#tw: referenced/implied sh

[flowerxguts]

Hi I just wanted to say I loooveee your ocs so much 😭😭😭 they’re actually so cool and silly and awesome and im honestly going crazy 😭😭😭 your writing is really amazing !!! I’d love to hear more

i hope you know you literally just became my best friend with this ask.

THANK YOU SO SO MUCHHH AAAAHHHHHHHHH i’ve never had anyone who wasn’t already my friend comment about my ocs so this is so so special to me literally thank you so much for taking the time out of your day to read my fic + send me this it means so much to me AAHHH you just made me week <33333

my entire page is dedicated to my ocs so if you’re interested you can always scroll!! i post metas + snippets of fics/ ficlets + and a lottt of art. i’m always open to asks and explaining things because i’m well aware i don’t have a big explanation post with all my ocs and their universe (i’m working on that trust) honestly i’m open to any asks ever you can request anything you want and there’s a 99% chance i’ll do it

here’s an older fic of mine i never planned on posting (it takes place a few years before What Are We Gonna Do Now? which acts as a parallel of their relationship in this fic) in appreciation of your ask <33

——————— ‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ OC FIC ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙ ————————

“Eleanor?”

Dion can hear Damiens voice coming from behind him, the sound of footsteps accompanying. He doesn’t move from his hunched position over the roofs railing, not even to glance an acknowledgment to his friend.

In all honesty, Dion had heard him when he was climbing up the fire escape, but chose to blatantly ignore it, avoiding the inevitable emotional probing questions for as long as possible.

And Damien was, in fact, asking one of those questions. He was asking “what’s wrong?” or “what are you thinking about?” in a round-about way where he asked if the obvious answer to the question was right.

Usually, it would annoy Dion a bit, but tonight he is almost grateful that he doesn’t have to say her name himself.

Damien comes to stand next to him, leaning against the railing of the roof just as Dion is. He is looking at his friend expectantly, waiting for a direct answer. Dion just grunts in response, flicking the end of his lit cigarette.

Damien seems unphased by this, still determined to be there for him.

“She was your kid, man.”

Something within Dion aches, a heart string snaps. Eleanor wasn’t his daughter, not in her eyes.

He grimaces, an ugly feeling washing over him “She wasn’t my kid; She was my sister.”

Was.

He can feel the look Damien is giving him before he even looks over. Dion is lying. Anybody who ever met him would know this. After little delay he dares to dart a glance to his left and is immediately met with a pitiful look, raw with emotion.

He can’t find it within himself to argue, so he lowers his head in grief, resigning whatever rebuttal he had at the ready.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“You raised her.” Damien states, still attempting to back up his claim. He reaches over Dion, grabbing the cigarette for a moment.

Dion snorts, staring down to the sidewalk in front of their home, the gate is locked because no one else is coming home. Everyone who lives here is present. He scrunches his nose in disappointment, “Clearly not with enough common sense.”

Damien frowns. “You’re being hard on her, Dee.”

Neither say anything for a moment. Dion doesn’t want to talk, not really, but Damien’s here now to do just that, so he might as well not fight it. He’s too exhausted to anyways. And at least Damien had the decency to leave him alone for a few hours beforehand.

Dion’s ears twitch at the sound of a heavy sigh after about a minute or two of silence. The cigarette is returned to his hand and he’s grateful.

“…I’m not saying I agree with her, but…”

Damien pauses, looking at Dion as if though to test the waters. Dion is looking at him, open to hearing what he has to say, but now it seems as if he can’t get the words out.

Damien bows his head, voice much quieter than before, “I mean, if Elizabeth was right and our mom was… not how I remember,” he swallows, afraid at the very notion that he had twisted his own memory. Hesitant to admit the possibility that his sister could’ve had some justification for what she had done.

“…and she came back to me after all those years, saying she’s changed and wants another chance…” Damien looks up at Dion before continuing, pursuing eye contact. Dion can’t help but notice that his eye bags appear more prominent in the nights ambient lighting. He looks younger, smaller.

Desperate, his mind supplies, he needs you to understand this.

“I’d still fall for it.”

Dion’s aware of how his face changes, how he furrows his brows and his jaw hangs open in shock.

The declaration took him by surprise.

The truth is he doesn’t know the full extent of what Elizabeth had claimed about her and Damien’s mother, but to say that even if Elizabeth’s alleged justifications for killing their mother were true, that Damien would still risk it for a chance, was no less than horrifying. Dion’s thoughts run rampant, trying to fully digest the information and apply it to his sisters own situation.

Even after all the horrible things their mom had done, a childhood of nothing but neglect and drug use, choosing to ignore the way all her convict boyfriends would look at her daughter, barely even glancing in their direction, Eleanor had been hanging onto hope that she could have a mother. She wanted someone, older. To hold her, soothe her, teach her how to get by in the world. Someone who would love her unconditionally.

He had done all those things. He had raised her. There’s no reason she needs to run to anyone else for those things, he wants to scream.

Dion feels a surge of energy, but before he could shake his head and begin arguing, Damien cuts him off, turning his head away to hide his face.

“Fuck, man. What kid wouldn’t do anything to see their mom again? What person wouldn’t?”

“Me.” Dion spits, anger boiling to the surface. “I wish I’d gone the rest of my life without ever seeing her.”

Damien sighs, hands curling into fists. He is still not looking at his friend, head still turned off to the side. Something in his tone is pleading.

“Dion you knew your mom. Know her. Eleanor doesn’t. You protected her from it. And now she’s old enough to make the choice herself to stay. How old was she when you left with her?”

“Eight… maybe nine.” He responds thoughtfully.

When he looks to his left his eyes meet Damien’s.

Something within him clicks.

Damien had been in Eleanor’s situation in a way.

Dion had made the choice for Eleanor at the time. To take her away. When she was younger she didn’t want to leave, but she had listened to her older brother, because what else could she do? She trusted him, even if he hadn’t given her a reason at the time. She never really knew the reality of what their situation was because Dion wouldn’t let her. He did not regret that. Not in the slightest. But he can’t lie and claim that he’s denied his little sister the right to know their mother.

Damien’s older sister had taken their mother away, stealing the chance to know her entirely.

Damien understands Eleanor even better than he does in this circumstance, and it stings. While Damien and Eleanor’s situations weren’t the same, they bore similarities in one key factor: their older siblings hadn’t let them know their mother.

He wants to say that seeing the pain on Damien’s face now twists something in him. That the reminiscent plea in his eyes, the begging to be understood, reminding him so much of a younger version of Eleanor, makes him regret taking her. He stares, trying to change his own mind to no avail. He was right in what he had done. He knows that. He had to be right.

His eyes start to water, a new memory fizzling to the surface of his mind.

“The last thing I said to her was that she can’t come back.”

Damien gives a sympathetic smile, his tone is warm when his responds, “You didn’t mean that though, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. Not anymore.” He states. He had said it out of a place of childish anger.

“Well, she’ll come running back and when you see her you’ll hold her in your arms and it’ll all be forgotten.” The words are kind, spoken so softly they make the hair on the boys arms prick up.

“No.” Dion shakes his head, eyes downcast to the ground. He can’t forget this. Because he knows the voice in his head that keeps begging, after everything I sacrificed to save you, please stay, even after Eleanor has gone, will never go away. “I’ll take her in my arms but i’m not going to forget this.”

Damien isn’t smiling now, but the look in his eyes is still kind, “That’s enough.” he replies earnestly.

Dion doesn’t look at his friend. He stays silent, stuck in his head. His last interaction with his sister hadn’t been kind. And if somehow their mother was able to stay clean for her, would that be it? Would that be how it all ended between them?

“Hey,” Damien’s voice is so gentle you’d think he was talking to a wounded animal. He reaches out, warm palm pressing against the nape of his friends neck. His fingers wrap lightly around the base, thumb running over the shaved portion of his hair.

The physical connection pulls Dion from his spiral.

“You did everything you could for her. You protected her, but some things you just have to learn on your own. It’s out of your hands.”

After a moment his friends touch retracts and a long-forgotten cigarette is plucked from his hand.

“…I’d take the bitch to court if I could.”

It’s the truth. If he could have custody, have the legal justification to tell his mother that she has no right to the child he raised, he would. In a heartbeat. Even if it meant his life would never be his again.

It’s not like it ever was in the first place, a voice in his head muses.

He swallows, feeling guilty, because he knows he didn’t mind that. He’d give up his childhood a millions times, relive it all, if it meant Eleanor was safe, here, with him and not with her.

Damien barks a laugh, clearly not as emotionally preoccupied as Dion. He quickly slaps a hand over his mouth, then continues in a lighter tone.

“Yeah, the day we have enough money for a lawyer and aren’t living paycheck to paycheck.”

“Paycheck.” The statement is more than laughable to Dion, pulling him from his contemplative state, and causing his lips to curl into a disbelieving smile. “You’re a fucking dealer.”

“Okay,” Damien all but scoffs, though there’s a humored twinge he can’t seem to separate from his voice. When Dion glances Damien’s way he can see that he’s fighting a smile, trying his best to look dead serious. He fails, miserably so, breaking out into a full-toothed grin. It’s infectious. He meets Dions eyes, continuing, “well then, when my small business takes off, don’t expect me to pitch in.”

The two boys break out in a fit of laughter from the shear ridiculousness of the claim. Damien shushes him, clapping his arm and looking back towards the fire escape. The cigarette they’d been passing back and fourth rested between Dion’s fingers, burnt close to nothing. The low embers heat creeped up to the older boys fingers, though he didn’t stub it out. He sighed deeply, relishing in the pain a moment, breathing in and out. In and out. It grounded him, cleared his head.

The quiet drags on, and the air settles heavy around them, all previous joy having been fleeting.

In the distance what is likely a prostitute can be heard calling out to men, attempting to entice them with crude language. There’s loud laughter from nearby bars, as well as yelling, bar fights likely. Sirens, though relatively quiet, can be heard ringing from somewhere farther North.

For a moment, Dion almost thinks maybe it’s for the best she got out of here, and it hurts.

“I thought you promised Morgan you’d stop dealing.”

There’s a beat of silence, then two. Damien seems hesitant to answer. There’s a huff, not quite a laugh, but an exhale with some form of humor.

“I promised her I wasn’t going to be ‘fucking stupid’.” The way Damien says the words, there’s evident affection, but also very evident quotation. Hell, Dion can practically hear Morgan saying it. “Money is good right now. It’s getting us by comfortably.”

Dion doesn’t respond. Silence falls between the two once more.

The mood shifts gradually, an unspoken agreement of the conversations conclusion is reached.

Neither move for a minute or so, soaking in the others presence, the cold February breeze biting at their skin.

Dion continued looking out mindlessly at the town, his eyes having long blurred. He was too stuck in his own thoughts to care to refocus them. A million thoughts all following the general consensus of Eleanor was really all he could think.

While his conversation with Damien may have concluded, it didn’t mean he was able to stop thinking about it.

He’s pulled from his thoughts as his friend reaches over, wincing slightly as he grabs the burnt-to-nothing cigarette, stubbing it out on the rusted railing.

“Alright, I’m going to head in. Gotta get back before Morgan completely takes over my side, that is, if she hasn’t already.” Damien states with some degree of casualty.

Dion wants to smile. He does. He wants to give a knowing look to his friend, hell, make fun of him for how domesticated he is. But he doesn’t. He stays staring out at the illuminated town. One his sister was not in.

He registers the sound of receding footsteps, but still doesn’t make an effort to move. Mulling over the conversation, a thought suddenly rushes forefront to his mind.

“Damien.” he hears his voice before he can even think.

“Yeah?”

The brunette stops and turns around, curious.

“Are you using?”

They both understand wordlessly what he means: Are you shooting up? Because honestly Dion could care less about his friend getting high.

He turns his head back, eyebrows knit together. He chews on the inside of his cheek, fear bubbling inside him.

Damien’s face is straight. It’s rare to see him with an expression completely devoid of humor, or at least of a softer emotion. The air between the two is tight and all of a sudden it seems twenty degrees colder. Dion knows these words are heavier than a ton of bricks. He wishes he didn’t have to ask the question at all. He trusts him, but not enough to be sure he can help himself. Because if he is dealing again, who’s to say?

“No. I’m not.”

“Good.” Dion says, because there’s nothing else he can say.

He’ll take the words at face value. The last thing he can deal with right now is Damien losing his shit. If he was able to think before her spoke, maybe he wouldn’t have asked. But he asked. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he didn’t ask.

“Do I need to worry about that?” Damien asks, curtly nodding towards the stubbed out cigarette.

Dion follows his eyes, feeling his teeth automatically clamp down harder on his cheek, blood festering.

Of course he would notice.

There’s still no trace of emotion on his friends face, only an earnest look that reaches his eyes in a way that makes Dion feel sick. He wishes he could say that Damien was just saying this out of a place of anger, that he was only insulting him because he was the first to ask are you still an addict. He wishes he could say no.

“I wouldn’t dwell on it.”

Damien clicks his tongue, eyes roaming over Dion skeptically.

For a moment Dion is worried that he isn’t going to get out of this. That instead of grieving alone Damien wouldn’t leave, looking over his shoulder the whole night. Waiting. Maybe in silence, maybe with mundane conversation. Staring at the inside of his bicep when he thought Dion wasn’t looking, like any minute the scars would magically revert back to fresh wounds, start bleeding again.

“Well, you know where to find me.” Damien sighs, defeated.

“Yup.” The response is automatic, mindless. He feels relieved for a moment. He wants to care more, to appreciate his friends concern, but he can’t find it within himself right now.

“I’m serious, Dee. You wake my ass up if you need me.”

Dion pushes himself up a bit, no longer leaning his full weight on the railing. He hopes the action will mean something to Damien, that standing on his own two feet will somehow prove that he doesn’t need a crutch right now.

One hand remains on the bar of the railing.

“I promise.”

He’s finally looking at Damien head on, eyes fully taking in the worried look on his face. His friends lips are taut and lines have formed between his eyebrows. Damien’s shoulders are slouched in a defeated manner Dion can’t stand. Guilt washes over him, he looks down, unable to meet brown eyes. For a moment he considers, a million different options run through his head. He settles on one after a fair few seconds of deliberation.

Dion gives his softest smile back. He means it.

Damien nods, the smallest bit of relief finally tainting his lips.

He disappears to the side of the old building without another word, swinging himself over the edge and climbing down the fire escape.

Dion waits to hear his friend’s shoes hit the cold concrete of the buildings floors with a familiar thud, but no such sound comes. His eyebrows knit together after a moment of unpredicted silence. He didn’t hear a splat, meaning his friend thankfully hadn’t fallen off the side of the building, but why was he so quiet? It takes him a moment to piece together the logic, exhaustion slowing him down, but he exhales in amusement as he realizes: Morgan was sleeping.

It makes sense now. The hand over his mouth at his own abrupt laughter, shushing Dion’s, his overall hushed tone. Damien didn’t want to wake her up.

He really is in it bad.

Once he confirms his friend has safely made it inside, Dion rubs his eyes, the full weight exhaustion coming over him. He yawns, looking out at the town again, resuming his position.

The I love you is unspoken.

[fortheloveofexy]

spending my saturday in pain and misery, hbu?

[howtoliveasahumanbeing]

Remains of what was

Inspired by @headchamberlain’s recent story for Ivan

Tw/cw for sh implications, blood, talk of gore, mentions of suicide attempts

Standing in front of this place again was like something out of a nightmare, even with a lack of emotional processing. The building was horribly broken down, parts of the walls simply missing, cracks slithering up the building and glass covering the ground outside. They’d known someone had destroyed the place, but somehow wasn’t expecting this.

Walking inside, it was even worse than the exterior. Glass covered the floors, doors burst off their hinges, some walls entirely broken, areas where the ceiling had collapsed to the ground. It felt familiar yet so new at the same time, easily able to see their younger self in these halls but at the same time everything looked new and different.

They start walking down the now darkened hallways, remembering how the white of this whole building always used to give them headaches, but it was much easier to handle with the lights shattered. They wander through halls they’d never been in, finding interest in everything, despite not knowing what it looked like previously.

They eventually stumbled upon the eating area, which they’d always hated, having only been there once or twice but everything about it had sucked to them. The amount of people, all the noise, those blinding lights, the feeling of food settling in their stomach. It all made them want to throw up. But they could almost handle it now, it completely barren and dark. They run a finger along one of the broken tables, dust coating their pale skin in an instant.

Wiping it on their shorts, they continue walking along, finding the door to the kitchen broken open, somewhere no experiment in this place had ever been allowed in. It was less damaged in there, apart from the fridge door being ripped off, almost all the food completely gone, but anything left was rotten enough to make them nauseous. They quickly cover their nose and run out of the room, trying to get as far away from that smell as possible. It smelled way too close to rotting flesh for comfort.

Making it back into one of the hallways, they find the rooms each experiment had to spend most their time in, counting the numbers as they went.

“237, 238, 239…”

This continued until they stumbled upon their own old room, scratches on the door from the rampage that rendered this place abandoned. Carefully opening the door, they walk in, finding it the same as they’d left it. Their bed was all bland, having gotten their blankets taken away after trying to make a makeshift rope with it, and their desk just had a few messy carvings on it.

They doubted there’d be anything there, but they’re decided to check the desk drawers anyway, finding a small scalpel in one. The still shiny blade was still stained crimson from when they’d forgotten to clean it off afterwards. They stare at it for a moment before grabbing it and putting it into their pocket, ignoring how their skin burned just at the familiar touch of the blade in their hands.

They quickly leave their old room after that, trying to find any other room they hadn’t explored (that wouldn’t just be a replica of their own room). Eventually they stumble upon the communal bathroom, remembering how you’d have to have a doctor escort you there any time you went to make sure the experiments wouldn’t try and ruin their work. It was pretty bland, just a regular sink, shower and toilet having bathroom. Minus an overflowing amount of bloody bandages in the trash can, Mitsuyo knowing full well some of those were their own. Though, something about seeing their own reflection was strange.

It was still Mitsuyo, but they couldn’t recognize that.

They didn’t even have any memory of their past appearance to go off of, but their reflection just looked wrong… their ears beginning to ring and vision blurring, their hands hitting against the sides of their head in an attempt to get it to stop. Only when they heard a loud crash and felt something dripping down their hand did their senses clear up. In front of them now was a broken mirror, blood dripping from the base of the crack. Looking down a bit, they realize why their hand felt wet, small glass shards were embedded in their knuckles, blood pouring from the wounds. Despite how to most people this would be painful, they simply begin pulling the glass shards out of their hands, dropping them into the sink before leaving the bathroom.

Walking back down the hallways, a constant drip now accompanying their footsteps, they check the labels on some of the doors, eventually finding an office of sorts. Carefully turning the doorknob, their blood staining it in their wake, they carefully walk into the room and into uncharted territory. It looked like how they’d expected, mainly just the desk and chair but they say that as a win. There were also bookshelves and filing cabinets lining the walls, the cabinets labeled by wing of the lab. Mitsuyo quickly walks over to it and scans for their wing, finding wing B pretty quickly (luckily they were capital letters). Opening the cabinet they scan for their name, finding their own file before pulling it out, being very careful not to stain it with their blood.Sitting down at the desk, they open the file with their good hand, the papers starting off with just some basic information.

Name: Mitsuyo Kakuta

Birthdate: March 8th, ????

Sex: X

Height: 3’1”

Weight: 30lb

Blood type: O Positive

They flip pasted that page, finding a picture of the car crash that almost took their life. They actually hadn’t known there were pictures taken of that, but it made sense. All accidents like this tended to have pictures. They could see the ambulance that picked them up, the blood from their wound but luckily not their own body. They’d found out through overhearing doctors their arm, about six inches below the shoulder, was taken almost completely off by the car running it over, but there had been no nerve damage. Thats why they’d been brought there.

Flipping to the next page, they see documents of the experiments done to them going on for several pages, from simple cuts to see if they’d heal, to the doctors cutting them open while they were conscious and pulling out their organs to see if they could survive without them. They’d honestly blocked out so many of those experiments, they didn’t even remember what organs were actually put back or not. It just got more and more graphic as the pages continued, causing them to flip through pages as fast as possible trying to find anything that wasn’t about those experiments. Though, when they saw what they’d flipped to, they didn’t know what was worse.

On the page, there was a picture slid between the sheet protector, of a man and a woman standing side by side, hands intertwined, both wearing rings. In between the two was a little kid, their eyes clearly different colors despite being in black and white. All three were smiling brightly at the camera. Their hand slipped from the file, letting it fall to the dust coated desk before running out of the room, not even processing as they hit the floor, glass cutting up their hands and knees, continuing to run until they found the front door, sprinting out without hesitation.

They’re left panting for breath once they stop, blood dripping down their knees and hands, but they couldn’t care less. It didn’t hurt, so why did it matter, as long as they were out of there. They take a deep breath, wondering if the air that entered their body actually went anywhere, before they start walking away from that hellhole once again.

[v4l3nt1n3-ventz]

When your family picks on you and questions you for wearing a hoodie while it's hot outside and you can only respond with "it's too cold" cause if they saw what was underneath they'd have even more questions.

[octocurse]

In a couple of weeks, I’ll be a year clean !!

[doyoulikebroccoli]

Alice Says

[TW in tags]

[delenygma]

FANFICTION | Eleutheromania (Part 1/3) | Edward Nashton/The Riddler x Reader (AO3)

Gotham is not the only thing in ruins.  Post-The Batman Edward Nashton x Reader.

Part 1/3.

• 

TW: implied/referenced sh, implied/referenced abuse (past), mention of bruising, smoking.

Originally published on AO3 in April 2022.

• 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

PART 1/3

“You have fifteen minutes.” The security guard pockets the wad of cash you hand her in a swift motion, making you believe that she has done this numerous times before. She hums tunelessly as she leads you down a labyrinth of corridors, further and further down into the depths of the hospital. You try your best to concentrate on her, instead of the shouts and whistles coming from the cells on either side of you. 

Finally, she halts and turns around to face you. 

“End of that corridor, then turn left.” The security guard pulls out a pack of cigarettes from the back pocket of the trousers and offers you one. “Go on, you might need it. He’s not… He’s not been taking it so well.” 

While you don’t usually smoke, you gratefully accept the cigarette with a nod and let her light it for you. You start walking down the corridor but stop abruptly, realising your potential blunder. 

“Wait-!” You turn around. The security guard is leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette herself. “It’s not like… Me and him are not…” 

Her eyebrows shoot up. 

“Yeah, right.” The security guard shrugs. “Look, I really don’t give a damn. You better go. The clock is ticking.” 

You turn back around, taking a shaky drag on the cigarette and noticing how heavy your heart is, and how dry your mouth has become. It’s been some time since the flood, and the city was not the only thing still in ruins. After GCPD seized the apartment, you had to quickly find somewhere new to live, which proved to be a catastrophe. Your new place was a bare-bones apartment in the worst part of Gotham. Always cold and desolate, you often found yourself too terrified to function. Whilst yours and Edward’s relationship (if you could call it that) remained secret to all, you knew that it wouldn’t be hard for the authorities to follow the trail of crumbs and find you. Alone.

Turning left, you unexpectedly hear him shout your name, and your heart jumps to your throat. His voice is hoarse, raw, but unmistakably his. You drop your cigarette onto the floor and dash towards the door of his cell. Breathless despite the shortness of distance, you find yourself facing Edward through the iron bars in the door. 

“Edward…” You whisper his name, over and over, your heart throbbing in your chest. 

You shakily open the hatch and push your hands through it (fuck the security cameras, nobody gives a damn, anyway). Suddenly speechless, he grabs hold of your hands and almost crushes your fingers. 

Your eyes meet his, and you feel as if you have been punched in the gut. You have never seen so much distress. Not even during his most destructive nights. When he first became The Riddler, when he clawed at his wrists and wailed with anguish and wrath, when the voices called out to him and would not stop… 

“Eddie, I…” You don’t know what to say. He is grabbing onto your hands with sheer desperation, the combination of panic and failure echoing in his eyes as they gradually fill up with tears. You notice how bloodshot they are, the dark circles under his eyes darker than you ever remember them being (he isn’t sleeping until they make him...). The right side of his face is bruised, a brilliant shade of purple spilling over his cheek (did he… Or did someone…?). 

“I’m here, Eddie.” You manage to say, taking a trembling breath before words start to spill from your mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry this took me so fucking long. I had to find ways… To get here. But I did, and…” 

You stop for a second to compose yourself and notice just how violently his hands began to tremble. They are so much colder than usual, too. He was always so warm... 

“I haven’t got much time, but…” You start.

“I knew you would come.” He interrupts you. “They told me that I was alone in this, they said you were a delusion. But I knew better. I knew better. I knew that those liars were wrong.” 

“Don’t listen to them.” You say with assurance, although unsure of who ‘they’ could be. “Remember what I said… All that time ago? Only ever listen to your heart.” 

“My heart has shattered.” Edward’s voice, although unexpectedly venomous, quavers as he speaks. “I’m broken. I was so close, and I thought that even being in here, I could… But I was wrong. And it’s all getting worse, I’m getting worse. I feel like I am back at…” 

“Eddie, I have an idea.” You interrupt him. “I will get you out. I fucking promise you.” 

“P-please hurry. Please. I…” The rest of his sentence is quelled as he breaks down, pressing his delicate lips to your fingers. You haven’t felt him like this for such a long time, and the sudden intimacy awakens feral desperation inside you. 

“Eddie, you have to promise me something.” You whisper. “You can’t give up.” 

“You’ve got a minute left!” You hear the security guard yell from up the corridor. Edward sniffs and lets out a faint whimper as he pulls his face away from your hands. 

“Can’t you stay?” His voice turns delicate and innocent as he clutches your hands even harder than before. 

“I’m sorry.” You are stifling back tears. “But... I always keep my promises.”

[doughbrainer]

TW: SH IMPLIED??

HEADCANON TIME!!

When Janus Is Stressed, He Bites/Nibbles On His Hands, As Referenced To How Snakes Will Bite Their Tails As A Natural Hunger Instinct When Under A Lot Of Stress

Janus Doesn't Crack Under Stress Easily But When He Does, This Is His Go To Coping Mechanism

[fyodorso1ratao3]

Hi

This is chapter one of my fyozai AO3 fic (fluff+angst):

jsyk, this chapter is mostly angst and barely any fyodor, but thats bcs its only the first chapter

TW: implied/referenced sh, violence/slight gore???, dissociation

“So ...is that anaemic jackass dead?” Chuuya’s impatient voice sounded from behind him. 

“Yeah, Fyodor is no doubt dead.” He was sure Fyodor was dead, yet somehow, it didn’t feel...real. 

“I see.” 

Nikolai was also stood behind him, approaching from the side of the tower. Dazai reached down and picked up Fyo - Dostoevsky's arm. 

He didn’t know why, but Dazai felt emotionless - he wasn’t exactly sad, although he would miss being able to have a challenging round of chess. He just felt...empty. 

“Congrats Nikolai.” He couldn’t let his smile drop - not yet at least. “You wanted to kill him, didn’t you?”  

“Yeah, I certainly did. Although, at the same time, I didn’t.” Nikolai reached out, taking Fyodor’s disembodied arm from him. “No, you’re right. Fyodor and I... we never exchanged many words. But still, my life since meeting him has felt like... nothing I did before had the same purpose as it did afterwards.” 

Dazai knew what he meant. 

There would never again be anyone quite like Fyodor Dostoevsky. 

“Fyodor was right,” Nikolai’s words snapped Dazai out of his inner monologue. “He told me I fought so I could lose myself.” Nikolai placed Fyo – Dostoevsky's arm to his face. “And so now, I just... ” 

Dazai turned and walked away from the helicopters remains. 

“Not going to grace us with your usual snarkiness?” 

“Nah. Don’t feel like it.” He didn’t feel like doing anything at that moment, it was as if Dostoevsky had taken Dazai’s happiness with him onto that helicopter.  “I’d better take the antidote now.” 

It didn’t feel like it really mattered anymore, but still, Fyodor wasn’t quite a beautiful lady for him to die with. 

Beautiful he might have been, but still... 

Anyways, it wouldn’t be double suicide, just... double death. 

Fyodor had wanted to live after all, whilst Dazai didn’t really care. 

One of the only major differences between them. Dazai didn’t usually like to admit, even to himself, how similar they were, but now Fyodor was dead, it didn’t matter. 

But Fyodor had chosen to use his intelligence to force his own botched sense of justice upon the world, using his pawns to target ‘sinners’, whereas Dazai used his to attempt to save as many lives as possible.  

Once he was past Chuuya, he could finally let that bright smile drop from his face. 

He didn’t miss Dostoevsky exactly - well, he missed being able to interact with someone as smart as himself and he missed being able to understand another human being, but – okay, maybe he missed Fedya a bit. 

Fedya?!  

He sighed, shaking his head.  

Why did he call Dostoevsky Fedya?!  

“Something wrong Dazai?” 

Chuuya startled him out of his thoughts.  

“ Chuuya-sannn , I was just thinking of how short you are!” 

“YOU-”  

Dazai quickly reached for his pocket, about to pretend to get a call – Crap. He had forgotten he was still in his prison clothes.  

“ Chuuya-sannn , I’ve got to leave, now.” 

“Need a ride?” 

“Yes, please.” 

Dazai was thankful for Chuuya’s company on the ride home.  

Chuuya could tell something was wrong, Dazai could tell by the fact that Chuuya kept talking with him even though he brushed him off multiple times. 

Chuuya didn’t know what was wrong, though. Hell, Dazai didn’t even know himself. 

That night, he dreamt of Fedya. 

“Dazai dear, did you miss me?”  

Fedya was standing almost uncomfortably close to him, his piercing violet eyes gazing deep into his soul.  

“Ah, I see.” Dazai responded, quickly adjusting to the situation. “You just can’t keep yourself away from me.”  

Fedya’s eyes suddenly coldened further, Dazai could even have sworn he saw a spark of red amongst the magenta.  

“Homosexuality is a sin.”  

Fyodor’s upper lip curled slightly as his posture stiffened. “I would never commit such a sin.”  

“Ah well.” Dazai shrugged and crossed his arms. “Well, if you ever change your mind...”  

Fedya’s cloak (Since when did he wear that? That’s really tacky.) swayed as he leant back, now standing fully upright.  

“I-”  

Dazai walked into the bathroom and splashed some water onto his face, mentally preparing himself for the workday. Ugh.  

He raised his head, staring at his damp reflection in the mirror as water dripped from a strand of his wavy brown hair.  In the golden morning light coming from the small bathroom window, it seemed almost red.  

Suddenly, behind him in the mirror he saw a glimpse of sparkling magenta. He spun around quickly, knocking the mirror to the floor where it shattered into a million fractals of light.  

Fuck. He was hallucinating again. 

He slumped to the floor, his body splayed limply upon the tiles. 

Why am I... disappointed?  

I was the man that killed him, why-?  A heavy weight rested in his stomach, pulling him down into the depths of despair. 

His head felt clouded, like it had yesterday. 

His thoughts spiralled around his head, overpowering yet numbing at the same time.  

A heavy weight rested in his stomach, pulling him down into the depths of despair. He couldn’t breathe, thoughts running away from him as he lay helplessly on the floor, unable to think, to move, to even feel. His body was frozen, barely noticing the glass digging into his back and numb to the warm blood seeping into his clothes. 

His vision started blurring as tears fell from his eyes, leaving silvery trails on his already moist skin. 

Yet he wasn’t sad, just... empty. 

He needed to feel something, anything.  

His gaze alighted on a sharp, glittering shard.   

Dazai went to work with a new, unseen bloom of red staining the otherwise pristine bandages winding around his upper arm. 

The fragments of metal and glass lay on the floor of Dazai’s bathroom amidst a pool of blood, reflecting light around the ivory room. 

In the glass you could see the room’s reflection from a hundred different angles, shattered into a million different pieces. 

The room’s reflection, alongside a glimmer of magenta and a flash of navy blue. 

“Well, isn’t this interesting.”  

On the outside, Dazai looked especially cheerful that day.  

On the inside, he wanted to cry. 

“Kunikida-kunnn-”  

“Kunikida-kunn-” 

“Kunikida-kunnn-”  

Kunikida finally snapped, whirling around with a murderous glint in his eye. 

“ OSAMU DAZAI, IF ALL YOU’RE GOING TO DO ALL DAY IS BE ANNOYING, YOU MIGHT AS WELL GO HOME.” 

“Okay!” 

Atsushi winced as Dazai skipped cheerfully out of the room. 

‘Kunikida-kunn’ sighed, lifting up his glasses and rubbing his eyes. 

“Sometimes, Dazai makes me want to die.” 

“You should probably go after him if you don’t want him to go home;” Ranpo interjected, looking up from his bag of mochi. 

“No, it’s fine. I don’t have the energy to deal with him. I’ll just let him go.” 

Dazai lay on the rug of his apartment, staring blindly at the ceiling. 

He didn’t know why, but he felt depressed; even more than usual. A tear slowly spread across his eye, turning his vision blurry as the film obscured his sight. The room was slowly blurring into simple blocks of blank colour.  

The salty tears ran down his face, slowly seeping into his hair as he softly sobbed, each spasm shaking his body almost painfully. 

His breathing was jagged and irregular, too shallow and fast, making him feel dizzy and faint.  

He felt like he was slowly falling out of his life, a simple side character in the story of someone else’s life, detached and unimportant. 

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit.  

It had been a while since he last felt like this, but it was not a new sensation; almost as far from it as possible. Like a watchful parent, always just over his shoulder.

Usually he was with someone else, both Kunikida and Chuuya knew what to do if he began to feel like this. 

But by himself, he couldn’t do anything at all to stop this indescribable feeling of despair from dragging him ever deeper.

“You really should check on him,” Ranpo insisted. 

“Alright, fine-” 

A loud ring interrupted him from Ranpo’s bag. 

“Oooh, Poe’s calling me!” 

Ranpo dived under the table to answer the call from his supposed ‘rival’. 

They act more like lovers than rivals; Kunikida thought. Oh well. I’d better see if Dazai is alright.  

Suddenly, Dazai felt a hand running through his hair, bringing him back almost immediately.   

His breath began to calm, his tears slowly drying.  

Once his vision began to clear, Dazai felt the hand move away and he heard steps walking away from him. 

He shakily rose up on his elbows, his breath still unsteady but almost normal. 

His vision was clear enough to just catch the edge of a cloak as it flew from the faceless figure as they leapt out the window, unwilling to be seen. 

Without a second thought, he leapt out the window after the figure. 

The harsh wind ripped open his eyelids, causing fresh tears to leak out his eyes. 

His vision began to fade, splotches of black filling the gaps in his vision as his oxygen-deprived brain struggled to come up with an explanation for what the hell just happened. 

The last thing he saw before he blacked out was a pair of sparkling magenta eyes. 

That rat bastard?!  

Oh shit, I fell right into his trap.  

Suddenly, as he was only about two floors away from the ground, he heard Kunikida’s voice screaming his name  

“DAZAI!!”  

Oh sh-  

If you want to read more, you can find it on AO3 here!

[valhallan]

>still you.

//TW for referenced/implied sh behaviours :,)

[noizhaspestilence]

Ranting about something: why do I draw Noiz with s/h scars?? Tw: mention of s/h and pain.

-

-

-

Let me start off by saying that it has come to my attention that certain people my find offense to me drawing Noiz and other characters in general with sh scars, let me explain myself. I will emphasize that I only draw SCARS, no fresh wounds nor visible weapons of any kind.

I strongly strongly believe that Noiz has a history of s/h and it is strongly strongly implied that it is is true that he did in the past. Canonically, Noiz does not feel pain and has a condition called Congenital insensitivity to pain, otherwise known as CIP.

As a child Noiz would often be unintentionally violent while playing with other kids due to his lack of physical feeling. He was shunned away by both his parents and the people around him. He grew up being hidden away from the world because of his condition that was viewed poorly. He was very very lonely and obviously miserable for most of his childhood.

In fact he could not feel anything at all whatsoever. So in an attempt to feel anything, even if that feeling was pain, he would play Ryme to try to feel what a simulation of pain. This is another reason I believe he has a history of s/h.

When you play the game, you can play Noiz's route: in his Bad Ending 1, he says something along the lines of, "all I need is pain and Aoba" and I won't dive into detail for triggering reasons, but his ending involves a somewhat violent scene. This once again leads me to believe he would have done that in the past.

Reason number two: when I draw noiz with scars it is also because I draw my kinsona version of him, which is inspired from ME. I draw him like that because I feel a very very strong connection to him.

I understand that Dramatical Murder in general is often shit on and dogged on and a lot of people find it to be problematic; that's fine you can feel that way but it's quite literally my special interest and I cannot just drop it, thats not how it works. I also understand that a lot of people don't understand the story line or the characters and that's fine but that's not my problem. Frankly it is not my fault if you don't like a media.

-

Why do I draw my ocs with scars?

I will once again reiterate that any characters I draw with scars are heavy referenced to ME and are most likely SONAS. I draw my characters that way because I feel more of a deep connection to them that way.

I am in no way sexualizing, romanticizing or making light of s/h. However I strongly feel like people in the community are shunned and looked down upon for their scars, my goal is to share representation and comfort for those with scars.

If I ever draw characters kissing eachother scars or whatever it is because it comes from a place of care and understanding. In my personal experience I find comfort in people kissing my scars, sorry not sorry.

I apologize if I have offended anyone by drawing my characters that way, I will be sure to add tw's from now on when posting art of my characters with visible scars.

This is the one and only time I will say this, I do not need to justify myself to anyone for how I draw MY characters. I can draw them however I want and I absolutely will. If you have a problem with that then don't view my characters, thank you.

I have had a huge falling out with a friend because of this topic so I just needed to say something.

[dirtdotmp3]

✨⭐ i n t r o p o s t ⭐✨

basics: ★ my name is rory!! ★ 17 ★ they/them, he/him? (masc terms preferred over non-specific terms, just nothing fem) ★ japanese american !! ★ audhd + various mental illnesses + 1(one) chronic illness (so far.)

what is this blog for? ★ art/things i make in general ★ outfits and such ★ random shit that happens irl ★ tbh anything in my head that i see fit to let out of my head

interests/favorites: ★ bands: my chemical romance, pierce the veil, the front bottoms, fall out boy ★ special interests: fairy tales (specifically brothers grimm), alice in wonderland, minerals, my chemical romance ★ manga: junji ito (i have 15 books), witch hat atelier, the girl from the other side, how to treat magical beasts, toilet bound hanako kun ★ games: dont starve, minecraft, sims 4, clangen (never got into the books tho lol), everything is going to be ok, subnautica, fallout shelter ★ tv shows: adventure time, bojack horseman (havent finished), criminal minds, gravity falls, scott pilgrim takes off ★ collections: rocks and minerals, cds, junji ito, various zines, ★ random: unholyverse, edgar allan poe, dsmp (lmanburg/elections/exile, not recent as much), frank iero, just roll with it (riptide), dnd

things i make/do: ★ art !! (various kinds) ★ zines ★ patches/other clothing modification stuffs ★ kandi (still figuring out cuffs) ★ currently coding a shitty little mcr website for a class ★ ukulele !! ive been playing mildly since 6 not v good tho ★ guitar? barely tho + just started ★ occasional embroidery/knitting ★ im technically in a band but we dont have a name and the bassist hasnt touched a bass yet ★ skateboarding. my knees are so scarred from me eating shit all the time tho. fall out boy more like fall off boy. ★ i did circus (specifically aerials) for 3 years pre pandemic. i miss it !!

⚠ general warning ⚠ there are often references to/implications of sh in my collage/doodle pages. its never detailed, you probably wont see it if you dont look close. the tags will always have tws for implied or referenced sh, if theres anything more major ill put the correct tws for that. i try my best to always use content warnings/trigger warnings, if i ever miss something please let me know!!

🚫 DNI 🚫 transphobes, racists, homophobes, misogynists, bigots/fascists in general. lolita/nymphette/lana del ray stuff (coquette fine as long as its not weird).

free artsakh, free palestine, punch a nazi, drink some water, i love you<3

[howtoliveasahumanbeing]

I don’t know if Pin’s gonna see this or not, but need to rant even if he does…

Had a weird nightmare thing (I think that’s what they’re called, I don’t really know) last night and now my body hurts all over… it’s like there’s this heavy pressure on my chest, breathing hurts and all my wounds hurt again… it feels like the scientists are tearing me open all over again and I hate it…

I keep scratching to try and make it stop but then it just hurts worse…

[numberoneatsushidefender]

✍︎KUNIKIDA HEADCANONS!! ✍︎

TW: MENTIONED SU!C!D3, BULLYING, DEATH OF A CHILD, DEPRESSION, IMPLIED CHILD ABUSE, HOMOPHOBIA, CENSORED SLURS, MENTIONS OF SHOOTING, UNSAFE BINDING, IMPLIED SH, IMPLIED FORMER SH, AND ABLEISM

•He is a Polyamorous Pansexual

•Cis male, uses He/Him pronouns but doesn’t mind if you use others

•He has Autism, OCD, Depression, and is partially deaf

•He has two moms

•He knows sign language, Morse code, and a little bit of English

•He was bullied in school a lot

•Has a soft spot for kids(Will never admit to this)

•Back in school, kids would write words like “F*g” and “R3t@rd” on his locker

•He went to his moms about this and they contacted the school who said they would look into it, they never did.

•Kunikida had to transfer schools over 40 times due to bullying

•He was diagnosed with depression at age 13

•His Mama is a gardener and works at the local botanical garden, so Kunikida is really good with plants

•His Mother is a former police captain but got shot on the job, paralyzing her, however that didn’t stop her from starting a five star restaurant

•The Sperm-Donor is actually really close to the family, Kunikida calls him Uncle Hirotaka, Hirotaka is his Mamas childhood friend, and he’s a scientist and works with his husband

•He has hearing aids and sometimes when Dazai is annoying him he just turns them off

•He bought Dazai(AFAB) who is Genderfluid a binder and taught him how to bind properly and then told him why you should never bind with bandages

•Dazai legitimately hugged him over this and promised to do his work for the entire day

•When they met Atsushi who was also binding with bandages, When Kunikida finds this out he immediately goes over and takes him shopping, buying him a binder.

•When they got back to the dorms he called Dazai over and asked if he could teach Atsushi how to bind(Dazai agrees)

•Atsushi hugged them both that day, and Kunikida grew 10x more protective

•Grew up Christian, however became Agnostic as he grew up

•He lets Naomi, Atsushi, Tanizaki, and Haruno do his hair when ever they’re nervous

•He drives the 18’s (Haruno, Atsushi, Tanizaki, and Naomi) places

•Kunikida is one of the only people to have ever seen what’s under Dazais bandages(It was an accident and Dazai was scared Kunikida would judge him, but instead, Kunikida showed him his own still fading scars

•He helps Dazai wrap his bandages, and kisses Dazais scars, telling him: “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” Or “Your radiance is unmatched.”

•Dazai always cries whenever he is told this because he knows Kunikida means it

•Dazai and Kunikida have matching jewelry(Dazai has a rose-gold ring and Kunikida has a silver earring)

•He has pictures of his friends on his wall

•His favorites are the ones where you can see Atsushi getting to be a child or doing something for the first time

•He and Katai were friends in Highschool(They were both nerds)

•Kunikida has a semicolon tattoo on his wrist

•Sometimes if an Agency member (especially those who he sees as children ex: Atsushi, Tanizaki, Naomi etc) does overtime and falls asleep at their desk Kunikida will drape a blanket over them and move them to the couch to sleep

•He made a promise to himself that he would protect Atsushi

•He checks in on everyone if they haven’t shown up or if they seem a bit sad

•Easily flustered

•His favorite poem book is called “Poems in Two Volumes”(If you know anything about the IRL Kunikida Doppo you know what I’m referencing)

•He is allergic to gelatin and his allergies go haywire when it’s spring

•He was that one teacher that all the students really liked because while he was strict he was lenient if needed and very caring, and also extremely protective of his students

•He had two students Mamoru Miyano and Uemura Yuto who he worried a lot about. Miyano was a suicidal teenager who’s father was involved in a gang. And Uemura was an orphan who often came to school covered in bruises, Uemura had a tiger plush he liked to carry around(THIS IS IMPORTANT)

•Uemura was a top student and never skipped class, so when he was absent for an entire week everyone was worried. He was filed as a missing person and the friend group he was in (+Kunikida) stayed on top of the case

•A few weeks later it had been discovered that Uemura was killed by the head of his orphanage after being left out in the snow as punishment

•Miyano spiraled and didn’t talk to anyone a few weeks later Kunikida found the tiger plush and decided to take it to Uemuras gravesite, that’s when he saw something hanging from a tree

•Upon closer inspection he found that it was a person so he ran over, and he realized it was Miyano. Despite doing everything he could, Miyano was unable to be resuscitated

•Kunikida quit his job after this

•When he joined the agency the members just reminded him of his students, but when he met Dazai he almost had a breakdown because of how familiar it was

•He ended up confiding in Dazai about what happened in his teaching career

•When they met Atsushi, Kunikida straight up cried upon getting back to the dorms, because of how much like Uemura he was

•He made a promise to protect Dazai and Atsushi

•During his teaching career he and another teacher sponsored a club called the “Detective Club” which was comprised of 10 members. Mamoru and Uemura were in this club

•Those students are in college now and refused to believe the news about Kunikida being a terrorist

•He is a college dropout

•He has a list of everyone’s triggers and makes sure to avoid them

[ao3feed-superbat]

Isn't that a dream come true

by Swugiest_Swugflower

- isn't that a nightmare, too?

Kal closed his suddenly guilt filled eyes and slowly said: “I came here, because I need your help.” “I expected as much. What did Luthor do this time?” Shifting on his feet awkwardly, he shook his head. “This isn’t about Luthor or any villain or alien for that matter. I… I, personally, need your help. With a civilian matter.” “Superman, we had this discussion before, we can’t sh-“ “No, no, it’s not that either,” he quickly explained. “I don’t want to know your identity, and you don’t need mine. What I need is… I need Bruce Waynes phone number.”

Or: Clark Kent saves Bruce Wayne, who famously has not talked to the press since he was tortured by them as a child, from being assaulted at a gala, only the be suddenly threatened with allegations against himself. Seeing no other way, he turns to Batman for help.

TW: sexual assault in chapter 1 and it keeps being referenced

Also, English isn’t my first language so excuse any mistakes

Words: 5407, Chapters: 1/5, Language: English

Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth, Lois Lane

Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne

Additional Tags: Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, POV Alternating, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson is a Menace, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Friends to Lovers, Pre-Slash, Pre-Relationship, no beta we die like jason todd

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/48809977

[delenygma]

FANFICTION | Eleutheromania (Part 3/3) | Edward Nashton/The Riddler x Reader (AO3)

Gotham is not the only thing in ruins.  Post-The Batman Edward Nashton x Reader.

Part 3/3.

• 

TW: implied/referenced sh, implied/referenced abuse (past), mention of bruising, smoking.

Originally published on AO3 in April 2022.

•

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

PART 3/3

Time appears to slow down as you turn back to the laptop. Seeing that Red is now offline, you frantically search for the main IRC channel. 

IRC//aolypkksly 

CHANNEL//#thpu 

<ME:> Someone… Explain? 

<SILVER:> WHAT THE FUCK??!! 

<BIT:> guys 

<JAKE:> yooooooo!!! 

<SILVER:> WE DID IT??!! 

The chat explodes, becoming a blurry wall of text in front of your eyes. You slam down the laptop lid and bury your face in your hands as everything you have just witnessed begins to form a cohesive narrative in your head. There is a whirlwind of emotions in your chest, making you grip the edge of the desk in an attempt to ground yourself.  

The room is quiet, the only sounds breaking the daunting silence being the rain and chatter of rats. The nauseating combination of euphoria and anxiety and guilt rushing through your veins is the last thing you need right now, and you try to swallow it down with the dregs of cold coffee left over in one of the coffee cups. 

You almost choke as you hear the doorbell ring, making your stomach flip. Slowly, you make your way towards the door, your legs quivering as you cross the apartment. You find your fingers wavering over the post-it note obscuring the visor before you rip it off and look through. 

It’s the security guard. 

You notice that her hair is plastered to her face, rain streaming down her cheeks, as she grins at you and waves. Despite the risk, you find yourself unlocking the door. 

“Hello, stranger.” She sounds excited, but keeps her voice down. She shakes her head as you take a tentative step back. “Come on, don't be scared. You’re the Riddler’s… Acquaintance. I can’t imagine it takes you long to figure things out.” 

“Red?” You croak, realising how long it has been since you last had a face to-face conversation. The security guard nods. “How did you know-” 

“Pass me your mobile phone.” She says, and you raise your eyebrows. “This needs to go. For… Your safety. And his.” 

You reach into your pocket and fish out your phone, wordlessly passing it over to her. She unhurriedly puts the sleek device on the floor, before swiftly stamping onto it, glass cracking under her boot. She then kicks it into the depths of your apartment. 

“I’m sorry if this was a little… Overdramatic.” She looks at you, her expression unexpectedly serious. “But your… Old life is over now. Really, truly over.” 

You nod, slowly, the weight of her words sinking on your shoulders. Somewhat comfortably. You won’t be missing your old life at all.  

“Look, I need to dash.” Red says. “I just wanted to check… If I gave him the right address. I haven’t been entangled in anything like this before and was shitting bricks, really.” 

“Are you, like…” You make a non-descript gesture with your hands.

“Huh…” The biggest grin cracks her face. “Well, those inside Arkham often have… Other pursuits, you know. And I don’t only mean the inmates.” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“You know why.” She winks at you again, and adds, “He’ll be back soon.” 

Red turns around and saunters down the hallway, her footsteps surprisingly light despite the weighty boots. You lock the door behind you, turn around, and take a few deep breaths. 

Soon. 

***

Blood, sweat, dirt. 

The smell – no, the taste – is what wakes you up. You must have fallen asleep, somehow, although you promised yourself to stay awake. Opening your eyes, mind still addled with uneasy sleep, you realise that someone has their hand clasped over your mouth. 

Your body stiffens as you take a breath, readying yourself to scream, or at least attempt to. However, you stop yourself when you notice the lights from outside reflecting against glasses. The tormented eyes behind them are nearly unrecognisable, but you know it’s him. 

“Shh… It’s just… It’s me.” Edward’s voice is raspy and trembling. He sounds like he has not slept in days. Somewhat frantically, he mumbles, “I don’t know how safe… We need to be quiet.” 

You reach up and gently brush his cheek with the back of your hand, blinking to adjust your eyes to the near-complete darkness. He gradually removes his hand from your mouth, and you scramble on the bed to make space for him to sit down. As you attempt to move your hand away from his face, he grabs hold of your wrist, tight. 

“I… E-Eddie…” At loss for words, your voice is scarcely more audible than a whisper. “You… It’s okay. Sit down.” 

Edward lets you move your hand away from his face as he sits cautiously on the bed, but continues to hold your wrist in a vice-like grip, clutching his mask in his other hand. With one hand, you throw off the blanket onto the floor and sit upright. Facing him, with your eyes now adjusted to the only source of light being the streetlamp outside your apartment window, you are suddenly overcome with guilt. 

“I’m… I’m sorry to have let you down. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

He slowly shakes his head, and you notice how his glasses are cracked, as well as the trail of bruises leading down his cheek. Your stomach churns as you notice the striped jumpsuit is splattered with crimson stains, some fresher than others. You open your mouth to let apologies keep spilling from your lips, but he stops you. 

“You’re here… Now.” 

“I broke a promise, Eddie. All these promises I made you…” You bite your lip, enraged at yourself. “I don’t think I can ever fucking forgive myself-” 

“P-please stop talking like this.” He whispers. “The riot and the escape were not… Planned.” 

“But I-” 

“Arkham is a hell on Earth. I told you, it was like the… No… It was worse.” Edward’s voice is still soft, but more assertive. “The last thing I would want is you…” 

“But-”

“You would have… It made me… Want to…” His lips quiver. Edward lets go of your wrist and buries his face in his hands. 

“I need to carry on… I am still needed.” He murmurs. “But I can’t do it alone. I need...” 

You move off the bed and notice him whimpering. Hearing you move, Edward thinks you are about to leave. Instead, you kneel in front of him, gently unwrapping his fingers from his face. He lowers his hands onto the mask in his lap, and you proceed to take off his glasses, placing them on the bedside table. Then, you reach for the mask. Edward’s hand instinctively twitches, as if about to stop you, but he lets you take it and place it carefully on the bed beside him. 

“You won’t ever be alone again.” You say as you cup his face in your hands gently, conscious of the bruises. 

You lean forward and place a delicate kiss on his chapped lips. 

He exhales sharply. Pulling away, you see how stunned he looks. He whispers your name once, twice. Three times, almost like a prayer. 

“W-Why did you do this?” He brushes his lips with his fingertips. 

“Because…” You say, slowly, as all the pieces of the puzzle align. In your head. In your heart. You notice how he is trembling, and that your hands are shaking, too. “I love you.” 

Edward opens his mouth as if to say something, but no noise comes out except for a short exhale. He feels like a creature caught in the headlights.  

This must be a heartless joke. They said that he should not be loved, people like him don’t deserve it.After all, his existence was insignificant. Just another number, another cog in the soulless machine. To be chewed and spat out. He should have been dead by the time he reached twenty-five 

They said-

-keepyourmouthFUCKINGshut-

-takeyourGOD-DAMNpillsyoudon’twanttobeputinsidetheroomagain-

-beaGOODBOYORELSE- 

And it was the same in Arkham. History reprised itself, shouldn’t that mean something? 

-youareFUCKINGSCUM- 

-ifonlytherewerenocamerashereIWOULDFUCKYOUUP- 

-NOBODYWILLCOMEYOUDELUSIONALFUCKINGLIARYESYOUARETHE LIAR-

-NOBODYFUCKINGCARESABOUTYOUANDYOUWILLROTINHERE- 

“Hey.” You say softly, familiar with the sudden, faraway look in Edward’s eyes. For a while, the cadence of his breath fluctuates before he manages to bring himself back to the present. He is still trembling. 

“You shouldn’t love me.” 

The torment in his voice makes your heart ache. 

“But I do.” 

“W-Who do you love?” You don’t think that you have ever heard him sound this frightened. Not during his worst flashbacks, not even during your meeting at Arkham.  

Whoever did this to him will fucking pay.

“You. You as a whole.” You say, and unexpectedly something shatters inside the both of you. You suddenly find yourselves clutching onto one another, teeth knocking as you kiss sloppily.

Desperately. Pathetically to some, perhaps. 

You taste each other hungrily, breaking apart only to take irregular breaths, admitting how much you have yearned for one another’s presence, how you cannot exist without one another anymore. 

When you finally tear away, you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close and relishing feeling the softness of his body against yours. One of your hands is tangled in his hair as the other one rubs his back. Edward shakes uncontrollably as he begins to sob, feeling both sorrow and solace at the same time.  

“It’s okay, Eddie. It’s okay…” 

You whisper words of comfort entangled with love and truth. He cries until there are no more tears left. 

“Shh, now. Come to bed.” You say, your voice gentle, and feel him nod weakly against your neck. He slowly clambers into the bed and lies down, not taking his eyes off you. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Edward’s face is drenched with tears, and red patches adorn the area around his swollen eyes. He makes a faint noise as he puts his aching head against the cool pillow. You climb in after him, positioning yourself so that you can cradle him in your arms. 

“You’re safe now.” You whisper into his ear and begin to stroke his hair. He nods in his half-asleep state, taking a lengthy shuddering breath before nestling even closer to you. His body fits perfectly against yours.

Everything is a puzzle. 

The lamppost outside flickers against the pouring rain which drums a hymn of triumph and melancholy onto your windowpane.

***

When you wake up in the morning, the first thing you hear is shuffling noises from the other room. 

And Edward's voice, muffled by the mask. 

“Why, hello there, Gotham City…” 

On the bedside table lies a simple black balaclava. Next to it is a post-it note. 

Join me?

You smile.