Random 18+

Dick's fondest memories of childhood is the hot chocolate he used to drink every winter. He thought Alfred had always made it for him, because Alfred had always been the one to give him a mug of it, but the year after Alfred dies Bruce hands him a mug and Dick bursts into tears right then and there. "You know his recipe?" he sputters, through snot and a lump in his throat. Bruce pauses, considers briefly and dismisses the thought of telling him the truth. "Of course, chum." He lies, because Alfred wouldn't have known where to start in making hot chocolate, that sort of drink was beneath him. "I'll teach it to you."

Jason's favorite feeling in the world is slipping on a freshly ironed shirt. It's fucking fantastic. The greatest thing ever. He loves it so much. He used to watch Alfred do the laundry because he knew ironing was a part of it. Alfred never ironed a thing in his life. Bruce did all the ironing in the house. It soothed his mind to do it, to watch the wrinkles smooth out, to see the mistakes go away with just a little bit of water, heat and pressure. Jason comes to the Manor after a rough patrol and snaps 'where's Bruce?' and Tim points wordlessly to the laundry room. 'doing laundry? yeah right." Jason scoffs, and slams the door open only to find Bruce actually ironing. His shirt. "What are you doing?" He barks, and Bruce looks up, surprised. Like... genuinely surprised that someone is questioning the fact that he's ironing. "I'm... ironing?" He questions, and Jason snorts, snag his shirt and tosses it over his shouldr. "Yeah right. You lose a bet or something, old man?" Bruce debates for a moment, dismisses, and smiles at his son. "It can wait to be fulfilled. Hungry?"

Tim loathes cucumber sandwiches with his whole heart, but his parents staff used to do this thing where they'd put zuccini in the sandwiches in the center just for him. He told the story once to Bruce, and Alfred was in the room with them, and the next time he reached for a cucumber sandwich on the table, it was zuccini. He was elated. Alfred never bought zuccini. Never cooked it. He listed it amongst the top five worst gourds to exist. He never knew there were zuccinis hiding amongst his cucumbers

Steph had this one specific spoon that she loved eating with whenever she was at the Manor, and it was always polished to perfection everytime she needed it. She'd seen Alfred polishing and had been forced to polish utensils as a punishment enough times to assume that he'd just been doing it. When Bruce finally passed, he left the rag he would polish her spoon with and the spoon to her in his will. "I'm sorry I can't do it for you, anymore, but at least I taught you how to do it yourself."

Damian walks into his room to find Bruce bent over his shelf with a feather duster, meticulously cleaning his room for him. "What are you doing?" He barks, sharp and harsh. Bruce straightens, turns to him in surprise. "Damian! You weren't supposed to be home for another few hours!" "Only Pennyworth is allowed in here to clean." Damian says stifly, crossing his arms. Bruce raises an eyebrow. "I thought you said we're only allowed in to clean, unless you give permission otherwise. It's your room, Damian. I will respect your privacy." "Yes but-" Damian begins, and then stops. He'd said they could only go into his room to clean because thats what had happened in the League. Unimportant people, the servants, had cleaned his stuff. It didnt matter to him if they saw it because... they didnt matter. He'd thought... he'd assumed Pennyworth would- not... Bruce smiles.

Texts From Superheroes

Steamed Chicken Buns (香菇滑鸡包) These steamed chicken buns are a Northern Chinese baozi I grew up eating in Beijing, with a soft pillowy wheat dough wrapped around a juicy filling of ground chicken, dried shiitake mushrooms, ginger, and scallions. I serve them hot from the steamer with a small bowl of Chinkiang vinegar on the side for breakfast, lunch, or supper.

But for a few years (cough, decades, cough), a baby pebble is about as hard as a soft-shelled turtle—or a normal turtle, if they're a bit older. Disadvantages aside, there is an advantage to being able to see your offspring's internal functions. And until their vocal bladders form and they're capable of making multiple complex sounds, being able to see what is hurting is absolutely helpful.

It's a universal experience among parents to lament the day they can no longer hear their pebbles' heartbeats.

That is to say, Rocky knows Grace is an adult, okay? He isn't someone who anthropomorphizes, and he isn't going to start now. Statement.

But when he first heard Grace in all his squishy glory— heart pumping away, lungs filling and deflating, organs digesting food— his brain went full baby-fever mode. Frankly, he was white-knuckling the urge to find the nearest hypothetical cave, bundle him up into a proper nest, and wait for his skin to absorb the surrounding minerals and start hardening properly.

But because Rocky is sensible and proper and not going to infantilize his best friend (he swears to God, stupid fucking instincts, shut the fuck up!!), he won't.

But sometimes the urge to squish his best friend is overwhelming. He just pinches at him through the permeable mesh of his ball. And Grace will screw up his face (so soft) and go what’s up bud? I piss you off or something? (He learns what bruises are and sulks for half a day afterward.)

All of that aside, once again, Rocky has gotten used to Grace's heartbeat, his clumsiness, and his one-tone voice. That's his best friend, and he's smart and just as capable as any other adult. He is also the cutest fucking thing to Eridian hearing. Is he also disconcertingly alien, definitely— His size, the limbs, the head protrusion (and other protrusions), the leakiness detracted maybe. But his cluster-sibling once cooed at and brought home a pet sulphur slug because, oh my spirits, hear his squishy respiratory system and you tell me that's not the cutest thing on the planet! It blurbles, Rocky! It fucking blurbles!

So, as Erid draws closer and Rocky/Grace become more excited and stressed. (The food has yet to run out, and as good as Erid is, they need substantial help from the human side to figure out how to make proper human nutrition. And finding the right informational packs in all of human knowledge is a very big undertaking.)

Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him. He admired his opposite by instinct. [...] There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the wrong side. They are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of Enjolras.