Page Of Val Agents, Tried To Study More Characters Than Just Fade, Had A Lot Of Fun To Do That. Thanks

jason todd enjoyers this one is 4 y’all o7

thinking about the sirens in suits/suit adjacent clothes plus a little genderswap moment... ;-; just for me

oh, as ashes turn to dust (tell me that I’m good enough)

characters: cypher & viper (neon, jett and phoenix mentioned. cypher’s family is also mentioned)

no romantic relationships.

Cypher stilled as the telltale hiss of the door caught his attention. Following it were quiet, ever-so-slightly erratic footsteps. Ah, Viper. It seems that she has had her… usual amount of caffeine. After a moment, the steps stopped behind him at the kitchen island. The only thing that broke the silence was the sound of Viper making her coffee. Black, just like her soul, as the younger duelists once joked. (They had learned not to extremely quickly.) Neither of them said a word. He was suddenly extremely aware of her piercing stare on his back. Viper cleared her throat. “Cypher. The pancakes are burning.”

All Cypher wanted was a peaceful breakfast. However, when he sees the date, he’s reminded of events he’d really rather not remember. To make things worse, Viper is there to rub salt in the wound. Or… is she?

or:

a certain viper’s (somewhat stilted) attempts to get cypher to open up about his unresolved trauma. well... healing isn't linear, right?

this is just a oneshot I posted a while ago on my ao3. (this thing was written months ago LMAO) thought I might as well post it here too :)

no major content warnings. I think. cypher just has Issues (that I gave him)

ao3 link (alternatively, full oneshot is under the cut)

The door, near-silent, slid open to let Cypher through. This morning, the kitchen was completely empty. Its dull, military-issued appliances somehow seemed even more lifeless than usual. He hummed quietly to fill the silence as he checked what ingredients they had. There was quite a lot of leftover flour, sugar, and… fifteen cartons of eggs. Fifteen. Since when did they need that many eggs?

Ah. Now that he thought about it, he remembered Phoenix saying something about buying too many eggs by accident. Cypher sighed. Knowing him, he probably thought the 12-egg cartons were 6-egg cartons. 

He closed the fridge, glancing at the sticky notes that had slowly been piling up on its door. A tiny, scribbled pancake Jett had doodled on one caught his eye. He smiled. Perhaps I should make pancakes. They would be quite happy to wake up to that. 

Cypher gathered his ingredients. As he prepared them on the counter, he noticed someone had left the only non-electric mixer out. He sighed, picking it up. He might as well use it, considering it would have to be washed either way. He was quite sure it was there due to a certain little spark—he spent far too much time watching the security cameras to be unaware of her… midnight tendencies. Cypher glanced at the calendar as he walked to the stove. 

June 24th. Cypher froze.

For a moment, he swore he could still taste the blood in his mouth, still see the moment their lives were taken by the cold embrace of death. That was the day he lost his family. The day he lost his face. His name. His everything. He gripped the stove ledge. I failed her, then. I will not—no, I cannot fail now. It—

Cypher snapped himself out of his thoughts. He was here to make breakfast, not to get stuck in his head. He still needed to complete the batter. The rest of the Protocol would be disappointed if he didn’t finish in time.

Cypher took a deep breath and loosened his grip on the stove. He continued mixing the batter. The quiet sound was familiar. It reminded him of home. The sight of opening the door to welcoming sunlight drifting lazily through the rooms. The smell of her cooking, wafting warmly throughout their small kitchen. The sound of two pairs of footsteps, one unsteady and one sure, pattering across the tile floor to greet him. The feeling of his hands in hers. The taste of the life he once had, soured by the tang of blood. 

Running, coming back to emptiness as silent as death. Air, tasting of sickly sweet syrup and blood. Half-cooked batter, stained red. He wasn’t fast enough. Vigilant enough. He—

Cypher rubbed his temples. Maybe he shouldn’t have made pancakes today. 

…On second thought, he was already halfway finished, and Raze was on breakfast duty today. It was a miracle she hadn’t been banned from the kitchen—he’d really rather not eat burnt toast for the third time. As he continued to work, he muttered to himself. “Calm down, Cypher. Gather your thoughts. You have a job to do.”

Don’t fail again.

He carefully poured the batter into the pan. Humming quietly, he stilled as the telltale hiss of the door caught his attention. 

Following it were quiet, ever-so-slightly erratic footsteps. Ah, Viper. It seems that she has had her… usual amount of caffeine. After a moment, the steps stopped behind him at the kitchen island. The only thing that broke the silence was the sound of Viper making her coffee. Black, just like her soul, as the younger duelists once joked. (They had learned not to extremely quickly.)

Neither of them said a word. He was suddenly extremely aware of her piercing stare on his back. 

Viper cleared her throat. “Cypher. The pancakes are burning.”

He blinked rapidly, glancing over his shoulder. Why were his eyelids wet? “Oh! Of course. I will fix that immediately,” he said. His words came out forced, like he had a stone lodged in his throat.

He coughed and turned back to the pan, disposing of the ruined food. He could still feel Viper’s sharp gaze trained on him. 

She sighed. “Your hands are shaking. You’re going to ruin the food.” She thought for a moment. “That said, you do have more than enough batter. Just don’t burn it again.” 

When Cypher looked back at her, Viper’s head was tilted, her lips slightly twitched into an almost-smile. There was a glint of… something in her eyes, though he couldn’t quite tell what. He paused, studying her for as long as he could without being noticed. After a moment, he let out a slight chuckle and replied. His words were no longer stiff. “I do, indeed. Now, Doctor Sabine, would you like two pancakes or one?”

“…”

He turned around completely. Viper surveyed him with narrowed eyes over her mug of coffee. Cypher stared back. “Two or one?”

“If you insist, I will have two.”

“With added blueberries, correct?”

“…That is correct.”

“It will only be a few minutes.”

She hummed noncommittally, and they fell into a comfortable silence as Cypher busied himself with the food. The gentle sizzling filled the quiet, wafting through the room. If he were in a particularly poetic mood, he would’ve said the kitchen smelled of warmth.

A short time later, he carefully plated her pancakes. He slid them across the island with a slight smile, though knowing she wouldn’t see it. “Here you are, my dear doctor,” he said.

Viper raised an eyebrow at the form of address, but took the plate without much fuss. Cypher watched with mild interest as she poured the syrup with clinical precision, ensuring there wasn’t a single drop wasted.

Viper looked up as she started eating. “If you are going to stare at me as if I’m a lab rat this entire time, I will leave. You still have more food to make.” 

It was more of a reminder than a question, but he answered regardless. “Oh, yes. Of course. I would not want to disappoint the young ones.” 

For the next few minutes, they fell back into that mellow calm, filled with the quiet scraping of utensils. 

Viper took a bite. “Cypher.”

“Yes?”

“You are acting rather distracted today.”

“…I am simply a bit tired. Don’t worry about it.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I am inclined to believe that you are lying.”

He coughed. “I don’t know—”

“It’s because it’s the anniversary, is it not?” 

Cypher froze. “What?”

“I asked a question.”

His robotic eyes drifted to the calendar behind her. Eventually, he sighed. “Yes. It is,” he reluctantly replied.

A hum. “So I was correct.”

Cypher waited for her to continue with bated breath. Viper stayed silent. She continued eating, as if she hadn’t just frozen over his world again with six words. For a moment, Cypher nearly considered walking out of the room. (Of course, that wasn’t really an option. He’d already slipped up too much. He was supposed to be the one the others could rely on, not the other way around. He certainly couldn’t be weak.) 

Her cold voice broke him out of his thoughts. “You tell us you have everything under control, but as soon as I mention your past you clam up and get lost in your thoughts?” 

Cypher looked away from her knowing stare. How did he not notice it until now? “I… do what is needed for the Protocol to succeed in its endeavors.” In response, Viper raised a single, unimpressed brow. He pretended he didn’t see it. It was a futile effort to avoid her questions, but he tried anyway.

“Even Phoenix would be able to tell that you’re making excuses,” she muttered.

He did not speak again, his mouth pressed into a thin line under his mask. Viper did not continue either, and only watched him quietly. Somehow, the silence felt just as suffocating as the prior exchange. How ironic. I just told myself I had to be better than this. I am weak, aren’t I?

Their conversation—if you could even call it that—stood at a stalemate. Neither agent was willing to give in. Not completely. Cypher restrained himself from fidgeting with a tripwire behind his back. Viper already knew too much. She saw too much. She knew he was weak, knew he was fragile. He couldn’t give her more evidence of that.

Cypher’s eyes caught on the severe line of her gaze. For a moment, he almost thought he saw her expression ever-so-slightly soften. He frowned, both in resentment and in confusion. He knew he was becoming too easy to read, but why was she reacting like that? Viper was not an empathetic person, much less one to act on those thoughts.

Just as that thought occurred to him, she took a step forward, lifting a gloved hand. He braced himself with a thick swallow. However, it fell back to her side a moment later, as if she’d thought better of it. Instead, she murmured, “The pancakes were… good. Thank you, Cypher.” She spoke cautiously, as if she was attempting to avoid frightening a wounded animal. 

She almost sounded gentle, in her own way. 

Viper continued after he stayed quiet, almost hesitantly. “Don’t overwork yourself. It wouldn’t do the Protocol any good if you collapsed from exhaustion.” She paused, as if she had something else to say.

“…I am quite sure the others would like your cooking. They appreciate all the work you do.”

Cypher blinked in disbelief. Once, twice. He didn’t wake up. He could only watch as the door slid open for her, caught off-guard by her words. As Viper turned to leave, he swore he could almost see the beginnings of a sad, pained smile forming on her face. She left him alone, and the kitchen suddenly felt colder.

Cypher stood there, staring at the empty space Viper had left. She has changed. He looked down at his hands. They weren’t trembling anymore. Or was I simply too blind to see it until now? He eventually sighed; he was getting nowhere with that train of thoughts. He hummed, setting the abandoned mixer to the side. He’d need to remind Neon about cleaning up after herself after her midnight cooking runs later. 

As he prepared the next batch, Cypher heard lively footsteps coming towards the kitchen. It seemed that she and her friends were awake, then. He allowed himself a slight smile.

Perhaps he could let his troubles drift away, just for a day.

Batboys 🤗

Despite what you may have heard Bruce Wayne is not, in fact, a furry.

He is, however, very opinionated.

more viper :] wip

first time drawing tim :]

I see a lot of confusion on why calling Damian Wayne "feral" is racist/problematic, so here's a rundown.

There's a difference between calling your child or your younger sibling "feral" and calling a character like Damian "feral." You know your child/sibling/niece/nephew etc. They're real people, and unless they have a problem with it personally, then there's nothing wrong with calling them feral as a joke. It doesn't (shouldn't) affect their perceptions by other people. It doesn't become a label that follows them.

Damian al Ghul-Wayne is a fictional character. A canonically mixed Arab/Chinese/Jewish White character with a history connected to some of the most prominent Arab comic book characters, who themselves also get insanely mischaracterized.

He's constantly whitewashed. He's been written with racist undertones (the suicide bomber vest). He's had his character development and progress backtracked time and time again by DC. DC treats him weirdly most days and completely shitty in the worst stories.

A good majority of fanon hasn't done any better than DC. You cannot pat yourselves on the back for being more inclusive or mental health aware than DC when you call a mixed Arab/Chinese boy "feral". It's constant. You can come up with various titles and nuances for every Bat-character, for every Robin.

Tim can be smart, a skater, a genius, the one holding everyone together, the little brother, the one who needs love. Jason can be cool, morally "right" or "wrong", unstable, PTSD-stricken, the one who was betrayed, the one with Shakespearean tragedies. Dick can be fun, happy, the first one, the prodigal son, the one with complicated history and the big brother.

You give them room for exploration. Love and care and attention and research. Many headcanons. You either comply with canon or you don't, but there's substance to their character.

What does Damian get? He's feral. He's rabid. He's a gremlin. He can't be reasoned with. He has no self-control, he's impulsive. He's hurt others, and you can't forgive it. Sometimes he's homophobic. Or classist. Or plain mean and rude to your favorite boy. He's always carrying a sword. A psychopath with no regard for another's well-being (usually Tim in a lot of fics). He can't be taught what's right.

I've seen people cry that Damian needs to punished or kicked out or treated the same way he's treated others. He needs to be brutalized or talked down to. He can never grow as a person, because he's mean to Tim or Jason, and you need him to exist as the abuser. His first move is always violent.

Fanon compares him to an animal often; he bites, claws, hisses, growls. Bruce or Dick or Jason or Tim have to wrangle him, tame him, civilize him the white man's way in lieu of his brown mother and grandfather who "clearly" raised him wrong. You don't see the issue with that? The issue with always labeling one of the few major brown characters in Batman comics as the unreasonable animal? That the child of color is always the abuser, the instigator, to older characters?

And even if you don't see him this way, you don't write him this way - then are you giving him the care and attention you give for other Bat characters?

Do you know anything else about him other than his "anger"? Because he isn't always angry. In fact, he's typically well-mannered. Quiet even, when he's not being provoked. DC's writing will always vary but whenever Damian lashes out, he's usually written with a reason to act the way he does.

Are you making him intelligent like he should be? A hard believer in redemption? A neglected and abused child who isn't meek or crying or closes himself within? Are you willing to explore that he's always exhibited the "wrong" kind of trauma responses - lashing out, being snippy, ruining relationships, refusing to admit weakness?

Do you write anything about him without making his mother and grandfather comically abusive and violent? Will you give him the supporting cast/friends he actually has? Can you write his dad/siblings interacting with him without making them white saviors or therapy pets? Can you write him without a ship or his love for animals or being vegetarian overshadowing everything?

Is he a character to you at all other than a glorified plot device with a sharp tongue and the convenience of being violent?

PROJECT RUNWAY AU (SHE WON HER FIRST CHALLENGE W VIPER AS HER MODEL)

Colored the cass doodles : ]