#mugs thinks otherwise

[space-bowl]

There's nothing Cups loves more than being able to push Bendy's buttons.

Based on this. A classic.

BONUS:

Mugs will not let it go.

[tojosuggestionbox]

[thisiswhereikeepdcthings]

Bruce, not ready to wake up: Just five more…

Tim, bored, irritated, and sensing an opportunity to sow the seeds of chaos:

Tim: *races into the kitchen*

Tim: You guys will never believe what Bruce just said!

Damian: Well?

Duke: What did he say?

Steph: You can’t leave us hanging like that.

Tim: He said five MORE.

*collective gasp*

Steph: I had better not be one of those five.

Damian: Why does Father get to adopt five more children and I can not adopt five more cats? Cats are much easier to care for than people.

Tim, shrugging: I’m sure he’d be fine with it.

[crinoline-gurl]

🃏♠️more casino cups headcanons but it’s just mugman bc he’s my favorite♠️🃏

- he was that perpetually sick kid I think

• victorian child with tuberculosis coded

• “take me to see the garden one last time” headass

• but he gets the flu every year and is absolutely bedridden

- it would definitely be worse now that he’s doing all this calix animi business

- but that doesn’t stop him

- bro is still pulling all-nighters with a debilitating headache

- which only makes his flu worse haha dumb idiot

- latches onto father figures like hella

• THATS WHY HES SO LIKE ATTACHED TO DICE YALL SEE IT TOO RIGHT⁉️⁉️

- genuinely arrogant

- MANSPLAINER‼️‼️‼️

• it’s the autism womp womp

- someone says “aw I only got six hours of sleep” and mugs is like “OH YOU GOT SLEEP? THATS NICE”

- his playlist (what Mugboy would to (like in the modern day not in 1933 obviously))

• mitski

• tv girl

• hot take but like… he’d like the smiths and listen to some mcafferty and Radiohead he’s so male manipulator coded I need you to listen to me

• lemon demon

• dear evan hansen and hamilton probably 💀

• queen and the beatles like a nerd

[4ce-of-2pades-inkwell]

< Last / Next >

[magnusmodig]

ovo whispers menacingly abt his grandstanding .

[parallelunivrses]

so I’m currently taking a ceramics class at a local studio and I need help with ideas for stuff to make?? its all hand-building and the class is specifically focusing on the coiling technique and I have half a bag of clay and two weeks to use it

[blindedguilt]

"We should dye your hair. It looks so dull! Let's make it vibrant!" He's already preparing the dye... or his method of dyeing.

Work was difficult on those days Leonard couldn't often muster up the motivation to do anything. It had been a long, tiresome, gruesome day, and beyond the regrets and wishes for death which so frequently plagued his mind on those darker days, the desire for sleep had stayed the most prominent. Leonard, whose nerves and patience normally ran thick as steel, had found themselves surprisingly short seeing Popshi on the other side of his flat door. Had he been in any more of a foul mood, he would have been honest with himself: Didn't this man have anything better to do...? Most days, he could tolerate Popshi, at times he didn't even mind him. Now was not one such time, and while it should have been evident in the slight tightening of Leonard's jaw listening to the other's excited greeting - in one ear and out the other - his humanity had (for better or for worse) remained intact to the point of silent resignation at whatever plans Popshi would undoubtedly end up springing on the other with each step further into his own home. What would it be this time? It exhausted him just thinking about it. Would he have taken the liberty to redecorate the kitchen? Get rid of all the doors? Filled the fridge with Pepsi and god-knows-what-else? He had hoped, but seriously doubted his reluctance to nod along as he normally had would get through to the other, as Leonard had still heard his voice after collapsing on the couch. It seemed his desperate attempt at "Ignore him, and he'll go away" wasn't working. Yet, without the gall or energy to be direct and risk offence (Which undoubtedly would become a whole hell of its own) and no other choice left to him, Leonard simply remained still, and found himself slowly drifting into a half-slumber... ...One arm dangled off the couch, and the other covered over his eyes. For the past fifty minutes, perhaps, Leonard had laid still as a corpse, having stayed so still it would have almost been a concern... If not for the way he so jarringly shot to life at the words "Dye" and "Hair" spoken directly above him. Perhaps the first thing Popshi had heard from him since his return was the gasp for air that was as if the poor man had been woken from a nightmare, a hand raised and run through his hair in temporary bewilderment before he turned to look towards the source of the voice with shock - his hair was still blond. It was still safe. Popshi, however... He wanted to apologise. He really did, and after all was done and past, he most likely would. But unfortunately for poor Popshi, Leonard's patience had finally run out. Without a word, Leonard swung his partially numbed legs from the couch and stood. Popshi was seized by the back of the collar. Perhaps a bit too rough than what he intended, but of little concern in the moment as the poor thing was dragged from the small and humble living room, through the entrance, and finally was near tossed into the hall - Leonard hadn't been brutish in his strength, but certainly direct as his tone as the door slammed shut and the sound of a lock was heard behind it, paired with a string of no more than three, simple words: "Leave. Please go." Take of it what he would, Leonard at least sounded tired and exasperated enough to convey that it was nothing personal - Popshi could only be left to hope and pray it would remain that way once the exhausted mechanic made way to clean up after his concocted "dye".

[dragonomatopoeia]

one one hand it's nice that it's so easy to get money in octopath but on the other hand i keep spending all of it on random npc gossip and also swords

[chryzure-archive]

CHRYZURE.

[itsoutrageouss]

pt. 1

more on the dynamic after Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley saw you cry for the first time…

Things were in fact different from now on. Not in an obvious way but you both noticed it. You had been embarrassed the next day, scared he saw you as weak for crying in his arms like that.

And now his eyes softened a little more every time he looked at you. He remembered how precious and frail you had felt in his hold. He longed for it in a way that made him practice his punching until late in the night, grunting and groaning as the dummy got the best of his strength. His knuckles were bruised, a manifestation of the foreign feelings he tried to let out in the only way he knew- violence.

You were up, snuggly sitting with a mug of tea when Simon comes in, doors swinging open. It was late. Late enough for the owls to hoot and the moon to be at its highest.

He was panting, sweat glistening on the strained muscles of his arms. He stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted you in the corner of the recreational area. You blinked at him, studying his demeanour with intrigue.

It made him shy. He got fucking shy from the way you stared so shamelessly and intensely. He hadn’t noticed it before. The way your eyes lingered on his arms. Maybe it was new thing, or maybe he hadn’t taken the time you really look before now.

“You’re up late.” You whispered, voice small in the silence. His chest heaved as he stretched his fingers, rolled his neck.

“So are you.” He countered. There was a question in both of your statements but none of you decided to answer. Maybe you were awake for the same reasons, he thought. The mere thought was enough for his legs to move towards you, the couch dipping and creaking as it took his weight. You lodt your balance where you sat with your knees tucked to your chest as the seat tilted under you, making you thud into his side, shoulder to shoulder. He snickered under his breath, grabbing you like you were a porcelain doll to help you sit upright. Your mouth dried.

“Do you think I’m weak?” You asked him then, the words bubbling your throat before you could stop them. They had simmered for a whole week now, just under your skin. He frowned, brows set deep on his face as he looked you over.

“Quite the opposite” came his gruff reply like it was obvious. It took him a second to realise what you were referring to. Seeing you cry had made him think so much more of you than before. He saw the insecurity flash in your eyes before you looked away and he tucked a finger under your chin, slowly pulling your gaze back to his.

“Haven’t stopped thinking about it, in fact” he said, confessed it like secret into the night. He tried to keep his voice steady. At least steadier than his heart. Was he sick? Was it weird for him to be so obsessed with that one moment of you… crying?

You exhaled sharply, like his words had squeezed your lungs. Gaze narrowed, head tilted, you tried to figure him out. There was nothing but honesty and a little wariness in his eyes. Had he said too much?

“Me neither.” You replied slowly. It was enough. Enough to know. A cold blow of relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He only now realised he still had a finger under your chin, thumb stroking along your jaw absentmindedly. He withdrew his hand, regretfully.

If he was sick, then so were you.

“You’re hurt” you whispered, staring down at his knuckles. They were bleeding. Your eyes snapped to his, slightly wider than before as his jaw ticked, gaze otherwise unreadable. Was it because of you? The thought made your stomach twist in.. several ways.

“It’s fine.” He insisted, brushing it off and hiding his hands in his pockets. But you were already up, disappearing somewhere. He sighed, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. This wasn’t calming down his breathing one bit.

Warm fingers gently pulled on his wrist, and you felt how heavy his hand was as you pulled it into you lap, sitting cross legged next to him. He had to focus hard to remain indifferent when his hand rested high on you’re plush thigh. His fingers flexed slightly around it, gripping it with a bit more purpose than necessary. It made you struggle to open the sanitising wipes.

He hissed as you cleaned the wounds, but the care you put into it had his heart stuttering. You looked down at his knuckles, immersed in being meticulous as you wiped the valleys of his knuckles clean. He wasn’t looking down, though. He was looking at you.

“Take this as a thank you” you said just to break the silence before you slowly lifted one hand, almost like you were holding. Fuck it made it easy for him to imagine that you actually were.

“You don’t need to thank me. I’d do it again.” I want to do it again, he should’ve said. He wanted to hold you, and be the one you curled into when you needed it. Needed him.

Carefully you wrapped his knuckles. Your hand lingered around his afterwards. It looked like you were considering something. Slowly you led his hand higher until you lowered your chin and left a barely there kiss on the white bandage. He swore he died. Such a simple gesture and he felt like a madman.

You wrapped the other one. Did the same. He felt paralysed. It seemed you had understood him quite well.

“You can.” You said then, after placing both his hands down onto his own lap, now bandaged and cleaned.

“Can what?” He asked, voice hoarse and weaker than he would’ve liked as he curled his fingers. He swore it was tingling where your lips had touched.

“Hold me. Skin to skin contact can be calming. Mutually beneficial…” you said to try and reason the action, which there was no point in because the minute you had started your sentence he had wrapped his arm around you and tucked you closely into his side, using his other hand to swing your legs over his lap. Your mumbling became nothing as you nuzzled into him. He was scorching hot and you nuzzled into it, shivering.

He had never felt this good in his life. You seemed to fit perfectly into his side, your legs anchoring him down and your head resting over his rapidly beating heart- which was vulnerable as hell to him. But he allowed it when he heard you hum in satisfaction and saw your lashes flutter, eyes closing.

Just mutually beneficial cuddling, right?

pt. 3

[bi-writes]

Simon short circuiting when his mail order bride does something kind for him :)) uses her new credit card to buy him his favorite tea and cat treats for bonding with his new baby <3

mail-order bride

simon lets out a deep breath as he slips his boots off. he pulls his tact vest over his head, dropping it beside his shoes before rolling out his neck. he's exhausted. he's been awake for 36 hours at least, and not even a few hours ago, he had been camped out on a rooftop with nothing but his sniper rifle for company.

you pad into the living room, dressed in cute cherry-printed pajamas. little shorts with a matching short-sleeve top, and you smile shyly when you see him standing by the door. your eyes wander a little; you've never seen him with his gear on, and he's surprised you're not more startled by the skull mask he's wearing.

his head darts to the side when he sees the cat hopping along the shelves on the wall. the cat launches itself off the closest shelf, landing on the back of his shoulders and nuzzling along the back of his head before dropping onto the floor to weave between his legs.

"welcome home," you say softly, coming closer, and simon just nods. you reach up when you get closer, slipping your hands under his hoodie to find the hem of his mask. you pull it up gently over his head, smiling a little wider when you reveal his face underneath. he has eye-black smudged around his eyes, but otherwise, your husband looks his normal self, aside from the dark circles under his eyes.

you understand immediately that simon isn't in a good mood. he's irritated, tired, sour-faced and agitated. you smooth your hands down his chest before kneeling on the carpet. simon blinks, confused, but then he watches as you start to unbuckle the holsters around his thighs. you get him undressed enough that he's just wearing his jeans and his hoodie, and he takes your hand gently to help you stand back up. you hook your pinkie around his, guiding him to take a seat on the couch before you disappear into the kitchen.

simon leans his head back against the couch, shutting his eyes gently. to come home to a warm place, one filled with another person, it's frighteningly comforting. he has always come home to the dark. to the heater off and all the rooms empty. to silence and his own terrifying thoughts.

"simon?"

he opens his eyes and sits up a little, blinking the sleep away as you come closer. he hums when he sees you holding a mug, walking slow as you try and keep it steady. you hand him the mug, watching as he takes a slow sip of it.

he shuts his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. it's perfect. he's never told you how he prefers his tea, but it's got just a splash of milk and nothing more. the thoughtfulness warms him more than the drink does, and he curls his toes a little as he tries not to think about it too hard.

"oh!" you smile. "i-i...i filled your car up, and i-i got you something when i went to get a water."

you scurry towards your purse by the door, rummaging through it before you pull out a little crinkled paper bag. you sit next to him on the couch and hand it to him after he sets his tea down on the coffee table.

he reaches into the bag and wraps his hand around a little plastic trinket, pulling it out. he blinks, hooking a gloved finger through the little keychain he's holding. he holds it up, face neutral, but after a few moments, a low chuckle leaves him.

it's a little skeleton, and the bones of it wiggle and dance when he shakes it.

"i...i thought of you when i saw it," you laugh a little, and he watches as the cat hops up onto your lap, moving over your legs to sniff at the little skeleton simon is holding up. after a few moments, the cat reaches up with a paw and smacks the skeleton, watching it shake and wiggle before smacking it again.

"yeah?" simon murmurs, meeting your eyes. "you miss me?"

"y-yes...yeah. w-we missed you."

[luveline]

Just re-watched the prison Reid arc and whew! Can I request post prison Reid getting to meet his new baby for the first time with a civilian reader? Like he was arrested while reader was still pregnant and she gave birth right before he got out? Maybe have a Diana cameo cause I just love her🤭

ty for requesting! fem, 1.6k

“Do you want me to take him?” 

You give Diane a grateful smile. “Is that okay?” 

Diane is reedy like Spencer, tall and skinny, but strong, too. She treads the carpet in her moccasins and holds out her arms for the baby, shushing him softly as you pass him over. You’ve had to look after her these last few weeks in a way you weren’t prepared for, but she’s looked after you in turn.

She’s almost completely lucid today. The good news has its hooks in her. 

You look out of the window again. The baby coughs in Diane’s arms, a clearing sound after feeding. If she’s gentle with him he’ll fall asleep before Spencer gets home. You aren’t sure what to do, let him sleep or wake him. What would Spencer want? 

I want to come home, he’d said, choked up over the phone, so badly. I’m so sorry. 

“Are you sure you won’t call him Walter?” Diane asks. “Spencer likes that one.” 

“I’m sure, Diane. He liked Jasper, so…” You bite the tip of your tongue until it aches, refusing to cry again. “So I went with Jasper. I hope he doesn’t mind.” 

That morning when Emily told you he was coming home, you cried like you’ve never, ever cried. So hard that Jasper woke up in his cot across the room and cried with you. 

You’d cried a lot after Spencer was arrested, and worse when he was imprisoned. You cried like a baby the day you went into labour because you knew you’d have to do it alone, when Spencer promised he’d be there with you, that you wouldn’t have to do any of the scary parts alone. 

It didn’t take long to stop. You’d grabbed Jasper with your cheeks soaked in tears and rubbed his back, that small stretch of warmth under your hand like a lifeline. In a way, Jasper being Spencer’s has made this easier. You’ve had a part of him. It just wasn’t enough to get over missing him. Every bit of joy —you have a baby now, your beautiful boy— has been swiftly followed with an aching sort of grief. Spencer missed his first cry, first bath, the very first time he opened his eyes. You can’t go back. 

“They said three.” 

Diane doesn’t seem concerned. She’s missed Spencer as much as you have, and you know her worry for him has made her more poorly than she’d otherwise be most days, but the baby helps. “I’m gonna find his bear,” she says. 

You bend down, trying to see the corner of the street through the window. Then you remember the last time you left Diane alone in the kitchen and flinch. “Hey, Diane?” you call. 

She’s checking the drawers for the bear. You’re not sure why she thinks the bear would be there, but perhaps that’s where she put it. “Can I make you a cup of tea or something?” you ask her. 

“You’re spying on me.” 

“Spying implies you don’t know what I’m doing.” 

She pats the baby’s back. “I can see why you and Spencer get along.” 

It’s a little more than getting along. 

Diane finds Jasper’s bear atop the bread bin, sitting at the kitchen table with him, the bear sat across from him, though Jasper’s already sleeping again. 

You put the stovetop kettle on to boil and realise with a start that you can make Spencer a cup of tea at the same time. Your smile is unfailing, then. He really is coming home. The kettle begins whining while you recover his favourite mug from the cabinet, untouched the entire time he was gone. 

“How many sugars today, Diane?” you ask. 

“Was that the door?” 

“What?” You’re putting the mug down before you can compute. 

“Angel?” 

You feel a rush of emotion all over at the sound of his voice. You try to call back to him, but you don’t manage anything more than a catching gasp as you push out of the kitchen and find him at the door. Right there at the end of the hall. 

Pale, tall. Arms already opening, half a step as you run at him. He doesn’t complain when your chest knocks against his. He doesn’t say anything at all. 

“Hi,” you breathe, pressing your nose to his shoulder. Your eyes stay open —it’s like panic without the fear. He’s really here in your arms. 

He squeezes you tightly. So tight you can’t breathe for a second. Then he gentles, his hands rubbing up and down your back out of sync, face falling into yours. 

In the kitchen, Jasper makes a croaky crying sound, a stirring Diane calms immediately. 

You attempt to pull away. Spencer will want to see Jasper, of course. He hadn’t met his own son. It was all he could talk about for weeks before he went away, and yet—

Spencer just rubs your back. After another half a minute like that, he asks, “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” You clear your throat.

“Yeah? No one would tell me anything specific, I was worried you might not be alright.” 

“Everything went fine.” He holds you to his chest. He smells like cheap soap. “I didn’t– it was really okay. He was easy, like he knew I couldn’t handle any complications.” 

“And he–?”

You recognise the undercurrent in his voice. It’s the same thing you felt when they put Jasper on your chest for the first time. “He’s perfect.”

“All ten fingers?” 

You pull away. Immediately, Spencer’s taking your face into two hands, his eyes pouring into yours with an intensity that worries you. “He has all his fingers and toes,” you say quietly, “how about you? How’s your leg?” 

He doesn’t seem to be able to answer. Jasper makes another noise and Diane’s chair creaks. You turn with Spencer’s hand on your side, watching as Diane brings Jasper to the door. 

“Spencer,” Diane says, like she just saw him yesterday, “you’re late.” 

“Sorry, mom.” 

He always sounds younger when he talks to her. 

“Will you take the baby? I was just making some tea,” she says. 

Spencer nods but doesn’t move. 

“I’ll take him.” You kiss Spencer on the cheek. Remember you haven’t for weeks and kiss him again. “It’s okay.” 

You hold your arms out and take Jasper against your chest. Spencer takes a hesitant step forward, stops, hesitating, but when you turn to him with a comforting smile the band holding him back snaps. He crosses the room, breath pulled like he’d stopped as he cranes his head to see his baby. 

“Three weeks old today,” you say softly, tipping Jasper back so Spencer can see his face. “He missed his daddy, you know.” 

“You can’t know that.” 

“Of course I can. I’m his mom, Spencer… And who wouldn’t miss you?”

Spencer shakes his head gently, reaching out to caress Jasper’s full cheek. 

“Jasper,” Spencer says. 

“He’s been a great baby so far. Doesn’t give me much trouble. He cries all night, of course… but all babies do. He goes down after a while. I’ve–” You swallow the heat of missing Spencer like a barb dragging against the inside of your throat. “Told him you’re coming home. I told him every day, I promise.” 

“M’sorry,” he says, pained. 

“I know, Spence.” You nudge him. “Time to hold him, honey.” 

He’s more eager than you thought. It’s almost like he’s worried you won’t let him have the baby, but it’s like you told him on the phone: Spencer made a stupid mistake, and you still love him. He never should’ve been going back and forth like that, but you get why he did. Wouldn’t you want Jasper, one day, to care about you in the same way Spencer loves his mother? You forgave him the moment he apologised. 

“It’s alright,” you say, slotting Jasper from your arms to his, guiding his hand behind Jasper’s delicate neck. “Just hold him. He missed you.” 

Spencer sniffles. “I missed him too,” he says. 

“I know.” 

Diane realises eventually that Spencer being home is a big deal. It’s not her fault, not understanding, but the new baby, her relocation again, her nurse barely gone, and Spencer’s sudden homecoming, it’s probably too much to deal with. She finds you, Spencer, and Jasper on the couch in the living room and frowns at him heartily. “You won’t hug your own mother?” she asks.

“You’ll have to hug me around the baby,” he says, sorry. 

Diane agrees to this without fuss. She caresses his cheek as he’d done for Jasper as she pulls away. 

“Thank you for helping out, mom,” he says. 

“It was all Y/N, Spencer. You know mothers. We’re strong.” 

Spencer looks at Jasper, still sleeping, and then to you, a shade of adoring in his eyes you’ve never seen before. “I know,” he says. 

You curl into his side and take a breath. For the first time in weeks, you let your body relax, finding it sorer and angrier than you’d left it the last time you had the chance to check in. 

Spencer brings the side of your face to his lips to kiss your weary cheek. 

[lotus-lost-n-found]

Some Batfam Headcanons because the brain never stops;

Jason hates being called "Bruce's Son". But he hates it more when hes called "One of Wayne's Orphans/Wayne's child" because fuck you I'm his son-! wait no--

With the exception of Damian, they rarely refer to Bruce as "Dad/Father". Either it didn't occur to them/didn't see the need to/thought it would be strange. But when Dick/Jason/Tim/Cass are tired or injured it might slip out. And Bruce might just crumble a bit at it

Doesn't mean they don't say it to their siblings when Bruce is out of Earshot.

"Dad said you couldn't." "What do you mean Dad said I couldn't use that mug? It's my mug!" "You snooze you lose Timmy Boy-" "Jason don't be an asshole-"

That being said Bruce says "son/daughter/child" at every available opportunity he can after he knows that they have acclimated enough that they wouldn't be uncomfortable/know they can tell Bruce that they don't want to be called that.

First time Bruce called Dick "son" in a way that meant "You are my kid" and not in a "This police officer just called me son with a brow furrow" way Dick grinned and carried on with the conversation. Later he wondered if his dad wouldn't like someone else calling him Son; but Dick thinks about the life he was given because of Bruce and thinks maybe his dad wouldn't mind.

Calling Jason "son" is a hit or miss situation, even before he died. The first time it happened he was confused, he didnt think that was the relationship they had and it made everything change for him. He got frustrated--not angry--with himself and Bruce at this sudden emotional turmoil. Wasn't he just the kid Bruce picked up in an alleyway? Wasn't he just some street rat in bright Robin clothing? (He lets himself believe that he can be Bruce's son. If for only a little while).

Tim cries after Bruce is out of earshot, it would've been a year or so after his parents died and he was adopted. He didn't think he could have been wanted like that again. Even if you think the Drake's had A+ Parenting or not, I don't think he would have gotten a lot of confirmation of being wanted otherwise.

Cass smiles, emotions carefully concealed under her expression. She's grateful she found Bruce and he doesn't mention it if she leans a bit closer in a request for closeness.

Damian doesn't expect anything less, he only appears satisfied. But also relieved that he has gotten the confirmation that yes, Bruce wants and accepts him.

EDIT 10/11; hiii, i have added Duke, Steph & a Bonus in a reblog you can find on the same blog under my 'batfamily headcanons' / 'sore rambles' tag. have fun :)

[reallifepotato]

I have been craving the most densely chocolatey cake or brownie. Death by chocolate. Imma have to make it because it's been like a week and the craving won't go away

[clockwayswrites]

Distracting Birb! Part 28

*throws this and runs* Masterpost

“So what did you find out?” Tim asked as he spun around. He was at the computer, of course, and looked most of the way to villainy backlit by the large screens.

(Dick loved his little brother, but villainy really wouldn’t be the most surprising outcome for Tim.)

“What makes you think we found anything?” Jason answered, just to be impertinent.

Tim rolled his eyes. “You wouldn’t have called us all down to the Cave if you didn’t have anything.”

Jason scoffed. “You underestimate how willing I am to waste your time.”

“Boys,” Cass said calmly, ending the growing argument with just that word.

“Duke still out on patrol?” Dick asked as a distraction.

Tim glanced over his shoulder and back at the screen. “On his way back. He’ll be here in fifteenish.”

Best not to wait in case Danny woke, Dick decided. They’d be sure to fill him in. “Okay. Well, Danny was not lying, he has a lot of plants.”

“Dick managed to turn on the watering system. We’re all very proud of him,” Jason said flatly.

The siblings all golf clapped, which Dick took a dramatic bow to. “Thank you, thank you. Otherwise a pretty normal apartment. Comfortable, a little nerdy, and not fussy.”

Jason nodded. “There’s a hero—not sure if someone real or fictional—that we saw a few times. Someone called Phantom.”

Obliging, Dick sent the photo of the mug from the bathroom up onto one of the screens. Tim spun back to the computer and started searching.

“There were also a lot of medication in his cabinet; vitamins and several prescriptions also. Some of them had weird labels.”

“Damn, Dick, you couldn’t have gotten a clearer photo?” Tim asked as he squinted at the new set of images.

“As much as I hate to defend Dick,” Jason said as he added photos of his own to the screen, ‘that is a clear photo. Danny was writing in the same language along with English in a bedside notebook of his.”

“Are you in need of glasses, Drake?” Damian asked as he looked from the photos to Tim with a judgmental brow raised.

Tim flicked him off, which Dick considered telling Tim off for (Damian had enough bad habits), but was actually curious about this. “No. The text looks glitched out.’

“No,” Damian said slowly and with a scowl, “it is clear. Odd, but clear.”

“Cass?” Dick asked.

She moved a step closer to the television, head tilted. There was a long, quiet moment before she lifted her hand a gave a so-so motion.

Tim looked from her, to Damian, to the screens. “…Dick?”

“So that’s the thing, it looks wrong to me too. If I look at it too long it’s like it gives me a headache. Jason can read it though.”

Jason snorted. “That’s taking it a bit far. I feel like I should be able to read it. I can get a word here or there maybe.”

“Like it whispers,” Damian said, the quiet words oddly poetic for the youngest of them.

“…yeah, like it whispers,” Jason agreed, just as softly.

“Right, okay. Freaky language that only some of us can even see, much less read, and those who can have spent a lot of time in or around the league,” Tim said. “How concerned do we need to be able this? To we need to be concerned about this? I feel like we need to be concerned about this.”

None of them had an easy answer for Tim.

All of them were grateful for the roar of Duke’s bike interrupting the conversation as he pulled into the cave.

“What are you all looking some grim about?” Duke asked. He yanked his helmet off and took a deep breath, like he hadn’t been able to breath in hours.

It was a feeling they all got. Even a good patrol was draining and Duke had been actively on follow up over what had gone down today with the Mad Hatter. Dick tossed a towel Duke’s way and went to grab a drink for the other from the food safe fridge.

“Stuff from Danny’s place. Take a look at the screen,” Jason said.

“Danny? I thought that we liked the guy,” Duke said, accepting the drink with a grateful thank you. He drained half of it his the way to the screens. “Shit, that’s a lot of meds.”

“Take a closer look,” Jason said, though not unkindly.

Duke stepped closer to the screen.

And went alarmingly still.

Dick resisted the instinctual urge to reach out and grab him. “Duke?”

Duke gave an answering hum and turned his head, just slightly, towards Dick. His eyes never left the screen. Dick wasn’t sure if Duke had really heard him. It was Jason who ended up acting, ended up listening to that instinct. He stepped between Duke and the screen, blocking their newest brother’s view. Duke sucked in a sharp, startled breath.

“What?”

“Hey, come on, have a seat,” Jason said and guided Duke backwards into one of the chairs at the table.

Tim swiftly cleared the photos from the screen.

Duke shook his head. “Sorry, man, I don’t know what… that, huh. What did those look like to you all?”

“Magenta tinted pill bottles with different levels of medication in them,” Tim replied calmly. “Dick and I can’t read what’s printed on them. Damian, Jason, and maybe Cass can a little which means it might be League writing of some sort.”

Dick leaned against the table. “What did you see, Duke?”

“Magenta tinted pill bottles with something in them. Like whatever it was my powers were weird about it. I’d have to see them in person to know anything about why, I guess, but they were… I don’t know. But whatever that stuff was I don’t think it’s League because I don’t think it’s human. I don’t think it’s earthly.”

“Well, fuck,” Dick said with a sigh.

He wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.