#but like that’s neither of those words

[idontliketomatoesleavemealone]

I love you people utilising that M-A-M-A-B-O-Y song to spell things that aren’t even remotely Mama‘s Boy

[ruporas]

happiness today and tomorrow (ID in alt)

[emoclowncircus]

quick little rant thingy because DMC reddit just pissed me off

I hate how so many people in the DMC fandom fall for Dante's party guy shtick and genuinely believe him to be as dumb as a rock . For example an argument i see often for this is his inability pay off his debts/rant . People believe he's simply too dumb to manage any money when in reality it's stemmed from the fact that he has little to no consideration for his well being and puts others' needs before his,rather than his own lack of intelligence. Like Grue's daughters,whom he sends money to support them--or Enzo,his ex middleman. Even in the anime he goes on his way to save his client's brother,without getting proper payment.

Other than that,again in the anime he proves himself to be a worthy-occult detective and how great he can be at reading people. His office also has a decent amount of books lying around showing that yes,he does read and value knowledge

Not saying he's smartest out there,but he is in no way as stupid as people make him out to be.

[tzarrz]

to all people who said PART 1 made them laugh - i lov u 💗 this is for u

[nobodybetterlookatme]

Saw asshole earlier today and he sneezed bc it was dusty and my immediate response was "lmao gross" as it always is, but then he fucking goes "some people get off on that, you know" and naturally I was horrified 😭 but he laughed at the face I made probably bc he though I was scandalized, and he doubled down with "yeah some people think sneezing is sexy so you're welcome" LIKE DOES HE KNOW. DOES HE KNOW OR IS HE JUST MAKING FUN OF ME

[swallowtail-ageha]

I feel like people who looked at marika's backstory and said "yes this 100% justifies the total annihilation of a population and its culture" have missed the entire point of the game. Like. Yeah. She deserved revenge. Doesnt mean that literally every hornsent deserved to be murdered. The entire plot of elden ring is "genocide bad"

[phantom-0-writer]

short 3: operation mousetrap

table of contents ao3

Nightwing’s eyes glazed over the case file he had already memorized as they made their way to the scene of their mission. Superboy fidgeted in the seat next to him, untempered. It had taken Nightwing and Robin (mostly Nightwing), and M’gaan almost the whole pre-mission briefing to convince Superboy to not just fly there, and actually take the bio-ship with them. He could empathize though. When Young Justice had first formed unofficially on their unsanctioned mission to CADMUS to, eventually, break Superboy out of his cloning pod the Justice League along with the bandit of misfits the Young Justice team was at the time had done everything they could and expended every resource to track and shut down anymore similar projects. Unfortunately and fortunately, Konner had been the only one to be stable enough to survive outside of the cloning pod, and since CADMUS had been permanently shut down there would be no more cloning projects (from them at least).  

Or so they thought. 

A mission that the Teen Titans were on almost a month ago had given them a tip off that there were still more CADMUS research operations happening. According to the files and research they had gathered, which, granted, wasn't as much as they would've liked, it seemed like there was something about this specific branch that had been different than the ones they had been tracking down after finding Konner. That had been the explanation to why they were only finding out about them now, years after they had thought they’d seen the last of them. Batman wasn't happy to be blindsided like that. And neither were they. Konner, naturally, had taken it the worst. Practically begged to be on the mission even though it’s not his usual modus operandi. Nightwing suspected that he felt some kind of responsibility to see it through, which as illogical as it may be, he understood where Konner was coming from.  

So here they were, Nightwing (Since Batman couldn't oversee it himself), Superboy (As previously stated), Robin (Teen Titan representative of choice) and Miss Martian headed towards the new CADMUS location in an intense silence. The mission was sanctioned as a recon mission, the objective was to not to be seen so they could bug their systems and find out just how much of CADMUS they had overlooked. Hence the two bats and a martian that could go intangible. Cyborg was on standby at the Watchtower in case his expertise was required, Robin could put him through. CADMUS dabbled in a lot more than just clones, so the team was surely in for a surprise. 

Nightwing was confident it was nothing they couldn’t handle. 

They kept in the shadows, Miss Martian connecting them telepathically as they split up. She headed off with Robin to the main control room, Nightwing stuck with Superboy as they got eyes on whatever was afoot here. Superboy easily fell into Nightwing’s lead, leaving minimal traces of their presence. 

‘We’re clear.’ Robin informed them that he and Miss Martian had successfully reached the control room, ‘I’m tapping into the mainframe; downloading and in process.’ 

‘Were you seen?’ Nightwing asked back, hotwiring the security panel for one of the doors marked Authorized Access Only (that translates to “you should probably check this out” in vigilante speak). 

‘Negative.’ Miss Martian echoed back. 

‘It tell you what we're up for?’ Superboy asked, as the door silently opened. Nightwing stopped him from entering so he could scan the area for laser, boobie (heh) traps and other such sensors. All clear.

‘Systems scanning. Will update. Over.’ Robin said curtly, likely busy getting past the security without ringing any alarms. 

‘Heading into an access point. Still clear. Over.’ Nightwing reported, as their communication line went quiet but the light buzz the connection gave still echoed in his scalp. 

The lack of guards was concerning to say the least. The building wasn’t abandoned, there were still people going about. But they had all been in lab coats doing things that people that wore lab coats in shady underground operations did, not security going around securing the place. Even the access point hadn’t had any sensors that hotwiring couldn’t dismantle. Nightwing knew enough about CADMAS operations to know that this wasn’t how CADMUS operated. Knowing better than to hope for the best he told Superboy to keep his guard up, trusting Robin to come to the same conclusion as him. 

They surveyed the access point. They had managed to get pretty deep into the building so there was sure to be something juicy in here. Weapons of mass destruction, an unnamed virus that could kill on impact, neo-Armegedon. All in previous case files stored under CADMUS along with superhero cloning. Nightwing was relatively certain he wouldn’t be finding any more cloning attempts, which had been the core of what they had been searching for during the first CADMUS eradication operations. Looked into all the big pharmas connects and everything. Crazy how far a name like “Wayne” could take you. 

So imagine Nightwing’s surprise when Superboy calls him over while he’s snooping through the on hand files in the large room to see what all the freaky green bio-substance in the rows and rows of mason jars were supposed to be for and he sees an all to familiar pod. A pod that might even be referred to as a cloning pod. There was a kid inside, male, estimated age 7-10. It was always hard to tell ages with clones. Skin tone was hard to tell in the green of the liquid he was basking in, but it looked tan - melatonin tan, kid probably never got a lick of Vitamin D in his life. His hair was white in some parts and black in others, kinda like a zebra. Or was dalmatian a better reference? His umbilical cord was still attached- or something that served as one, if he were to guess. Nightwing couldn’t see where it led to as it disappeared into the ceiling. 

“We gotta get him out.” Superboy said through clenched teeth. Nightwing couldn’t imagine the memories going through his head. His hand went for the control panel before Nightwing stopped him. 

Superboy looked like he wanted to put up a fight so Nightwing was quick to explain, “We don’t know if he’s stable enough to not be in there. If you open it, or wake him or whatever- you could kill him. You need to think about this objectively, Superboy.” The anger didn’t dissipate but Nightwing trusted the nod of understanding he received and released his arm. “Clones don’t usually have an umbilical cord.” Nightwing noted, “They must’ve tried a new recipe.” Tuning back into Miss Martian's mental link, ‘Rob. You find anything yet?’ 

‘The information’s coded, Cyborg and I are working on it. But all I’ve found so far is not looking good.’ There was a beat of silence, and Nightwing’s chest twisted in anticipation. ‘They have a project Grayson.’ 

‘What?’ Nightwing ‘Are you sure it’s not just a coincidence.’ Superboy’s eyes snapped to Nightwing who turned to look at the boy in the cloning tube and wondered if his eyes would be blue when (if) he opened them. The memory of his own parents telling him the trails of his birth flashed in his head. His mother couldn’t conceive, so they’d found a doctor to help. He’d been a test-tube baby. At Least until he was old enough to be in a womb. He knew how it worked. And he knew that both his parents had to get harvested for it. Considering who they were dealing with, it wasn’t impossible their samples weren’t stolen. 

‘Codename: P40-N10; Attempt 16: Project Grayson.’ Robin recited ‘That’s all I got so far.’ 

‘Robin, we're getting company.’ Miss Martian's voice said, alarmed. 

With a curse Robin ended the conversation. If they found Red Robin and Miss Martian then it wouldn’t be long until guards came by their alley either. Quickly Nightwing tapped the computer screen that most likely connected to the kid’s suspension chamber. Superboy made himself useful looking through the paper trail stored in the shelves, since he could read faster than the average human. Robin was right about the coded information, trying to bypass whatever software they were using a pinprick he hadn’t been expecting poked through Nightwing’s glove drawing only a drop of blood. 

That can’t be good.

The computer screen shifted to the loading sign, force-freezing any other on going processing for whatever just popped up. Instinctively, Nightwing backed up from the screen, bracing for some kind of explosion or attack to come from somewhere. But the screen finished loading and a present icon popped up, deceptively colorful. Despite not touching the mouse, the cursor moved to the icon with an exaggerated click and the present opened with a light fanfare of digital confetti. 

Operation MouseTrap: Activated. 

Nightwing didn’t know what that meant, but it couldn’t be good. Before he could process what course of action he should take- optimally a self-extraction, they’d been sniffed- the glass dome encasing the kid retracts with a loud sound and the substance is drained only just fast enough to not spill over the glass. 

They had been expecting them. 

MouseTrap. They were mice. 

Crap. Crap. Crap. 

‘Rob, MM. We need to leave. Now.’ Nightwing ordered urgently. Superboy was on his feet, catching the kid from hitting the floor with a speed Nightwing couldn’t match. 

“I got him. We need to cut the wire.” Superboy said, checking the boy for a pulse. Approaching them quickly, Nightwing sliced through the umbilical cord with a batarang. 

‘What’s the situation?’ Robin asked, 

‘We’ve got them handled on our end.’ Miss Martian reported. 

‘We’ve been set-up. I’ll explain later. We need to go.’ Nightwing snapped, just as the overhead alarms started blaring. He should’ve seen this coming a mile away.  

Superboy picked the boy up. “Pulse is there, but barley. He needs medical attention, fast.” He used his jacket to cover the boy, holding him to his chest as he made his way to the door they had come in from. 

“It’s too risky to take him with us. They wanted us to find him, there had to have been a reason.” Nightwing stepped in his path, staying aware of potentially being approached from behind. The containers he had been looking into earlier were forgotten in their corner of the room. 

“So what?” Superboy asked venomously, “We leave him here? ‘Cause he's dangerous?” A took a threatening step closer, “A threat?” Cloning projects were always a sensitive topic for all the Supers, Konner specifically. Reasons obvious. 

Nightwing sighed, “No.” He looked at the child and he couldn’t help but notice the similarities. Both with himself(phenotypically) and with Konner(in every other way). “No, we can’t leave him here. But we can’t go into this headfirst.” There was a volley of footsteps approaching. 

‘Nightwing. Superboy. ETA?’ Robin asked through the link. 

“We could take him to Mt. Justice?” Superboy tried to offer. “Titan’s Tower?” 

“Mt. Justice is a secure location, we shouldn’t risk them being able to track the kid. We’d be risking everyone that stays there.” Nightwing explained, he could hear footsteps approaching. There was a crowd of them. “And the tower wouldn’t have the proper equipment to monitor or take care of him, medically.” The option of the Bat Cave filtered through Nightwing's mind, but he didn’t offer.

‘Guys.’ Miss Martian, called. ‘Do you copy?’

“Watchtower’s the safest bet, then.” Superboy pressed, “It’s crawling with heroes. Batman will be there. And Superman. What’s the worst one kid can do?” A lot. But Konner wouldn’t take that answer. Nightwing caught the kid’s hand twitch from under Superboy’s leather jacket. 

‘Nightwing. Superboy.’ Robin called again, urgency in his tone. ‘Do you copy?’ 

“Why can’t our recons never actually be recons?” Nightwing sighed dramatically reaching for his batons as the door opened to reveal a folly of security guards. If they were meant to get in and get the kid, then they would sure as hell leave with him. Batman’s lecture be damned. 

‘A few friends dropped by. We’ll catch you in five.’ Nightwing finally responded, ‘Get the medkits ready, we have a stowaway.’ 

Superboy let out a breath and his shoulder’s visibly relaxed, as he pulled the kid closer in his arms. He looked tiny next to Superboy's wide shoulders. Even if he was 7 he was small for it. Nightwing didn’t have much time to take in the kid, locked into a fight he could’ve taken in his formative Robin days, with a Super as back up. The two hurried down the corridor they had entered from, not bothering to take to the shadows when the loud red buzzer and alarms had exposed them. With Superboy’s enhanced strength the boy in his hands barely caused a dent in their escape plans. Though he was so small and skinny, Nightwing was confident their roles could’ve been reversed with minimal disadvantage.

The bioship took off the second the two landed both feet on board. Robin took one look at the heap of a child in Superboy’s arms and domino shifted in what Nightwing knew to be a questioning eyebrow. 

“Heading back to Mt. Justice.” M'gann said as they steadied in the sky.  

“Drop us off at the Watchtower on your way.” Dick called, following behind Konner to where Tim had set up their makeshift Medbay. 

“B’s gonna flip.” Tim said approaching the stretcher the ship formed for them, as Konner laid the kid down gingerly. Dick shrugged, watching the monitors Tim hooked the kid up to. They were low, but they were steady. “He looks like you.” Tim commented again, stepping back to examine his work. 

His hair had strips of white in that Dick never had the displeasure of dealing with, but Dick had never been in a cloning pod and he couldn’t be sure if the white hair was a genetic thing or a side effect of whatever the green stuff was. He should’ve gotten a sample of the vials when he had a chance. Have something to show for himself at the lecture he was no doubtably going to have to sit through with B. His skin wasn’t as tan as Dick’s but Dick spent excess hours in the sun and the kid got his umbilical cord cut only minutes ago. He had a dust of freckles, like Dick did. His nose bridge had a crick in it like Dick’s mom’s in the pictures, but Dick’s nose didn’t have one. His jaw was slim and angled like Dick’s had been before he hit puberty, and his skin was clear of any of the acne Dick had fought hard and long in his middle-teens. His shoulder’s didn’t have the muscles Dick had been trained into since before he could remember, making his entire body slimmer and smaller than Dick’s had been at that age. 

It was like looking into a funhouse mirror of himself.

---

“Nightwing.” Batman called in a tone that Dick had become, unfortunately, very used to over the years. “Explain.” 

“We were reconn-ing, like planned. Found the kid, alarms went off. It was no longer a recon.” He slumped into the empty chair with the Big Blue’s emblem etched into the leather of it. A bored look on his face to hopefully deter the length of the incoming lecture. 

“You were team leader and as team leader you should know better than to not notice things. Clues that aren’t there are tells as much as clues that are there, and you led your team-” The lecture was cut off by a color-clad man Nightwing hadn’t had the pleasure of knowing the name of, his hurried eyes filtering between the duo and landing pointedly on Nightwing, hesitant to say anything in the presence of The Almighty Batman. But Nightwing knew. There was only one reason anyone would be looking for him right now. 

“The kid’s-”

“Awake. Yeah, I got it.” Nightwing said pushing past him and hurrying in the direction of the Medbay Konner had refused to leave. Batman was on his tail, never one to leave a child vulnerable or unattended, regardless of the potential threat levels. Or maybe it was because he was a threat. 

Nightwing entered before Batman, but he could feel him falter at the sight of the kid that sat in the bed with a posture Alfred had taken years to instill in Dick. His hair was still a patchwork of black and white, Dick wondered if he was wrong to think there was more white than there had been before. But as he stepped through the door, large blue eyes locked with Dick’s own. His Father had blue eyes. And his mother had a hooked nose. He’d seen the pictures. He’s memorized them. The slim jaw, the large eyes, and the lush lips. He looked like Dick, but not identical. 

“He just woke up.” Konner told Dick quietly, but still loud enough for the kid to hear. Dick took off his domino, Batman left his on. The only people in the room were the three of them, the kid, and the doctor who was looking after him. The kid eyed them all wearily nonetheless. 

“Hi,” Dick started with a smile, making sure to keep his hands in view and move them slowly, “I’m Richard Grayson, most people call me Dick.” He wondered if the joke would make him laugh or cringe. The kid just watched him and gave no reaction. Dick cleared his throat and continued, “I was one of the people that helped you get out of your pod.” he informed him. Still no reaction, but he could tell the kid was listening. 

Batman stepped to speak, “Do you know who you are?” A clear question, classic Bat. 

“P-four-zero-dash-N-ten.” He recited in almost a robotic way. When Konner had been broken out of his pod, he had memories, an objective. 

“What he means is do you have a name?” Dick said even though he knew that’s not what Batman had meant. 

“Project Grayson. Attempt 16, variation B-7.” He said in the same tone. His eyes moved fast and widely and he took in Dick and Batman’s reactions. Without prompt he continued, “Subject A-1 of operation MouseTrap. To be released from confinement under circumstances of acceptance of preliminary requirements.” 

There was a beat of silence, “What are the preliminary requirements?” Batman asked his voice hesitant in the way that Batman never hesitated. 

“Requirement 1: Suitable requirements of sustainability. Requirement 2: Overridden entry granted,” When Nightwing hotwired the security to get in, “Requirement 3: DNA match Richard Grayson.” 

“What do you know about Richard Grayson?” Batman questioned again. The doctor stepped closer to the kid, but waited for Batman’s question to be answered. 

“Richard Grayson, son of Mary Grayson and John Grayson. Recognized as the Flying Graysons, a well known international circus act. Orphaned at age 8, adopted by Bruce Wayne at age 8. First notable appearance as Robin estimated age 9. First notable Nightwing appearance estimated age 19 to 20. Noted weapon of choice: dual escrima sticks. Proficient in martial arts, with emphasis in aerial maneuvers. Threat level: 9.” He paused again, eyes not leaving the whites of Batman’s cowl. “Do you require more details?” 

“No.” He said quietly. He took a small step back as silent permission for the doctor to go ahead. 

The kid’s eyes went to the doctor, taking in the lab coat before the doctor herself. “I’m going to draw some blood for testing. Is that okay?” The doctor displayed the empty syringe in her hands, not bringing the potential threat closer. The kid eyed the medical device. 

“Understood.” He offered up his still bare forearm. The doctor seemed hesitant at that, but proceeded regardless. The boy’s features that had stayed a daring still during the entire not-really-a-conversation-probably-more-of-an-interrogation, made the light twitch of his left eye as the syringe penetrated his skin only more apparent. 

Dick considered the interaction they had so far. The kid was definitely a kid. Presumably human considered the resemblance they seemed to share, but you could never be too sure with CADMUS. The tests would prove that once the results were back. But he seemed sentient, picking up on (the lack of) social cues and trying to correct (in his perspective) the mistakes he had made. He reacted to pain, maybe not in the way most kids would, but he wasn’t most kids. He had blood, so he wasn’t a cyborg. There was probably some brainwashing they needed to tap into, but nothing the League hadn’t dealt with before. 

The doctor asked him whether he preferred a Superman bandaid or Wonder Woman. His head tilted to the side just a bit, as he examined both bandaids. Then stared at the doctor in silence. The doctor retreated to grab one of the boring brown ones they gave you when you weren’t allowed to have choices anymore. Konner watched the whole interaction from the corner of the room. 

When Dick moved in wide steps, the kid watched him carefully with more curiosity than fight. He brought Konner close, but not so much that they were crowding the boy. They still didn’t know what he was capable of, and this would be the worst way to find out. “This is Konner.” Dick gave his shoulder a dramatic clap that he knew wouldn’t hurt the man, “He’s from CADMUS too, long story.” Curiosity took the better of him, “Do you know about project KR?” The kid tilted his head the way he had done with the doctor, which Dick took to mean he was confused and decided not to press the topic, “Well, anyway. Konner here can help you out with anything we can’t. Isn’t that right, Kon?” Dick spoke animatedly, pointedly being overly friendly in his demure with Konner. 

Konner gave a nervous nod. Given the fight he’d put up to make sure they brought the kid with them, he was being awfully shy. 

The kid looked between them, expression calculating. “Konner.” He echoed Dick’s cadence at the name, but it sounded strange in the monotone. Then he seemed to take a moment to process the name, eyebrows bunching up. He turned to Dick head tilted again. Dick was starting to find it quite endearing. “Konner here.” He echoed Dick’s voice again, but Dick gave him the space to try to find his next words that were brewing on his face, “Kon?” It had the slightest tilt of a question.  

“Kon is a nickname.” Konner was quick to explain, his voice was gentle and placating in the way Superman’s often was. “My real name is Kon-el, but most people call me Konner, and my friends call me Kon.” 

“Kon is a nickname.” The kid repeated, looking point blank into Konner’s eyes. Then he turned to Dick, “Most people call me Dick.” He repeated Dick’s introduction from before. 

Dick gave him a large grin, “Yeah, Dick is a nickname, too. People only call me Richard if they’re mad at me. You picked that up pretty quick kid. You’re a smart one aren’t ‘cha.” 

“Pretty quick.” He echoed. 

“Do you want to pick out some clothes?” Konner asked. They kept a reserve of all sizes in the room across from the MedBay, they came in handy and also reminded people that Batman designed this place because who else would think to have a gift-shop themed store in the middle of space. 

“Pick out? Some clothes.”

“Oh yeah, we got a bunch.” Dick nods.

Surprisingly it was Batman that spoke up next, “Would you like to go see?” 

“You’re a smart one aren’t ‘cha.” He says in the same praising manner Dick had, the musculature of his face still steady. Konner hid his laughter much better than Dick, who doubled over in hysterics. Batman didn’t laugh, he never did, but there was a wisp of a smile on his face and that was as close to a cackle you could get out of the cowl.

Dick decided to save the Nightwing merchandise indoctrination for when the kid knew how to say no and mean it. They’d gone through and shown him a handful of options that were his size, because there were a lot of options. In the end he’d picked a hoodie with patchwork of Wonder Woman’s logo on it, that he wore over an equally vibrant Green Lantern t-shirt, and bright red Flash pajama pants. A lot of color, not that Dick’s original Robin costume had been much better in that aspect. The kid could use a bit of color in his life after whatever insanity he’d been put through. 

Dick saw the way Batman’s eyes trailed after the kid’s every movement, and hands ready to pick out wherever his eyes landed on. He’d definitely be seeing more of the kid. Pulling the clothes on to replace the hospital gown, the kid looked at himself in the mirror, pulling at the clothes that were still a little big on him and examining them under the gaze of the mirror. When he was satisfied with the ensemble, he turned back to them. 

Dick’s phone buzzed with a text. 

Timbers: Updates?

It’d probably be best if Dick called him to explain. Which he’d have to do later. “Are you hungry, buddy?” 

The kid looked at him curiously, head dipping to the side. The oversized hoodie only added to the look. “I like mac’n’cheese. Do you want to try that?” 

“Pretty quick.” He said, in what Dick would deduce to be a yes. 

“There’s going to be a lot of people there.” Batman explained, voice slow and enunciated, “We can bring you the mac’n’cheese or you can come with us to get it.”

The Watchtower wasn’t too crowded today, most of the heroes with other bases were there, but even today’s small number might be overwhelming for the kid. “Lot of people there.” he echoed, wide eyes looking up to meet the Caped Crusader’s. 

“They’re other heroes. Like Wonder Woman,” Konner pointed to his hoodie, “Green Lantern,” the shirt peeked out from under the hoodie, “and Flash.” 

“Superman. Aquman. And this is the Martian Manhunter.” The kid quoted from their quick explanation earlier. 

Dick nodded, “Yeah like them, and they’re our friends so they’re not going to hurt you. But they might not be there because uh-” Dick hesitated about what he should say, “they’re at work.” he settled. 

After a lot of consideration the kid seemed willing to head to the cafeteria, and they picked a seat in the corner where they could see the whole room but be out of the way enough so the kid didn’t get spooked. Batman and Konner took the kid to pick out which of the meals he thought looked most appetizing while Dick called Tim. 

The phone rang a few times, “How screwed are you?” Tim said in lue of a greeting. 

Dick laughed, “You should come by and meet your new brother.” 

“What! It’s been like four hours?” 

“He’s known him for like thirty minutes.” Dick watched as Batman and Konner did their best at explaining what each of the foods were. 

“Seriously?” Tim exclaimed before sighing, “Kid got a name?” 

“We’re working on it.” 

“Is he gonna stay at the Manor?” 

“Probably not for a while. What did you find on him?”

Another sigh, more frustrated. “It’s taking a while. But I should have it done in an hour.” 

“Personal delivery?” 

“I’ll see what I can do.” A pause, some of the other hero’s gave the kid curious looks. But fortunately no one approached since Batman was his shadow. “You know who he is, yet?” Tim meant in relation to Dick. Because there was some relation, people don’t just look alike. Not the way they did. 

Brother. Son. Duplicate. Dick hadn’t really given himself the chance to think about it. Like really think about it. He has a family, sure, Bruce, Alfred, Barbra, Jason and Tim. But he had a family. The ones who told him Romani folktales and helped him feed the circus animals even though they weren’t allowed. He was the last of the Graysons, but that could only happen if there had been Graysons before. And there had been. Until they had fallen from grace, and the show light stopped shining upon them. But there was another Grayson now, in whatever way he had been made, and whoever he was supposed to be. Dick wasn’t the last Grayson anymore, and he hoped he would never have to be again. “We did some tests. They haven’t come back yet.” 

“Hm. I’ll stop by when I can.” 

“‘Kay. Toodles.” Dick could hear him snort at that before the line disconnected. 

When Dick finally made it to the table, the kid looked up at him. He put a singular cheesy gnocchi in his mouth that took him a few tries to get on the end of his fork. The kid tried for another bite, hair flopping around as he tried to work the fork. Batman watched him as he managed to fill his fork with more than he would be able to fit in his mouth, then toppled and fell into the bowl. Confused, he tried again. This time Batman took the fork from him demonstrating how to use the utensil with a silent patience, and handed it back to the boy loaded with a bite. 

Flash, ever the conversationalist, caught sight of them and made his way to the table. “Cool pants, kid.” he commented jovially sitting in the empty space next to Konner. 

The kid looked down at his pants, cheese smeared around his mouth that Dick could tell Batman was seriously contemplating whipping. But neither of them were ready to push the kid’s boundaries yet, if he even had any. The kid examined the Flash emblem that patterned his pants, then up at the matching and much more meticulously designed on the speedster’s chest. His eyes went wide with recognition, but his face didn’t move to smile. The kid pointed to Flash’s chest, “Cool pants, kid!” He exclaimed excitement was easily laced into the Flash’s cadence of speech. 

“Hey! That’s what I said!” Flash was easy to laugh, despite the whisper of confusion in his eyes.

The cheer Flash displayed was matched easily, “Hey! That’s what I said!” There was a laugh in his voice like he was trying to say a joke that reached his eyes but not his cheeks. “And Flash!” he exclaimed. 

“That's right, I’m the Flash.” He gave a quick lap around the table to show off his speed, both the kid’s and Dick’s hair tousled in the show. 

“Pretty quick.” Danny cheered. 

“I’d like to think so.” Flash puffed his chest out, a prideful smile on his face. Dick rolled his eyes. Speedsters. 

“You should eat your food before it gets cold.” Konner nudged the kid gently. Reminded of the earlier mystery of the fork and mac'n'cheese, his attention was quickly diverted. 

“Kinda young for the family business, don’t you think, Batsy?” Flash questioned, “He didn’t even earn his colors yet.” Flash alluded to the Robin suit. 

“He’ll be staying at the Watchtower for a period.” Batman said, and whatever other additional explanation he was about to give was forgotten when the kid placed his forkless hand on the table to aim at the pasta from overhead, like he’d been doing earlier. Except unlike all the other times, his hand went straight through the hard material of the table, causing him to topple over. A surprised gasp escaped him. 

Flash caught his head before it hit anything, the other’s on their feet. “Oh, dear.” Flash commented lightly, trying to disperse any tension the kid may have had. Like all the other times, he didn’t cry or seem alarmed in any way. He tried to pull his hand out but it seemed stuck, and he turned to Dick for an explanation. Not that Dick had one to give. He wasn’t a meta, untapped or otherwise. His parent’s weren't either. And even if the tests hadn’t come back Dick had had his suspicions of who the kid was supposed to be to him. And meta didn’t fit anywhere into the bill. 

“Can you get him out?” Batman asked Flash, when it was clear the kid didn’t know how to. It took him a while to phase his hand out, and it was obvious he didn’t like the idea of using the speed force on the kid, but they didn’t have that many options. The kid, to his credit, seemed only mildly put off by the experience and went back to his goal of finishing his mac’n’cheese. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of them. 

Batman gave Dick a look. “Tim says he should be done in an hour. Stop by if he can.” Batman didn’t look pleased, but there wasn’t much else for him to do. 

“Are you ok?” Konner asked, trying for a gentle hand on his shoulder. The kid didn’t protest. 

“Pretty quick.” He said pointing his fork to Flash, as a final comment.

me: has a prompt idea me: i can write a short little exerpt abt this lol. it' be fun. maybe like 2k?? me four days later pulls put this monstrosity:

for your convince I only have the "original amount" i was planning. the rest will be on ao3

[anxiouslowercase]

sas rh: let eoin survive the fall au » a tale of two lieutenants (part two)

[corrodedcoughin]

Thinking about steddie future where they're both just average guys. No rockstars, no basketball players just two Normal men living a normal life because honestly? they deserve it. They deserve soft domesticity and happiness.

They both have jobs they like but don't love and they're happy with that. Eddie maybe becomes an electrician, working for someone else's company. His coworkers are chill, he gets to get out and work with his hands and that's more than he could have asked for. Steve is a physical therapist, or a manager in some business. He likes his team and the steady hours. He's not working for his dad which is a plus.

They buy a house together, that's not a mansion but it's not a trailer either. Steve does a lot of the dishes because Eddie hates it, hates the feeling of old food on the plates and cutlery. So Eddie will kiss Steve on the cheek and does the laundry because Steve fucking hates laundry. And sitting on the floor watching TV while he folds clothes is honestly sort of relaxing?? Love is doing the chores your partner hates.

Steve and Robin go out for brunch at least once a month, where they catch up and gossip for hours and hours and Steve comes home lighter with updates on Robin and Vickie. Eddie will have nightly phone calls with Wayne, where they talk and laugh and Eddie will eventually hand the phone over to Steve so he and Wayne can talk sports together. When he's in town Dustin will come over and stay in their spare room and they laugh and joke so much it's just like old times. They go over to Jeff's house for dinner on a semi regular basis, and it's nice having normal friends.

They adopt a very annoying cat who will climb all over them in bed and meow in their faces when they don't wake up to feed it breakfast in time. Steve will go for jogs on a Saturday morning, coming home to Eddie reading in bed. Some old western book Wayne recommended to him. There's a steaming cup of coffee waiting on their bedside tables that Eddie's prepared.

They take time off of work and go on a week long vacation because they can do that now. They do dorky touristy things and Eddie buys a mug to send to Wayne. Steve takes a lot of dorky photos of the two of them.

Idk they deserve to be normal and alive and happy with no upside down anymore <3

Oh I love this! I had actually been thinking about tradesman Eddie for a little bit I am so, so glad you’ve come up with this!

I can so completely see him learning a trade and just getting employed and put through his time by a small local employer! He has to go through his exams and that part of it worries him when he first gets the job but his team end up being really supportive and Steve stays up late with him, practicing circuits and wiring and quizzing him on currents and volts. Eddie returning the favour, letting Steve mark up his muscles and be a living anatomy dummy. Sure it gets a little sexy from time to time but more often than not it’s just them testing each other as Steve identifies bones and Eddie talks about parallel circuits.

The monthly brunches mentally and physically revive Steve after working extended hours with patients that he really does want the best for but a jobs a job and it can get pretty tiring. They joke that they rebalance each others chakras but they really do feel realigned after their meet ups. Eddie can see it to, sometimes he’ll come pick them up when it’s been a boozy brunch and delights in seeing them happy and light, clambering over each other to tell Eddie something about one of the waiters or an especially good dish they ordered. When he drops Robin home Steve sits in the front and looks at peace and Eddie feels the same way.

Their weekends are for them, sometimes that means staying home and cleaning the whole place between ordering food in and sometimes that means going on a day trip and taking Wayne around all the antique spots around the county and seeing what horrors they can uncover. Top spot currently sits with Wayne’s find of a doll whose limbs had been replaced with horse legs and had the head of a fish. Of course they bought it.

Every time they go on a holiday they make sure to send postcards to everyone, including themselves, seeing if they’ll get home before the postcard does. Steve keeps them in a photo album, each with a Polaroid of them next to it. Sometimes taken by a stranger, sometimes just a close up of their faces squashed together. It’s Eddie’s favourite thing to go through on their anniversary, or any day really, just loves being reminded that this is the life they get to have.

It’s mundane, dare say even normal, but they love it. Steve comes home every night, happy to put his scrubs in the washing machine next to Eddie’s uniform, happy to be where he feels loved.

[clockworkcheetah]

trans!todd but doesnt realise theyre trans until canon/postcanon

[user-name-h3re]

If Nurf ever does ONE horrible thing or ever so slightly CONSIDERS hurting Preston in the new episodes i'm going to projectile vomit and gouge my eyes out the ENTIRE REASON HE WENT TO CAMP WAS TO BE BETTER WHY IS HE THE ONLY ONE THATS HASN'T GOTTEN BETTER WH-

[tj-crochets]

Hey! This might be a weird ask, but do you know anywhere that has Cambrian sewing patterns? I’ve been trying to track down a wiwaxia or anomalocaris, but no joy. Thanks in advance!

Hey! Not a weird ask at all, and I swear I've seen one for an anomalocaris before but I can't remember where?? I'll take a look and see what I can find, and hopefully someone will see this that has a link to a pattern Edit: So good news bad news, I did find the anomalocaris plush I was thinking of, but the designer has not shared the pattern. Good news is it looks really simple to design a pattern for a simplified version of it? I'd just need to handstitch on the curved front...not legs and use the same technique I use to make spider legs without having to sew each leg individually (topstitching, but maybe also pleating) Can you reblog this with some reference photos of anomalocaris? anomalocarises? I do not know enough about them to be able to distinguish which ones are good references

[vargaslovinghours]

Fandom: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac (But really Vargas lol) Rating: Teen and up Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

What, exactly, did Scriabin take from Edgar when they separated?

My first multichapter fic for Vargas! :D Yay!

(Pls read Ch. 1 first - Ch. 2 is also recommended, but as long as you're caught up on the first, you're good to go!)

-----

Side B

What the fuck.

"It's, it's possible that if, maybe whatever happened earlier, whatever caused all that blood and for us to be knocked unconscious-"

What the fuck.

"-and if I suffered a head injury, then maybe-"

No. That's enough.

Scriabin pushed away from the closet door he'd defensively pressed himself up against and put his hands on Edgar's shoulders, which quieted him. He looked at him expectantly, with eyes that Scriabin somehow only just now realized were casually guarded, curious, uncertain in a way that denoted inexperience. That was so messed up, that was completely wrong. Edgar should've been on guard, absolutely, but only because he knew exactly what Scriabin was capable of. He really didn't want to look at him right now if this was what he was going to be seeing instead.

He spun him quickly and pushed him out the door before he could protest. He got one last look at those wide, confused eyes before he slammed the door behind him, bracing it shut with both hands for good measure.

What. The fuck. His head came forward, making a dull thud as his forehead connected with the door. He doesn't remember me? His fingers curled on the door. What does he mean he doesn't remember me?! How could he not know me?! One hand pushed through his hair; his scalp tingled and that was so weird, he felt it and it was so weird- We literally just- He literally just-! As if pulling him screaming into life wasn't bad enough, now he had decided to play some sick prank!

This can't be true. It's just like him to try and make jokes at the worst possible time, he has no tact.

There was a timid knock on the other side of the door. Scriabin jumped as it resonated through his skull, his elbow, pressed to the door with his hand buried in his hair, set his jaw. Then silence.

If he was really trying to get back in, clear things up, say he was only kidding, he'd actually try.

Nothing.

Scriabin's blood was ice as he went over it again. The way he'd said his name. The vacant look in his eyes as he said it, like his mouth knew its shape but none of the meaning. No fear, no realization, nothing that really felt like Edgar, just sound, just noise.

Maybe he really had-

Oh god. His knees gave out, and his arms had no practice at holding him upright, not yet. His hand slid down the door, his other hand guarding his head as his hair fluffed against the grain.

How could he do this

This is all his fault

Stupid, idiotic

He can't do this to me

I can't believe him

I can't believe this

How dare he leave me alone like this

Thoughts spiralling, and all he could do was hold himself down, press his fingers into the back of his neck, force his chest to his knees and maybe he wouldn't immolate under it all. He was shaking, from tension or fear he couldn't tell, his mind too hazardous and loud to cut through it all. He was shaking, dizzy, and if he moved, letting go would surely kill him.

He can't do this to me.

He breathed. And breathed. And swallowed. Eyes closed, heart pounding, sure. Confusion and dismay, whatever. Pain. Fine. So be it.

This isn't like me. A hand untethered from his vice grip in his hair, and he stayed attached to the floor. It connected with the carpet below him and became a new lifeline. He pushed up and away into a limp sit, arms already burning slightly from holding himself up after all that. He shook his head mildly. This isn't who I'm going to be in life. His body, this fear response be damned, he was in control now.

Regroup. Let's- a mental pause, barely a quarter of a second long as he turned the word in his head. Let's pretend it's all true- what does that mean?

He flopped over, leaned upright with his back against the door, heels of his fists pushed down into the carpet to scootch closer. Moving was so awkward still, very unfitting.

He was acting normal. Well, Edgar's baseline for "normal" had changed considerably, so maybe put an asterisk on that. Not that he was ever normal to begin with, but normal-for-Edgar, -ish. That means he has to have some memory.

Scriabin held out a hand, arm slung over his knee, one finger held out. He had recognized his glasses. One. The apartment. Two. Which key to use. Three. He had said Todd's name. Four.

His stuff can be discounted, he's had all that for a while. Back down to one. The kid is a new fixture. Which means he remembers the last couple months at least. He shook his head and brought his hand up to comb through his hair. Well...it's fuzzy for me, so it probably is for him, too. Scriabin remembered everything in as much clarity as the last couple months allowed, there was no way Edgar would know more even if he had all his memories.

Speaking of which, Scriabin could remember everything. He flipped through; the last two months and bringing Todd in, Edgar's parting words to Johnny, his and Devi's conversation - he grit his teeth - and further back, everything along the way, all the way back. False dreams, shared childhoods, everything that was once Edgar's alone, he still remembered it. Nothing was out of place which made it all the more strange!

This is so fucking weird, if I remember everything, then why would he-

He stopped short. His purported purpose had been to replace Edgar. Take him over completely. If he bought into the conceit for a moment, just to play in the space... He was alive now. That was not as intended; it shouldn't even have been possible.

Did he...give me his memories? Like, all the way? Not just to borrow, to shape him, give him legitimacy - he was alive now. His own person. Separate, embodied, and whole. Was this the price of life?

That's stupid. But possible, he couldn't discount. If this - he brought his hands up and looked down at them, watched himself touch his own chest and felt it beneath his coat, shirt, the nerves firing as his slid his fingers up himself - if this was possible, then...

He continued for a moment, curious and reverant, all of him new and privately exciting, to exist and to touch, to feel, smell, see, all of it clear and fresh and penetrated deeply into his mind, as if a layer of film had been lifted from his senses. The moment passed as the memories, unbidden but important, cluttered in around him again.

There were still a lot of questions, and most of them couldn't be answered without Edgar, ugh. If getting anything out of him before had been like pulling teeth, he was very sobered to think about how it might be now. Depending on how much Edgar remembered, maybe he could start piecing things together.

Did he do it on purpose? Did he know this would happen? There's no way he would have been willing to if he had- But he couldn't ask him things like that. Even if he did remember, admitting something like that...

He was just spinning his wheels at this point. Better to gather what he could from the man himself. He looked up, preparing to stand.

Ah-

The room was still in something of a state.

Edgar would be annoying, or at least distracted by trying to pick up the clothes and uncarefully unpacked items strewn about the floor from Scriabin's very successful excavation of his old glasses. The clutter would have to go if he wanted his full attention.

He grumbled as he pushed off the door to pick up the first few things. First day of life and I'm already his maid. Figures. He's always needed me to clean up after him.

Silence.

Somehow it only just hit him. Thinking alone in the late hours, planning things behind Edgar's back, it was nothing new. But a barb unsunk into his mental flesh was left out in the wide emptiness, poised to stab whoever happened upon it next, and he was the only one here.

He felt very small all of a sudden, and he didn't like it at all.

His eyes blankly scanned the room, looking for nothing, until they settled on the toy at Edgar's bedside. His toy.

He dropped the items he'd bundled into his arms and made his way over. He picked up the small simulacrum, turned it over in his hands once, and stared at it.

He wouldn't know this. Not really. He brushed a thumb up and over the little mouth, the contours of its small face. Retroactively, I've never been this at all.

I'm no one to him.

Does this mean we can start over? The thought struck him like lightning, freezing his heart in his chest. He was fixed solid, staring down at the small figure in his hands.

Before he could even think, he'd already thrown it through the open closet door, landing noisily in the box he'd dug through with a clatter. He grabbed up the fallen clothes and items and stuffed them back in the box, burying the toy in mundane detritus, then closed the cardboard flaps and slammed the door of the closet for good measure.

His breath was laboured and he glared, like wishing it gone would make the closet itself disappear.

Answers. He needed answers, more than anything.

He ripped the door open, and there was Edgar who looked up, staring dumbly back at him and carrying the clothes he'd shed earlier over his arm. Something in his mind clicked over, and he didn't think about it.

"Alright," he caught his breath for half a second, "what do you remember?"

Edgar just kept on staring, mouth open, eyes unconfident behind weak glasses. Scriabin huffed irritably, I don't have time for this, and moved towards him, arm outstretched.

"Come on." Edgar gave a small startled sound behind him as he grabbed his collar and dragged him through the doorway. He threw him across the room, not bothering to watch his arc as he closed the door behind him. The bed was that way, he'd be fine.

When he turned back, Edgar had managed to catch himself, though already halfway on the bed. Scriabin stood with his back to the door, feet planted and he crossed his arms. No more speculating around impossibilities, tangible and present as they might be, it was time for a proper interrogation. It was at least preferable to-

Edgar made a face at him and scooted back, offering a seat next to him on the bed. Equal footing briefly flashed through his mind and while he wouldn't consider it ideal, nothing today was really going his way. He sighed, then made his way over and sat across from Edgar, who was eyeing him with a certain degree of caution. At least the feeling was mutual.

"Spill." He re-crossed his arms and leaned towards Edgar. "What do you know?"

Edgar hesitated, apparently thinking, his hands laced and fingers agitatedly if quietly rubbing the backs of his hands.

"I want to verify some things first."

Scriabin snorted dismissively. Where had Edgar's overly-trusting nature gone? A serial killer, well he's an honoured guest, but Scriabin? He didn't even distrust him for the right reasons.

He gestured with an open hand, Go ahead, then tucked his arm back in.

"Todd's last name?"

Pfsh. At least it was proof enough that anything Edgar knew, Scriabin did as well. As expected.

"Casil. His stupid bear's called Shmee in case you forgot that too." Edgar shook his head. No he hadn't? If only he could just check!

"Do you know our phone number?" Obviously he did, so he rattled it off quickly, Edgar nodding in turn. He flipped his hair in time with the last digit, careful to keep his eyes covered. It was a bit of a timid attempt, being the first in this body, which was a minor blessing he supposed.

Edgar mulled over what he'd given him for a moment, then a moment longer, then a moment even longer. His eyes searched absently, gazing down into his own hand, his other on his chin, lightly thumbing his goatee. He was focused on names and numbers, but those were child's play compared to everything, everything Scriabin still wanted to know. It was frustrating on a visceral level, watching him struggle with such simple innocuous nothings while the most important person in his life was sitting right in front of him.

He was supposed to be the most important.

It was frustrating.

"You really don't remember anything, do you?" He didn't hide the sneer as it shaped his voice - odd the way his body just did that now, did things without him actively thinking them into being. Even things like the little waver that made its way in that he pushed back down and under. He was frustrated, angry, tired - any emotionality could be attributed to those, nothing else.

Edgar didn't answer, just kept his gaze locked to his face. That was almost worse. Watching him fumble through things, it wasn't fun, but at least he wasn't trying to pry. He could see him try to look past his bangs, and the fact that he didn't know better...

Scriabin looked away for a moment, then thought better of it. Best defense is a good offense.

He reached for Edgar's face, for those damn scars, ever-present reminders. Edgar shied away, not wanting to be touched suddenly by someone he didn't know. As if Scriabin had ever cared about that.

Well, things were different now. Maybe he didn't really want to touch him anyway. Not yet.

"Do you remember these...?" Instead he framed his face with his hands less than an inch from his skin, and even there he could feel the heat coming off him. Edgar reached for his face, looking away from Scriabin as he touched the angry red marks. He winced minutely, then glanced back at Scriabin, searching him, his expression guarded again. Scriabin could hear his own pulse in his ears.

"...Johnny?"

"Fuck." Fuck! "Of course you'd remember him but not me." God damn it! It wasn't right, it wasn't fair, just because Johnny came first by a hair's breadth, just because he wasn't in Edgar's head, with Edgar's fucked up little obsession with the murderous stick figure- It limited what he could get away with too, if he remembered that far back. Absolutely nothing was going in his favour.

"I'm sorry..." He sounded genuinely remorseful, and it stuck in his throat. Disgusting. "So you know Johnny, too."

"Unfortunately." Scriabin tucked his chin to his chest, arms crossed again in close proximity. This sucks. Edgar just kept rambling, unaware as ever. His excuses held this time at least, one point in his favour, no points for bringing his annoying habits with him despite everything.

"I don't think I've seen him for a couple months now? Everything's awfully..." He gave a vague gesture and Scriabin uncurled slightly. He was giving him room to contribute. He shook his head.

"You haven't."

"Have you?"

He returned to his tight coil of sulking. Not like he was keen to meet up and chat, but he couldn't explain why he hadn't had the opportunity to either.

"I remember he called, too."

"Ugh," barely above breath. Enough about Johnny! Again, Edgar continued obliviously.

"Although I don't really recall what we talked about, not for a while..."

Of course not. I took over for half of those.

He perked a bit, and Edgar focused more on him, patiently setting his hands in his lap.

"You know."

He could play this to his advantage. Give Johnny some well-deserved karmic justice for fucking him over so many times. It was almost better that Edgar didn't know - Scriabin had been trying to get him away from Johnny all this time, and if he really had forgotten everything, not just the moments when Scriabin took over but every moment they had shared, then that meant it coincided almost perfectly with his first meeting with Johnny. Blank spot after blank spot after blank spot, all lined up immediately after getting his face slashed.

He could work with that.

"It's probably trauma." Edgar startled and his hand shot to his temple, lightly touching his hair.

"Like, head trauma?" Scriabing almost laughed. Yeah, probably that too. But that wouldn't help his case.

"No." He leaned in, taking a more intimate, secretive tone. "Think about it. When did things start getting fuzzy?" If he was right on this - which of course he was, but not being able to verify, not being able to see that he was right, it was disconcerting - but if he was, Edgar's memories of Scriabin should start with that first fateful encounter, give or take. A bit of reframing here, a touch of implication there... It probably wasn't even an outright lie; if Edgar's memory were perfect after experiencing everything Johnny had put them through, that would be some kind of twisted miracle.

His only real concern was their "childhood" - how much had Scriabin pulled with him? Would that throw off his story? But that was so far back, there was no way Scriabin or Johnny could be implicated in that. As long as Edgar didn't bring it up before he thought his way around it...

Edgar stayed quiet for a long while. His eyes raced behind closed eyelids, searching, scanning, retracing - Scriabin could almost see the moments where he hesitated, stopped and went back, then starting recollecting again. He wished he could see it for real, watch him unfold himself, touch those memories again, hold up his own in contrast. Even just hear Edgar's thoughts as they went by, feel the emotions he felt. But he couldn't, so he just stared as unblinkingly as this new body would allow, just watched as Edgar went over everything on his own.

He finally opened his eyes, staring back into Scriabin's though he was sure they were still hidden. He felt naked and awkward and Edgar still hadn't said anything. If he could just see like he was supposed to, or if Edgar would just tell him, he wouldn't have to ask. I have to do everything around here.

"It was after you met him, wasn't it?"

"You think it's...mental trauma?" An unspoken 'yes.' Relief flooded him, and he pushed ahead.

"Edgar. He stabbed you." Edgar gripped his shoulder, his eyes closing again and he looked to be in pain. That was a very effective reminder at least. "Do you even know why?" He shook his head and spoke throught half-grit teeth.

"I must have made him mad, but I don't remember-" Of course not, I did that.

"Your mind is trying to protect you." Not. But one of us has to with your inexhaustable deathwish. Scriabin reached out to touch him properly, but Edgar pulled away. He didn't follow, still not yet. Play up the pity. "He messed you up so bad," with a curl in his tone, an I told you so that barely made it to words even privately; how long had he been holding that in? "Surely you must've felt like you wanted, you needed to get away from him, that he wasn't good for you, that you-" He'd told him so many times, some it must have stuck, some of it had to have-

"Then-!" Edgar's eyes shot open, wide and desperate with an edge of disbelief. A strangled gasp escaped him, half-choking him as he tried to speak. "Then why can't I remember you?!"

He almost began rolling off the cuff, but really, he still didn't know for sure. And it definitely wasn't like he could tell the truth even if he wanted to; who, who hadn't lived it, would believe him? Edgar certainly wouldn't, not with his lack of imagination. He had to dress this up, weave a narrative that was plausible, had the perfect mix of truth and falsehood to stand up to scrutiny.

Huh. Ironic.

"I..." No. Some of this was Edgar's fault too. "We...argued."

"Argued?"

"I... Mng." He wanted to aim for some kind of levity, but his throat had tightened on him. He just wanted to tell this stupid inside joke and not have it affect him, not have it mean anything, and here he was getting emotional? He'd say it and fucking mean it. "It's not like I'm in your head, so-" spat out in a rush, there, he'd said it. Haha, isn't that so funny. He swallowed harshly, pushing down everything he felt into his stomach acid. He was in control. He was fine. This didn't shake him. "I can't know for sure," another humourless laugh inside, "but I was against your relationship with Johnny. Maybe you shut me out so you could keep seeing him with no pushback."

It certainly wasn't outside the realm of possibilities of what Edgar would do to avoid taking Scriabin's extremely basic advice about fraternizing with serial killers. How many times had he been ignored up to this point, only to culminate in the ultimate 'I don't know what you're talking about.' Pfeh. I bet he wishes he'd thought of this sooner. It did nothing for his painfully stuttered pulse.

"You know, I've been trying to convince you to stop going back to him for a while, but, well..." He waved his hand at Edgar's hand still death gripped into his shoulder, and Edgar averted his eyes guiltily. At least he showed some remorse. Better than his nigh constant apologia.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, and just before Scriabin made to fill the silence again, Edgar struck him with an intense look.

"What are you to me?" Ugh. Of course. There was not a single good answer for that. Even if he told him everything- no, especially if he told him everything, there was no way Edgar would believe him. But coming up with a convincing lie on the spot, when they were so clearly something to each other - even he needed time to come up with something workable. How could he have ever prepared for a situation like this? It was never meant to happen, so many things were never meant to happen!

He continued at Scriabin's silence. "You know Nny," Ugh! Even his awful nickname. "And Todd. And...me." He couldn't refute it, so he nodded tightly. "Do you live here?"

Technically he had, and technically he hadn't. Still, going forward, it would be easier to let Edgar assume that he did. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment anyway.

"Yes."

"Are we..." He searched him, looked him over as much as he could and he wasn't subtle about it. If only Scriabin had his proper glasses, he'd let him look as much he wanted, behold his spectacle! As it was, he just felt self-conscious and it was very unbefitting. "...family?"

The baggage on that. He did not feel like opening that particular can of worms in either of their current states. He turned his head and flipped through any number of halfway decent ways to phrase it until he hit on something Edgar would remember. Better not to contradict for now.

"You told Johnny you have no family when you met."

"That's true..." Edgar blinked, processing. "Wait, did I tell you that?" Scriabin startled. Even after he'd accounted for his memory! Of course he had to pick his story apart now, he never knew when to leave well enough alone.

"When you-" No, he had to be involved. "When we bandaged your face."

Edgar mulled on that for a few seconds, taking on a thoughtful pose. "I only remember being alone."

"You don't remember me at all. What do you want from me?" He huffed.

"No, sorry, you're right."

"Thank you." He was right!

Where had Edgar expected him to be? There was something weird about how he'd said it. He filed the thought away for later.

"So, if you've been living here, where..." Edgar looked around the room, then back to Scriabin. "Where have you been sleeping? Todd's already on the couch..."

Scriabin couldn't help as a smile sprung to his face. If he was going to present him with such a perfect opportunity, well, he'd better take it. He even had the decency to look nervous in response! This was too good.

"Would you believe me if I said right here, in bed?" He again tucked his chin, playfully this time, his hair falling further in his eyes. Even through the dark tangles he could make out Edgar's face immediately bristling with heat.

Ooh. That's such a fetching shade on you, my dear.

"But-! I, I haven't been sleeping on the floor!" He was visibly sweating!

"Correct." His smile grew. This was too easy, and he needed an easy win right about now.

"W-" He leaned forward on his legs, though refused to get any closer. When he spoke it was a harsh whisper. "Why...?"

Scriabin shrugged easily, not bothering to reign in his smile in the least. "I mean, where else, right?" He leaned in since Edgar refused to, and oh. He was blushing all the way up to his scalp. Hilarious. "You certainly didn't seem to mind." He couldn't hold back the slightly musical tone or his eyebrows inclination to move on their own. His body knew what he was getting at, and he could see it only increased Edgar's fluster. All the better.

"Well I do now!" Edgar darted up and away, stumbling in his hasty retreat. "If you'll excuse me!" though he was already practically in the hallway by the time he said it. What a display, and Scriabin's laugh was loud and natural.

Finally, something positive. He'd managed to fumble his way through, not his best work in lying or manipulation, but he'd set some important groundwork. He'd gotten some answers, and he could start to shape some more believable stories around them.

The biggest hurdles were Johnny and Devi. As long as Edgar didn't meet with them too soon - or well, at all would be preferable, but he doubted he could just keep him locked up, as much as the idea appealed to him. There were so many things that were possible now, things that he had the ability to do, given the right circumstances... All of that in due time. For now he had a yarn to spin.

He listened as Edgar fumbled in the hall, the sheer sound of cloth being pulled and folded over an arm barely perceptable. Was he really going to try to sleep on what little was left over? Maybe he'd give up once he realized the pickings were thin and beg Scriabin to let him sleep with him. Hah.

While he was out, Scriabin made his way over to the pajamas drawer. They were all old and soft, even just to his hand. They'd do for now, until he could get his own. It wasn't like he hadn't worn all this before anyway.

By the time he'd finished dressing, his clothes discarded on the opposite side of the bed to where Edgar had set up his little nest, Edgar had finally gotten himself a set of pajamas. He wondered for a moment if he'd dress with Scriabin in the room again, though maybe his intense stare drove him off. Who could say. He patted the bed with a wide grin when he returned and was dutifully ignored. He settled down to the side, and Scriabin laid on his arms to look down at him.

"Ugh, lame."

"I don't-"

"Yeah, whatever." He'd heard it all before. At least he could literally look down on him like this. He folded his hands and leaned just a bit further, looking him over. A desire he hadn't realized he had surfaced in the dark and quiet. "Give me your hand."

"Sorry?" Scriabin held out his hand expectantly.

"I used to hear your heart beat every day." Edgar looked at him incredulously, but Scriabin was unperturbed. "Let me hear it again."

He hesitated but eventually slowly offered his arm. "...Okay."

He pulled his arm up and placed his thumb against his wrist. He felt a strange mismatch - where he'd been expecting one heartbeat, there were two. He covered his surprise, near shock at the realization that of course he had his own body now, by pulling harder on Edgar's arm, directing him up to his ear.

"Wh-"

"Shh." Quietly. He had wanted this, wanted this body, this separation, this freedom for so long, and now... He spoke quietly, his voice betraying nothing. "I'm listening."

Edgar's pulse was erratic, but he hardly paid attention to it. His own fingers on Edgar's skin, warm and pliant, and Edgar's fingers twitching in his hair, he could feel it, he was trying not to touch him- This hesitation was killing him, every jerky movement away not from fear of what Scriabin could do to him, just uncertainty, like he was still a stranger- He pressed him harder to his head, and he could feel goosebumps under his fingers. He wanted to just hold him there until all the memories they'd shared poured back through him, into his blood, into his breath.

Where are you?

But he replied in that same uncertain, guarded tone that indicated he didn't know, not really.

"C...can I have my arm back now?"

He pushed him away. "Fine." Edgar curled his hand protectively against his chest, and he noticed he rubbed it slightly, he probably hadn't even realized.

He mumbled out a harried "Good night," and it was almost enough to make Scriabin smile. Almost. He could still affect him but this wasn't enough, it wasn't right.

He laid his head on the pillow, not bothering to pull his arm up over the side of the bed. If he twitched in the night and touched Edgar, well, that could mean anything. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he did it on purpose. Plausible deniability was one of his greatest assets.

As it was, he was just tired. Maybe he didn't pull it back because he hated the thought of sleeping alone, pushed out and forgotten, and hated it more that he was even thinking something like that. How pathetic. He didn't need anyone, especially not Edgar.

But he was tired. Not in his right mind.

Does this mean we can start over...?

The thought echoed and died, and he slept.

[bearenjoyers]

sorry im just thinking about bcs but like. why not add a few smaller scenes of gus interacting with his own men? why does it seem like, in comparison, mike is almost immediately elevated to a higher status than those two in bcs purely because we actually get to see him having normal conversations with gus? like i understand they might not keep the plot moving as well because of the fact obviously if victor is currently doing something it’s because gus told him to etc. but for the most part all of the smaller interactions gus does have with those two ends up being in a somewhat high stress situation where it feels very tense between everyone. and it’s just like damn! is it always like that?? why do those two even care that much about their jobs if their boss is a bit of a dick? etc. i think even an additional scene or two with those guys (either alone or the both of them) talking with gus in a more normal situation could’ve both added a bit more depth into how gus treats his employees (we got a lot with how he treats lyle and co., but not a whole lot with the illegal side of things), how comfortable vic and tyrus feel around him in a calmer setting, and exactly why they both feel the need to be as loyal as they are to the guy.

and also on the other side of this i don't think it'd hurt to maybe elaborate on their pay just a bit..? i'm not saying to randomly put a number out into the atmosphere but i just mean some smaller things like. do they buy nicer things for themselves? what's their housing situation? what's their car situation? are the escalade / yukon their own vehicles or does gus just use those two for business situations? do they use them when they're doing their own stuff off the clock or do they have their own cars? etc. that can also help with understanding their motivations a bit. don't get me wrong i don't think they should be visibly rich or something because that's not what gus would want but just smaller things! cause it's easy to write their loyalty off as Well they probably get paid super well, which i'm sure is true, but if they don't show a single hint of that then what's the point. even something as simple as giving tyrus a nice watch, or maybe victor having a nicer looking gun, etc. something small like that. because as it stands right now the average 41 year old viewer who watched the show once only knows and will only ever know victor and tyrus as those two guys in the background who do random stuff for gus with no clear motivation. just the personification of "On it boss (salute emoji)". and to be honest this is true for a whole lot of fans who do watch the show multiple times and enjoy thinking about it more in depth, because on screen we barely have anything about the two.

and to be clear i'm not trying to say we should have an episode just for them or something like no i understand they're side characters. i understand we don't need all that. and i understand this is also primarily Jimmy's show. but it's not like these two are on the same level as like, arlo or paige and kevin etc. these guys have been around since brba. victor was literally introduced in the same episode gus was. and they are a huge part of gus's story, especially in brba. s4 wouldn't have been what it was without victor and tyrus. and in bcs, ignacio's situation wouldn't have been the same if it weren't for victor and tyrus as well. and i just personally believe that if their goal with gus in bcs was to go back and elaborate on how everything came to be and show what he was like a few years younger, they could've dragged victor and tyrus into that. and i think his character would've benefited from taking that extra step with those two.

[epickiya722]

How about we not have a character call another character a word they shouldn't even think to say in the first place even by "accident" and have it labeled as a "funny" headcanon?