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tadpolesonalgae · 20 days

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Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

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More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street.

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong.

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable.

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite.

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under.

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children.

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it.

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It’s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.”

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.”

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.”

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off.

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.”

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.”

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city.

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.”

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes.

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart.

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?”

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.”

“For sometime near solecist?”

“That could work.”

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?”

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?”

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.”

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer.

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner?

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien.

Bas is leaving too, soon.

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself?

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise.

It’s about time for lunch, anyway.

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?”

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.”

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.”

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?”

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?”

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.”

“Once it’s complete?”

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…”

Azriel nods his head. “They have.”

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?”

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?”

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.”

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?”

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind.

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.”

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.”

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.”

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.”

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?”

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?”

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.”

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin.

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.”

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.”

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care.

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?”

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention.

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could.

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning.

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them.

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months.

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open.

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it.

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier.

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet.

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?”

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed…

“They were blown apart, too.”

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside.

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone?

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself.

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?”

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it.

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…”

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived.

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe.

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone?

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone?

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is?

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry.

Can death come any quicker?

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere.

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back.

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?”

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.”

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side.

“Do you mind them?” He asks.

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.”

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies.

“They don’t hurt anyone.”

“They look creepy.”

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?”

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.”

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.”

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.”

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons.

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?”

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.”

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.”

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards.

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?”

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.”

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter.

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.”

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?”

You don’t smile back. “You.”

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.”

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.”

“You used me,” you whisper.

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes.

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.”

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.”

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes.

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?”

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth.

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not.

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is.

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet.

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze.

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself.

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life.

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted?

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.”

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.”

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.”

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?”

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me.

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.”

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door-

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night.

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you.

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened.

Your throat trembles, but you look at him.

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet.

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?”

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch.

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.”

What? How does he…?

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.”

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself.

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape.

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House.

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever.

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table.

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too.

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.”

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.”

“It looks private. You should wait-”

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.”

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.”

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on?

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…”

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.”

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?”

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss.

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still.

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means.

So what could have made her decide…?

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important.

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.”

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight.

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.”

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing.

What are you supposed to say to that?

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare.

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.”

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre.

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.”

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.”

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.”

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre.

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.”

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river.

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking.

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this.

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill.

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.”

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying?

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?”

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.”

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?”

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?”

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips.

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light.

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.”

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020 @just-m-2

cbmthy taglist: @impossibelle @naturakaashi @fae-glamour-petrichorus @ficienjoyedrbspot @azriels-shadowsinger @marina468 @misstea12 @going-through-shit @fussel9913 @minakay @i-am-infinite @wannabewolf @thegirlintheshadows101

#azriel x reader #can’t bring myself to hate you #azriel x reader angst #cbmthy #azriel x reader fic #azriel x reader multi-part fic #azriel series #cbmthy chapter 22

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mostlymarvelsstuff · 5 months

Text

To Call You Mine

Chapter 11

Authors note: don't ask me how you'd determine a babys birth gender in an Omegaverse, just pretend with me lmao

Word count: 1564

Nat Masterlist Marvel Masterlist TCYM Masterlist

4 months

You lazily stretch as you sit up in the nest, trying your best to not wake the sleeping Omega by your side just yet. One free from your still slumbering mates hold, you tiptoe off to the bathroom to take care of your business before you head to make breakfast.

Now in the kitchen, you pull a package of bacon and the carton of eggs out of the fridge and bring them over to the counter next to the stove. You grab a couple of pans and turn on the burners, waiting for them to warm up before you lay a few slices of meat in one and crack a few eggs in the other. You add a pinch of spices and some minced veggies to them before mixing up the yolks and whites, getting everything well and scrambled as they cook.

The delicious aromas make their way back to the bedroom, which causes Natasha to stir from her slumber. She groggily blinks away the remainder of sleep before checking in on Dima on the monitor. Satisfied that he's still asleep she tosses her blanket aside and makes her way to the kitchen.

A smile spreads across her face as she sees you at the stove, cooking a meal for your family. Getting to witness and experience what she never thought she’d get with you, always elicits a warmth within her, like all the love and safety you've ever shown her has just made a home there within her. And she really hopes that never goes away. A meow pulls her from her thoughts and she stifles a giggle when she sees the small black furball pawing at your ankle, looking up at you as if she’d not had a meal all month.

“Don’t give me that look, little miss” you coo at her, though all it gets you is another pitiful meow, “Oh fine, even though you don’t need it, I can’t say no when you look at me like that.”

Liho patiently waits as you cut up a small piece of bacon for her, and you can’t believe how the feline has both you and Nat wrapped around her paw already. If this is how bad you both are with a cat, you worry what it'll be like once the pups are all talking properly. They're all going to be so spoiled, not that you truly minded. Afterall, you’d have spoiled Natasha much more than you already had if it didn’t surpass her comfort levels.

“Here, eat up you little menace” you tell her, placing the bacon in front of her before patting her head

“That better not be my bacon you just gave away”

You turn around and smile at your adorable Omega, who still has sleep tousled hair, “I don’t have a death wish, baby. I know not to touch your bacon”

“Good” she affirms, but the smile on her lips confirms she's only teasing, “I wouldn’t want you to have to sleep on the couch”

You laugh, “Wow, not only banned from the nest, but the bed too”

She shrugs, “I take my bacon very seriously”

“You know what I take seriously?” you ask, not waiting for a reply, “My morning kisses”

She smiles and shakes her head at your antics, but doesn’t hesitate to step forward into your awaiting arms. Your hands rest on her hips protectively as she leans forward to connect her lips to yours in a gentle kiss.

“Better?” she teases, pulling back from you slightly

You lean in to peck her lips a second time, “Now it is”

A cute blush settles across her cheeks and she decides she wants to distract you so you don’t comment on it, “Are you excited for today?”

“Of course I am!” you reply, eyes lighting up as you look at her, “I can’t wait to see how many you're carrying! And so long as they're healthy, I’ll be happy!”

Nats smile widens almost impossibly. Bruce hadn’t cared one way or the other how many she was with, all he cared about was the fact that he had succeeded in getting her knocked up after how much resistance she had given him. And he was also adamant that it had better be a son. He needed to have one so badly that she was actually scared of what he'd do if she ended up having just a girl. But thankfully the universe had been kind enough to appease him, and now it had finally been kind to her.

“What about you, detka(baby)?”

Your voice brings her back to the present and she nods, “I am too, and as much as I’ll love them regardless, I really do want a little girl”

You adoringly watch on as she brings a hand up to caress her bump, and you know then that if you haven’t been successful with getting a girl this time, you would happily try again and again if necessary.

“3 o'clock really can’t come soon enough”

She chuckles, “I was just thinking the same thing. But let's eat breakfast and maybe time will pass by a bit quicker once I get Dima up”

Time does indeed move faster once your pup is awake and fed, and before you even know it you and your mate are greeting Yelena at the door. You exchange quick pleasantries with her as well as thanking her for coming over to watch her nephew. She of course only waves you off

“It's no trouble. He is my nephew afterall. Besides, he and I get along like a house on fire!”

Nat turns her gaze away from her sister beaming smile and to you, “That's what worries me”

Yelena pouts a bit, obviously having heard but she remains quiet, at a loss for what to say just yet. And you shrug, “I think it's safe enough for now. When he gets older though and can walk and talk properly, we may have a problem then”

“Hey! I am right here!” the blonde speaks up with a dramatic flair of her hands

You and your mate both chuckle, and your Omega moves to embrace her sister once more, “And we thank you so much for being her and being the brunt of our jokes.”

“Yeah yeah” she mumbles, hugging Nat back regardless, “Now go on, I know how excited you both are so stop tormenting me and get to your appointment”

Your Omega eagerly nods and removes herself to say another quick goodbye to Dima which you join her in. As the two of you went to the garage you can hear the Beta call out, “I expect a phone call as soon as you leave the doctors!”

You chuckle at how excited she is, knowing you both feel the same way, “We’ll call you!”

Once at the doctor's office the two of you can hardly contain your excitement. Sitting next to you, Natasha is practically vibrating. If someone didn’t know better they'd think she was overly jittery due to too many cups of coffee. But you knew that wasn’t the case, and so her actions were quite adorable.

You were about to offer up some words to help ease her nerves and calm her a bit, but before you get the chance a nurse opens the door to the waiting room and calls her name. The two of you follow her back down the hallway until you get to the room she's chosen for you both. She takes your Omegas blood pressure and listens to her heart beat before helping her get settled on the bed. She gets the ultrasound machine ready and then leaves to get the doctor.

“You okay, Omega?” you ask, reaching out to grab her hand

She nods, “Just a little nervous. I don’t want anything to be wrong”

“I know detka(baby)” you offer her a reassuring smile, “Just remember that I’m right here”

She nods just as the doctor enters. She exchanges greetings with the two of you before getting settled at the ultrasound machine. She lifts up your mate's shirt and slides her pants waistband down a bit to fully expose her bump, followed by her squeezing some of the cold gel onto her skin there. Natasha shudders a bit at its temperature and the doctor apologizes. She slowly moves the wand around while studying the screen in front of her. Though you know it's less than a minute, it feels like she's silent for an hour before she finally speaks

“Everything is looking really good. Both mom and pups look healthy”

“Pups?” Nats asks, her eyes lighting up as she smiles at you

The doctor smiles and turns the screen towards the two of you and you both watch as a fuzzy black and white image takes shape, “Right there you can see them both”

Natashas eyes begin to water as she sees the pups outlines, “We’re having twins, Alpha”

“Yeah we are” you respond, a few tears of your own building, “Can you tell what they are?”

The doctor looks back at the screen for a few moments before answering, “Congrats, looks like you're having two little girls”

Natashas hand tightens its grip on yours and you offer her a brilliant smile, “Hear that Omega? Girls.”

She matches your smile with one of her own, “I can’t wait to tell Yelena”

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#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x y/n #natasha x reader #omega!nat #omega!Natasha romanoff #marvel fanfiction #fanfic #marvel

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writer-by-the-sea · 2 years

Note

can you do one where elliott realizes that he's been adopting farmer's little habits? for example humming a familiar tune while cooking or sticking their tongue out a little while trying to concentrate or anything up to your liking! have a lovely day ♡

The eggs popped in the pan, their yolk already broken and spilled about. My wooden spoon joins in, twirling with the eggs and gently pushing them around the pan as they cook and become a scrambled mess. Next I add the chopped spring onion, something I’d never even considered before – but the end result is delicious.

Ever since that night… That wonderful night. I add the spring onions to my eggs. I’d never really thought about it until this very moment, how one night together changed the way that I prepare my eggs forever…

‘Then you add the cheese, just like this.’ The farmer swayed their hips back and forth, wearing only my shirt as they threw breakfast together for us. I sat at their kitchen table, hardly paying attention to their words as their bottom peeked out from beneath my shirt. The skin blossomed from my bites… between their thighs, across their neck, and down their chest.. My eyes watched them as they floated around the kitchen. A pint of salt, a twist of pepper, and a grating of cheese as a final touch.

They carried the plate over to me, a fresh slice of buttered toast and jam resting beside the perfectly scrambled eggs. While it looked delicious, admittedly I was… quite ravenous for something else.

The farmer nudged me, noticing how my eyes were focused on my shirt that they wore, no doubt reading my mind and how I wish I had the ability to undo the buttons with a snap of my fingers. ‘Try it,’ they giggled and took a bite from their own plate. They let out a soft noise of happiness, it was similar to their moans just a few hours ago as I buried my head between their legs.

‘Elliott,’ they scolded me with a laugh, and went so far as to button up my shirt even further. ‘Breakfast first, then we can go back to the bedroom.’

With the promise of more, I chuckled and finally ripped my gaze away from them and back to the plate in front of me. One bite later, and I was humming alongside the farmer.

And now, I stand in my cabin with a plate full of eggs. Not nearly as well prepared as the farmer would make; but I suppose it was good enough. I carried the plate to my bed, crawling into the covers and carefully pulling them back, revealing my groaning farmer trying to block out the light.

“Good morning, my love,” I sang and waved the plate beneath their nose. “I’ve made you breakfast.”

The farmer blinked their eyes open before smiling up at me. “With the spring onion?” They asked.

“Always.”

They ate slowly, savoring each bite and humming as they swallowed.

Adorable as ever.

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fag4dykestobin · 1 year

Text

i kind of sat down and thought about steve and robin cooking together, and then i entered a fugue state and came out of it with a little over 1.7k words written about them being domestic besties (domesties?). so um. enjoy :)

Robin has destroyed one of her mom’s pans again, so she’s been banished to Steve’s house.

Well, okay, let’s back up.

Robin, waking up and feeling especially productive, had taken it upon herself to make some scrambled eggs. Nice and simple, right? So she had grabbed the first spatula and pan she could find, and… scrambled those eggs! She even remembered the salt and pepper! Unfortunately, as Robin had remembered after she oh-so-lovingly scraped off the nonstick coating, metal utensils and nonstick pans didn’t really get along. Oops. Panicking, she had scraped her mess into the trash and called Steve to pick her up. So, really, she had banished herself, preemptively.

“How the hell did you even do this much damage?” Steve asks, holding up the pan. The look of befuddlement on his face is picture perfect; you could teach children how to identify emotions with that face. Robin would pinch his cheek if she wasn’t so embarrassed.

“I don’t know! I just tried to make some eggs!”

“Rob, there’s like, a solid cube of—”

“A cube is a 3D object, dingus.”

“This is a 3D object!”

“Not in that way! It’s not a cube! You mean a square!”

Steve throws up his hands, one of them brandishing the pan and waving it around. “Fine! There’s a solid square…” Steve gives Robin a look. She nods her head at him in acquiescence. “... Of coating rubbed off of this thing. Why were you punishing your eggs like that?”

Robin leans back on the counter she’s been sitting on, legs swinging. Her heel hits the cabinet once, and Steve’s eye twitches, but he says nothing. Because he loves her. But she tries to avoid doing it again, for his sake. “I had to get that yolk distributed! I was working fast, Evie, the burner was on and I wanted it evenly mixed—!”

“So why didn’t you mix it in a bowl before that?!” Steve looks so stressed. It's kind of funny, given how unimportant the subject matter is. Robin suppresses a grin.

“I forgot! I was groggy!”

Steve groans, setting the ruined pan down and rubbing a hand over his face. “... When we move in together,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Robin, “I am keeping my metal utensils in a locked safe.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling that always appears when Robin is reminded of their future together, their permanence in each other’s lives, it fizzes and pops in her chest like a sparkler. It’s still such a comforting feeling, even after all these months.

It doesn’t stop her from antagonizing him a little. “Like I don’t know what combination you’ll set it to,” she scoffs. “I could just break in. To spite you.”

Steve sits with that for a moment. “You’re breaking my heart, Robbie, you know that? You break my heart.” Not a real comeback. She’s won their battle of the bits, this time around.

“Well, anyway,” Steve continues, “I am really hoping you didn’t eat those eggs after seasoning them with metal filings.”

“It wasn’t— I don’t think the coating is metal. I don’t know what it is, actually, but I don’t think it falls under metal filings.”

Steve hmms. “Well, it’s not, like, plastic, right? Or silicone? That would just melt.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Well, it can’t be metal, because it loses a fight with metal spatulas.”

Steve thinks for a second. “Is… God, I mean, I guess there are other, other uh… what’s the word? For, like, not from plants?” Robin scrunches her brow in thought. “Synthetic? Inorganic?”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Yeah, both of those work. There’s probably things that aren’t plastic or metal that can be used to cook with, but it feels weird. That there’s another category out there.”

Robin nods in agreement, and they sit in companionable silence for a moment, contemplating on the nature of cookware.

“Anyway, no, I still haven’t eaten.”

Steve curses, gets up from leaning on his kitchen island, and steps over to the cabinets where he keeps his pots and pans. “Yes, God, okay, let me feed you. Still want eggs?”

“You know it!” Robin says, and Steve gets to cooking, bustling around the kitchen with practiced motions. It’s nice to watch him cook. He gets very focused, in a way that doesn’t usually come naturally to him. Steve doesn’t usually like talking while he’s cooking, but he hums bits of songs, bobs his head to the beat.

In no time at all he has a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Robin, and she hops off the counter to sit at a stool at the kitchen island. She grabs the plate from Steve and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek, making him roll his eyes with a smile and subtly wipe her spit off.

Steve takes a seat across from her, and she notices that he doesn’t have anything. Did he already eat? “Did you already eat?” Robin asks.

Steve blinks. “Oh. No, I forgot.” He has a tendency to do that; when he cooks for someone, he can get so caught up in it that he forgets to make some for himself, and is left to scramble afterwards. “I’ll make myself some eggs after you’re done.”

An idea comes to mind. An attempt at redemption, maybe. “Let me?” Robin asks.

“And let you ruin my pans? No thanks.”

A flash of genuine hurt passes through Robin, and she lets it show on her face in the form of a pout. The comment isn’t unfounded, but… “No, please! I know what I did wrong, I’ll do better this time. I’m not sleepy anymore, either.” She just wants to take care of Steve like he takes care of her. She wants to feed him eggs, goddamnit! When was the last time anyone fed him eggs? Actually, if she thinks about that one, she’ll get sad, so she stops thinking about it.

Steve can obviously see her earnestness, and he softens. And rolls his eyes. But that’s just him being Steve, so Robin loves it. “Whatever you want, Birdie. Just don’t burn them. Oh, and use garlic powder.”

So Robin practically inhales the rest of her eggs and toast (very tasty, as always) and gets to work. Steve sits at his stool at the island, trying and failing not to watch Robin like a hawk as she bumbles around his kitchen (“That’s not enough garlic powder, Rob, put some more in there, it won’t bite!” and “Use the small pan on the top shelf— no, the other small pan. No, the other—”), but she does eventually get a plate of eggs and toast in front of him. Not as good looking as the one Steve presented her, but it smelled good, and didn’t have weird inorganic pan flecks in them. Steve gives her a sloppy kiss on her cheek this time, over-exaggerating and putting way too much saliva in it, seriously, was he a dog or something? Robin BLECH’d and rubbed at her cheek, but he looked happy at his plate of food, so. Overall success, even if sacrifices had to be made.

Robin leaned on the island on her elbows, face a foot away from Steve’s as he picked up a forkful of egg. He side-eyed her.

“Do you… want some…?”

Robin waved a hand at him. “No, dingus. Eat it! Do you like it?”

“Okay, okay!” Steve rolled his eyes and ate his forkful. Robin stared at him as he chewed, looking out for emotions such as delight and wonder, but also disgust and revulsion.

She found nothing. Steve looked normal. He ate another forkful, eyeing her.

“So?” Robin prods.

“They’re eggs?” Steve says, mouth still half full.

“Swallow!” Steve rolls his eyes and does as she asks. “Nothing else? They’re just eggs?”

Steve nods, shrugging a little. Robin feels a little let-down. The first time Steve had made her eggs, it was life-changing. He put heavy cream in them. Robin doesn’t think her parents had ever bought heavy cream in their lives.

Robin guesses that it makes sense, though. This is just how he makes eggs, duh. Still, it makes her feel kind of bad, that she couldn’t give Steve the same feeling he gave her.

Steve seems to sense her inner turmoil. “They’re— it’s good, though! You did a good job. I do like it.” He seems kind of… embarrassed, but grateful. “You didn’t have to make them for me. Thanks.”

Robin bumps his shoulder with her own, and then retreats to her seat, allowing him a bit more personal space. But not too much! She kicks at his shins, and he kicks back, a smile on his face.

Cleanup is easy as Steve washes the dishes and Robin dries. It’s the small, domestic things, like this, that make her so excited to eventually live together. It’s so easy and companionable, full of chatter about band practice and Dustin’s latest science experiment. She can’t wait to graduate.

After the dishes, though, they’re both at the kitchen island again, silently staring at the pan Robin had ruined at her house earlier.

“... It seems like a waste to throw away,” Robin complains.

“I know, right? But it’s, like, useless now.”

Robin hums. “I mean, no, it’s still like… metal. I feel like we should be melting it down.”

Steve stares at her. “In what world would it be more useful melted down?”

Robin squawks, indignant at her idea being challenged. “You know what I mean!”

“No I don’t! Do you just want a, a… what’s the word? A bar of metal.”

“Ingot.”

“Do you just want an ingot hanging out on our mantelpiece?!”

“Well, I didn’t before, but now I do!”

They look at each other for only a moment before dissolving into simultaneous giggles, shared joy crackling and leaping between them.

Steve settles down first. Still grinning, he turns to put the pan at the very top of a relatively bare cupboard. “Fine, we’ll just… keep this to be melted down later.”

Robin can’t do anything to stop the twin grin on her face, not that she would ever want to. “I love you, Evie.” The words come easy, and the delight and surprise on Steve’s face is as wonderful as always. He pulls her into a hug.

“I love you too, Rob.”

#this is my first time writing them and i think i have a good idea of them but. well. all first times doing anything can end up rough #i am largely happy with this though i just love these two. da besties #steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin #stranger things #quincy.txt #i will post this to ao3... tomorrow....... i stayed up way too late to write all of this but i was on a roll #oh and yeah i didn't alternate steve's pronouns here and that is mainly becuase i have a Timeline in mind for her gender journey #and he is not here yet. i imagine this to be in like november. a few months after starcourt but before s4 #took so much effort not to alternate the pronouns though sorry stevie i love you bbg you are always bigender don't worry #my fics

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zcorners120 · 1 year

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Hello, could you please make a part 3 for the shut up and get in story? I loved part 1 and part 2! Maybe that they walk into the paddock and garage together and that those mechanics are shocked that they are together. But if you come up with something else I will be happy with that as well!

yes ! im v happy to see my arthur fics getting recognition, especially shut up & get in, i put loads of effort into them <3 it's been a while since i wrote them so i had to re read them LMAAAOO

arthur leclerc x reader MASTERLIST PART ONE PART TWO

synopsis; your confusing newfound relationship with Arthur has now started to progress further..

warnings;

Trapped in his embrace, you began to increasingly panic. Maybe if you just pretended to fall asleep for awhile? Or do you just pull out of his grip?

You took the riskier option, having to pull with every muscle and get out of his strong arms. He stirred slightly, the gentle sunlight gracing his relaxed face as he dozed off.

You changed back into your now dry jeans, keeping his shirt on as you spray some deodorant and perfume on that you had in your bag. Slipping down the stairs and into the kitchen you made some breakfast, humming a tune from a shitty song, mixing the eggs in the pan.

"Something smells good." A deep voice announces, accompanied by the steps that it was taking towards you.

Slightly jumping, forgetting it wasn't just you in this incredible house.

"Oh yeah sorry, thought I'd just make us something." You cringed at the thought of this, you 24 hours ago wouldn't of have believed the situation.

He sat opposite on the kitchen island, rubbing his eyes groggily.

"I don't wanna bring this up, but like, sleeping together? What do we make of that?" Stirring the scrambled eggs before stopping, looking up and being met with Arthur's raised eyebrows.

"At least let me eat the eggs first, damn." Witty attitude straight from the morning.

"Not like that, pervert." You flicked a bit of broken egg shell towards him that you hadn't thrown away yet.

Little did you know, that egg shell was about to start war.

You saw the demeanour on his face turn from playful to something serious behind his eyes, but you were a bit too curious to find out.

Turning around with a smirk plastered on your face, thinking you'd finally won against him. Getting the pancake mix ready, you felt something wet and gooey fall on your head, running down the back of your neck.

"You're game."

Splatters everywhere. Ketchup in places it shouldn't be. Equally soaked in milk and runny yolk dripping.

Sat down on the wet floor opposite each other, absolutely beat by your childish activities. Trying to pretend like Arthur didn't pick you up by the waist, screaming when dropped you in a concoction of blueberries, smashed avocado and strawberry jam. Or closing you into the corner of the kitchen, his hot and heavy breath millimetres away from your plump lips, moment ruined by yoghurt falling and saturating your hair.

As you went to shower, for the second time, in Arthur Leclerc's shower, he posted something on his story.

Agreeing to a peace treaty, you headed to work in Arthur's car again, wearing another one of his tops and a pair of his joggers since he insisted.

Walking through the double doors to the academy together, huge smiles plastered on your faces was truly a sight that had to be seen with your own eyes.

The other mechanics went quiet, slightly in shock to see the two of you walking in late, giddy, and wearing his clothes.

"I thought they hated each other?" One asked his friend, to which his friend shakes his head and replies.

"They're kids. Who knows at this rate?"

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copperbadge · 2 years

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Mr Sam, I've never thought about freezing dairy before. In particular I thought you COULDN'T freeze milk and yogurt. Could you talk about your freeze / defrost process and how the thawed product compares to original? This could change my shopping habits so thanks in advance.

In my experience, you can freeze almost any dairy product except sour cream, which for some reason does Not Cope Well with being frozen. Also some cheeses, but that varies. Full report below! :D

Regular yogurt can be frozen and is actually extremely delicious when eaten straight from freezing, I love the texture it develops. Greek yogurt freezes well too, though it needs to be stirred after defrosting. Both taste roughly the same after being thawed, as long as they weren't in the freezer for long enough to get freezer burn (like, over a year).

Milk can be frozen, or at least skim and 1% can; I only ever drink skim, but I recently had to buy 1% because there was no skim to be had, and it froze just as well; it looked a little gross when frozen but when thawed and shaken up it was fine. Butter, buttermilk, and cream can all be frozen, although cream gets a bit weird and thick so you either need to shake it up with a bit of normal milk, or only use it in baking (as I do -- I don't use it for coffee, for example).

Cheese can be frozen but it has the most textural issues when thawed. Harder cheese tends to break up into chunks, becoming brittle and difficult to slice, though it still melts well and tastes fine. Shredded cheese freezes very well, though if you have say a pound of it, it's best to break it up into smaller packages first, so that you can thaw out what you want without having to set the whole thing out. I've also had luck with freezing brie and other soft cheeses, but effect varies. The flavor does not appear to me to change after freezing.

I have admittedly never frozen kefir because I don't like it and don't keep it, but I think kefir probably shouldn't be, because it's fizzy.

Eggs, as long as we're in the sphere of dairy, can also be frozen, but need a little more care. You need to either crack them into oiled muffin tins and freeze individually, or beat the white and yolk together and freeze (I do this, and they turn BRIGHT ORANGE when frozen, this is normal). If you beat them together you can freeze multiple eggs in one container, so like I'll beat together four eggs and freeze, then thaw for epic scrambled eggs or for use in baking (by weight).

The freeze-thaw process is pretty simple for most. Yogurt and greek yogurt can go into the freezer in the containers they come in; I usually buy one of the bigger packages of greek yogurt, split it among 2-3 tupperware, and freeze it that way, and I've also frozen it in a ziplock bag in a pinch. Thaw in the fridge or on the counter if you're careless like me. Give a stir before eating.

Butter (and also cream cheese) can be put into the fridge in the packet you buy it in; if you're freezing a large portion of butter that isn't already split into sticks, it's probably wise to divide it up and freeze it in plastic wrap or tupperware. To defrost, thaw in fridge or on counter. This works for salted and unsalted. You can also place the butter on a sheet of plastic wrap, put another sheet over the top, and smoosh it out into a thin pancake before freezing; it thaws much faster that way.

Milk can be frozen in the packaging it comes in but it's generally not a great idea because you also have to thaw it all at once, and milk thaws very slowly. I usually just try to buy small amounts of milk, but lately you can only get skim in gallons, so I buy a gallon, pour it into a series of jars (I'm short on tupperware and well-stocked with jam jars) and put them in the freezer. With any liquid, you want to fill the jars/tupperware only about 3/4 of the way full and put the caps on LOOSELY until the milk is frozen; a tight cap will trap the air and when the liquid expands, it can crack the glass or plastic. You can tighten the lid once it’s frozen. Thaw on the counter or in the fridge, or microwave it; often I'll set the milk out to thaw and every two hours or so pour off what's been thawed into a new container in the fridge.

As mentioned, cheese gets brittle; if I'm freezing cheese I tend to shred it first because that'll be the end result anyway :D

I think that's everything, but if you have a question about dairy that I didn't mention, I'm happy to answer!

#food #sam cooks #food preservation #freezing #dairy

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

Unsolicited 25

Warnings: bad self-thought/talk, bullying, insults, low self-esteem, money problems, oral/noncon, coercion, cum, some untagged sexual and dark elements.

Wouldn’t mind some feedback! Lloyd was driving me nuts so I had to do it. Thank you in advance 💜

Masterlist

You bring Lloyd a second cup of coffee with his breakfast. A plate of crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast. As you step back, he sucks his teeth and lifts the mug with a subtle shake of his head.

"I like my eggs sunny side up," he sneers.

"You didn't say," you reply flatly.

"You didn't ask!" He grabs the plate and flings it so it flies like a frisbee, the food falling all around. It smashes against the wall and you hold back a sigh. "Do it right."

You swallow and withhold a retort. Something that might make you sound like a mother scolding her child; there are starving children in the world. You push your tongue against your palette as you calm yourself.

"Yes, daddy," you go and gather up the larger pieces of glass before retreating to the kitchen. You return with a broom and sweep up the food into the dust pan. He doesn't say a word but you feel him watching you.

You start again. Several more strips of bacon sizzling as you time dropping the eggs in the pan just right. More toast, buttered and cut down the middle. You set it out on a new plate and take it out to him.

"Salt and pepper?" You offer, barely keeping a trite lilt out of your tone.

He waves you away with his hand. You step back as he plucks up a piece of bacon with his fingers and bites into it. Again, you're startled by his naked lip, he looks like an entirely different person even if he is back to the same old attitude.

You turn on your heel and stride to the door. He clears his throat and gulps loudly from his mug.

"Wait a minute, kitty cat," he calls you back, "need more coffee."

He plunks the cup down and you push your shoulders back rigidly. You spin, walking tersely across the room, the tall heels hammering against the floorboards. You take his cup as his eyes twinkle at you and he stabs the yolk with his fork.

You make yourself stay calm. It's difficult. He knows what he's doing. So do you. Needling at you. Punishing you.

You go back into the kitchen and pour another cup. It takes every ounce of your strength not to spit in it. You bring it to him with the same sickly smile. As you set it down, he smacks his lips and sits back.

"You ever heard of beer goggles?" He asks as you lean back on your heel, pausing before you can flee for the excuse of tidying up.

"Sure."

"Yeah, trust me, you're about fifty percent hotter when I'm drunk," he snickers.

"Thank you," you say dryly, "is that it? Can I get you anything else? A bib? Or maybe a sippy cup? Keep you from spilling–"

"Watch your mouth," he warns as he points the butter knife at you.

You close your mouth and nod. You stare at him and he sighs. He looks at his plate and plays with his food, dragging the tines over the cooked whites.

"Actually, I could use one more thing. Best thing, it will keep your mouth busy."

You narrow your eyes and raise your shoulders. What?

He looks down his body as he sits back and smiles at his crotch. He wiggles his hips and purrs, lifting his chin as he turns his smirk back on you.

"You know how I like it, babe," he taunts and your nostrils flare. Babe. You hate that word. It reminds you of…before. "It's the one thing you do right. Hmm? Your coffee? Too strong. Your eggs? Too runny. But that mouth, just right." He snorts as his dumb joke, "so let's play, Goldicocks."

You can barely keep from smacking him. You curl your fingers then stretch them back out. He notices, grinning larger as his eyes fall to your hand.

"I fucking dare you," he snarls.

You inhale and shake your fingers out. You won't let him get to you. You move closer and touch the edge of the table, about to get to your knees and get it over with.

"Maybe if the old husband had a couple every night, he wouldn't be hanging around late at the office. Or maybe, that's how it happened? A couple too many–"

You swing your arm back and slap him full force, the noise echoing in the air. Your palm stings as you gasp and pull your hand away. What did you just do?

His fork clinks on the plate as he leans back, raising his fingertips to his rosy cheek. His lip twitches as his blue eyes follow you, crisp and cold. He lowers his hands and pushes himself up with the wooden armrests, the chair scraping loudly.

"You're a stupid fucking bimbo, you know that?" He says as he comes closer. You take a step back but he catches you by the throat, "you fucking are. You still care about that deadbeat and we both know he never gave a fuck about you."

"You don't either," you hiss.

He squeezes and glares at you, his throat tightening visibly, "I fucking don't but I never pretended I did, did I?"

"No," you choke out.

"Correct," he says sharply, "so take your feelings out of this," he leans in so his jose brushes yours, "and suck me off."

He lets you go, his hands falling to the front of the pink robe he still wears. You blow out between your lips and grab the belt, you rip it open roughly.

"And you're assuming I give a fuck about you," you spit defiantly.

His tongue peeks out of his mouth as you blindly feel along his stomach, your gaze stuck to his. His muscles clench as you tickle down his pelvis and take his bobbing dick in your hand, swiping around his tip so he twitches. A low growl rolls from his throat.

You stroke him and take a step back. You don't look away as you get to your knees. You work him, long and slow pumps as you hover your lips before his swollen head. You will not let him win.

You open your mouth around him and take his tip firmly between your lips. He watches you, chest rising and falling, unable to tear his eyes from you. You flick your tongue around and he grunts, grabbing your shoulder gruffly.

You slide down his length, pushing your tongue against him until you reach the back of your throat. You bring your hands up to grip his hips and force him past your reflex. The tendons in his neck throb and he lets out a groan.

You brush your hand down the line of his pelvis and cup his balls, squeezing them as you take him completely. You hum and pull back, letting him out as only his tip rests against your lower lip. You swirl your tongue around him once more, still holding him rapt with your burning gaze.

"Oh, daddy," you part and let his dick stand on its own, "I'll be what you want. A set of holes." You pout stupidly, raising your voice an octave. You kiss his tip and sigh mockingly, "I'm your omindless little slut."

His lip curls as a battle rages in his bold irises. He growls and catches the back of your head, forcing you to take him again. You open and swallow him down smoothly.

That's all you need to do is stop thinking. Stop feeling. He'll get bored soon.

#lloyd hansen x reader #dark lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #the grey man #the gray man #unsolicited #series

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eggymf-archived · 1 year

Text

okay so there's already quite a number of posts out there about creating the content that you want, but i think this should be addressed too.

if you need a break, then take a break.

to the creators out there, this is a reminder that you are in no means obligated to function like some sort of content factory. you are doing this for free. art in its various form takes time to manifest. you're only human. you have other obligations, interests, and hobbies that will take up your time every now and then. it's. fucking. normal. what isn't normal is when you have to constantly sacrifice your well-being and other priorities for the sake of content.

even if the fandom isn't as active as it used to be, there will always be someone out there who'll find your work and appreciate it. all that matters is that you actually had the guts to post it, and that's more than enough. there are already many content creators in the fandom who dipped and it's fucking sad. to the ones who decide to remain and to the ones who have recently joined, please take care of yourselves. you are much loved and appreciated, and i sincerely hope you'll find sustainable means to keep your passions alive.

#yolk's scrambled thoughts #not expecting this to reach much people since i haven't been posting as much too lately #but whatever i guess lmao #stoopid tumblr algorithm #back into the void i go

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luxaofhesperides · 1 year

Text

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!

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

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apomaro-mellow · 1 year

Text

Wrong Number 3

(2:21 am) I just realized something (2:21 am) Ur a cooking teacher (2:22 am) Who can't fry a egg (2:23 am) You're a fraud 🫵

[7:29 am] I can fry an egg just fine I just can't make the yolks runny. It's too hard to time it right. And why are you up thinking about eggs at 2 am?

(7:47 am) I was up thinking about you at 2 am

Steve felt his stomach flip as he sipped his coffee and set his belongings down in his classroom. Eddie didn't play games. He always said exactly what he was thinking. And it drew Steve wild.

(7:48 am) And about how your students might clown on you for not being able to scramble an egg

[7:49] Aww you're worried about me?

(7:49 am) Kids can be little monsters (7:50 am) Actually how old are the little monsters you teach?

[7:51] Youngest is 6 and oldest is 14. Speaking of, they'll be arriving soon so...

(7:52 am) Godspeed you academic warrior

Eddie didn't typically text so late on weeknights. Not since learning Steve was a teacher. It was just that he truly HAD been up and thinking of him. Steve drove him crazy and he thought he was doing a good job keeping a lid on it. 2 am texts were what happened when the lid got loose but Steve didn't seem put off by it.

At about half past three, Steve called him. Eddie was glad he made that leap with his first call. The sound of Steve's voice never failed to warm him through. Eddie was in the middle of collecting axes for sharpening at the end of his shift.

"What's cookin' good lookin'?", Eddie greeted as he picked up.

"Today was good. Had a really riveting conversation about meatloaf versus pate with the kids", Steve said.

"Meatloaf rocks and pate is just cold meatloaf for rich people. End of discussion."

"Well, we talked about it for like fifteen minutes. Had a real interesting tangent on forcemeats in general."

Eddie paused. "Excuse me?"

"You'd be surprised at what kids are into. This one I taught last year was really into rice-"

"I need you to backtrack just a bit. 'Forcemeat'?"

"Yeah it's-oh grow up", Steve chided while shaking his head. He had just gotten home and was taking off his work clothes for something more comfortable. He thought about what Eddie might think he'd look nice in. "Not even my 12 year olds are this childish."

There was something about the way Steve talked about his students. Like they were his actual children. The conversation continued for a few minutes more before Steve suddenly had to hang up. Eddie tried not to think much of it, but it wasn't the first time that it had happened.

Steve ended the call just as Robin came into the apartment. She narrowed her eyes at him, then looked to the phone in his hand. Steve hid it behind his back and winced at practically telling on himself.

"You're hiding something."

"No I'm not."

"And now you're lying to me."

"No I'm not!"

Robin pounced and wrestled him for the phone. It wasn't a real fight of course. Steve could've pinned her in seconds but a part of him was tired of keeping the secret. And obviously, she knew how to unlock his phone.

"Who's Eddie?", she asked, sitting on his back triumphantly.

"A guy."

"Thank you, I had no idea it could be a man's name. You've been texting him aaaaaaa llllllllllllot."

"Are you reading them!? Robin!"

"Where did you meet him?", Robin said as she got up, continuing to read through their conversations.

"I um, technically, haven't. Yet."

Robin gave him an odd look and Steve spilled everything to her. To her credit, Robin listened to the full story before throwing one of the couch pillows at him.

"Stephen Elliott Harrington! Did no one teach you stranger danger? You just kept texting him? And calling? And I saw the pictures you sent. You know he can find out where we live? What if I came home to your skinless corpse??!"

It went on for a while like that and when Robin was finished, she collapsed onto the couch. Steve sat across from her on the coffee table. He waited for her to silently process it all.

"You think he's cute?"

"What I've seen of him, yeah."

Robin sighed. "I can't believe you're turning into the guy who has a internet girlfriend."

Steve rolled his eyes but then balked when she started to read through his messages again.

"And I can't believe you haven't even started flirting yet."

"I've been flirting with him the whole time!" Maybe not the whole time but-

"You're giving him Diet Steve. Why are you holding back?"

Steve shrugged, looking sheepish now. Now Robin was rolling her eyes.

"Steve, we're getting you a date."

"But he's-"

"A virtual one. Jesus is he an axe murderer?", Robin said as she looked to one of the texts.

"No, he just works with them. Axes! Not murderers."

--------------------------------

Eddie was about to sit down to a movie when his phone buzzed.

[5:17 pm] Thinking about you.

Oh. Now that was some text to get.

(5:18 pm) Oh yeah? (5:18 pm) What about me?

Steve looked to Robin. They were sitting cross-legged next to each other on his bed.

"What do I say?"

"Be honest, duh."

"If I'm honest I'm gonna talk about his hands."

Robin shook her hands at him like she wanted to wring his neck. Steve got the idea and decided to put himself out there.

[5:21 pm] Your hands. I think about them a lot actually

Eddie had not given his own hands much thought. But knowing that Steve admired them, he gave them a second look. He thought about them gripping Steve's thighs.

(5:23) You're gonna make me blush (5:24) What would you do with my hands Stevie?

Steve panicked and looked to Robin. "Are we sexting? Is he getting me to sext?"

"That's the idea, dingus. I said I was getting you a date. Now tell him what you want him to do."

"I don't know I'd....I'd want to..." Steve trailed off, looking at his phone while the fingers of his other hand brushed against his lips.

Robin stole the phone from him again and started typing. "'First...I'd suck..on them'."

"Robin!"

"Is that not what you want?"

Steve shrugged and Robin continued. "You've got me on the clock for five more minutes before I go out. You dictate, I'll type."

Steve hated how much he liked the idea. Especially when he heard the ping of Eddie's reply. "What did he say?"

Robin cleared her throat. "'Yeah? You wanna suck on them? I bet you got a beautiful mouth.' Oh he's good."

"Yeah", Steve breathed out. "Really good." He thought about Eddie sticking his fingers in and pressing down on his tongue, his rings tasting metallic and so nice.

"'I wanna choke on them'", Robin said out loud as she typed. "Is it too soon to call him Daddy?"

"What?!" That snapped Steve out of it.

"Oh come on. Tattoos, the hair, his job. He wants to be called Daddy."

"Robin don't call him Daddy."

"Pops?"

Steve took his phone from her and looked to Eddie's reply.

(5:30 pm) I'd only choke you if you were being bad (5:30 pm) Are you gonna be bad baby?

[5:31 pm] Maybe. I can be good too. So good.

(5:32 pm) Lemme call you baby wanna hear you

Steve dialed without hesitation just as Robin was leaving. Her work was done.

"Don't get murdered while I'm out!", she shouted just as Eddie picked up.

"Hey pretty baby", Eddie said.

"Hey. You said you wanted to hear me?"

"Yeah. I wanna hear you say those things with your own voice."

"Like how I wanna choke on your fingers? Among other things?"

Steve could hear Eddie let out a breath on the other end. The power he felt right now was intoxicating.

"Bet you'd look so good on your knees."

Steve hummed while pressing his fingertips to his lips. If Eddie asked, he'd suck on them. Let the wet noises fill his ears, let Eddie know how good he could be.

"Darlin' you went quiet."

"I'm thinking", Steve said, laying down on his bed. "I wanna show you, Eddie."

Eddie swallowed. This man would be the death of him. He'd nearly jerked off to just a picture of his fully clothed lower half. If he saw more...if he saw everything-

"Eddie! We've got a Code Red!"

"Jesus! Knock!"

Steve sat up quick at the shouting coming from Eddie's end. It sounded like someone had barged in.

"Eddie?"

"Sorry. Sorry Steve. I gotta handle something. Um, call you back? Please?"

"Eddie, I want to video call you."

"V..video...?"

"Yes. I wanna see you. Please."

"Yes. Yes, a thousand times-hold your horses! Uh, tomorrow? It's Saturday, so you're free, right? Can we make it a date?"

"A date", Steve nodded. "I'll see you then. I'll be thinking of you."

"And I'll be counting the seconds. 1-one thousand, 2-one thousand, 3-one th-ouch! Okay! Damn!"

Eddie hung up and Steve still had the phone to his ear, smiling. He had a video call date. He had a date with Eddie!

Shit what should he wear?

Part 5

Tag Team (CLOSED)

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @estrellami-1 @newtstabber @omletlove @ifyoudonlysurrender @rehfan @morganski-19 @corvidcantina @dragonmama76 @just-ladyme @tinyplanet95 @goodolefashionedloverboi @idoquitelikebread @kittydeadbones @manda-panda-monium @rhapsodyinalto @paintsplatteredandimperfect @keylime-green @ihavekidneys @samsoble @honorarybrit81 @swimmingbirdrunningrock @aizawa-emma @deleataecount @thesuninyaface @fromapayphone @justmeinadaze @hbyrde36 @queenie-ofthe-void @resident-gay-bitch @bestwifehaver @dangdirtydemons @ellietheasexylibrarian @perseus-notjackson @pyrohonk @holysteddie @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @mrsjellymunson @geekymagicalpotato @notaqueenakhaleesi

#apo writes #stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #platonic stobin #next part we're gettin steamy #when i 1st heard the word forcemeat i giggled

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cloudyswritings · 9 months

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Traditional foods of Hallownest

So I just made Christmas cookies I can’t eat yet and my hunger is infinite. Hence this mess.

Boofly steaks: These are pretty much what they sound like, I feel like Booflies were essentially the cows of Hallownest. The quality of a Boofly steak is determined with how fatty it is, fattier cuts display very nice marbling. These are actually more savory in flavor than regular steaks and have a slightly more gelatinous/softer texture. Generally Boofly steaks will be served with lake-pearls(a macro algae native to the blue lake that has a salty and slightly sour flavor.

Aspid stew: this is a stew that’s made from the bottom half of and aspid(primal aspids have a much different flavor and are far less popular). Recipe is as follows

Carve up your aspid, start by removing the upper thorax and cleaning the intestines of any waste. Let the aspid drain some of its hemolyph and other juices into a jar.

Drain the acid from the aspids lower thorax, take care to entirely remove the acid glands. Store the acid in a chilled glass or ceramic jar for later.

finely mince some bitter root(a root native to the crossroads that tastes very sweet when boiled), and grind up some hyacinth flower petals, roughly a cupful of each will do.

Cut 2-3 tik-tik into fine strips(crawlids are an acceptable but inferior alternative) and lightly dust it with salt and soak in the juices from the aspid for about 35 minutes

Take the bottom half of the aspid and lightly bread the insides, once a small layer of breading is present pour in some water along with your bitter root and petals. Set this over a heat source for roughly an hour to ensure the bitterroot is thoroughly boiled.

Lightly sear the tik-tik meat and aspid meat before adding it to the stew, wait 20 minutes for it to cook.

Now that we’ve assembled most of our dish the most important part is up next. Because we chilled the aspid acid it should have taken on a gelatinous texture, mix this into any remaining aspid hemolyph and pour it into our stew. This should add a nice sharpness to the dish

Stir until the consistency is somewhere around that of a scrambled maskfly egg.

A traditional breakfast:

Scrambled maskfly eggs(they end up being close to an uncooked egg yolk in consistency) they’re generally something that is slurped up like a drink

Gruzzer bacon: this kinda tends to come in thicker slices than our bacon, it’s great when paired with a light drizzle of diluted aspid acid. Very very fatty, heavy umami flavor witha bite of saltiness.

Mashed crawlid balls: these are mashed up and thoroughly cooked crawlid meat mixed with assorted spices from greenpath and generally have a hollow center so juices from the meat can collect.

A cup of Gruzzer mead: Basically just a mix of gruzzer hemolymph and the pressed juices of a gulka. It has a very refreshing bite to it and a consistency like eggnog.

A rare delicacy: Aluba caviar, generally this is served in the shell of a shadow crawler(throughly cured and seasoned, generally for several months to ensure there’s no residual void) with a side of bioluminescent mushrooms exported from deepnest. This is generally a meal only reserved for the upper castes.

Finally: Rancid eggs can be cured and fermented into a cultural delicacy much like that one Icelandic shark dish. Suffice to say most bugs find this disgusting. The Pale king however thoroughly enjoy it, though this not public knowledge. It’s kinda his guilt pleasure along with chocolate (which is fatal or otherwise detrimental to nearly all other insects hence him being the only one eating it).

I’m definitely gonna do a part two for this once I write up some other recipes. Hopefully ones I put more thought into.

#fantasy food #food #hollow knight #hk pale king #Headcanon #worldbuilding #fake recipes #Bug are food #Yum yum #enjoy y’all

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peaktotheocean · 2 years

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Home Economics

Pairing: Steddie on ao3 here Summary:

The girls of Hawkins High thought it was cute that Steve Harrington took Home Ec. All the guys thought he did it just to get the girls.

Steve Harrington signed up for Home Ec because he hadn't seen his parents in a few weeks and he was getting pretty tired of Pop-Tarts.

or-- Five times Steve used the skills he learned in Home Ec and one time he let someone else take the reins.

1. Dustin wasn’t dying per se but after a 24 hour stomach bug, he certainly looked like it. Steve knew that, in theory, it was safe for the kid to eat again. Dustin had a limited window between his appetite returning and his empty stomach turning to nausea again.

Which was where Steve came in.

Steve, who had taken off from Family Video in order to stay with Dustin while his mom had a big presentation at work. Steve, who was currently digging through the Henderson fridge as if he was on an archaeological expedition. Dustin stared at him the whole time but Steve tried not to hold it against the kid, given how out of it he was.

"How about some protein? Think you could stomach some scrambled eggs? No cheese, nothing else in them. Just the eggs." Steve kept his voice low and soft, like it had been all afternoon. He flipped open the carton lid to reveal a half dozen eggs still available.

"Can you make scrambled eggs?" Dustin blurted out. Steve snorted and took Dustin's response as a yes.

"I can make them for you scrambled, poached, hard-boiled, soft-boiled, sunny-side-up, over-easy. Your pick, man. We just need to get some food into you." Steve resisted the urge to press the back of his hand to Dustin's forehead again. His fever broke already, he knew it and the thermometer confirmed it, but Steve still found himself wanting to triple check. Instead, he occupied his hands with a spatula, frying pan, and a carton of eggs, carefully balancing his way over to the counter.

"Whoa. That's a lot of options." Dustin looked as thought he was about to fall off his kitchen chair but Steve had already tried and failed to get him to stay on the couch.

"How about scrambled?" Steve suggested gently, taking pity on the kid. "Quick, easy, and soft."

Dustin's stomach growled. He gave Steve a big smile, the first he'd seen since he had gotten to the Henderson house and even if the bug wasn't through with Dustin yet, it felt great to see the expression again.

"That sounds really good," Dustin moaned. Steve just hoped the eggs would stay down. They should but sometimes that didn't matter.

“Scrambled egg are an easy one," Steve kept talking as he grabbed a small bowl and a fork and set them out on the counter. "First week of Home Ec we made scrambled eggs. I got so many pieces of shell in my bowl the first time I tried cracking an egg. It was pathetic, man." Steve held his breath for a split second as he cracked an egg into the bowl perfectly, following it up with another one. "And now look at me." He tilted the bowl but Dustin's eyes didn't exactly focus on the eggs. "No shells. First try."

“Wait. You took Home Ec? Why?” Dustin's eyes widened, not paying attention to the eggs anymore as Steve used a fork to break up the yolks and mix the two together. “For the ladies? Do girls like that?”

Steve huffed softly and shook his head. “Gotta eat, kid," he said instead, turning back to the oven and dumping the eggs into the frying pan. Which wasn’t really an answer but thankfully, Dustin was too hungry to attempt any follow ups.

2. It should have felt weirder to be relegated to babysitting duty because Will Byers' actual big brother was on a date with Steve's ex. But it didn't. It might be the least weird thing that had happened to Steve in a while. Besides, he liked Will. The kid was quiet and traumatized but he could whip out some devastating one-liners when he wanted to. Steve could appreciate that.

The only problem was the teeth-pulling it took to get the kid to start talking in the first place. Steve knew it wasn't his fault, but some days at the Byers house, it felt as though he and Will were starting from scratch.

Luckily, Steve had a plan for that.

"What are your thoughts on dessert?" He asked Will, all while leaning down to peer into the open fridge.

"Um...I don't think we have any." Will followed Steve's actions to look at the same sparse fridge, even emptier now that he and Steve had used the last of the canned spaghetti sauce and eaten the leftover garlic bread for dinner.

"Well, you've got the ingredients for some so long as you don't mind putting those muscles to use doing some mixing, we're in the clear." Steve nudged him and gave him a smile. He didn't really respond but Steve was used to that. "Unless you think your mom is going to miss some cocoa and butter. Two sticks is a lot but I'm really feeling some fudge brownies tonight. Like, real fudgy, you know?” Steve exaggerated a groan and set his hand on his stomach.

"Oh wow. Yes please," Will said hurriedly. "That sounds really good." He was wide-eyed as if he was starving for brownies even though he just helped Steve polish off a pound of pasta.

Teenage metabolisms were no joke, Steve thought as he set the butter and eggs out on the counter. He knew his recipe called for four eggs but that was a lot to take out of the Byers' new carton of a dozen. Especially for brownies that would no doubt be gone within twenty-four hours either by Will, Jonathan, or any of the other bottomless pits that came through the Byers' house during any given day.

"Does that mean you're down for little mixing?" Steve did his best to channel his inner Dustin and held the wooden spoon out in front of him, laid across both of his hands like he had seen the younger kids do with plastic swords.

“I help mom in the kitchen sometimes…” Will offered hesitantly, which to Steve, sounded like a yes. At any rate, Will carefully took the spoon and held it maybe just a little more tighter than necessary. He let Will gather some of his thoughts as he worked his way around the kitchen.

"Yeah? You like it?” Steve had been over enough to know where most everything he needed was located. Large mixing bowl, smaller glass bowl, a pan that he filled with a little bit of water and set on the stove. His mouth salivated at the thought of these brownies. He hadn't made them in forever.

"It's cool. Seeing how things come out. Or don't." Will frowned, making a face that Steve tried his best not to laugh at. One day, maybe Will would tell him the story.

"Yeah, it's pretty satisfying. How about you crack me three eggs into that bowl. Sound good?”

Will gave a little hum but he did a little bounce as he hopped over to the mixing bowl, setting the wooden spoon aside for now. Steve grinned, even as he kept his eye on the melting butter on the stove. He tipped in an excessive amount of sugar and stirred, trying his best to make sure the double boiler didn't shift too much.

“No shells! Great job!” Steve kept going so Will didn't think he was patronizing him. "When I was your age, there were bits of shell everywhere and sometimes they'd hide under the yolk so I'd bite into a cookie and--" Steve stuck out his tongue and groaned. He was rewarded with a laugh that was almost the patented Will Byers Giggle™. He was nearly there.

Will mixed the cocoa in with the eggs and Steve tried his best not to draw attention to the fact that Will matched his stirring beat for beat.

"Careful, it's hot," he warned him, pouring the mixture of sugar and butter into the bowling before stepping back and letting Will continue to mix. Now that he had a task, little Byers was a man on a mission.

"Flour?" Will asked, seeing Steve sort through some of the dry ingredients in the pantry closet.

"Yeah, we don't need a ton. But flour, some baking powder, salt. It'll do the trick."

Steve let out a groan when the last of the white flour disappeared with Will's mixing skills. "This is what I'm talking about. You mixed some excellent batter." He was not going to test taste it because Home Ec had taught him all about the potentials of salmonella and Will Byers had been through enough. Maybe he could go to the library and find an egg-less batter recipe that the kids could sneak a bite of next time. It would certainly ease his anxiety for anytime Erica tried to sneak more than a taste of just kicking the spoon.

Will didn't seem privy to Steve's dilemma about potential illnesses but he still hung onto his every word so Steve kept talking.

"I'm telling you, Will. You swirl a little caramel through this bad boy and you'd be golden. Next time, we'll do that."

"Not this time?" Will asked hopefully and Steve ignored the tug at his heart. It was almost embarrassing what he'd do for these kids. Including wanting to go back in time to make caramel for Will to have in his brownies.

"Nah, caramel needs time to cool overnight. I hadn't anticipated a sweet tooth attack, you know?" Plus, he hated cleaning the pot afterwards and almost always fucked it up. Which was fine for his own pots but definitely not ones belonging to Mrs. Byers.

"Do you...get those often?" Will asked, confused but he didn't sound against the idea.

"Not for chocolate normally. But, don't tell anyone," Steve leaned in to whisper, "I keep chocolate chip cookie dough in the freezer. For emergencies."

"Emergencies?" A little smile appeared on Will's face and Steve knew what he was thinking. The kind of emergencies they ran into weren't exactly ones that had them thinking about food.

"You never know when you're going to need a tupperware container full of cookie dough, Will Byers," Steve said in an authoritative voice, channeling Hopper.

He could see the kid thinking it over, his eyes darting from the mess of ingredients on the counter to the fridge. The appeal of having cookie dough around versus probably not wanting to ask his mom when she already did so much. That was all right though, because he also had Steve.

There was more than enough emergency cookie dough in Steve’s freezer to go around. Not to mention butter, sugar, and chocolate chips to make more. And the new peanut butter chips that Nestle just released that Robin and Lucas had been going wild over for the past few weeks. Not that either of them waited for Steve to actually incorporate them into baked goods but one day he’d get the upper hand.

“Nancy said you took Home Ec.” It was both a question and not a question. Will’s voice went up at the end of it but they both knew Nancy wasn’t in the habit of lying.

“I did!" Steve told him, delighted by the reminder. He wondered how that had even come up but the kids were almost freshmen. Choosing electives was going to happen sooner rather than later. "It was great. I learned how to make this.” He gestured towards the goopy brownie batter. "And many, many other things." Bending down, Steve opened a few of the drawers until he found a square glass dish.

He held the bowl of batter over and watched as Will patiently scraped all of the mixture into the glass dish, a pensive expression on his face. Will kept silent as Steve popped the dish into the oven and set the timer.

"Did they tease you? I just..." Will stumbled over his words but Steve waited patiently, eyes now trained on the dirty mixing bowls. "I didn't think many guys took Home Ec," he added quickly, a flush on his face.

They hadn’t, Steve remembered.

“They might have given me shit but I didn’t give them a chance.” Steve shrugged, as if it was that easy. He squirted some dish soap into the bowls and flicked the faucet on.

“Really?” Will asked so hopefully that Steve wanted to bring his bat into the middle school and follow Will and the other kids around like a vengeful specter.

“Really." Steve shifted so his hip bumped against Will. "Sometimes it’s just a matter of confidence, bud. I know that’s easier said than done but if you brush them off, act like you don’t care? It’ll go a long way. My favorite is acting confused," he whispered, as if it was a big secret and Will let out a little half giggle. Steve schooled his expression into that of a confused airhead jock. "Like-- what's wrong with Home Ec? Why is this such a big deal to you guys? Do you not want to eat brownies during fourth period? Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

There was that full giggle. Will’s hair bounced a little as his laugh hiccuped and Steve couldn’t help but smile. It was a good sound to hear from such a serious kid.

"Come on, help me clean this mess up and then hopefully there'll still be brownies when your mom gets home and she won't mind that I used two sticks of butter in them.”

3. Steve always tried his best to hide his yawns from Max. Seeing them would only make her try to excuse herself from his house even though it was only six in the evening. However, it was harder to hide the growling from his stomach.

Steve knew he had to beat Max to the punch. He had been doing pretty well so far. She had slept over twice already this week but there was something in her head about inconveniencing Steve that she couldn’t shake. As if he had a social life outside of the kids and Robin.

“Come on. No more essay revision until after dinner,” Steve begged, already heading to the kitchen, not taking no for an answer. She’d finish homework way faster with some food in her stomach.

“You can just order pizza. You don’t have to cook,” Max told him hurriedly.

Steve didn’t want to sound like a hypocrite. He knew that both him and Max had lonely home lives. But even with the similarities, he didn’t know how to make her believe that he wanted her there. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever believe it if someone tried it on him either though, so he couldn’t blame her.

“I like cooking, Max,” he told her instead. Steve tugged a bag of flour out of the cabinet and onto the pristine countertops. He couldn’t wait to get them dirty. “Especially pizza.”

“It’s a lot of work.” Max bit her lip and Steve did his best not to sigh.

“Yeah, I guess.” He shrugged at the obvious. “But I like it. I’m certainly better at it than proofreading your English essay. You want to help?” He didn't say that ordering a pizza cost him more money than the ingredients to make one. That was a conversation for a different day, maybe.

Or never.

Never, if he could help it.

“How?” Max crept closer to the counter and Steve resisted the urge to flick some flour on her face. Maybe once she was settled.

"That all depends on what you like on your pizza."

"Tomato sauce...and cheese?" Max tried.

"Perfect. Easy. Feel free to raid the fridge." Steve debated his apron but he needed to wash this sweatshirt anyway. It would be fine. It had nothing to do with not wanting to get ruthlessly teased by a fourteen year old. "I definitely don't have pepperoni or anything but there might be half a pepper in there and some mushrooms if you're into that kind of thing."

"I've never had mushrooms,” Max admitted. She looked at the container with a healthy amount of skepticism, which Steve thought was fair. The bright orange pepper slammed down on Steve’s other side. Shredded mozzarella and a half-used jar of tomato sauce along with it. Max pulled herself up to sit on the counter next to the bag of flour.

"We can put some on one side," Steve decided. "If you don't like, then don't worry. I will graciously devour it myself."

He went around the kitchen, grabbing a few more ingredients but paused at the yeast. He grabbed it anyway and thought about how to work it into the conversation. He normally narrated his actions to the kids while he cooked. He would just have to do it a bit more carefully.

“Some recipes,” he started, getting his hands good and floury, “Require pizza dough to rest for a while. But I’m too hungry for that so we’re going quick and dirty.”

“Ew.”

“Hush. This is how we were able to make pizza in a single period during Home Ec. Fast, easy, and I didn’t have to deal with mystery meat from the cafeteria’s sloppy joes.” Steve gave into the urge to flick flour at Max. She squealed angrily, tilting back on the countertop but she still had a smile on her face.

“It all comes down to this. Yeast.” He shook the cold jar of yeast at her and made a face. He unscrewed the lid and held it out to her so she could peer in at the little granules. “Once it’s mixed in, it’ll smell a little like booze that has gone bad but that’s cause they use yeast to make beer too.”

Max took this information very solemnly and Steve could see her preparing herself for the smell. It wouldn’t be for too long. The dough would go in the oven quickly but he hadn’t wanted it to be a surprise.

The dough went quickly, with Steve pointing out to Max when she could add the very few other ingredients into the bowl so he could combine them all. It was pretty quiet work, just the sound of Steve’s hand working the dough.

"I like putting Doritos on my pizza," Max blurted out.

Steve stopped what he was doing and raised an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah.” Max straightened up from her counter seat, daring him to say anything. “They're crunchy."

"Mayfield, you absolute genius! A texture prodigy!” Steve pointed a flour covered hand towards the pantry. "Go grab a bag and we'll be ready."

"Really?" She had her hands on the edge of the counter, ready to jump off.

"Of course. I can't wait to try,” Steve told her sincerely. “Sometimes Robin puts M&M's on her pizza. That sweet and savory, you know? But you’ll have to wait til next time to try that. We only have so much pizza."

Even more excited by the prospect of there being a next time, Max flung herself off of the counter to raid the Harrington pantry of all its Doritos.

And if his parent’s white couch had bright orange Doritos dust fingerprints all fingerprints all over the fabric, well, at least Steve knew how to clean it up. Thanks to Home Ec.

4. “Did I know you were coming over— oof,” Steve let out a burst of air when Robin slammed a large loaf of bread into his stomach, stalking past him. She bypassed the living room entirely and dropped herself on the bench that lined one side of his kitchen table.

“Good morning to you too,” Steve mumbled to the paper-wrapped loaf of bread he held in his hands. He squeezed it a little and a satisfying crunch came from the hard brown crust.

Steve followed the moans into his kitchen and set the bread on the counter, wondering if it was too early for French toast or if Robin was going to take the bread back from him at some point.

“My dad ordered my mom this fancy birthday cake from the market so I went to go and pick it up but I got to the bakery section and—“

“Oh my god— Maggie Stewart?” Steve knew instantly.

“Maggie Stewart,” Robin whimpered. “The cutest girl in the world and she caught me completely off-guard and—“

“You bought a loaf of bread to me instead of bringing a cake home for your mom,” Steve finished for her.

Steve remembered Maggie Stewart. Not only was she one of the cutest girls in his grade, but they had been in Home Ec together. Maggie excelled at every recipe and he hadn’t been surprised to learn that she immediately accepted a job in the bakery section at the local market after graduation.

He couldn’t fault Robin’s tastes. Cute, good at baking, and not to mention extremely sweet. When Steve struggled in the first few weeks of Home Ec, Maggie always leaned over to kindly point out the differences in baking powder and baking soda, or to remind Steve to wipe off the rims of his glass jars before putting lids on them and sealing them for canning.

Steve sighed and maneuvered around Robin to the fridge, taking out a carton of milk and a few eggs.

“You like cinnamon, right? And nutmeg?” He asked, already knowing the answer. He plucked a few items out of his spice rack. Technically, Steve supposed it was still his mother’s spice rack but she hadn’t used it in years. It had come with the house, all neat and orderly, with printed labels on the little tins.

In the past few years, Steve had really made it his own, tucking a few of the least-used spices to the back of the pantry and adding new favorites in tiny mismatched glass jars. There were a few of the block-printed labels left but most of them had Steve’s handwriting scrawled on the masking tape that wrapped around the bottles.

“Obviously.” Robin straightened up to peer over the kitchen island at Steve’s supply gathering. “What are you doing?”

“Well, it’s early and my best friend just stormed into my house with good bread so I’m making French toast.” Steve tilted his head towards the load of bread. “I don’t want you cutting the slices but get over here and help with the dunking.”

“Oh.” Robin scrambled off of the bench and took the place by Steve’s side. Steve liked their system: a little assembly line of Robin soaking the slices he had cut into a mixture of milk, eggs, and spices and dropping them into Steve’s frying pan.

“I don’t have a ton in the way of syrup. Just maple.” Steve mentally added more to the grocery list. He knew Max liked the blueberry syrup that the market occasionally stocked. Both the Sinclairs were partial to jam on their breakfast sweets, whether French toast, waffles, or pancakes, but Dustin’s sweet tooth demanded chocolate chips.

“Works for me.”

“It’ll have to. I might have bacon though, if you like to mix your sweet and salty,” Steve offered. It was early enough that he knew Robin hadn’t eaten yet but with kids traipsing in and out of his house, any leftovers wouldn’t last long, especially bacon.

“That sounds great.”

Steve gestured to the fridge. “Have at it. A little breakfast treat for courage before you have to go back to the grocery store.”

Robin groaned and smacked him against the shoulder, which only caused him to laugh aloud.

“Never really thought Steve Harrington would be making me breakfast,” Robin grumbled, separating slices of bacon out on one of Steve’s baking trays.

“I’ve made you breakfast loads of times,” he pointed out. “And lunch. And dinner.”

“Yeah, you’re a freaky good cook but still.”

“My impressive Home Ec skills.” Steve used a spatula to prop up a piece of French toast. Determining that it was fully cooked, he slid it onto the plate with the rest of them and added another slice to the pan.

“You took Home Ec?”

“You didn’t?”

“God no.” Robin shuddered at the thought. “I would have accidentally sewed my fingers together or caught fire.”

“The stoves were electric.”

“I would have found a way.” Steve hummed at that but before he could ask what she took instead, she asked, “How many times did a girl ask you to help her tie her apron?”

“They tie in the front, Rob.”

“Answer the question.”

“A lot,” he sighed. He very maturely didn’t throw his spatula at his best friend as she cackled at him.

“And yet you still suffered through,” Robin said sweetly. “So brave of you.”

“I deserved something nice out of that class,” Steve argued. He hesitated a second but Robin was already giving him a thoughtful look. She’d wait for him to find the words. She knew him well enough now that it was a blessing and a curse but mostly the former. “It was pretty embarrassing. Not taking Home Ec, that was great. But I thought…”

Steve tried to gather those same thoughts to actually say them aloud. He watched Robin drench the entire plate of French toast in maple syrup, not bothering to separate either of their portions. They normally ate off of the same plate.

“Steve?” Robin nudged him after he had gone quiet for too long. Her smile was open and honest. It had been a long time since Steve had trusted anyone like he trusted her. Even if she did covered his whole breakfast in sugar.

“I thought Home Ec existed to teach kids how to feed themselves when their parents weren’t around,” Steve blurted out, faster than he wanted to. He very carefully didn’t look his best friend in the eyes and he took a breath and tried again. “Turns out it was just a life skills class in general, for the future, and my parents were just assholes.”

“Are.” Robin held out a piece of the French toast she had cut and Steve obediently opened his mouth. He had put a little too much cinnamon for his taste but just the right amount for Robin. She waited for him to finally meet her eyes and then she fed him another piece. “They are just assholes. Present tense.”

“Right,” Steve breathed. She was right. He knew that. Robin watched him and flicked off the stove top. She had one hand around the plate of French toast and the other on Steve’s arm, gentle but firm, steering him towards his kitchen table.

“Come on, let’s eat and then you can drive me to the grocery store to watch me make a fool out of myself again.”

5. Steve never went out to the cabin, not by himself anyway. He wasn’t close with Hopper or El but Mrs. Byers had been so relieved to see him when he walked into Melvald’s. Saying no to her when she asked him to drive to the cabin in order drop off some cold medicine for El hadn’t really been an option.

“Should I bring soup too?” Steve had asked instead and Mrs. Byers had beamed at him. Sure, she had assumed he meant canned soup and waited for him to grab some so that she could check out his order all together. Steve had good frozen stock in the chest freezer out in his garage but canned would be fine, he guessed.

Which was exactly how Steve found himself balancing a paper bag full of heavy soup cans and a plastic one filled with cold medicine, cough drops, and tissues as he maneuvered his way around the booby-traps that surrounded the cabin.

He never knew how the kids kept it straight. Dustin had come up with a rhyme for it or something.

A mnemonic device, Steve, not a rhyme, Steve’s inner Dustin chastised him. It didn’t do him any good if he couldn’t remember the order of the words reminding him how many steps to take after the fallen oak before jumping.

“Jump!” Hopper’s voice cut through Steve’s clouded brain and he obeyed without thinking. There was silence and he breathed a sigh of relief that nothing had gone off.

Hopper met him halfway, taking the heavier paper bag from him and knocking him against the shoulder.

“Hey kid. Need another lesson in the traps?”

“You just need less traps,” Steve grumbled back instead, causing Hopper to let out a bark of a laugh.

“Come on, warm up a bit before I lead you back out of the maze.” It wasn’t an offer but an order, which was fine with Steve. He needed a minute to catch his breath.

To his surprise, El was awake and sitting up on the couch. She looked miserable with a sore red nose and her eyes were glazed over as she stared at the TV, but she was still upright.

Steve let Hopper take the other bag from him and approached the couch slowly. Julia Child was on the tv, sticking almonds onto the side of a chocolate cake and El seemed captivated by the action.

“Hey El,” he said softly. She grumbled and didn’t respond but Steve didn’t take it personally.

She pointed at the tv, where Julia was slicing the single layer cake into perfect portions.

“Half of a dress?” She asked and Steve squinted at her and then the TV.

“It’s an apron,” Hopper corrected her before Steve caught on.

“Apron,” she repeated.

“So her clothes don’t get dirty while she cooks. I have one too,” Steve added and that caught her attention. El stared at him and he realized she wanted him to keep talking. “It’s the first thing you make in Home Ec before you start learning how to cook. They have you sew your own apron.”

“You took Home Ec?” Hopper handed him a tea that Steve didn’t really want but holding the hot mug between his hands felt nice. El made a face as she got the same sweet-smelling tea put in front of her.

“Of course.” Steve didn’t elaborate. Hopper didn’t know what Robin knew and if Steve had his way, Hopper was going to remain ignorant.

Hopper, for all that he cared about El and the Byers, never thought too hard about the other members of what Dustin affectionately called The Party. Steve would prefer to keep it that way, at least when it came to his own life.

An image of Max floated up in his mind and Steve thought that maybe Hopper could ask a few more questions.

“Julia Child. She’s a legend,” Steve said, not wanting to leave the silence lingering too long.

“Can I—?” El didn’t finish the sentence but Steve knew what she was asking.

He looked over at Hop again, who didn’t seem to care one way or another. Well, Steve had cooked for nearly everyone else who wasn’t stuck in a cabin nearly 24/7. It seemed only fair.

“Sure, I can help you make an apron and next time I see you, when you feel better, we’ll cook like Julia Child,” Steve promised.

“Chocolate?” El grinned at him hopefully and pointed towards the tv.

Steve laughed and definitely didn’t look at Hopper when he agreed a second time. “Sure, a big chocolate cake.”

He stayed long enough to finish his tea and earn a sleepy sweet goodbye from El but in no time, Steve found himself being led out of the woods by Hopper. It was a quiet walk of the chief directing him on where to jump and avoid before he brought up Steve and El’s plans.

“You didn’t have to promise her that. She’ll hold you to it,” Hopper warned him.

“I don’t mind,” Steve told him honestly. “I like baking stuff. And cooking. Max usually comes around mine to help. El can come too or I can come back here. Just let me know when she’s feeling better.”

“Here first,” Hopper decided immediately. “Trial run. And not just chocolate cake.”

“All right.” Steve shrugged. It wasn’t a hardship to cook, especially with two excited kids, both of whom remind him of himself at that age: eager for any kind of attention.

+1. Eddie stopped kissing Steve once he realized the kitchen sink was full of dishes and the countertops were messier than usual for a regular Tuesday night. He squinted at his boyfriend suspiciously and didn’t give in when Steve tried to pull him back, squeezing his fingers.

“Stevie, did you prepare breakfast ahead of time for us?” He asked, doing his level best not to bang his head against the Harrington’s perfect countertops.

“I wanted to feed you but I didn’t want to get out of bed until I had to,” Steve said earnestly, his brow furrowing, a little confused at the question.

And oh, that was too sweet. Eddie’s boyfriend was the sweetest. It almost made Eddie forget that Steve had yet to let Eddie cook him anything. Help out in the kitchen? Sure. Cook a full meal? Not yet.

Not for lack of trying on Eddie's part, but Steve was always two steps ahead, packing lunch for both of them and Robin, teaching Max how to make spaghetti sauce, having dessert stashed in the freezer, and more. Eddie just wanted to take care of Steve once, to show him that he didn’t have to be the one to feed everyone all the time.

Eddie leaned his head forward into the warm nook between Steve’s neck and shoulder, resisting the urge to take a little nibble. Instead, he rubbed his face against the sweaty skin like an overgrown cat before pulling away with an exasperated sigh.

“Breakfast, huh?”

“Hash browns and a quiche.” Steve waved in the direction of his fridge. “They’ll just need to be warmed up.”

“Write me out instructions and I’ll take care of it in the morning,” Eddie ordered, already prepared for this argument.

“What’s the point of me staying in bed if you’re down here?” Steve grumbled, with a little pout that Eddie would love to kiss. He gave in quickly and Steve didn’t seem to mind too much but Eddie had a long-term plan.

“Someone’s gotta take care of you, Harrington, and I've been applying for the job for weeks now. I was going to make you pancakes but you already beat me to it with twelve hours until morning.” Eddie kissed him again, trying to get his point across. Steve happily let Eddie push him up against the counter, making little noises that were just the starts of potential whimpers that Eddie was going to pull out of him upstairs.

“I like pancakes.” Steve blinked at him, his brain finally processing the sentence. As if no one had ever offered to make him pancakes before. Eddie tried very hard not to think about that, not right now. Maybe another time, when Steve had his emotional support lesbian with him.

“I know, sweetheart. With blueberries and maple syrup.” Eddie took the frozen bag of blueberries out of his bag and quickly tucked them into the Harrington freezer drawer. He made his way back to Steve, still where Eddie had left him against the counter. “They’re not in season so you’ll have to forgive me for frozen ones.”

“I like blueberries.” Steve had a little smile on his face and Eddie knew he was getting closer to success, the cogs of Steven’s brain slowly turning now that Eddie had oiled them. Steve leaned forward to kiss Eddie again, letting his arms drape over Eddie’s shoulders.

“Next time let me do that for you?” Eddie asked, whispering right against Steve’s lips.

“The quiche can freeze?” Steve said quickly. Almost too quickly if the blush growing on his face was anything to go by. But Eddie wasn’t going to let that offer pass him by. He stayed up in Steve’s space, squeezing his hips and kissing up his jaw to whisper in his ear, letting Steve hide his red face against Eddie’s neck. The heat from Steve's cheeks warms Eddie all the way through.

“Yeah? You’re gonna let me take care of you, baby?” Eddie asked quietly, letting his teeth scrape against Steve’s ear.

“Yeah,” Steve managed to get out, even though it seemed like his mouth had become drier than anything in the past thirty seconds. Eddie pulled back and was pleased to find that Steve’s smile had gone from embarrassed to pleased. He liked the idea of Eddie cooking for him and Eddie wasn’t about to let him down.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He kissed Steve’s cheek again and watched as he carefully covered the dishes with double the amount of foil and slipped them into the freezer. Steve came back to him so quickly, almost bouncing back over to his side of the kitchen.

But they didn’t stay there long, Eddie walked Steve back up the stairs, kissing every breathless giggle out of him as the two of them tried to slap each others’ hands away, both attempting to get the upper hand.

It didn’t matter, Eddie knew he had won, and he’d take his victory lap in the morning with blueberry pancakes and a sleepy Steve clinging to his back as he flipped them.

on ao3 here

#stranger things #steddie #i've been slacking putting fic up here #but steve harringotn in an apron he made himself #my fanfic

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