I start posting on Ao3 the parts will be smushed into somewhat larger chapters #right now I'm just trying to focus on keeping up writing regularly

[1ntaktak]

To think you were planning to make a nice breakfast for your boyfriend on one of his rare day offs, well... Mingyu had a different breakfast in mind. They didn't consist of eggs and bacon but of drinking you up like a madman deprived of water.

pairings. kim mingyu x fem!reader

warnings. ice play, oral sex, fingering, smut, not edited

this is a work of fiction; in no way, shape, or form am I implying seventeen members act as such in real life

Two arms snaked around your waist as you cracked open an egg onto the pan. The person behind you engulfed you into a tighter hug, nuzzling their face into your neck, leaving trails of kisses from your jaw to your shoulder blade.

"Good morning," comes his raspy voice, words a bit muffled with his face still nestled between your neck.

"Whatcha making?"

"Eggs and bacon.?"

Mingyu hummed, taking a step back, not before placing a kiss on the side of your hair.

You can hear the clinking and shuffling of things, glancing toward him, but the freezer door blocks any vision you would have had of whatever his hands are searching for. You ignore it, moving a few slices of bacon onto the neighbouring pan. You can hear him approaching and don't pay him much mind, not until you feel once again engulfed from behind, with Mingyu practically caging you in between his body and the kitchen counter.

His fingers dance across the waistband of your shorts, tugging the fabric and letting it snap back against your skin before slipping his hand into your shorts, fingers finding their way to your core, slowly teasing you through the fabrics of your underwear, rubbing small circles over your clit.

"Mingyu, I'm busy," your protest ignored as he tugged your shorts and panties down to your knees, leaving your bare pussy out in the open for him to ogle at.

"Relax, babe, I'm just thirsty," then falling to his knees, hooking your thigh over his shoulder, steadying you with his hand over your knee. You looked down at him, confused about why he couldn't just get a glass of water.

"I said relax, babe, just focus on the bacon," his thumb slipped into your now wet cunt, sliding it in and out of your pussy.

Something cold and hard grazes your lips, scraping against your clit, and in tune with the recoil of your body, it is pushed into your vulnerable entrance. Your eyes grew wide, now realising what your boyfriend's intentions are.

It was a new feeling; you and Mingyu had experimented a couple of times in bed but never liked this. It was cold, too cold; you could feel it slowly melting inside you. The new sensation causes your knees to buckle in, but Mingyu quickly grips your hips and forces you to stand.

"it's too cold," and fuck does it hurts, "I can't please, it's too much-"a cry falls from your lips and thighs trembling as you try and fight the urge to get the dammed cube out of your pussy.

"Gyu," you gasp at the warmth of his breath fanning against you - "please."

"Please, what, sweetheart?"

"Get it out, please," you practically cry, the breakfast you were making suddenly forgotten. Mingyu, being the people pleaser that he is, wastes no time diving into your cunt, licking and kissing, slurping the cold liquid leaking out of you. His tongue slid inside you; the ice was already too much, much less the ice and his tongue in you.

He manages to pull the ice from your weeping hole, much to your relief, holding it between his teeth while his fingers soothingly rub circles against your abused cunny.

The crunch of the ice in his mouth is barely heard above your strained whimpers and quiet pleas, fingers lacing into his hair and ushering his face to get closer. Fuck, you need him; you need more of him.

"Tell me what you need, babe.?

"Fin-ger," you barely let it out as Mingyu plunges two of his fingers, knuckles deep in one go. His thumb rubbed your sensitive clit, his other hand gripping your ass to keep you in place. You can already feel your stomach cramping up, your orgasm building fast with every delicious curl of his fingers against your G-spot.

Gosh, and to think you were planning to make a nice breakfast for your boyfriend on one of his rare day offs, well... Mingyu had a different breakfast in mind. They didn't consist of eggs and bacon but of drinking you up like a madman deprived of water.

"Let go, babe, you can let go," you barely his voice as your climax coursed through your body like lightning.

Toes curling as you let out a silent scream, legs turning jelly. Mingyu doesn't stop there tho-fingers still buried in you as he slowly pumps his digits in and out of your weeping hole,

"The bacon's burning, baby."

#kim mingyu x you #mingyu smut #kim mingyu x reader #mingyu x reader #kim mingyu smut #svt drabbles #svt smut #svt scenarios #svt fanfic #seventeen x reader #seventeen fanfic

[hiskillingjar]

Heeeyy do you think you could do some headcanons for strade and ren with a femenine transmasc mc?

trans rights! yeah! trans rights!!!

ren 🦊

ren's a super open-minded and progressive guy so he wouldn't have like. anything to say about it

if you corrected him on your pronouns even once, he'd take it on and wouldn't slip up again.

he's super plugged into like. queer + trans stuff online too so he wouldn't need to be schooled on much either

if you were more fem presenting, he'd be thrilled! best of both worlds (he likes feminine aesthetics and presentation while being pan)

might want to dabble in forcefem. because. horny

he'd also be super comfortable dating a trans person, fem or masc. pan privilege!

he'd have reminders of your t-shots on his phone and he'd be really attentive to keeping you stocked with testosterone and meds (even in the captive scenario <3)

genuinely, ask him to do anything and he'd do it. as long as you kept sweet on him ^_^

law 🥀

law wouldn't. really understand at first

especially if you were more feminine presenting. they would assume stuff and be presumptuous off the bat.

that's purely down to ignorance and not being exposed to it though, not out of genuine malice

if you sat them down and like. spoke through things, they'd be like "ah...okay...i think i understand better now"

and like. if you actually talked them through queer resources and that kind of thing, maybe even gave them some books or showed them trans art or literature, they might even be like "oh...this feels right, actually."

congratulations! you cracked the egg and you're t4t now!!

strade 🔨

does not care

way more plugged into the discourse than law is but he's a bisexual cis man in his thirties. he doesn't care

he'll use the right words in regular day-to-day life, regardless of the presentation. he's observant in that respect

but like. come on

he's a sadistic asshole lol

he'll cut off your binder and call you a 'good girl' if it makes you uncomfortable and scared

i think he'd also take the opportunity to play around with gender in the sexy way too, ala forcemasc and forcefem, as long as it got the reaction he wanted.

if you were boring, it would get dropped for something else though.

he'd be casually transphobic to get on your nerves while supplying you readily with testosterone and using the right pronouns. he's genuinely just an asshole, not bigoted in the slightest lol

#ren hana #ren btd #ren x mc #ren x reader #lawrence oleander #lawrence btd #lawrence x reader #lawrence x mc #strade btd #strade x reader #strade x mc #headcanons #qs

[runningmunson]

Birthday Cake

Pairing: Eddie Munson x gn!reader

Word Count: 848

Summary: Eddie needs your help baking a cake for Wayne’s birthday.

Warning: swearing

You woke up to the sound of someone loudly banging on your door at 7 AM on a Saturday. You tried to ignore it at first and hoped the person would go away, pulling the sheets over your head and sinking deeper into the bed. However, the knocking continues. You let out a groan, throw the blankets off, and make your way to the door.

You open the door and there is Eddie’s smiling face. “What do you want, Edward?” you mumbled.

“No good morning? No I love you? No ‘I’m so glad my wonderful boyfriend came to visit me on this beautiful morning?’ Ouch,” Eddie said, putting his hand over his heart.

You roll your eyes at him. “You do realize what time it is?”

“Um yes, that’s why I’m here. You know it’s Wayne’s birthday, right?” Eddie questioned.

“Of course, I know that Eddie but I thought we weren’t doing anything until later tonight?” You groan. There is nothing you love more than your sleep and Eddie knows that. 

“I wanna bake a cake for him and that’s where you come in. So get your ass in your room to change, we’re gonna go to the store, and then go to my place to make this cake,” Eddie demanded.

You sigh, “Eddie, why can’t we do this later?”

“Wayne gets home from work in 2 hours and I wanted to surprise him. I have no idea how to make a cake. (Y/N), please help me?” Eddie begged, getting on his knees and folding his hands.

“Eddie, get off the floor! You're lucky I love you. Just give me 5 minutes to get ready and then we can leave,” you laughed.

Your trip to the store was quick and you were now at Eddie’s trailer about to start baking.

“Okay Eddie, I’m going to teach you how to make a cake from scratch without burning it,” you said. As you were getting the ingredients together you turned around to grab the flour only to see Eddie wearing an apron. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Oh, this old thing?” Eddie shrugged, motioning to the apron. “It’s what all the hot chefs are wearing now.”

You laughed, “Really? Well then hot chef, let's get started. You wanna combine the flour, salt, and baking soda first.”

Eddie began to put the ingredients in a bowl when a thought popped in his head. “Hey, you have something in your hair.” 

“What? Where?” you asked. Then Eddie took a handful of flour and threw it at your face. “Edward Munson! Are you serious right now? Your uncle will be home in an hour, we don’t have time for this!” 

“Oh come on babe, it was fun-“ Eddie didn’t get to finish his sentence before you threw flour right back at him. Wiping flour off his face he said, “Okay, I deserved that. We can proceed now.”

“Thank you. Now you need to add the sugar, eggs, and vanilla, then we can mix it.” Eddie grabbed an egg and cracked it, but not without getting a few shells in there that you had to fish out because he said it was “too slippery.” The last egg he outright dropped on the floor, an oops slipping out of his mouth.

“The only thing we have left is to pour the mix into the pan and put it in the oven.” Eddie grabbed the bowl and started pouring it into the pan, batter getting everywhere. “Eddie! If you keep getting it everywhere Wayne isn’t going to have a cake at all!”

“Well why don’t you do it then!” he yelled. You grabbed the bowl from him, finishing up and putting it in the oven. As you wait, you and Eddie take turns scraping the bowl and eating what was left.

“Hey, you got some on your lip.” Before you could wipe it off, Eddie pulls you in for a kiss. He picks you up and places you on the counter, his body between your legs and your hands finding his hair. He slides his hands under your shirt, rings cold on your hips. Before you could begin to enjoy each other, the timer went off making Eddie groan. You grab an oven mitt and pull the cake out.

“Time to decorate! Wayne should be on his way.” Now you may be able to bake a cake, but neither you nor Eddie could decorate one to save your life. The cake had white icing pasted on and a sloppy ‘Happy Birthday Wayne!’ written on top in green. As you were making the final touches the door opened and in comes his uncle.

“Happy birthday Wayne!” You and Eddie both yell with big smiles on your face. 

Wayne took in the sight of both of you. There was a broken egg on the floor, batter on the counter, Eddie wearing an apron, flour in and on both of your hair and faces, and icing all over your fingers. All Wayne could do was laugh and shake his head thinking to himself how perfect you were for each other.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x gn!reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things imagine

[absolutepokemontrash]

A Very Lovecraftian Exchange Student

Chapter 7

Last we left off, MC had reformed after the forcible goo-ing courtesy of Lucifer, and we saw Asmo have a bit of a self loathing moment, and now, we have the group retreat to look forward to! Yay!

Previous chapter

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Fic Masterlist

Warnings: None.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“I apologize for my behaviour last night, MC.”

Lucifer Morningstar loathed to apologize. His pride would wrap around his mind and constrict his thoughts to an almost painful degree whenever the mere idea of admitting wrongdoing entered his head. It was more than just his pride, however, that caused Lucifer’s aversion to the action.

He was a demon, a high ranking one at that, and did not make mistakes often. Lucifer did not apologize for no reason, and for the idea to apologize to enter his head would be to acknowledge that he had actually done something wrong…

His brothers knew this, and knew this well. They had become used to Lucifer’s way of apologizing.

Their favourite food being made, an item they wanted placed on their end table, that was how Lucifer made his regret for his actions known. Verbal apologies were rare to the point where Satan would joke about getting it on video and charging people to watch it.

But he couldn’t just brush this particular incident away with a plate of cut fruit. He had disgraced Diavolo, and nearly killed two of the exchange students.

…and scared the shit out of Beel, which Lucifer thought should be a crime in itself.

“Oh, I forgive you, Lucifer.” MC said with a sunny smile, before turning back to the bacon and eggs they were frying on a massive pan in the kitchen. It smelled heavenly, Lucifer had to admit, but how the hell had this thing learned to cook?! “How do you like your eggs? Or are you a pancake person?”

“I…” Lucifer’s eloquence seemed to leak out of his head as the human began to hum a happy little tune to themselves. His eyes darted to his normal breakfast, his beloved coffee that was slowly dripping out of the machine, then back to the massive bowl of bacon MC was adding to.

“I am glad you’re not too perturbed by last night’s events, MC. You must allow me to make it up to you sometime, my behaviour was unacceptable-“

“Ooo, or are you a French toast person?”

“Yes I do enjoy French toast but-“ Lucifer narrowed his eyes. “Why are you not more upset?”

“What do you mean?” MC cracked another egg. “It’s like what happened with me and Levi but in reverse. I threatened you, and you responded. Everyone’s fine, I’m fine, Luke is fine, you’re fine, that strange book you were freaking out over is fine as well. Now we can have breakfast.”

“…that’s it?!”

“Yes. Do you want chocolate chips in your pancakes, Lucifer?”

Lucifer Morningstar loathed to apologize, but there was one thing he had begun to loathe more.

The exchange student.

————————

“Oh Mammon! This is so exciting!” MC squealed as they plopped a giant suitcase onto their bed and began to pile their belongings inside. “I’ve never been on a group retreat before! It sounds like so much fun!”

“Eh…” Mammon lay on the carpet looking up at the ceiling, completely unbothered. “They’re nothin’ special. S’basically a sleepover with a buncha people ya gotta pretend to get along with.”

“How novel!” MC said with an excited clap of their hands. “I won’t even have to pretend to get along with anyone! I think everyone is quite fine with me as of right now!”

Mammon looked over at MC and gave them a wince that quickly (and unsuccessfully) morphed into a somewhat supportive smile. “You uh… you get em’ tiger.”

“Thank you, Mammon! You ‘get em’ too!”

“I’m coming in because I have things to say!” The door to MC’s room burst open, Levi stood on the other side. “Stand to attention!”

MC quickly straightened their posture and happily saluted the demon at the doorway, Mammon on the other hand remained on the floor and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not one of your lackies, Levi.”

“Oh but Mammon!” MC gasped. “Grand Admiral Levi is such a rare sight!”

“Aaaaaand now he’s gone…” MC watched with a pout as Levi visibly deflated at Mammon’s complete dismissal of the third born’s authoritative entrance. “So uh… we’re going on that group retreat and stuff so uh…”

“Yes! Isn’t it exciting?”

“No! No way!” Levi gaped in disbelief at MC’s visible excitement. “This is an introvert’s worst nightmare!”

“What’s an introvert’s worst nightmare?” Beel appeared in the doorway behind Levi, then gently shouldered his way into the room. “Hi MC, hi Mammon, hi Levi, do any of you have snacks?”

“Oh of course!” MC dug through their suitcase (which most definitely would not be able to close) and threw an entire case of Oreos at Beel. “Enjoy!”

“Thank you.”

“P-pay attention to me!” Levi waved his arms and plopped down on the floor next to Mammon. “I’m enlisting all of you-“

“Cant get me to join the Navy again, Levi. We all remember the cannon incident.”

Beel nodded incredibly seriously at Mammon’s words. “We don’t talk about the cannon incident.”

“Not that kind of enlistment, stupid Mammon!” Levi huffed. “I’m trying to say that since we’re all pacted to MC, I’m going to follow at least one of you around at all times so no one I don’t want to talk to tries to speak with me!”

“But Levi,” MC furrowed their brows in confusion. “Talking to new people is so wonderful!”

“No it’s nooooooot!” Levi whined, flopping backwards onto the carpet. “Maybe for a normie extrovert like you, but an otaku like me finds socializing absolutely tortuous!”

Levi then let out a sad sigh. “My only real friend is Henry 2.0…”

“Oh come on, don’t be too hard on yourself, Lev.” Mammon said, rolling onto his stomach and propping up his head with his hands. “Your snake loved ya too~”

“BEFORE HE RAN AWAY!” Levi cried out, curling into a ball and beginning to make various whining sounds without actually crying.

“Oh boy…” Beel murmured. “Mammon, why did you have to bring up the snake..?”

“I was just tryin’ to cheer him up!”

“Oh… come here.” MC gently sat down next to Levi and pulled him into a hug. A very tight hug. “Here, use this intense expression of love and affection to feel better.”

The other two brothers could only watch in vague amusement as Levi attempted to squirm out of the hug as a deep red blush spread across his face.

“Normie affection! Normie affection! G-get back!”

“There! All better!” MC let Levi go with a sweet little smile. “We’ll take care of you on the retreat, Levi.”

A knock at the door brought everyone’s attention to Satan, who stood with his suitcase at his side. “Are you all coming, or not? We’re going to be late at this rate.”

“Geez, Satan,” Mammon got up off the floor with a roll of his eyes. “You’re startin’ to sound like Lucifer with all the ‘we’re gonna be late’ talk.”

“I’m sorry, I’m starting to sound like whom?!”

Mammon, Levi, and Beel all froze at the snarl that left Satan’s lips. MC looked between the four of them, then fully turned their attention to Satan. Whisps of green smoke leaked out of Satan’s twitching fingers as his lip curled into a sneer. MC only smiled.

“Mammon said you’re starting to sound like-“

“AH AH AH!” Both Mammon and Levi darted towards MC, quick as lighting, and slapped their hands over their mouth.

“Nah-nothin! Satan! Ya sound like yourself! Only yourself!” Mammon sputtered, a nervous smile on his face as sweat had begun to pool on his brow. Levi aggressively nodded in response, an equally horrified smile turning up his features.

“Yeah! Yeah! Just you, Satan! You sound like you!”

MC frowned in confusion, then began to slowly move their mouth to a more open location on their human body. Their neck would work, right?

“No, they said you sound like-“

“AGH!!” Levi shrieked and covered the mouth that had moved onto MC’s neck with his free hand.

“I’m trying to spea-“

The moment MC moved their mouth to the other side of their neck, Mammon slammed his free hand down on top of it.

“You heard it here, Satan!” Mammon said quickly. “You’re you! We’ll be down in a sec!”

Satan’s eyes narrowed, but the smoke at his fingertips dissipated and his eyes returned to a gentle blue. “Fine.”

And with that, Satan vanished, and the remaining brothers let out a sigh of relief.

“You shouldn’t do that, MC.”

“Do what?” MC moved their mouth to the uncovered centre of their neck and looked over at Beel.

“Compare Satan to Lucifer, he doesn’t like that.”

“Doesn’t like that is an understatement…” Mammon grumbled, removing his hands from MC, only to see that the spot under their nose where their mouth would normally be was completely blank. “M-MC, could ya..?”

“Oh! Of course!” MC moved their mouth back to its normal place. “Why doesn’t Satan like being compared to Lucifer, though? He’s so… emotion making…”

The wistful sigh that escaped MC’s lips caused the three brothers to exchange a few confused glances, before turning back to the exchange student properly.

“We should… go downstairs.” Levi mumbled.

Beel nodded in agreement. “Yeah…”

—————————

MC watched Satan look over at the clock that hung on the wall, then back down at his DDD, the exchange student then watched Lucifer do the exact same thing.

“Where is Asmodeus?!” Lucifer growled, looking down the hall towards Asmo’s room.

“Can we leave him behind?” Mammon asked, leaning on his suitcase with a grin. Lucifer shot him a warning glare before turning back to the clock.

“No.”

“Awww, boo.” Mammon said with a pout. MC patted him on the shoulder.

“Maybe Asmo is-“

“Helloooooooo darlings~!” Asmo, chipper as ever, came skipping down the halls pulling three bright pink suitcases behind him. “Rejoice! Your Asmo is here~!”

“Why… why do you have so much luggage..?” Satan was slackjawed and staring dumbly at the nearly overflowing suitcases that Asmo was tugging out the door.

“Satan, some of us like to look good,” Asmo cast a quick, almost disdainful glance over at MC, before stiffening and smirking. “And I packed light. Just think, three days and two nights with only three suitcases worth of things… I’m practically roughing it out here!”

“This doesn’t matter!” Lucifer stormed forward and held open the door, beckoning for everyone to get their things together and get out. “If we’re going to have even the slightest chance of beating the angels and Solomon to Diavolo’s castle, we need to pick up the pace!”

————————————

“I don’t think Asmodeus likes me.”

Simeon turned and tilted his head, a polite, but strained smile on his face. “Wh-why do you say that, MC?”

“He’s told me himself, several times today.”

After arriving at the castle (before the angels, much to Lucifer’s joy.) the roommate assignments had been given out, and to the Avatar of Lust’s visible dismay, he had been assigned to room with MC. Simeon had as well, and while he made a smile that looked like he was muscling through a scream, he hadn’t made his possible displeasure verbally known.

MC wasn’t terribly sure what they had done to earn Asmo’s ire. The exchange student thought that the demon was quite interesting, and very pretty, but Asmodeus didn’t seem to want to keep MC’s company.

“I think Asmodeus is just… getting used to things.” Simeon said with a shaky chuckle. “As am… as am I.”

“Ohhhh, do you think it has something to do with my me-ness?”

“Perhaps…” Simeon’s gaze shifted over to Luke, who was standing next to Diavolo as the demon prince jabbered about a particular painting of the Celestial Realm. “It is a little unnerving to find out that one of the exchange students isn’t a human, demon, or angel- no offence, MC.”

“Oh! None taken!” MC said with their usual sunny smile. “I’ve been told I’m horrific to look at sometimes.”

“By whom-“

“By Asmo. Earlier today.”

“Ah…” the angel’s gaze then shifted to the Avatar of Lust, who was chatting up some of the living paintings and seemed to be actively fishing for compliments. “Maybe with a little bit of work we could curb Asmo’s attitude.”

“You think?” MC asked with a tilt of their head. “Do you think he’ll be my friend and like me after?”

“Well, considering you have pacts with three of his brothers, you have some charm,” Simeon said with a gentle nudge. “I bet you two will be the best of friends when this is all over.”

“Really?!”

“Sure!”

“I’m going to go talk to him right now then!”

“Wait what-“

“Thanks, Simeon!”

“You physically repulse me.”

Asmo’s eyes bore straight into where MC assumed their soul must be. The Avatar of Lust had very unique eyes, MC had to note. His irises shifted and swirled with all the colours of what the exchange student had imagined a sunset would look like, and yet, despite the undeniable beauty, those wondrous eyes were filled with nothing but contempt.

“Yes, I’m aware.” MC said, still smiling. “I’d just like to know why so we can be friends.”

The demon let out a shrill peal of mocking laughter, and raised a delicate hand to cover his mouth. MC wondered if they should laugh along as well, but something in the demon’s tone stopped them. Laughter was usually a joyous sound, was it not?

The sound of Levi’s cheers mixed with disbelieving, breathy laughter after winning a game, Mammon’s sudden bouts of hysterical laughter that were usually accompanied with a fist slamming on a table or desk, to even Beel’s quiet chuckles, each sound was like music to MC’s ears. Yet, this sound felt distinctly sour, and wrong, like he was laughing at the scene of an accident.

“Friends?!” Asmo gasped in disbelief. “You think I’d ever want to be friends with something like you?”

Another smattering of cruel giggles scraped against the walls of MC’s all-too human ears, and they winced. They thought for a moment that they should tell the demon that his laugh wasn’t too pleasant to listen to, but quickly decided against it.

“Is this about what happened with Levi?” MC asked, clasping their hands behind their back and trying to keep their nice smile on their face. “Because we’ve all moved on since then. Levi and I are quite good friends now, he taught me how to play God of War, and this cute game called-“

“Oh, no. This isn’t about Levi.” A smirk slithered its way across Asmo’s face, and as MC looked into his eyes again, they felt almost… nauseous. They felt like every minute aspect of themselves was being… scanned. Evaluated.

Judged.

And MC was failing that assessment.

“This is squarely about you, MC.” The way Asmo said the name that he himself had bestowed upon MC made the exchange student shudder. The way he twisted the normally pleasant sound of their name into what could only be described as a verbal expression of visceral disgust was enough to make MC want to turn and run.

They couldn’t tell if this was a threat or not. Mere words shouldn’t hurt them, they weren’t being physically attacked so why was their body responding in such a manner? Why did they feel something twist in their gut? Why did they feel sweat begin to pool on their brow?

“I’ve seen what you really are.” Asmo said with a smile. “No amount of shifting and warping your appearance can change that.”

“What do you… mean?”

“You’re a hideous,”

Asmo poked MC in the chest.

“Grotesque,”

Another poke.

“Monstrous,”

He grabbed the front of their uniform.

“Disgusting creature who’s masquerading as something passable.” His gaze hardened as he looked into MC’s wide, shocked eyes. He stared for a moment, then another, then another. For just a second, MC wondered if he was even looking at them, or rather, his own reflection in the whites of MC’s eyes. “You’ll always be a monster, you can only hide it so much.”

————————————

MC wandered the halls of the castle that night, staring up at paintings and the intricate carvings on the tops of the walls. Their mind began to wander to what Asmo had said.

A hideous, grotesque, monstrous, disgusting creature….

That wasn’t what MC was! Not to them! They were just themselves! They had always just been themselves. They weren’t a monster any more than Asmo was a monster.

They looked up at one of the paintings that hung in a gilded gold frame in the throne room. A picture of a man and a woman, they both looked a little like Diavolo, the woman had his red hair, the man had his golden eyes…

“What do you think you’re doing, MC?”

The exchange student froze. Their eyes flicked to the left of them, where they saw a figure in the doorway to the room.

The faint light coming in from the hallway behind him obscured most of his features, but MC knew that pose and posture.

“Barbatos,” they said, turning to face him with a polite smile. “Hello!”

The demon slowly inclined his head towards the painting, and took a step forward that was so quiet and measured that MC was almost sure he was floating. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I was just looking,” MC replied, their gaze flicking back to the painting for a moment, before fully turning to Barbatos. “Who are they?”

The butler came to a stop next to the exchange student, looking down on them with a blank stare. Studying them.

He then smiled.

“Why do you want to know?”

“I’m curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“I’m not a cat.” MC answered back.

“So you’re spurred onward by the mere possibility of gaining new information, hm?”

MC nodded. “I like learning new things. I want to learn everything I can about this world I’ve stumbled into.”

For a moment, the demon’s eyes flashed yellow, and a more genuine smile cracked through the mask of politeness Barbatos seemed to always wear. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

“You’re very odd, MC.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told.”

“Even if you were a human, you’d be odd to me.” Barbatos began. “I sense Mammon’s sin on you. My sin.”

“Really?” MC blinked a few times, then looked down at their open palms. “I don’t feel anything…”

“Most don’t,” Barbatos explained, a light chuckle on the edge of his voice. “But I also sense something else.”

“What?”

“Lust.” Barbatos turned towards the paintings, his eyes scanning each and every one, like he was trying to count out the brushstrokes it must’ve taken to bring each painting to its perfect completion. “And Gluttony. You hunger for things, don’t you, MC?”

“Hm… maybe? I’m not sure, Barbatos.”

“You lust for knowledge, you’re spurred on by your desire for information, and most of all,” the butler’s eyes flicked back to them. “You crave companionship.”

MC opened their mouth to respond, but no words left their lips.

He was right.

MC was lonely.

Disgustingly lonely.

They had been their entire life.

They wanted friends. They desired the love they had seen in snippets from others. They craved to be let into the warm embrace of what Beel had explained as family. They didn’t want to be an outsider gazing in through a window, they wanted to be in the thick of it. Learn about every painfully human, angelic, and demonic emotion, feel each and every one course through their veins as easily as blood. They craved it all.

“Do you crave companionship, Barbatos?”

The butler did not reply for a moment, and the Devildom seemed to go still. MC could hear faint shifting beneath the floors, distant pattering in far off hallways, and the sound of a tree branch tapping against a window, but no sound from the demon next to them.

Until finally, they heard him take a breath. “I haven’t in a very long time.”

“When did you stop?”

“When I met Diavolo.” Barbatos said, his voice as measured, and calm as ever. “He asked me to stay with him and be his butler. His companion. And I said yes. I never hungered for company, or feared the lack of it again.”

“Oh…” MC tapped their cheek with one of their fingers. “When will I… when will I stop feeling lonely? Will I stop being scared of loneliness sometime?”

“Everyone is different, MC,” Barbatos explained. “But from how you seem to be progressing,”

He looked over at them, his stare was much more gentle than Asmo’s had been. A careful, soft little once-over, before a faint smile came to his lips.

“You won’t be lonely for much longer.”

The butler turned to leave, and MC looked back at the painting. “You never told me who these two were!”

“The king and queen.”

“Diavolo’s mother and father?” MC asked. “Where are they? Are they here?”

Barbatos stopped walking for a moment, and MC watched as he seemed to take a deep breath before speaking. “Let’s just say… Diavolo may have once been as lonely as you, MC.”

——————————

Author’s note

Yeah I have no excuse once again. School and sleep called to me like the song of a siren and I am weak willed and obeyed.

I do love me some mean girl Asmo though,,,, look at my man, projecting like that, girlie, go to therapy. Let me know what you guys thought in the tags or replies! Or you could shoot me an ask!

Taglist:

@bloopthebat @that-one-fanperson @tanspostsblog @leslie-d @here-queer-and-confused @the-noble-watermelon @m1ss-c4mrader1e @smileypenxilkid @mcx7demonbros @rottenmilkwitheggs @alanthecatdad @yeahno28 @shizunxie @simpinginthecorner @unicornhorse160 @softboi-yuu @azukoya @jxcyt @fregget-frou @jellicakee @mammonstheloml @skypie-14 @thedevioussmirk @marvelous-maniac @sylveonvillianarc @pyrotechnics84 @mothmothmothmothmothmoth @doratheexplorer111

#obey me #obey me! #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date? #obey me fic #obey me fanfic #obey me fanfiction #obey me! fic #obey me! fanfic #obey me! fanfiction #obey me MC #Obey me Lucifer #Obey me Mammon #Obey me Satan #Obey me Asmodeus #Obey me Barbatos #Obey me Leviathan #Obey me Beelzebub #Obey me Simeon #obey me AU

[tenderlyrenjun]

Golden Hour

minors + inactive/empty blogs do not interact

includes … celebrity chef!reader x idol-producer!mark, height difference, flirting, themes related to golden hour and child, kitchen sex, fingering, making out, light choking, oral sex (f receiving), penetration, safe sex ... I got a little inspired (?) and wrote this literally today after I got off work.

wc: 5,2k (two scenes)

“So …” You lean across the cluttered counter, most of the cooking utensils used thus far, since the class finished past your instruction ten minutes ago, the other party guests having already moved on to mingling and eating their bibimbap dishes, garnished by a simple omelette. “… how do you like your eggs?”

Mark licks his bottom lip, dragging it behind his teeth, and turns a brown egg, uncracked, in his hands, smoothly gliding the entire oval across his dorsal veins. He opens his mouth, but so many factors surface, once he takes everything into consideration – fried egg sandwiches during 9 AM business meetings at the studio; feta frittata eggs with a Sunday brunch mimosa; fluffy scrambled omelettes, adding an extra dash of protein, before the gym. And those are just scenarios, the last one mostly inspired by the matching, scanty gym outfit you gatekeep below that long apron, making you appear a little more exposed than his hippocampus can handle: crop top tank pushing up your chest, leggings laying so flat that he saw the outline of your thong when you spun the straps around your waist, fastening the long strands twice. Conversely, if he considers just the ingredients – of an omelette – or just the egg, ignoring his personal skill level, as shown by the pulped bibimbap dish nearly starting a fire on the hot plate at the end of his table, Mark … still has too many options.

So, he taps his neatly cut fingernail on one of the three eggs he’d been allotted at the beginning of the class and answers, “Scrambled,” slowly, because he’s used to it, to that technique. A scrambled egg is simple; no finesse. And he can cook it at any convenience, with the bare minimum number of utensils – in a pan, whisked by a fork; cracked over a steaming bowl of ramen, mixed by wooden chopsticks; heated in a microwave, nearly exploding after he sets the timer for five minutes.

Mark puts his egg back in the dispenser, sighs, and glances around the room. He honestly did not know what to expect from this “party”. Three rows of two long kitchen islands stand, placed equidistant in Renjun’s penthouse dining room, extending all the way to the living room where Jisung’s, his roommate, guitar accessories scatter across the coffee table. On his way up the elevator – actually a little before that, too, when he was at the studio, still evicting this tune he got stuck in his head, Mark considered the party to be a casual hangout, having heard that maybe 15 people, max, would be in attendance, not some theatre production, complete with a whole stage refurbishment. Ah, maybe he got his hopes up too high, relying more on the intimacy of a small party to keep him from a spatula, possibly wrapped up in conversation over a potential collaboration, like a networking event, rather than an actual cooking lesson from the youngest celebrity chef in the country’s largest metropolis with peers who doing the same as him, better than him. Mark thought he might excel, once he saw bibimbap on the schedule, the most basic breakfast dish, even though his stomach’s morning routine has been limited to toast or cereal for nearly a decade (much to Haechan’s grievance). Then, he overcooked the steak, resulting in you giving him yours; and he cooked his mushrooms first, the most potent flavor seeping down to the carrots, again resulting in you handing off your dish. The rice, really, was the only thing unscathed, mostly because he threw two cups in a cooker, leaving it untouched for 20 minutes.

“Sorry,” Mark apologizes. He winces, realizing how much of your time he monopolized during class – whether it was messing up a step in the recipe or staring at you too long until you noticed him again.

“It’s okay,” you tell him gently, bumping his arm, quickly, to scoot him down the counter. He complies, feet shuffling tinily, and watches you officially take over his project. “It happens. I think most people tend to, like, really develop their cooking skills around the same time their cells start dying,” you joke, giving him a light grin while you pull a clean glass bowl into frame.

“Mmhmm.”

Mark passes off all three eggs to you, and his fingers brush your hands, nails grazing, briefly, between your knuckles. He glances down at where they meet but jumps back to your face, stumbling at your chest, a consequence of the height difference, sternum hidden by both your boobs squished together and the apron holding them in place, albeit low-cut. You say nothing, instruct nothing, since the class is practically over (and he stays, like a teacher’s pet), so he leans back, checking out the gap in your apron, just to make sure you really do wear, like, actual clothes, including that thong he saw earlier, small triangle branded on your lower back like a tramp stamp. And you do! – wear clothes, which, at least, concludes one of his spinning thoughts today (it’s not even six o’clock yet, the time work usually ends). Then, his stomach rumbles, reminding him that breakfast was 12-hours ago.

“You’re, um, really good at this,” he brings his attention back to the purpose of this party.

“Yeah, thanks,” you accept, tone vocally light, which almost has him thanking you, too – be-because you have given him something to focus on this afternoon, temporarily relieving himself from the mental journalling his brain has been writing since 4 AM (would that be weird?; he doesn’t do it anyways). “I have a degree in physical chemistry,” you tell him, sharply whisking the eggs into a consistent yellow solution. “I’m making them eggs fluffy. I hope that’s okay.” You look at him, pausing the wooden sticks between your fingers, bowl pressed into your stomach, below your chest, and he has to look, bouncing from your eyes to boobs bowl.

Mark nods, twice, eyes widening downward, like a baby cheetah, half his bottom lip inside his mouth again, teeth chewing at the seam. He can’t trust himself not to stutter, not when his tongue falls numbly over his lower incisors and his toes bear his entire body weight, palms pushed into the edge of the counter to balance him.

“Sorry,” you apologize, reflexively, in the silence. And he winces, involuntarily stepping forward to revoke his silence, to verbally answer you so that you don’t have to take your eyes off the food. But you talk again and explain, “I’m not really used to the, like, customer service yet.” Your arms tense again, restarting the whisking, blending out the albumen on the perimeter. His fingers, too, strain, flexed wide enough to display his webbed metacarpal. If you were like his other friends, like Renjun, Mark might have already started massaging your shoulders, getting you to relax. But you’re not. And he barely knows you, mostly knows of you, from all the interviews preceding him in the magazine, little tidbits floating around the Internet as if fact without giving you the opportunity to confirm or deny them. “Sometimes, I just start cooking and forget to ask people – customers –“ You point at him, and he wishes you wouldn’t. It adds to the distance between you, making him count the millimeters you retracted when your fingers brushed tips. “– about their preferences.” You turn the electric stove top on, over medium heat, then reach for aluminium-wrapped slice of butter, unwrapping it at the back and pushing the soggy square (Mark winces again; that is probably his fault, having waiting too long to use it) into the pan via chopsticks. “But I’m, uh, I’m working on it.” You pull the pan off the stove, butter halfway melted, easy for you to slip and slide, coating the entire surface. And once you finish, putting it back to melt the rest, you glance around the room, small whisper drawing his ear to your lips. “It’s just hard … being the youngest person in the room, always obligated to absorb everyone’s opinions, everyone’s advice – whether solicited or not, kinda balancing this dichotomy where people want to guide you into what they think is the right direction or completely takeover the thing you’re doing.” You stab at the remaining butter with your chopstick, wood thumping the metal pan, then, lower the stove heat and sigh, “Sorry, that sounds weird, I know.”

“No, I, uh, I get it,” Mark croaks, stuttering getting even worse after you hand the glass bowl of whisked eggs to him. He tries to, like, replace you in front of the stove, but you stand still and guide both his hands on the rim, fingers filling in the gaps between his. You face the bowl toward his chest, a little lower than he would do on his own, but he keeps quiet at the discomfort, body stiffened, diaphragm concaved all the way. He tilts the eggs out fast, faster than you probably intended because you put up more resistance against him, slowing the pour until the curds form gently in the pan. You pull away first, completing his plan – in which he stands at the stove, you at the side. And Mark smacks his lips, tongue pushing on his bottom lip. “You’re trying to find some equilibrium between your environment – the people, the setting, whatever – and your own identity.” You hand him the cooking chopsticks, temporarily distracting his train of thought, but he bounces back quickly when you nudge his hand over the pan, directing him through scrambling the egg curds, through pushing the eggs outward to inward. “S-sometimes,” he breathes, shakily, grounding his body in cooking, “people will tell me that I’m, like, mature for my age, or – or, like, an old soul, and give me more responsibilities than I know what to do with. And it’s not like I can’t ask for help or anything; everyone gives me enough unsolicited advice to make me feel, like, okay, or whatever, with asking for help. But other times, people feel this need to, like, take care of me.” You hand him a rubber spatula and take away the chopsticks, which slightly proves his point, but he keeps to that point, using the spatula to put around the eggs evenly, fluffing them edges to middle. “Thanks.”

“Mmhmm,” you acknowledge before sitting on the counter, blue Nikes swinging against a cabinet door. And Mark copies you, leaning on the counter, just right of the electric stove and pan, eyeing you up. “Eyes on the pan, Mark.”

“Right, yeah.”

Mark uncrosses his arms and turns back to the last step of his bibimbap, folding the eggs over itself. But they look complete, a little wet, yellow dark and runny, but still, complete.

“Do I, um, do I do anything else?” he asks, holding both the handles of the pan and spatula. He cautiously looks up at you, through his own lashes, careful not to stutter at your chest again (even though you sit with your palms digging into your knees, biceps supporting their weight higher). You stare at him a second, something indiscernible crossing your mouth, then you shake your head, fringe falling in front of your ears, prompting you to tuck them back.

“Is there something else you want to do?”

Ask you out.

Maybe.

A beat passes.

“I don’t know,” Mark answers, nervously laughing to himself, under his breath. “I, uh, usually see people add stuff at the end – like, sprinkle some cilantro or squirt a side of ketchup.”

You hop down the counter and walk around his side, putting the pan between the two of you, which makes Mark tilt his head left, almost bonking his long blond hair (really his shoulder) on your head, if the height difference hadn’t returned. And the spatula drops from his hand, involuntarily he tells himself, when you nudge into his personal space. You catch it, not so easily, he notices – and apologizes, then you undo his folds to the omelette.

“People usually add spices and veggies to taste,” you start, not looking at him. “The eggs should be slightly wet when you’re adding the final ingredients, so you need to act quick –”

Mark jumps behind you, arm reaching across the counter, toward the far side, at the bowl of diced vegetables mixed with crushed pepper. He shakes it across the eggs, like he’s seen TV chefs do on Netflix. The silence, as you watch him top off the omelette with a literal pinch of salt, is a deafening few seconds, and he feels a sense of pride, that expectation of him excelling returning to the scene as he hoped before the class. But it leaves his body, the next second, when he realizes how close he stands to you – his chest pressed against your shoulders; your neck bending backwards, nearly resting on his bicep just to see his face.

“Ye-yeah,” you stutter, and suddenly, he sees you less confidently, and his mouth dries, preventing him from both apologizing for the intimacy and moving. “Just like that.” You swallow, thickly, fleetingly dipping your gaze to his lips; so quick, he thinks he hallucinated it.

“Th-then, does it, um, does it look done now?”

Mark’s shoulders stagger to his ears, tucking his chin to chest. He pulls his stomach backward, without the rest of his body, standing like a geometric abstract painting, limbs stacked one on top of the other.

You snap your head back to the pan, hair hitting his shirt. “Wh – Yeah, no, yeah, you were perf – good; you did good.” You kick up your elbow, outside his oblique, parenthetically trapping him tightly in place (otherwise, he’d fall). He watches you repeat his fold in the eggs, this time with ingredients sandwiched in the middle, yolk running less and less, tucking bell peppers and mushrooms inside. It’s a basic dish – the omelette – not even complete, since it will top the bibimbap.

Making an omelette takes longer than he thought it would, to be honest; well, making a good omelette. And this is probably the reason why he never makes one himself. All the recipes say 5-10 minutes, including prep time, but he has been here, with you, probably longer than that. Although, it could be his fault, needing to fill the silence with words, to say something – because he really cannot talk and check you out at the same time. You keep the conversation going, always articulating something interesting or relatable, to him, beyond the simple stuck-in-a-matrix TikTok clickbait that Renjun sends him at three in the morning. So, when you start moving again, shutting down the stove, plating his bibimbap, and untying your apron, Mark grabs your arm, fast, just strong enough to catch your attention; he releases immediately upon receiving your eye contact.

“Don’t,” he breathes, somehow winded. Then, he inhales, sharply, filling his lungs. “Eat with me?” he asks, “un-unless you have somewhere else to be.”

You turn around, at a better angle, back pushed against the stove buttons, apron hanging half an inch off your body. And Mark grabs you by the waist, hauling you into his chest, away from the sparking stove. But you both push each other away again, noticing the intimacy, hands rubbing into where you touched each other – you at your hips, him at his chest. And the two meter distance returns.

“No, I, um, I was just going to the gym after this.” You look him up and down, and his eyes sparkle. “But, no, yeah.” You take off the apron completely, folding it onto the counter. “I c-can eat with you. Just let me get a spoon.”

Mark produces one nearly out of thin air (really, he swiped one of the three off the counter to make space for your apron). “We can share,” he nods at the ceramic bowl, “this bibimbap. Yours is probably cold by now,” he reasons, because, if you go, you might not come back, and he doesn’t want to let this be a mirage or, worse, be a dream; dreams can become nightmares. And as another beat overtakes the conversation, overtakes his request and explanation, Mark thinks he fell into another night with the same nightmare. The bibimbap is only a single serving, if that, drowned by three servings of eggs. You barely know him, only revealing maybe one or two vulnerable thoughts, on which he piggybacked his own apprehensions. And really, Mark should feel bad, about monopolizing your time both during and after class, even though this is technically a party and he has yet to say more than three words to his best friend, Renjun. He phrased his request, less like a question, more like a demand, and he can’t find a reason why you would agree, his brain already lined up three objections for you to reject –

“Okay.”

Mark freezes, hand clenching around the air, since you took the spoon away from him (he hadn’t noticed  you did that, to be honest). He only moves after you squeeze his arm, guiding him away from the stove too, like he did you, except the stove is really off right now. And everything rushes out at once – he follows you to the side, still far from the rest of the party guests, who he, frankly, forgot were in the room still, despite this not being his apartment; and he repeats, “Okay.” Mark tilts his head to the side, you blurring the rest of his vision. “Okay? Okay. Cool, cool, okay, cool.” You hop back on the counter and skulk your foot between his thighs, bringing him a little bit closer, out of the aisle. His hands fall on both your sides, lowering him down your chest, which looks about the same without the apron – pushed up and compressed together. “Actually …”

Mark’s request for you to eat with him changes.

In terms of location and subject.

He brought up that the bibimbap might not be an ideal meal to share, and that he wants to share a meal with you. It took a couple minutes, skirting around the whole date question, since he literally only knew you a couple hours, but if you know, you know. And Mark knew that he really wanted to see you more … privately. So, eventually, he got through the question, getting you back to his apartment on the lie that he has more food at home. But you never confirmed his lie, or maybe you never doubted him (he’ll clear it up later), because you shove him against the wall, kissing him between the photos of his friends and family, who he definitely does not want to see him railing the girl of his dreams.

Mark changes the position, scratching his nails up your scalp, behind your head, coiling thick strands around his fingers while he walks you down the living room to his bed, never letting up on the embrace.

However, the two of you fall on the ground, in the kitchen, Mark’s elbow slamming into the ground first as he tries to protect you from the hard wood floors. He yelps in pain, too, but you poke your tongue in his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck. You stumble toward his lips, chest beating on his, your back coming off the ground, nearly toppling him over. And Mark fumbles, hand feeling around the floor until he can sit upright, sloped against the island cabinets, which seem to have a lot of use today. He raises his chin higher, trying to match the way you bounce on his lap, cupping his face still. And, Jesus Christ, Mark compares your lips to every other person he has ever kissed before – his newest hairstylist a year after he became an adult; the concessions stand clerk at the movie theatre when he was 17; another idol he met through a mixed-up sandwich. You’re better than all of them, he concludes, swollen lips as pliant at his half-lidded eyes, puckering repeatedly to give you a sounding board each time you dive into his face. He grabs your ass, like an anchor, heels of his palms kneading into the muscles.

“Mm – Mark,” you moan, not breaking apart, hot breath exhaling down his tongue. You stand on your knees, and your nails drag into his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Fuck.”

Mark kisses you again, harder, bending you across his legs, one hand belting behind your waist, the other slamming into the ground. You hang off his neck, nearly dragging him on the floor with you, had he not already set himself up for support. Then, he starts falling back into the island, repeatedly pecking you, one last lick on your teeth before pulling away. He needs the reprieve, to organize his thoughts, figure out the first way he can fuck you tonight without blundering like a clumsy virgin. And when he peaks an eye open, he sees yours still closed; sees your chest heaving, the neckline somehow lower. So, Mark kisses you again, more chaste, patting down the side of your hair until his palm rests on your cheek.

“Why – why did you stop?” you ask, sinking your ass onto his thighs.

“I –“ Mark swallows. He wants you in his bed now, thrusting into you so rough that his blue sheets tear off the corners. He also wants you on his couch, the next immediate mattress, rubbing his boner up your tight, giving each other tight hand jobs, clinging to each other just to save room. But as he darts across your now flushed face, Mark is momentarily returned to that first moment when he saw you walk into Renjun’s apartment, a confident chef who eventually gave him your full attention, and he answers, “On the counter.” He taps your ass, getting you both to stand. He helps you jump on the granite, hands around your waist to place you perfectly in front of him.

“Like this?”

You wrap your legs and arms around him, nearly falling off, so Mark scoots closer to the edge, his mostly hard cock grazing the edge and your knee.

“Yeah,” he hisses, hands traveling down your calves, like a massage. “Good girl,” he praises. Mark brings one up your thigh, between your thighs, not quite touching the middle just yet. “Can I?” he asks, thumb resting on your stomach, above the waist band he already folded down your belly button. You both stare at each other, delicately grinding the paper-thin air between you two. Then, you roll down the counter, humping his abs so tightly that his shirt rides up.

“Yeah, Mark, please,” you moan again. “You c-can touch.”

Mark, impatient, doesn’t take your pants off, sliding all five digits down your stomach, palm facing you. His longest fingers trace your underwear, mentally drawing himself a picture of the thong you kept hidden from him for hours. It’s thinner than he imagined, wetter, too, the skinny string disappearing between your pussy lips, choking your clit. Mark breathes down your lips, inhaling through his nose as your breath hitches repeatedly, open-mouthed, staccato ah’s decreasing in octaves from moans to groans. He pads his index and ring finger on either side of your cunt, middle finger stroking your clit lightly. Actually, he tries not to touch you directly, wanting the ghost of his fingers to burn your loins first, but you keep grinding closer and closer to him; eventually, his fingers slip inside, starting with two interphalangeal creases. The tightness of your leggings holds his wrist against your lower stomach, but his fingers have some range, able to gesture for your G-spot to come hither, to find him.

“Wanna fuck you so bad,” he whimpers, kissing you again before you can retort – because it’s not a request; he’s not asking. Mark is telling you that he wants to fuck you so bad, right now, monster cock straining his jeans fully.

“You can,” you tell him between a kiss. Mark’s free hand holds you around the neck, palm on your jugular, thumb reaching across your larynx. Nothing supports your head, so you keep rocking forward, incidentally dropping further down his fingers in your cunt, stifling your voice box in his hand. “You can f-fuck – fuck – me, Mark.”

He almost takes you up on it, even stripping the both of you down to your underwear. And he finds out that your bra has been holding up your boobs, not your crop top, not the apron, your bra. He hopes you have a duplicate of this one, because he’s going to rip it.

Not actually though.

In reality, outside his thoughts, Mark hesitates. His cock twitches on his stomach, smooth tip leaking under the waistband, as he debates how he wants to get between your legs. Either way – stuffing you with his cock or lapping at your walls – would sprawl you across his kitchen counter, displaying you like a perfect meal prepared by his Michelin charisma, having moved the appetizer (flirting) from Renjun’s apartment into a main dish at his place. His place. Oh, yeah, you definitely have all night. So, Mark settles between your thighs, pushing your knees more open.

“No more teasing,” he tells you.

“What – Oh, fuck, just like that, Mark!”

You fall onto your forearms, over the counter, as Mark licks his way into your pussy, one finger holding the tiny thong string off to the side. He extends his tongue, all the way, angling his head diagonally. He keeps his wet muscle still and shakes his head, side-to-side, nose rubbing just outside your labia, more on your thigh, pushing your pussy lips together so tightly that your clit bears most of the tension. You moan his name, repeatedly, growing louder and louder over each passing syllable, encouraging him further – or, rather, deeper.

Mark pulls his dick out of his pants, stroking down only once, holding the pulsing base firmly, prematurely lining himself with the thought of your cunt.

“Ah, Mark,” you scream, palm slamming into the counter. Mark throws his glance at your face and sees your lips form a giant ‘O’ – God, he could fuck your mouth pussy. And he strokes himself again. The way you squirm on his kitchen island realigns your clit with his nose, and you grind the little nub on his nub, the hard ball jingling wetly. Your ass, too, bounces on the table, practically spanking yourself on the granite. Mark bites his lips higher, catching your clit in a hard suction, drinking the shaky nerves, tongue abrading the entire surface area. You return your hands to his hair, scratching into his scalp, never tugging him away, only yanking him tighter. And your thighs quiver, squeezing his cheeks, knees outlining his ears. “Mark, Mark,” you chant, “Mark, I’m gonna – I’m gonna – Oh, my God, I’m gonna – “

Then, he pulls away.

And you nearly scream again.

“Mark,” you whine for a good few seconds.

“Wait for me,” he tells you, holding your chin between his thumb and index finger to press a quick kiss on your lips. You try to elongate the kiss again, your sweaty ass adhering on the counter, but he pulls away fully after the one quick kiss. “Good girls wait,” he mumbles.

Mark leaves for a second, heading into his bathroom for a condom.

He catches himself in the mirror, toned abs full on display, lengthy cock flopping sans balls outside his briefs. His hair, too, has more volume than it normally does, even when his stylist fixes it up for concerts or stages (who knew sex hair looked this good?). Mark checks himself out another minute, then grabs a neatly packed L-condom. He exhales, jumping once, only to realize that it was a mistake when his dick hits his thigh. And he takes a moment, to just breathe, before going back to you, cock now wrapped up with protection.

In the kitchen, Mark finds you fingering yourself, writhing on the counter, opposite hand covering your mouth. He watches a little bit longer (but not long enough to be a pervert), then stalks between your thighs. You gasp, eyes widening.

“I thought I told you, ‘Good girls wait’.”

Your chest heaves a few seconds, and he realizes that he probably disturbed your orgasm a second time.

“I – I need to prep myself,” you explain, weakly, but he lets it go with the next half of your sentence boosting his ego, “Your dick is too big.”

“Mmhmm,” he nods. Mark wraps your thong around his dick, the little tiny crotch part choking his length, and rubs the new apparatus on your vulva, until you whine again, writhe again. “You’re gonna like it big,” he mumbles before untangling himself and impaling his cock all the way inside your cunt. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, shallowly thrusting half an inch out your labia, the acute angle between your bodies chafing his cock under your clit. Your pussy throbs at a 3010 tempo, practically squeezing him out, which gives him an excuse to thrust again, to bottom out again, the furthest part in your uterus clinching his leaky tip. “You – you feel s-so close,” Mark lisps, “T-to cumming.”

“I am,” you confirm, voice tight, moans asphyxiating your throat. “Mm – Mark, close.”

“Go ahead,” he tells you. “Come on, baby, you can cum. Be a good girl, cum.” Mark abuses your cunt harder, holding your waist lowly, sliding your ass off the counter as he pounds you harder and harder, cock driving up your pussy at the perfect angle, for what seems like the both of you. He tries continuously accelerating his speed, but as your pussy strangles him, and his thighs bruise on your ass, his cock flops around inside your cunt, spinning clockwise, ricocheting your walls.

“Ah, ah, ah!”

Mark weighs down your hips with one hand, the other tilting your chin up to look at him, to watch just him make you feel so damn good. Somewhere along the moaning and the sloshing, Mark squeezes his eyes shut, a familiar pressure building in his ears; he chases it, bucking his hips faster, spanking his thighs on your ass, your pussy ultimately trapping his tip deep in your uterus, only letting his shaft spring back and forth, veins stinging your velvety walls.

“Fuck, fuck, yeah, good girl,” Mark raps in one breath, all the music in his head building up and up and up, until the bass drops, and white noise backs up your screams like an instrumental. He digs his thumbs into your waist, grinding his hips on your labia, burying his cum as far as it can go, though impeded by the condom. And he lays down on the counter with you, feet floating off the ground.

You curl into his side, his arm wrapping around your shoulders. He can hear you steady your breathing, and it slows his, too. The moment hangs in the air, much like his feet, and Mark doesn’t know how much time passes, only enough for him to close his eyes, not a single thought behind those lids.

But you break the silence, mumbling something into his naked shoulder.

“Hmm? What was that?”

Mark lifts his head up, opening his eyes to stare at your newly shy smile.

“I just noticed you never asked me how I liked my eggs,” you laugh.

And Mark laughs too. “Okay, so how do you like your eggs then?” he plays along.

“Fertilized.”

#nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream smut #mark lee smut #mark lee x reader #nct fluff #? #nct fanfic #nct mark smut #nct mark x reader #nct drabbles #nct drabble #nct mark drabble #mark drabble

[luxaofhesperides]

those who serve.

CHAPTER SIX: a break.

read the previous chapter here or the entire fic on ao3.

this is 11.5k.... this fic will never end..... surprise i still have no idea how long this will be. tentatively setting the goal to end at 9 chapters total. taglist will be in a rb, ask to be added or removed!

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Danny doesn’t sleep. He dozes lightly, enough for his thoughts to slow down without losing his awareness of the world around him, but he doesn’t sleep.

How can he? 

He didn’t find a shady basement full of illegal things. No, he found an entire cave used as a home base for Gotham’s heroes. 

It is a very nice cave. Not dark and wet and miserable at all, as he thought all caves were. It did have bats, though, but most stayed away from the main cavern. And it was big; multiple different levels, all full of different things. Part of him wants to go back to snoop around, but the larger, more wary and sensible part wants to run away and pretend this night never happened.

Danny stays in bed until the clock hits 7AM. Then he heaves a sigh and pulls himself out of bed, forgoing changing out of his pajamas in favor of walking through walls directly to the kitchen. He’s still reeling from what he’s discovered, torn between wanting to run away and wanting to learn more about them.

They’re heroes. Actual, legitimate heroes, and he works for them. When else is he going to get a chance like this?

But if they see him as a threat…

Well. It’s not like Danny has much. If he needs to, he can just walk out of the manor and never be seen again. 

Although, it might be a little harder now that he has a legal identity and they can put out a missing person report on him. 

The kitchen is dark and still when he arrives. Even Alfred isn’t up yet, it seems. Which makes sense; if he’s wrangling a bunch of heroes until three in the morning, he’d need to wake up later in the day to get enough sleep. Danny hopes it’s not a regular thing, staying up to help the rest of the Gotham heroes—who he still can’t believe are the Waynes—because that would mean Alfred had been forgoing sleep or running off of very little in order to have their dawn chats while Danny was living on the streets. 

He should make breakfast for Alfred.

The rest of the Wayne family can fend for themselves. Though he doubts any of them will wake up until much, much later. 

A large part of him still balks at rummaging through someone else’s kitchen without permission. Never mind that in order to do his job, he has to; his poor Midwestern heart demands he respect other people’s spaces. He has to push it down as hard as he can just to open the fridge and look through it, trying to think of what he can make. 

Nothing too difficult. He can barely make pasta dishes on his own and he still tenses when the fridge opens, fully prepared to take down reanimated food. 

There’s a lot of fresh vegetables and fruits. Milk and eggs, too. That’s… maybe something he can work with?

Danny pulls out a few fruits and sets them onto the counter next to the sink. It takes him a few seconds of indecision to decide on which knife to take from the knife block, then grabs the smallest one he can find, just to be safe.

It’s not like he needs a big one to peel and cut fruit. 

He makes a mess trying to get everything plated, apple peels of all different sizes scattered on the counter and strawberries bleeding down his hands as he cuts them into halves after removing the leafy heads. They don’t come up exactly even, but it’s good enough that Danny decides he can serve them to Alfred without shame. 

Cracking the eggs goes fine, after he’s done with the fruits. No pieces of shell fall into the greased frying pan and the yolk is intact until he accidentally hits it when trying to move the egg closer to the middle of the pan. Fuck it, he decides, frantically mixing it all together, scrambled eggs it is.

No one will know he messed up. No one.

He seasons the eggs lightly, then gets them on a separate plate. 

Fruits and eggs doesn’t seem very filling, so Danny hunts through the refrigerator once more and comes out with a tub of vanilla yogurt. He scoops it out into a small bowl then tops it off with granola and honey. 

Fruits, eggs, yogurt. That’s a breakfast, right? It’s the healthiest and fanciest breakfast he’s ever made. He certainly never got this back home, usually going for cereal or bread on the days he wasn’t running late to school. 

Danny sets everything onto the kitchen table, ready to wait for Alfred to wake up. Then he realizes he hasn’t set out anything to drink and panics, tearing through the cabinets like hurricane, frantically searching for tea.

This house doesn’t use teabags, he realizes with despite when he comes up boxes up boxes of loose tea leaves. 

Did people really drink it like this? How?

He brings down a box of English breakfast tea; it sounds perfect for Alfred, if only he knew how to brew it.

Despairing, Danny drops his head onto the counter and sighs heavily.

“That was quite the sigh,” a deep voice rumbles behind him. Danny jumps up to the ceiling, floating in the air as he tries to get away from Bruce, who has once again snuck up on him unnoticed. “Ah. Sorry for startling you,” Bruce offers.

It’s hard to believe this man is a vigilante who protects all of Gotham.

“It’s fine,” Danny replies weakly. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, I asked you first.”

“I supposed you did,” Bruce concedes with a small smile. “I just came up from the Batcave. I haven’t slept yet, and it’ll have to wait until I return to the manor after lunch.”

It’s even harder to believe that billionaire Bruce Wayne can call anything the Batcave with a straight face, yet here they are. This dimension is so bizarre. 

“I just came up to grab something to drink,” Bruce says. He turns his attention to the fridge, looking through it before he pulls out a carton of apple juice and pours himself a cup.

Slowly, Danny floats back down to the ground, silently setting his feet down. 

“Don’t tell the kids,” Bruce says as he takes a sip from his cup.

“Um. What?”

“That I’m drinking their juice. They each have their own juice that they are very protective of and they always get in fights over who else is drinking it, or ‘stealing it’ as they say.”

“And it’s you?”

“As I said. Don’t tell, Danny. Let me have my fun.”

“Sure, I guess.” He is amused by that, but the way Bruce is so casual and friendly with him despite having his secret identity be revealed makes Danny’s nerves stand on edge. It reminds him too much of Vlad, always acting friendly and nice to try and sway Danny over to his side, only to react violently when Danny refused.

“I’ll get out of your hair now,” Bruce says, putting his now empty cup down in the sink. “We’ll train later today. And we can talk about the family secret you’ve stumbled upon before you head to bed, alright?”

Not alright, not at all, but Danny did agree to training. Even if that was before he knew about Bruce being a vigilante. As much as he isn’t looking forward to it, he’s also not a quitter. He’ll worry about it more when the time comes. Surely that won’t end badly for him.

“Okay,” Danny says quietly. Bruce gives him a parting nod, then leaves the kitchen. Danny’s eyes follow him until he’s sure the man is gone, not yet ready to turn his back on him. As nice as Bruce has been, he’s also very dangerous. Now, Danny knows why but he’s been burned too many times to just believe someone when they claim to be a crime fighting hero.

Usually, he’s the crime they’re fighting, attacking him with prejudice when all he wanted was to protect people and ghosts from each other. 

He doesn’t even want to think about how things would have turned out if he hadn’t met Alfred, if the Wayne family—not a mob family but clearly just as dangerous—went after him without that buffer. Would they have driven him out of Gotham? Made sure he couldn’t be safe in this dimension either?

If things ever go too badly, maybe he can track down Martin Manhunter and beg for help?

There’s nothing more he can do now but see how it all turns out and prepare for the worst. No one else is in the kitchen, and when he strains his hearing, it’s clear that there’s no one nearby. Deeming it safe enough, Danny dares to turn his back to the kitchen entrance and return to his tea making struggle. 

Rummaging through drawers gets him a tea infuser he has no idea how to use. To think he used to complain about how long it took to make Jazz’s tea. At least she used tea bags like a normal person. 

This is rich people nonsense. This is too much effort for tea. Alfred will just have to do with some water, unless he also enjoys stealing other people’s juice.

He’s just starting to put the tea away when a knock on the doorframe startles him. Danny looks behind him and relaxes when he sees it’s only Alfred, looking as put together as ever despite the early hour.

“Good morning, Alfred,” he says, “I made you breakfast! And I tried to make you tea but I don’t actually know how to make it when it’s not in a tea bag.”

“Good morning, Danny. Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Alfred smiles. “Have you already eaten?”

“Oh. No, not feeling very hungry right now.”

“I would prefer if you ate something. Sit, I will make something light for you.”

“No, no need! I can just eat like. Yogurt or something.”

He really doesn’t think he can stomach anything when he’s still reeling over the fact that his employers have a giant underground cave for crime fighting and has no idea how to interact with them anymore. They seem fine with his powers so far, but what happens when they start to see him as dangerous? Or worse, interesting?

Interesting is what gets him captured and cut open and studied. Danny doesn’t think he can survive that, halfa or not.

“Very well,” Alfred says, but Danny can see the way he forces back a frown, the line of his shoulder drawn tight. Before he can start fixing Danny a bowl, Danny ushers him into his seat and works on quickly taking care of his own small breakfast, leaving his yogurt plain. 

Alfred frowns at the amount he puts in his bowl, but doesn’t say anything. He waits until Danny sits across from him to thank him for the breakfast. 

They eat in silence, the silence not quite as comforting as it had been in the past. Danny’s too on edge to let his guard down any more, despite how much he wants to trust Alfred. He needs to see with his own eyes that the Waynes mean him no harm, that he can trust them to be good and let him live quietly and safely. 

When he can’t take the silence anymore, staring down at his empty bowl, Danny says, “Superheroes, huh.”

“I would be more than happy to answer any questions you have.”

There’s so much Danny wants to ask that it all crashes together into a tangled mess in his head. Instead of important questions like how often is the city in danger to need so many heroes or aren’t you afraid they’ll all die and you won’t be able to do anything about it, what comes out is, “When they asked who my favorite hero was at dinner, were they just looking for an ego boost?”

Alfred laughs, the lines in his brow smoothing out some. “Oh, yes. They are a rather vain lot when it comes to their night identities.”

It eases the tension in the air, makes it easier for Danny to relax enough to focus on the conversation and keep his mouth from running ahead of his mind. “So, I know Dick is Nightwing. Who’s everyone else?”

“They would be very excited to tell you themselves, but they’re also not going to wake up for many hours yet. I will tell you the basics, but I encourage you to ask them about this,” Alfred says. “Master Bruce is Batman. He is the very first vigilante in Gotham. He is among the first generation of heroes and a founder of the Justice League. Master Richard is Nightwing, as you’ve said, and he leads the Titans in New York when he is not here. Master Tim is Red Robin and often works with many other heroes and groups, such as the Teen Titans. Master Damian is the current Robin and Master Duke is the newest of us, operating in the day as the Signal.”

“That’s a lot.”

“There are more. Mistress Cassandra is Black Bat. She has recently returned from Hong Kong. Miss Barbara Gordon is Oracle, who is the leader of the Birds of Prey and works digitally. There are many others who operate within Gotham or visit the manor, and I’m sure you’ll meet them in due time.”

“Great,” Danny offers weakly. So many heroes, just in Gotham. He’s seen firsthand how bad it can be, all the crime and dangerous villain plots, but it’s also concerning to know that this world has such a need for all these heroes. He was enough in his old dimension, as Phantom. 

But he wouldn’t be enough here. There’s constant danger everywhere, and he realizes now that he’s taken the peace of him home dimension for granted. Admittedly, at the time, it didn’t seem like peace when he was dodging ghost hunters and the government and trying to wrangle ghosts. But all of that was mostly kept in Amity Park, and he was the person most affected by it so there weren’t many civilians getting caught in the crossfire. 

“Do they have powers?” he asks.

“No. All they do is a result of their own skill, hard work, and equipment.”

“So they’re just normal humans beneath the masks?”

“Yes, they are.”

The knowledge sends a chill down his spine. He would panic when Sam or Tucker or Jazz got caught in a ghost fight, even when they were equip with Fenton Blasters or something else that they could use to defend themselves. And that was just against ghosts! Here there are people waving around guns, fully prepared to kill, and the members of the Wayne family go out only in colorful armor? 

They could die so easily. All it would take is one good shot, one unlucky hit, and they’re gone forever.

“How do you stand it?”

“Pardon?”

“How do you stand watching them all go out and endanger themselves? How can you be fine with just staying here?”

Alfred leans back in the chair and looks to the window, gaze distant. “I am not fine. I never will be. But I also see how much good they are capable of, how many lives they save because they choose to risk themselves each night. They are all good, good people who want the world to be a better place and are willing to fight for it.”

He pauses for a long moment, lost in thought, then says, “I will always worry about them. Even when they go out as civilians. As much as I would like to keep them safe within these walls forever, I know that they would be unhappy living like that. It’s enough to know that they will do all they can to come home to me and be cared for. I tend to their wounds and ensure they can rest and heal in the manor. It is very rarely enough, but it’s better than nothing.”

“My parents hurt me,” Danny admits quietly. He keeps his gaze fixed on the table, trying to ignore how tense Alfred becomes, the heavy weight of his full attention. “When they found out what I am, what I can do, I just… stopped being their son and became their… prey? Target? Mission? I wish I had someone like you back then, because then it wouldn’t have hurt so much all the time. But all I had was my sister and my friends and they can’t do much against adults except help me escape.”

“I am so sorry, my boy, that you have had to suffer so much. But you’re here now, and I will take care of you, just as everyone else in this household will. You are not alone, Danny.”

Danny shrugs, slouching in his seat. “Thanks,” he mutters. 

“Well!” Alfred claps his hands together, the suddenness of the sound making Danny flinch, then he rises to his feet. “We have much to do today. Would you like to help me make breakfast for the rest of the household? Or would you like to tend to the vegetable garden?”

“What will I have to do for the vegetable garden?”

“Water the plants, pull any weeds, and also pick a few cucumbers and bell peppers, if you would.”

Danny offers Alfred a small salute and slides out of the chair. “I’m on it, boss!”

He ducks out the back door, grateful to be given an escape from the conversation and all the unpleasant memories it brought up, and takes his time walking to the vegetable garden. The sun is fully above the horizon now, and though it’s still cloudy, it’s not enough to block out the sunlight that rains down onto the garden. 

He hits up the small shed for a water can, then fills it up to the very top until it spills out whenever it’s jostled. He waters each raised bed, making sure the to get every inch of dirt thoroughly soaked.

It takes refilling the water can another four times before everything is watered and tended to. There are barely any weeds to pull, but he searches carefully just in case any escaped him the first time, then gets to carefully picking cucumbers and bell peppers, lifting up the hem of his shirt to create a makeshift basket. 

All of that takes the better part of an hour, which is apparently enough time for more people to wake up, and for Alfred to make a full spread of breakfast left on the kitchen island, while the man himself is nowhere to be found.

Damian is sitting at the table, eating, when he reenters the kitchen. Danny freezes for a moment and just looks at Damian, takes in how young he is, how small, and is horrified that anyone lets him out so late at night to fight crime.

“Good morning,” Damian says, setting down his fork, “As you now are aware of our secret identities, let it be known that if you endanger any of us, I will remove your limbs for your body. Slowly.”

“Sure,” Danny replies, distracted as he tries to get all the vegetables onto the counter without dropping any of them. “Sounds fair. Quick question: aren’t you too young to be fighting crime? Shouldn’t there be an age requirement or something?”

Damian scoffs. “I have trained since I could walk. I am made to be the heir to the Bat and the Demon’s head. I am more than capable of defeating the criminals of Gotham.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better about this whole situation.”

“It’s none of your business anyways. As long as you stay out of it, none of this will be a problem for you.”

“As long as I’m here, I won’t be able to stay out of it,” Danny says. “I just don’t have that kind of luck. The world always finds some way to screw me over.”

Damian doesn’t speak again, so Danny takes that as his cue to focus on putting all the vegetables away. There’s nothing more they can add to that conversation anyways, so Danny is more than happy to put it behind him and pretend at normalcy again. 

He wonders where Alfred went, wondering if it would be rude to just leave while Damian is still around to search for him. He’s still pondering it when Damian asks, quietly, “Do you really want nothing to do with our… night lives?”

The thing is, just two years ago, Danny would be jumping at the chance to be a hero. A proper  one, working alongside other heroes to save people. But a lot has changed since then. The Danny who existed back then was always moving, always trying out some new trick with his powers, always trying to juggle heroics and normal life. He was innocent. 

Or, at least, as innocent as anyone so familiar with death could be. 

As he is now, Danny is just tired. He doesn’t want people to get hurt, and he’ll protect them if he can, but he’s so tired of being scared and hated and hunted down. 

He’s a kid too. He was even more of a kid back when he was fourteen. 

Why did no one protect him?

That’s not a fair question to ask, really, because he did have his friends and his sister and a few ghosts who would do their best, but it wasn’t enough. 

“No,” Danny answers, voice hard. “I’m done with all of that. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Were you a vigilante too? Before you arrived here.”

Danny turns to face Damian and leans back against the counter. He doesn’t look at the kid, really, just at the floor in his general direction. “I don’t know.”

“How could you possibly not know? Either you are, or you aren’t.”

“It was complicated,” Danny snaps. “I was trying to protect everyone. But a lot of them didn’t see it that way. Just saw me as a threat, or am monster, or something. God, the government was out to get me.”

“Vigilantes are not usually well liked,” Damian says.

“Yeah, well, most vigilantes still get human rights. I got nothing. Everyone like me got classified as non-sentient, so we had no protections. If they wanted to experiment on us and cut us open, there was nothing stopping them.”

“And where was this taking place?” The clear rage in his voice startles Danny, makes him look up and warily eye the way Damian is gripping his fork, looking as if he wants nothing more than to bury into someone who’s wronged him.

“...It doesn’t matter,” Danny says slowly. “There’s nothing any of you can do. And it’s too far away to matter. Does that answer your question?”

Damian lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to call down. Danny can almost hear Jazz’s voice in his ear, counting slowly and saying Good! Now again, deep breath in and—

He shakes his head, trying to force her imagined voice away, and focuses on Damian’s controlled breathing; in, out, in, out, slowly each time.

“Every answer we get,” Damian says at last, “Brings up more questions. We will find where you came from. You can make things easier for us by just telling us your background.”

“Not a chance in hell, dude.”

Damian clicks his tongue and stands, holding his empty plate. “Very well. We’ll just investigate as we usually do. You won’t be able to keep your secrets from us forever.”

“I can do my best, though.”

“You will not be joining us as a vigilante,” Damian says again, putting his plate in the sink. 

Didn’t they just cover this? Was Danny not clear enough? 

“Right,” he confirms, “No heroics for me.”

“I will ensure you have proper protections befitting an associate of the Wayne family, then.”

Danny blinks. “What. Hey, wait, hang on. Didn’t we just talk about me not being involved in any of that?”

“Trackers,” Damian says, thoughtfully, steamrolling right on ahead, “A taser, of course. We’ll find a way to hide a few panic buttons on your person. Those will also have trackers, so if you should ever need help, we will be able to find you.”

“I really do not need any of that.”

“I will talk to father about it,” Damian nods.

“Don’t,” Danny starts to say, but somehow Damian is already out of the kitchen, leaving Danny behind absolutely bewildered by all directions their conversation went. 

Seriously, what was all that?

Danny huffs, then shakes his head. Not his problem. If it comes to it, he can just go invisible and run away until the Waynes learn to act like normal people. He pushes the entire conversation out of his mind and washes Damian’s plate, then sticks it onto the dish drying rack next to the sink. 

He’s not sure where Alfred is, so he busies himself with cleaning the kitchen, wiping the down the table and counters then straightening everything up. 

Some more poking around in the kitchen and the rooms and hallways beyond help him find where more cleaning supplies are. He considers mopping the kitchen, but figures that should be saved for after dinner, so any messes he makes while helping Alfred cooked won’t be messing up a newly cleaned floor.

By then, it’s well into the morning, just a few hours away from noon, and Danny hasn’t seen anyone else come by. 

He’s… uncomfortable being left unsupervised in someone else’s house like this. Sure, he lives here now, but it’s not his home. He’s just a new employee who doesn’t have any close bonds with anyone in the family. He spends way too long debating on whether he should stay in the kitchen and wait for someone to show up, or if he should go through the manor and find Alfred in order to get some instructions on what he should do. 

Eventually, Danny tires of pacing around restlessly and ventures away from the kitchen, poking his head into random rooms and straining his hearing to make sure no one sneaks up on him.

Not that it helps, when a chill races up his spine just before someone taps his shoulder.

Danny whirls around, stumbling away, and holds himself back from lashing out at Cass. 

She immediately takes five steps back, giving him space, and offers him a smile and a small wave. “Morning.”

“...Good morning,” Danny returns, looking over her carefully. Cass gives him his time, and he’s grateful that she backed off immediately, but he’s still rattled by the fact that she snuck up on him so easily. The space between them is reassuring, but he’s not foolish enough to think it’s anywhere close to enough if she actually wanted to hurt him.

Cass is a vigilante too. Black Bat, Alfred had said. It goes to stand that she’s as dangerous as the rest of them. He’s sure she’s the scariest of the bunch. There’s just something about her that makes every nerve in his body scream to alertness, prepared for a fight, waiting for a knife to slip into his ribs.

She doesn’t say a thing as he stares at her. Danny shifts his weight off one foot, trying to think of a way out of this situation, and comes up blank.

“So.” He cringes immediately at how he breaks the silence, then rolls with it. Might as well, really. It’s not going to get any worse from here. “Did you want breakfast?”

Cass shakes her head. “Not hungry for food. Hungry for snacks.”

“Oh, well I made cookies last night. I’m not sure where Alfred put them, though.”

She shakes her head again. “All gone.”

Danny blinks. “Huh?”

“Ate them all,” Cass explains, “Last night. Family meeting about you. Very good cookies.”

He’s… not going to unpack all that right now. Or ever, hopefully. “Cool. Which one did you like most?”

“Sugar cookie. The brown one?”

It takes a moment to remember which one that is, with all the cookies he made yesterday, but he recalls that particular batch quickly. “The brown sugar cookies!” 

“Yes!”

“I thought they were missing something, so I rolled them in cinnamon sugar. Alfred’s recommendation, really, I was just going to dump cinnamon in the dough. Turned out really good, though.”

“Very good,” Cass says again, nodding sagely. “Best cookies. Make more?”

“Uh, maybe later. I’m looking for Alfred right now?”

“He is calling Jason. I can… guide you?”

Cass offers a hand, still five steps away from him. There’s still plenty of space between them, enough for him to stay out of grabbing reach, but he can take her hand if he wants to. Or he can go intangible and just fall through the wall behind him. 

But she’s nice. Terrifying, of course, but nice. 

He got scared, and she moved back to give him space. She doesn’t push for questions or explanations, just treats him as if he’s always been here. 

Danny looks between Cass and her hand. 

He’s going to stay here. He’s staying for Alfred. And now he’s staying because the Wayne family regularly endanger themselves and it makes Alfred upset. He can wonder about running away all he wants; Danny knows himself and he knows he’s here to stay.

He didn’t even run from his parents until they tried to kill him for good, captured him and had the basement prepped for his vivisection. There’s a chance he can make something of himself here, to create someplace he can be safe, and he can’t afford to lose it.

He takes Cass’s hand.

“Yeah, okay. Take me to Alfred, please?”

“Okay,” Cass says, a bright smile on her face. She turns and leads him down the hall, her grip loose and easy to break from. Danny doesn’t let it break.

Cass is both dangerous and kind. Danny’s survived all sorts of dangerous people before. If he can just get his brain to chill out, then he can act normal around her and the rest of the Waynes. He can do this.

She leads him through the manor with ease, as if she could navigate it blind, and opens a door to a little balcony on the second floor that Danny didn’t know about. Alfred turns to face them as soon as the door opens, phone held up to his ear, and he gives them a smile and waves them in, inviting them to sit on the small bench. Cass sits him down on one of the cushions tied to the bench, then pats his head.

“Still training today?” she asks.

“Apparently,” Danny answers with a grimace. “Think I can get out of it?”

“No. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

That’s not really reassuring, but it is nice to know that he won’t be locked in a room alone with Bruce and forced to fight his boss. That’s got to be against some labor law. Sam would probably know.

Cass leaves, giving him one last wave from the door, then disappears back into the manor.

Alfred looks out over the grounds, nodding lightly to whatever Jason is saying. Danny doesn’t want to eavesdrop, so he just bounces his leg and stares up at the cloudy sky, wondering if he’d be able to see the stars on a clear night. 

“I shall speak to you again soon, Master Jason,” Alfred says, barely a minute later. “Yes, do take care of yourself. Until next month, then.” And his phone is put away in one smooth movement. Alfred straightens out his waistcoat, then turns to Danny. “I apologize for being away for so long. Are you ready to start the day?”

“Sure. It’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? So what’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” Alfred says, looking Danny over thoughtfully. “If you would be willing, there are some lightbulbs that need changing and chandeliers to be dusted. It’s difficult for most people to reach these, but if you are able to fly up and take care of these tasks…”

The thought of causally using his powers out in the open makes his skin crawl with nerves, but it’s too late to try to keep it a secret. He did float down into their secret crime fighting cave. There was no way he was ever going to keep that from the Waynes. 

Honestly, if all they want is for him to use his powers for mundane things like this, it’s not bad. Definitely better than being tested and observed like some newly discovered creature. 

Alfred just wants some help with household tasks, and Danny’s powers make it easy for him to do them. That’s all.

“Sure,” Danny says, “I can do that.”

It’s normal. Normal enough, anyways.

As long as they keep to this facade of normality, he’ll be fine.

Bruce Wayne apparently does not care to be normal. 

.

.

.

This is more a rich people are different from the rest of humanity than it is this is top secret hero stuff. Who has a giant gym in their house complete with a pool and a locker room? On top of a giant crime fighting cave? 

It’s absurd.

Danny stares at his locker—complete with his name on it, so he doesn’t accidentally open someone else’s—and wonders what, exactly, a training session with Bruce Wayne is going to look like. He had been expecting basic exercises to see where he’s at, something close to what he does at school in P.E. Now he has to factor in weights, treadmills, and a boxing ring. There’s also ceiling to floor mirrors on one wall and a large section of the room covered in a thick mat, with only a single martial arts dummy on it. 

He tries very hard to ignore the wooden swords and bo staffs hanging on the wall. He’s definitely not touching those while other people are around.

Sighing, he decides that putting off this training session isn’t going to make it end any faster and opens his locker. 

There’s a set of training clothes already set inside for him. He’s sure it’s perfectly his size. He’s just not going to think too hard about how they managed to get his size at all. 

Though the locker room is empty, he doesn’t want to change out in the open. He was the same way in school, and though this often got him teased by the football team for his ‘insecurities’, they quieted down when they saw his scars. Dash never asked about it, but he was always careful afterwards to make sure Danny’s shirt never rode up and revealed anything when he tossed Danny around. 

He peeks around the locker room before he hurries into the changing stall, paranoid that he’s being watched somehow. He changes quickly and, sure enough, everything fits him perfectly.

The only problem is that the shirt he was given is short sleeve. Th Lichtenberg scar, made permanent by his death and the ectoplasm that flooded his system at the same time as the electricity of the portal, is clearly visible. The white scar tissue branches down his arm all the way to his wrist, wide and ugly. 

He really doesn’t want any questions about it. 

Danny takes off the shirt, then puts his long sleeve shirt back on. He can train just fine in it, and if they have a problem with it, they can order him a long sleeve shirt for training.

He takes his clothes to his locker and shoves them in, then takes a few minutes to just breathe, trying to force his nerves away long enough that he can walk out to Bruce without feeling nauseous. 

When he finally manages to force his feet to move, Cass and Damian are in the gym as well. 

Cass he expected after their morning conversation. Damian is a surprise, and it seems like the boy is trying to act as if he’s not here to watch Danny train, using one of the wooden swords to go through a series of careful movements. 

Bruce is waiting on the mat next to the dummy, and he nods when he sees Danny approach. “Come here,” he says, “We’ll do some stretching first, then we’ll see where you are in self-defense.”

Cass looks them both over with a sharp eye, then walks away to pull out a yoga mat and set it just outside the mats. She effortlessly goes into a handstand, then goes down onto her forearms and lowers her legs into a split.

“You’re not expecting me to do that, right?” he asks, looking at Bruce.

He smiles, a small thing that softens the serious expression he had been sporting, and shakes his head. “No, not at all. We’ll just do basic stretches. After me, now.” And with that, he immediately gets started, rolling out his shoulders and stretching his arms and wrists, then dropping down into a forward fold. Danny does his best to follow along, glancing up often to make sure he’s doing everything right.

Stretching is easy.  He’s definitely not as flexible as Bruce or Cass, but he doesn’t do too badly. At the very least, he can press his palms flat to the floor in a forward fold. 

They’re just finishing up, rolling out their necks, when the door to the gym is pushed open and Tim comes in. “Have we started yet?” he asks, looking a mess. His hair is windswept and tangled and he’s sporting a split lip that he didn’t have yesterday.

“Do I want to know,” Bruce says, and Tim grins.

“Know what? I’ve been having a peaceful, relaxing day. Quit worrying so much, it’s bad for your heart.”

Damian scoffs, swinging his sword down at an angle. “As if any of us would ever believe that you’re not causing messes for us to clean up.”

“What’s that, Gremlin? You’re looking for a sparring partner? You should have said so sooner!” And Tim’s grabbing a bo staff from the wall and throwing himself at Damian without any warning.

Danny makes an aborted sound in the back of his throat, torn between yelling for Damian to watch out and Tim to stop, but Damian isn’t phased at all. He scowls harder and blocks Tim’s attack, then hits back. The heavy thud of their weapons hitting each other echo through the gym, but neither of them get hurt. They dodge each hit expertly, dancing circles around each other, fighting gracefully in ways Danny has never seen. 

Bruce clears his throat and Danny snaps his attention back to the man in front of him. 

“Why don’t we begin with something easy,” Bruce says. “Punch me.”

“What?”

“Punch me,” Bruce repeats. 

Danny stares at him. “I don’t want to hurt you. Aren’t you supposed to teach me how to defend myself, not attack other people?”

“Both require the same skills. The only difference is in how you choose to use it. Now, punch me.”

Slowly, Danny lifts an arm, curling his fingers into a fist, and looks up at Bruce’s face to make sure this is fine. Bruce looks unimpressed, waiting for him to move.

He throws a weak punch at Bruce’s abdomen and is entirely unsurprised when his wrist is grabbed and held in place easily.

“Again,” Bruce says, “And do it seriously, this time.”

Okay. 

Okay, he can do this.

Danny steps back, giving himself some space, and takes a deep breath. He’s fought plenty of people before. Mostly ghosts, but still. He can figure out how to fight hand to hand without using any of his powers. He can hold back his strength. He can do it.

He shifts his stance, standing with his feet shoulder width apart, a more stable base, and lifts his hands in front of his face, not curling them into fists but holding them loose. Just as his mother taught him, before she started handing him and Jazz weapons to familiarize themselves with. 

Bruce is a vigilante, he reminds himself. They all are. They know how to fight and how to defend themselves. They have plenty of experience and he’s sure they’ve already come up with ways to take him out if they need to. 

Danny lets out one last fortifying breath, then looks up at Bruce, who is watching him with a shrewd gaze. Whatever he sees makes him nod approvingly and shift his own stance, no longer casually standing in place but ready to move.

“I will try to stay at human power levels,” Danny says, one last warning before they really begin. “Stop me if I go too far.”

“I can handle anything you throw my way, Danny. Don’t worry about me. This is about helping you be able to protect yourself.”

No more stalling. 

Danny darts forward, throwing out a punch. Bruce takes a single step back, twisting to the side so Danny’s fist sails past his body, and sweeps out a leg to trip him. Danny’s already moving, trying to get to Bruce’s back, get out of his line of sight, staying light on his feet. 

Distantly, he’s aware of the sound of Tim and Damian’s battle falling silent, but he can’t focus on it as he tries to strike Bruce’s pressure points, darting in and out so he can’t be grabbed. His mother’s old lessons come back to him, body falling into that familiar rhythm, and it’s enough to make him slip up, use a little too much strength.

Bruce staggers back two steps, then is grabbing Danny’s arm and tossing him over his shoulder before Danny can process what’s happening. 

Instinct has him floating in place, then his legs shoot out and kick Bruce in the chest, using it as a springboard to jump off of to get some distance between them. 

“Good,” Bruce says, giving him a moment to catch his breath. “You’ve had training before.”

“My mom is ninth-degree black belt in mixed martial arts. She taught me a few things.”

“We’ll need to see where you might need some improvements. Otherwise, I give you permission to use your powers against me.”

Danny drops his hands in shock, coming out of his ready stance. “Wait, seriously? I could really hurt you!”

“I promise you, Danny, you really can’t,” Bruce says. “Remember, I’m Batman. I’ve fought gods and monsters before.”

“I don’t know…”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with Danny, even if it means you only stick to flying.”

That’s… reasonable. He does fly a lot; he loves flying. It’s the best part of being a halfa, really. And most of his fights involve him flying. Having to stay on the ground puts him at a disadvantage, and if they really want to train him up to hero standards—

No. He’s not going to be a hero in this world. He’s going to live a quiet, normal life as best he can and he won’t be flaunting his powers around in a world he’s unfamiliar with. 

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Danny refocuses on the training match and nods. “Flying only,” he says.

He’s up in the air before Bruce can move, darting around him, then ramming into his side like a bulldozer. This, he didn’t learn from his mother. He learned it from Cujo.

Bruce grunts, his breath knocked out of him, and grabs Danny. There’s a brief moment of struggle where Danny tries to get away, but he’s laid out on the floor before he can go intangible.

The lights above him are blinding. Bruce towers above him, all broad shoulders and heavy muscle, looking down, and his face is shadowed enough that is makes Danny’s heart stop and he sees—

Dad, wait, it’s me! Stop, please!

His father wasn’t smiling. There was no manic grin, no booming laughter, no victory cry for catching Phantom. Just his father standing above him, expressionless, as he held up a Fenton Thermos and—

Bruce reaches for him—

“Stop!”

Before anyone can move, before Danny can come back to his sense and make his brain understand that it’s not his father standing before him, ready to capture him and treat him like a thing to be cut open, before he can say anything more, the air shifts.

Cass is there, suddenly and without warning, and slams into Bruce, then tosses him over her shoulder and onto the mats. She kneels with one knee on his chest, keeping him pinned down, and steel in her eyes.

“We’re done,” she says. “Time for a break. Snacks.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Bruce relaxes and nods. “Right. This is enough for today. I’ll make a light training regime for Danny so he can protect himself both with and without his powers. Boys,” he says, looking to where Tim and Damian have been watching them, “If you want to continue training, do so in the Batcave. Don’t use flimsy excuses to learn more about Danny.”

“What excuse? I genuinely wanted to beat Damian up,” Tim retorts, and follows it up with a soft whack to the back of Damian’s head.

“As if you could beat me!”

They’re back to tussling a moment later, weapons thrown aside in favor of slapping the shit out of each other.

It would make him laugh in any other circumstance. As it is, Danny’s frozen, heart jackrabbiting in his chest, staring at where Cass is keeping Bruce pinned, keeping him safe from the man who resembles his father in the lowlight. 

He can’t focus on much more than them, frantically trying to piece together the last two minutes to make sure he’s safe, it was just Bruce, everything’s fine. He may have yelled for Bruce to stop, but he’s sure that Cass was moving even before then.

Somehow, she had known that he needed to get out of that situation. Needed distance from Bruce. Needed protection.

And she had given it to him.

Dangerous and kind indeed.

“Go,” she says, pulling Bruce back up to his feet. “I will stay with him.” She doesn’t give him any time to argue, pushing him towards the door. 

Then she shoots Tim and Damian a look and they immediately disengage from their fight. Damian tosses his wooden sword over to Tim, who snatches it out of the air without even looking at it and puts both their weapons back on the wall. They leave within a minute, closing the door behind them.

A stillness settles over the room, the world gone quiet now that it’s just him and Cass.

He’s shaking, he realizes. His hands tremble where they rest on his chest and it takes far too much effort to force himself to sit up.

Cass doesn’t comment on it. She just sits down next to him, giving him enough space that he feels comforted by her presence rather than trapped.

“Sorry about that,” Danny manages to say at last, forcing the words out. His voice is rough and his heart feels like it’s been scrapped over with sandpaper.

“No.”

“What?”

“No sorries. Bruce went too far. Saw you weren’t… safe? Did not stop, so I made him.”

“I’m still sorry you had to get involved.”

“Danny,” she says, then waits until he looks at her. “It’s okay. I always beat Bruce. It’s good for him to lose sometimes.”

He can’t help but smile a bit. Between her and Tim, he can see that Bruce’s kids really enjoy causing him trouble. That’s how it’s supposed to be with siblings; everyone teams up against the parents. All siblings have to unionize, that’s how every world works.

“Thanks.”

Cass reaches out a hand. This time, Danny doesn’t hesitate to take it. 

They sit in silence for a long time. His heart settles down and the last of his fear dissipates; the guilt of being so terrified of just the idea of his father towering over him remains, but that’s something he’s sure will accompany him for the rest of his life. Cass doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t push for conversation, and simply waits patiently as he regains him composure.

As much as he’d like to, he can’t hide away in the gym forever. 

He begins to stand and Cass follows him up, keeping hold of his hand. She looks him over carefully, then nods and pushes him towards the locker room.

“You’re not going to ask questions about…” Danny waves a hand through the air, “All this, right?”

“No questions,” Cass reassures. “Tell when you want to. Even bad memories are important. Yours to keep.”

“Okay. Thanks for being so cool about all this.”

Cass gives him a sunny smile. “Go. Change. I will get Alfred.”

Danny offers a weak salute, then heads off to the locker room to change, happily chucking off his training clothes and dropping them into the laundry chute. 

Training was a disaster in a different way than he expected, but either way, he’s relieved it’s over. Now, all they have to do is pretend his little panic never happened and they can all move on with their lives.

Alfred must see that resolve on his face when he exits the gym. Danny isn’t asked any questions as they walk through the halls, simply told about the chores that need to be completed. They don’t come across any members of the Wayne family and Danny can’t help but feel that’s purposefully, that they’re avoiding him to keep him from getting spooked and running away.

Danny takes over dusting the high rafters and corners of the ceiling, sneezing when a particularly strong sweep of the duster over the top of a hanging light fixture brings up a cloud of dust. Below him, Alfred vacuums and straightens out rooms, calling out directions to help Danny get everything clean.

Once the sun begins to set, Alfred sends Danny to the kitchen while he puts away all their cleaning supplies. Dinner prep has apparently been taken care of while he was training with Bruce; all Danny has to do is start the oven and pull everything out of the fridge. 

He wants to offer to set the table, be more helpful, but the thought of seeing everyone again has his throat tightening up, bringing up the residual panic that hasn’t left him since he fell through the Infinite Realms into the streets of Gotham. Instead of helping more with dinner, Alfred pulls out a thick recipe book, paged faded with age, and sets him on making a cake for dessert. 

Danny manages to get all the ingredients together, measured carefully and mixed slowly so none of the flour spills out of the bowl. He does well enough that Alfred decides he can safely leave Danny without any supervision in order to bring dinner to the dining table where the Wayne family waits. 

In the time he’s alone, Danny tries very hard not to mess anything up, folding in melted chocolate into the batter. 

He works slowly enough that Alfred is able to return before Danny tries to hunt down a baking pan. He wordlessly pulls one out of a cabinet and sprays it with cooking oil before setting it on the counter next to Danny, watching with a shrewd eye as Danny pours out the batter, using a rubber spatula to scrape batter down from the sides of the bowl.

“Very good,” Alfred comments, then instructs Danny to lift the baking pan and drop it onto the counter gently a few times to break any air bubbles in the batter. 

They get it in the oven and start the timer after that. Alfred pulls out another mixing bowl and gets to work making buttercream frosting, showing Danny how to separate the egg whites from the yolk. 

Danny is not ready to try it on his own, but it’s cool to see how it’s done. Alfred does everything so precisely, with clean movements and nothing wasted. It’s beyond impressive. Danny can only hope he can emulate some of that one day.

The smell of rich chocolate cake fills the kitchen and Danny feels his mouth start watering. He hasn’t had much to eat since lunch, and even that was small. For once, he’s feeling hungry enough to eat a horse, and is a strange mix of embarrassed and elated when his stomach growls loudly.

“Oh my,” Alfred laughs, “I see that cake never fails to wake a boy’s appetite.”

Danny shrugs sheepishly, and allows Alfred to usher him into a chair at the kitchen table. He watches as Alfred bustles around the kitchen, whipping together a quick meal of sauteed radishes, sliced in halves and with the leaves included, and a wrap so full Danny worried it would burst when he bit into it. 

It’s a bigger meal than what he’s used to, made with larger portions and heavier ingredients, but all the events of the day have drained him of enough energy that Danny all but devours his dinner. He even brings out his fangs to tear into the wrap more easily, eating quickly to sate his hunger. 

“How are you liking your food, Danny?”

“It’s delicious!” he answers with his mouth full.

“Do try to avoid talking with food in your moth,” Alfred gently reprimands, and Danny shoots him a thumbs up, trying to chew faster.

“I can have some of the cake later, right?”

“Of course. So long as you finish your dinner, then I will give you the first slice.”

Danny clears his plate in record time and has everything washed and dried by the time the oven beeps. Alfred opens the oven door, flooding the kitchen with warmth and an even strong aroma of chocolate, then slides on a pair of Batman oven mitts; they’re black, with a bat symbol on the back and little white eyes glaring out from the fingertips, and have little bat eats sticking out from the tops. He has to bite back a laugh and wonders how much of their own merch the Wayne family owns. 

“Now we must wait for it to cool down before we can frost it,” Alfred says, setting the cake down on the counter. 

“Can I use my powers to help it cool faster?”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“Well,” Danny says, holding up a hand, “I can make ice.” He lets his fingers frost over, his ice the pale blue of an iceberg’s submerged bottom. “I can freeze the counter space around and under the cake.”

Alfred looks intrigued, which is a good sign. “Would it not melt?”

“Not unless I want it to.”

“Then by all means, Danny.” He steps back to give Danny space to work, watching as Danny presses his fingers to the counter and lets the ice spread from the point of contact, circling the cake. He pushes his ice to be a few degrees cooler than usual and feels the chill race up his arms. 

It’s comfortable for him, but he knows he shouldn’t touch anyone until he warms back up. Sam and Tucker have told him plenty of times that he’s colder than ice after he uses his powers, a biting kind of cold that always hurt their hands. 

“It should be cool enough soon,” he says, stepping back from the counter and shaking out his hands.

“Thank you, Danny. Would you mind keeping the frosting cool as well?”

“No problem, Alfred!” He ices over the frosting bowl; it’s not quite as cold as the ice on the counter, but enough to keep the frosting chilled. “Do you want me to do anything else?”

Alfred thinks it over for a moment, then shakes his head. “Not at the moment, no. Go take a break. I’ll wash up and get everyone’s dishes. Master Bruce would like to speak to you as well, when you’re ready.”

Oh, great. No more running from questions, it seems. 

His mood plummets immediately, but he still forces up a smile for Alfred. “You got it. I’ll just… wait for him to get me, then.”

He’s out of the kitchen before Alfred can offer an platitudes, wandering aimlessly until he ends up in the grand foyer. He flies up to the ceiling and sits upside down, legs crossed, and tries not to think about training and all the explanations he doesn’t want to give. 

His thoughts drift towards Amity and he misses it with an ache. He never planned to stay there forever, already looking for out of state college options, joining the rest of his class in wanting to leave and find their way into the wider world. 

But all he wants now is an hour at Nasty Burger with his friends, a trip to the bookstore with Jazz, the familiar shared panic as everyone on the road tried to avoid the Fenton AV whenever his parents decided to go grocery shopping. Hell, he even misses Caspar High and the stress of having his work pile up as he fought ghosts and ghost hunters and his own procrastination. He misses the park where he’d play fetch with Cujo. He misses flying through the clear skies of Amity, the way the lights of the city shone up to him from where he rested high above it all. He misses the empty fields and forests and the clear air that Gotham will never have. 

Danny is so far from home. He doesn’t think he can ever go back.

Would he even have a home if he found some way back to his original dimension? 

His parents know the truth now. They captured Phantom, trapped him in the Fenton Thermos, and when they opened it again, Danny came out. He transformed immediately, full of panic and fear, begging for something as his mother sank into denial, shooting at him, while his father was emotionless and Jazz was screaming as a distraction, for him, at being pushed down by her parents as they focused all their attention on Danny. 

The last thing he ever heard from his home was Jazz screaming I hate you! How could you! Danny is⁠—

And then the Infinite Realms wrapped him in its embrace and took him away. 

“Danny?”

Danny jolts and falls from the ceiling. His stomach drops and he braces himself for impact, too out of it to use any of his powers. Instead of hitting the floor, he crashes into someone’s chest, their arms wrapping around him to hold him steady.

He blinks his eyes open and looks up at Bruce, who gives him a moment to collect himself, then sets him down on his feet. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Danny says, voice hoarse. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just startled.”

“If you don’t feel up for a conversation⁠—”

“No, no, let’s just get this over with. The sooner the better, right?” He offers Bruce a strained smile, but it falls from his face quickly.

“Alright,” Bruce says slowly. “Let’s head up to my office.”

He guides Danny up the stairs, keeping a heavy hand on his shoulder. It makes Danny feel trapped, but he’s too tired to get away. He’s resigned to this happening and just wants it to be over already. 

When the door closes the behind them, it sounds final in Danny’s ears. He sinks into the armchair off to the side of Bruce’s office, rather than taking one of the more uncomfortable chairs in front of his desk.

Bruce sits across from him on the lounge couch, elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled together.

“Danny,” he begins. “I know you’ve had a stressful day, but it’s important that we discuss this now.”

“Discuss what,” Danny says tiredly. He’s not asking, not really, just trying to lead Bruce to where they need to go.

“You are aware of our identities as Gotham’s vigilantes.”

“I’m still not very familiar with any vigilantes. I don’t really know anything other than your names.”

“But you know our identities. You know where we live and where we operate from. This is dangerous information; in the wrong hands, it will destroy us and leave Gotham to be torn apart from the inside by all the corruption we work to keep off the streets.”

Irritation prickles down his spine. Danny knows how important secret identities; look at what happened to him when he was discovered. Logically, he knows Bruce has no way of knowing this, but emotionally, Danny wants to snap at him, hurl insults and accusations to distract from his own hurt.

“This must remain secret,” Bruce continues, leaning forward some. “We will know if you reveal this information to anyone.”

“If you’re going to threaten me, can you just do it outright?”

Bruce blinks, then leans back, his brow furrowed. “What?”

Danny sighs and folds his arms across his chest, holding himself in a mockery of a hug as he looks away. “I get it, this is a big deal and having an outsider suddenly in the know is a huge risk. But I also need you to consider who I am.”

“And who are you, Danny?”

“A homeless runaway freak of nature. I have no support in Gotham. I have no one outside of Alfred that I can rely on in this country. You talk as if I have any power over you, but I don’t. Who would I even go to? Who would believe me?”

“Reporters would pay a lot for information like this⁠—”

“That’s not the point,” Danny interrupts, a bite in his voice. “The point is that even if I know all your identities, you’re still the one who has power here. I am entirely dependent on you for housing, food, safety. You’re my boss. The only reason I have anything, including a legal identity, is because of you. And you can take it away at any time.”

“I wouldn’t⁠—”

“People can excuse anything when they’re desperate enough.”

Bruce falls silent, staring at Danny with dark eyes. His expression is unreadable, as warm as stone, and Danny tenses in preparation for something awful; being fired, or kicked out, or imprisoned. 

“No matter how good they think they are, or try to be,” Danny continues, his voice growing quieter, more tired, “When the time comes, they’re willing to do anything to get what they want. No matter who you are to them. No matter what they have to do to you.” He looks over to Bruce, finally meeting his gaze. “Do you understand? You don’t have to threaten me because my entire existence here is a threat to my survival. I can only hope that everyone will be kind for another day before they decide I’ll be better off being cut open by scientists and studied.”

“Is that what happened to you? Why you ran away?”

“That isn’t important. It’s none of your business.”

Bruce frowns. “If it puts you in danger, it is my business, as you’re a minor in my care.”

“I am always in danger, okay? The details don’t matter. If you make me talk about it, I’ll run away and make sure no one can ever find me again. Got it?”

“Understood,” Bruce says after a tense moment. “I won’t push. But if you ever want to talk⁠—”

“Yeah, no. Not going to happen. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

He leans back, straightening up. “There is. In regards to training⁠—” 

Here it is. Danny just said he didn’t want to talk about, so Bruce hops right into the next topic of conversation that will make them talk about it.

“⁠—You have a good foundation to grow from. It would benefit you to learn how to handle a few of our weapons as well, and if there’s something you want to learn that we can’t provide for you, we can find someone else to train you. I will need to know what your triggers are so I can avoid frightening you as I did today.”

“I don’t have triggers,” Danny says, “I just don’t trust anyone but Alfred and Cass to not really hurt me. It’s just how it is.”

“...Very well.”

“Is that all?”

Bruce nods. “For now, yes. I know one of your conditions was not being involved in our nightlife, but if you’d ever like to learn more or see more of the Batcave⁠—properly, this time⁠— then we’d be more than happier to lead you through it.”

His gut reaction is to turn it down immediately, to ensure he doesn't have anything to do with their ‘nightlife.’ But Alfred’s involved.

All Danny is here to do is help Alfred, and that apparently includes wrangling vigilantes into surviving each night and being tended to. He already knows he’s going to join Alfred down there one day, but he’s not ready for it yet.

“Maybe some time in the future,” Danny offers. “Not any time soon, though.”

“That’s fine, Danny. We’ll go at your pace.”

A knock on the door stops the conversation from continuing. Damian opens the door and comes in before he has permission.

“Are you finished yet?” he asks, looking between Danny and Bruce.

“Uh, just about. Why?” Danny replies.

“We cannot eat any cake until you have the first slice.”

Conversation fully over; Danny has cake to eat and he needs to get to it right away. It’s way more important that talking to Bruce about his trauma and the family’s secret vigilante activities. 

“Sweet, let’s go get cake.”

He stands and Damian turns back to the door, ready to go. He stops at the doorway and glances back to Bruce, then asks, “Is he to remain aware of our nightly activities?”

“Yes, he is,” Bruce answers.

“I will be showing you where all the supply caches in the manor are,” Damian tells Danny. “They will hold either weapons, first aid kits, or fire extinguishers. It is crucial to memorize the location of all of them in the event of an emergency.”

“Isn’t this place safe? I mean, you all live here.”

“We hold events here, unfortunately,” Damian scowls. “There’s a gala coming up, in fact. You will need to know all of this before it begins. We shall start after we eat cake.”

From what he’s seen and heard of Gotham so far, this really is for the best. If this were Amity Park, Danny would call this behavior overly paranoid. Here, it’s an appropriate level of preparedness. 

“After cake,” he agrees, following Damian as he leads the way out of Bruce’s office .

He’ll worry about everything else after that promised first slice. As long as he’s got Alfred on his side, he’ll deal with anything thrown his way.

.

.

.

(“Don’t push,” Cass warns. “He’s like me. Will run.”

Tim sighs and slumps against the counter. “I just need to know more in order to help him! Come on, Cass, don’t tell me you don’t want to beat up everyone who’s ever hurt him.”

“Only if he wants to tell us,” she says, firm in her stance. 

Alfred nods approvingly from where he’s slicing the recently frosted cake. Danny’s ice remains on the counter, and he makes a mental note to ask the boy to remove it before he goes to sleep. 

“Miss Cassandra is right,” he interjects when Tim opens his mouth to speak, trying to find some way to change Cass’s mind. “Danny has had a difficult life and needs time and space to trust us and feel safe in the manor. I will not allow anyone to push him more than he can handle, simply because they could not handle their own curiosity.”

“You’d better tell that to Bruce, then. You really think he won’t interrogate Danny?”

Alfred sets down the cake knife with more slightly more force than necessary. “He has been warned. Should I hear that he did not take my warning lightly, I will ensure he faces the consequences of disregarding Danny’s needs.”

“Well,” Tim says, “You’ve got me and Cass to back you up. Danny will be fine with the three of us in his corner.”

“I do hope so,” Alfred replies. Cass is looking towards the kitchen door, so he begins to plate some of the slices. She has a sixth sense for knowing when someone is approaching, and when she’s around, Alfred takes his cues from her to make sure everything is prepared when they enter the room. 

Sure enough, just as he’s finished plating the last slice, the door opens and Damian enters with Danny trailing after him, looking paler and wrung out. 

It seems he will have to remind Bruce about Danny’s boundaries. Tim and Cass will be pleased to take on this new mission, and from the look in Damian’s eye, so will the youngest Robin.

Good. 

He won’t let anyone push Danny out of the manor. Not while he still has breath in his body.)

#dpxdc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc fanfic #those who serve #my writing #this chapter is actually all abt cass appreciation everyone give her the love she deserves!!! #and also a reminder that bruce is a very paranoid character who often makes things worse bc his paranoia got ahead of him hence the convo #abt the power he has over danny via social standing #hes still nice and a good person but he's also thinking worse case scenario and it blinds him to the fact that danny isn't a threat #anyways IM BACK BABEY #butler danny au #alfred's apprentice au

[rubberduckrobin]

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗶𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴.

Fandom: Stardew Valley

Pairing: Shane X (M!)Reader

Genre/type: Fluff.

Word count: Around 700. (feel free to request more!)

Author’s note: This was requested by @nihilistic-nik a while back - check it out on my Ao3!: https://archiveofourown.org/works/

It's technically M!Reader but it's only briefly mentioned and is pretty much irrelevant.

Summary: A warm, comfortable morning with Shane, sheltered from the rain.

TW: Brief mention of nightmares.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45859960

⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩

Cold rain. Warmth.

A rhythmic musicality commences, its origin being from the rain pattering against the windowsill to your left. The sooty grey curtain is slightly drawn, shielding your eyes from the brightness of the outside world, allowing you to fully immerse yourself into the comfort and warmth of your duvet; to prevent you from worrying about anything but the moment itself.

A stubbly arm extends from behind you, and snags you by the waist, pulling you closer. He grunts as though there is something stuck in his throat, his hoarse voice vibrating and his warm, beer infused breath warms the nape of your neck. “Morning…” he says with a rough yawn, and you sense that he is on the verge of drifting off into another peaceful slumber.

You turn to face him. It’s too dark to make out anything but his swollen eyes. Last night was a rough night for him; he has nightmares often, so he asked if you could accompany him. As his boyfriend, you felt obliged to agree, not only for his own benefit, but because you secretly love moments like these. Waking up and feeling the presence of the person you love.

The alarm clock resting on the cabinet beside you jolts with such vigour, it shakes the entire bedside table. It beckons you to release it from its duty, and you do so, your arm stretching out from the cosiness of your sheets, to aggressively whack the hell out of its stop button. You sit up, now awoken by your own force. You know you won’t be able to rest anymore, so you rise, but you feel a hand pull your wrist, but not aggressively…sweetly. Gently.

“Please…stay” his entire face is now unveiled from the constraint of the clean white sheets, revealing a tranquil smile. One that took you many months to weaken his guard for. One you would pay any amount of money for. One you would pay the world for.

“Wait…let me make breakfast first, i’ll bring it back here, yeah? Breakfast in bed.”

He responds, but only with a “mm”.

You get up from the bed and make your way to the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, a draft emerges from the chilled interior, making you shiver. You reach for the carton of eggs when you feel something being wrapped around your shoulders. Shane’s hoodie.

“I couldn’t wait. Sorry.” He says, running circles into your back with his palms. He takes a seat on the barstool at the kitchen countertop, and watches you as you make him eggs on toast.

You crack the eggs. These eggs were the ones that you and Shane had collected from the pen. It’s a good memory; you tripped over a hay bail and went flying into Shane’s arms. He laughed. He laughed…You’d never seen him so happy. So free.

You pour the yolk and the white into a frying pan, and fry it until the edges are golden and crispy. Using a spatula to raise the egg onto his plate, you serve him first. His eyes light up, but not because of the food being presented to him, but because of the smile on your face. Joy ricochets off the creases of your lips, and you feel tears form in the ducts of your eyes.

“What’s…wrong?” he asks.

“I’ve just… never been so happy.” You say.

⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚

End author’s note: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it <3

#stardew valley #stardew shane #shane stardew valley #sdv #stardew #sdv shane #shane x reader #reader insert #reader fic #x reader #male reader #drabble #reader imagine #fanfic #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #shane x farmer #farmer x shane #fluff #fluff fanfic #fluff fanfiction #warm and comfy

[novamariestark]

Can I please request #2 and #20 with Alden Parker?

Of course you may 😀

A Rare Day Off

The first light of morning filtered through the blinds, dust motes dancing in the soft glow. The world outside was bustling, cars honked in a grating symphony, pedestrians' footsteps created a faltering rhythm, completely out of sync, on the sidewalks, and the distant murmur of voices of everyone rushing around, trying to get to where they’re going. However, in the walls of Alden’s apartment, time slowed down and the only thing that could be heard, was the sound of shallow breathing as you both slept, engulfed in the embrace of the sheets and each other.

You slowly stirred from your sleep, your eyelids fluttering open, and a gentle smile began to grace your lips. For a fleeting moment, you savored the sweet realization that you didn't have to get up, that today was a rare day when you both could relax and just simply be and you were going to take advantage of that.

Your smile widened as you turned your head to find yourself snuggled up to the man you loved. Alden's chest rose and fell with each steady breath, and his arm was draped protectively over you.

His face was all soft and quiet in sleep, not like the serious, all-business look he had when you were on a case.

You couldn't help but watch him for a minute. The way his hair got all messy when he slept, how his lips would form a smile every so often. It was like your own personal movie, starring Alden, and you had a front-row seat.

Leaning in closer, you gave him a gentle kiss. Just enough to feel his lips but not enough to wake him up. You loved this man so much it was crazy. Sometimes you’d just stare at him, thinking about how all this happened, how you ended up together. It was like winning the biggest, best prize ever, and you didn't even remember buying a ticket. You felt a smile tug at your lips, a silent thank you to the universe for this gift, for the love of this man.

You stayed there, watching him for just a second more. It was nice, having him all to yourself without the world barging in. Slipping out from under the covers, you felt the sudden chill of morning air as your feet touched the cool floor. You shivered, a soft laugh escaping you as you looked around the room, your clothes from yesterday discarded haphazardly, memories of last night returning and your smile only grew wider. You reached for your underwear, the ones from yesterday, because the last thing you wanted to do was wake Alden with the creak of his old dresser drawer.

Once your bottom half was somewhat covered under the thin fabric, you glanced around for something more to put on. Your shirt was there, somewhere, but then your eyes landed on something much better—Alden's navy button-up from the day before. You bit your lip as you slipped the shirt on, the fabric hanging loose and long on your frame, hitting your thighs like a short dress. It smelled like him, that mix of his cologne and something just... Alden. You inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent that clung to the fabric fill your senses. It made your heart do a funny little skip. You felt a comforting tingle on your skin, almost as if his arms were still around you.

The kitchen was cool and quiet. You yawned and stretched, then got to work. You weren’t the best cook, but you knew how to whip up some eggs and toast. Making breakfast might be a challenge for you, but you were an NCIS agent for crying out loud. If you could handle suspects and crime scenes, you could handle a frying pan and some eggs.

You cracked some eggs into the pan and cut a couple of slices of bread. The eggs sizzled as they hit the hot surface, and you turned to find a tray in the cabinets. The sizzle of butter in the pan was music to your ears as you began to slowly sway your hips to the tune in your head.

You planned to set everything up carefully: eggs, toast, a little bowl of those tiny jam packets you’d swiped from the diner you always went to with Gibbs, and a mug of strong coffee just the way he liked it.

You were so lost in what you were doing that you were unaware of your surroundings. At least until a pair of strong, familiar arms wrapped around your waist. A giggle escaped you as his lips pressed against the curve of your neck, his beard a ticklish contrast to your soft skin.

“Morning, baby,” you told him as you leaned back into his chest, a smile gracing your lips. Your hands stilled on the spatula, the breakfast momentarily forgotten.

Alden's lips found their way to your ear, and he whispered, “Good morning, beautiful,” his voice low and still rough with sleep. It sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

You turned in his embrace to face him, meeting his gaze, his eyes were still heavy with sleep. You rose slightly on your toes, your lips finding his in a sweet, lingering kiss that said more than words ever could.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, a lopsided smile playing on his lips.

You nodded shyly, the heat in your cheeks rising, “It still smells like you,”

All he did was hum. The sight of you in his shirt was doing things to him, the way it hid and revealed at the same time. Your legs were bare, smooth, and on display, making it impossible for him to look away. You were irresistible, a siren in navy cotton.

The way he was looking at you, you knew. And maybe. Just maybe. You knew exactly what you wanted to do today, “Like what you see?” you asked as if he wasn’t just staring at you as if trying to burn holes through his shirt to see more of your beautiful body.

“I see something absolutely delicious,” he smirked, then he nodded to the frying pan, “And whatever it is your burning,”

“Hey!” you whined, playfully hitting his shoulder. You turned your back to him and returned to the eggs.

“I’m sorry, baby,” his arms wrap around your waist once more, his lips kissing every bit of skin accessible to him, “Please forgive me,”

“I’ll think about it,” you joked, “Go sit down,”

Your eggs were surprisingly done just right, fluffy and still a bit runny in the middle, just how Alden liked them. You placed them on a plate, adding a golden-brown toast to each plate, and poured two cups of coffee—your morning ritual.

With the breakfast complete, you balanced the plates in your hands and turned off the stove. You set them on the table and then sat across from Alden.

You ate mostly in silence, comfortable and easy, the kind of silence you could only have with someone you trusted with your soul. Every now and then, your eyes met, and you’d share a smile, a soft laugh, or a silly face, just because you could.

As you stood and started to clear the plates, Alden's hand gently touched yours, stopping your actions, "No, you cooked, I'll clean," he said, standing up and taking the plates from your hands.

You wanted to argue, to do the whole dance, but you decided that the quicker they are cleaned, the quicker you could curl up beside him. You surrendered the dishes with a small smile and sat back down, watching as he rolled up his sleeves and turned on the tap. The sound of running water and the clink of dishes became a new kind of background music,

As Alden stood at the sink, his hands working up suds over the plates, you got up and tiptoed over to him. You slipped your arms around his waist from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder.

Alden paused for a moment, the clatter of dishes ceasing. He leaned back slightly, "You're going to make me break a plate," he said playfully, but his tone was rich with affection.

Alden was quick and efficient, the kitchen soon returned to its pre-breakfast state. With the chore done, he dried his hands and turned around in your arms to face to. His hands found your waist, and you looked at each other, an entire conversation passing through your eyes.

"What do you want to do today, baby?"

"I just want to snuggle up to you and watch movies," you said, your voice soft but sure. The thought of being wrapped up with him on the couch, with no agenda, no interruptions—it was all you really wanted.

“We could always snuggle in bed,”

“Really? We had sex last night,” you reminded him, with a shake of your head. Even though you had no problem with spending the entire day in bed with him.

He moved his hands down from your hips, his eyes followed them, and gripped the end of his shirt, “You think you can tease me, walk around in nothing but my shirt and I wouldn’t be compelled to drag you back to bed?”

He lifted the shirt up slightly, letting his rough fingertips trace the smooth skin above your underwear. You shuddered and you knew that was it. Alden grinned at your response, his hand gripped yours and he leaned down and pressed a quick, passionate kiss to your lips. He pulled away and started leading you towards your bed.

And so, your rare day off was spent in bed with the man who held your heart. Covered in nothing but sweat from your activities. Your head rested against Alden's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. You relaxed enjoying the moment because you knew tomorrow, you’d both be back at NCIS, back to chasing leads and solving cases, and you’d be back to sharing Alden with the team, the job, and the dangers that came with it. But not today.

Today he was all yours.

And you were all his.

#reader insert #female reader #alden parker #alden parker imagine #alden parker x reader #ncis x reader

[visenyaism]

Can you post the fried green tomatoes recipe??

i use my mind to make them at this point but i can write you one!

tumblr user visenyaism fried green tomatoes

INGREDIENTS:

-2-4 green beefsteak tomatoes (otherwise known as unripe tomatoes)

1 cup flour

1/3 cup cornstarch

1tbsp kosher salt

Dry Seasonings!!! I throw everything from my cupboard in there with reckless abandon based entirely on vibes. Today was paprika, garlic powder, onion powder, old bay, seasoned salt, black pepper, cajun seasoning, bbq dry rub, italian seasoning, za’atar, etc. About a half a teaspoon of each, though this is entirely up to personal discretion. Get the paprika, salt, onion/garlic powder and pepper in there at least.

4-5 eggs

1 1/2 cups panko breadcrumbs (can also put some italian breadcrumbs in there for vibes and flavor)

Canola oil (just have a whole big bottle ready)

DIRECTIONS:

1. cut tomatoes into slices, about 1/2 inch thick. the idea is thicker than sandwich tomato slices. Arrange tomatoes on top of some paper towels so that none overlap and season liberally with kosher salt. Cover with more paper towels and let dry 15 minutes.

2. While your tomatoes are salting, get 3 large plates out. I’ve found that those plate-bowl hybrids are ideal for this, but if you don’t have those plates with a little bit of a side will do.

3. In a large bowl, mix together flour, cornstarch, and the dry seasonings (whatever you think will be good, really). Transfer to the first plate once well-mixed.

4. Crack 4 eggs into the second plate, and mix well with a fork.

5. Breadcrumbs go on the third plate. Make sure to mix well if you’re using both Panko and Italian.

6. After 15 minutes have passed on the tomatoes salting, take paper towels off of tomatoes, scraping any excess salt off, and get ready to dip. Take a slice of tomato and place in the flour mixture, coating both sides. Repeat with the egg mixture, and then the breadcrumb mixture. THEN, repeat whole process again (so for each tomato slice, you’re going flour-egg-panko-flour-egg panko.) Your hands will get gross doing this. Persevere. Replace ingredients in the plates as needed. Set coated tomatoes aside on a baking sheet or cutting board.

7. Crack open a cold one while you get ready to babysit the frying tomatoes on the stove (optional)

8. In a large saucepan or skillet (one with high sides), pour canola and olive oil until there’s at least an inch in the pan. Use more canola than olive because it’s less expensive. Heat over medium, and then once it’s ready, fry a few of the tomatoes at a time until both sides are golden brown (flipping when necessary). Set tomatoes out on a cooling rack with some paper towels underneath, let cool a little, then enjoy!

TIPS:

-don’t blow your house up frying things in oil. Also oil does NOT go down the sink unless you really really hate your landlord

-you can single-coat things instead of double-dipping if you need to, it’s just not as good.

-pair with some kind of sauce. plain mayo works fine but i prefer something with sour cream or yogurt. The one i used today was yogurt, garlic, lemon, and every herb i had in the fridge

#i love them so much #credit to green’s granny for the first version of this