callsigncrash - Tumblr blog

callsigncrash · 17 minutes

Text

Advice

(Arkhamverse! Two-Face x Platonic Fem!Reader)

● Ao3 ● X ● Retrospring ● Read on Ao3 ●

The restaurant was packed, crowded to the brim; a dim, yellow glow from the lights surrounded Harvey on all sides. He took a long drag of his cigarette, inhaling the nicotine, letting the smoke fill his lungs. It was barely enough to calm the frustration radiating under his skin, the deep throbbing between his eyes, but he kept his gaze peeled on the men before him. Small time mobsters desperately wanting his help with a bank heist – he had the guns and resources. They needed him. It wasn’t that Harvey didn’t mind. After all, stealing back the money from the mob-owned banks was something he took great pleasure in. Gotham was ripe with injustice and he would play the role of Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

But, like always, he was in the back of his mind. Speaking in that gruff tone. Reminding him of who they were and what they’d become, urging him to flip the coin, to make a decision because he was so incapable of making one without it. Harvey focused on the man once more, at these low lives desperate to line their own pockets, and scowled. A sharp sting, a burning, erupted across the left side of his face as the scowl tugged at the ruined muscle and tendon and bone. Even after all these years, the scars still pained him.

“Let’s see what the coin decides,” he finally said, reaching into his suit pocket. He pulled it out, rough side jagged against his fingertips. He flipped it with one smooth motion of his thumb and caught it – only for it to come up bad.

“Sorry,” Two-Face said, voice gruff and harsh. He grabbed the gun sitting beside him, aimed at the first man, and pulled the trigger. The echo of the gunshot rang throughout the room as a crimson pool appeared in the man’s chest. He blinked, eyes wide, before collapsing onto the table.

The other man jumped to his feet, hands raised in defense. “Hey, hey, hey!” he cried.

Two-Face only nodded for his men to grab the man by his shoulders and force him back into his seat. Once more, he flipped the coin, but this time, the good side landed up. He put his gun back down and said, “Now, let’s talk business.”

The man gulped.

It was weeks later when the details were set, everything was in place, and a distraction for the Batman was ready. Two-Face had a decade of robbery and heist experience and knew exactly what to do and how long he had before Batman figured out what was really going on – so he was not surprised when the heist went off without a hitch. Duffle bags stuffed full of cash were thrown into the getaway trucks, and as he ran out of the bank as fast as he could, the roar of sirens rang in the distance. Red and blue lights illuminated the dark shadows – but it wasn’t that which had his attention.

Instead, it was you. Standing across the street at this time of the night. Watching with concerned eyes. You certainly didn’t look like a cop of journalist, even with a backpack slung over your shoulder. You looked barely like you were out of high school, but Harvey couldn’t be sure. Either way, he didn’t have much time to dwell on who you ere – he had to get out of here before the Bat found him. He turned away and hopped into the getaway car.

He was lucky to get away with millions that night.

But as Harvey would soon discover, that was not the last he’d seen of you. Weeks later, he was at another robbery when he spotted you again. The same concerned and curious expression was on your face, and once again he didn’t know what to think, not in the midst of his heists. But it was another few weeks later, on his third heist, that he spotted you for a third time, bathed under the glow of lamplight near a bus stop.

He was beginning to think that this was not just a coincidence anymore.

A rush of anger filled his veins. He gritted his teeth; he’d had enough of this. Perhaps you were a spy, someone Cobblepot sent to gather information. Or Joker, or any of the other damned criminals in this God-forsaken city. Whatever it was, he was sick of it.

But he couldn’t move. Couldn’t make a decision without consulting the coin first. He was incapable of doing anything without it – so he reached into his suit pocket, pulled it out, and gave it one good flip – only for the good side to land up.

So, it was decided then. He would leave you alone. The coin had decided to leave you alone – for tonight, at least. Seeing you a fourth time would be pressing your life. Next time, the coin might not be so gracious.

So, Harvey turned away and continued on with his business.

It was a few days later when, just as he was arriving to a local restaurant for another business meeting, he spotted you once more. That similar rush of anger rushed through his veins and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. This time, you were closer – the closest you’d ever been, no longer hiding in the shadows outside his heists. But in full view.

“Excuse me, Mr. Dent?” you asked. Your voice was calm, confident, but there was nothing malicious in your tone.

Harvey paused. It’d been a long time since he’d been spoken to in such a calm tone. Not something laced with stupidity or hostility or fear. His henchmen tensed, pulling out their own guns in a white-knuckled grip.

Your face drained of color and you paused, holding up your hands. “I know this is weird—”

“Talk. Now,” he gruffed out. Irritation prickled under his skin and a headache pounded violently behind his eyes.

“I – um. I need advice. About law,” you stammered out.

For the first time in a long time, Harvey felt something he hadn’t in years.

It wasn’t outrage or hatred for injustice. It was a deep rooted sadness that arose from the depths of his broken soul. Memories of his time as Gotham’s District Attorney, it’s very own White Knight, flashed through his mind, rushing to the forefront like a broken dam. All the work he’d done, the criminal scum he’d fought to keep behind bars, the bad men he’d put away…a war against the worst Gotham had to offer.

A tightness filled his throat and he heard the voice of him screaming in the back of his mind, in his ear. He could kill you and move on with his life. Ignore the fool you were for even coming here, risking your life in such a crime-ridden neighborhood (as if that wasn’t the entirety of Gotham already). But, Harvey’s curiosity was piqued, and he wanted to hear you out.

But first: the coin.

He reached into his suit pocket and gave it one flip. His heart skipped a beat as he caught it – good side up. Releasing the breath he’d been holding, he jerked his chin for you to follow him into the restaurant. His men stared at him with cautious, curious eyes, but he didn’t care much about what they thought.

He led the way, maneuvering his way through the dimly lit restaurant and to one of the private tables in the backroom. He settled into the corner seat, back to the wall. He nodded for his men to search you, yanking the backpack off you and opening it. As they pat you down, they emptied out your bag: binders and textbooks and papers tumbled out, scattering across the floor. One of the men handed him an ID badge that said you were a student at Gotham University of Law. So, you were telling the truth about who you were.

He raised his brows and gestured for you to sit once it was determined you weren’t armed. Hesitantly, you took the seat across from him as he ordered himself a drink. In his freehand, he played with his coin, fingering every rough groove and crevice. It was moments later when he finally looked you in the eyes.

“Pretty stupid of you to come here,” he said, voice rough. The voice of him.

“I know,” you said, voice cracking. He could practically feel your knees knocking underneath the table. “But I’m actually hoping to talk to you about law. I just started law school and wanted some advice…”

“Why me?” he asked. “There’s a hundred other attorneys in this damn city.”

“But none of them are – were – as good as you.” you said.

Harvey paused, drink in hand. He set it down.

“I’ve been studying your old cases. Reading court transcripts, that kind of thing. You did so much work for Gotham and you’re actually the one who inspired me to go to law school.”

“What’d you score on the LSAT?” Harvey asked.

You smiled, eyes sparkling. “165.”

Smart kid, he thought. But he leaned back in his chair and once more grabbed his drink, staring down into the amber colored liquid for a long time as memories of a long forgotten life washed over him.

Finally, he looked back up at you. “Listen kid,” he said, but this time, his voice was soft. Gentle. The voice of the man he used to be. “This city will chew you up and spit you out. Destroy everything you are. You’ll look into the abyss and it’ll blink back.” He paused and took a quick swig of his drink, alcohol burning his throat. “I can’t stop you if that’s the path you want to go down. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I understand,” you said, nodding.

“Is that the advice you wanted to hear? The great inspiration you foolishly risked your life to come here for?”

“No,” you said, shaking your head. “I wanted to know…do you think you could’ve made this city a better place?”

A testing question. One Harvey had asked himself a million times over. But he said, “I tried. And look what happened to me.”

Your eyes shifted the slightest millimeter to examine his scars, the reminder of his ruined face. But you nodded and said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Dent.”

He paused, stilling the motions of rubbing his coin between two fingers. Your question had brought up too many memories – both good and bad. Celebrating the days he won court cases; and then those dark nights writhing in pain after his accident. Two sides of the same coin. You started to rise to your feet, but he frowned. What would people think if he let someone like you go? He still had a reputation to uphold.

He flipped his coin once more, holding his breath as the panic filled your eyes – and the coin landed good side up.

“Get out of here, kid,” he barked, voice rough and hoarse. “I don’t want to see you around here again.”

You nodded and scurried out of the bar. And as Harvey downed the rest of the drink, something he hadn’t felt in years awakened inside of him: hope. Perhaps he had done some good after all.

9 notes · View notes

callsigncrash · 25 minutes

Text

Harvey Dent/Female Reader: Bootblacking

Summary: Harvey's boots are looking a little lackluster and he decides that it's your job to fix them up for him.

Kneeling at his feet, Harvey remains seated and the sheer aura of control which rolls from his dual-toned frame makes your mouth dry out as you gaze up at him, awaiting his next instruction.

“Start.”

The small tin gives a metallic creak as you open it, exposing the limited collection within. Two tins of polish sit atop the other beside a plastic tub of saddle soap and their position is held by a pair of horsehair brushes which fill out the remainder of the space. Small but well-loved, you pull free the various items you need with trembling fingers as arousal makes your hands shake.

Before you, Harvey’s feet are still against the floor as he sits on the edge of the bed. His grey boxers clung to his hips, the thin fabric incapable of hiding the thick bulge of interest which tented free below it. The only other piece of clothing which he wears are the black leather boots which are the focus of your attention, dragging your eyes away from his concealed cock.

The scent of fresh leather is strong, the boots brand new and purchased with this little job in mind. As it invades your senses, your cunt clenches around nothing, a growing dampness on your thighs pairing with the needy ache in your cunt as you ignore the temptation to touch it.

You twist open the tub of polish, quickly gathering some on the fresh microfibre cloth which it sits on. Your breath coming in short pants, you wrap your fingers around the heel of Harvey’s boot with reverence – feeling the thick tread pressing against your palm.

Flexing your hand, sharp teeth bite at your lower lip as you rub the polish along the upper; taking great care not to let any collect in the vamp as you gently begin to rub the leather with the cloth.

So focused on your task, you exhale as your fingers roll across the textured leather. Every seam and divot feels amplified beneath the thin cloth and you breathe the smell of the polish with a slackened mouth – arousal making it impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Working diligently, you glance up to see Harvey’s eyes on you. His head is tilted, scarred side facing you more directly, and his expression is intense; mouth twisted into a scheming smirk as his pitted skin shone in the meagre light.

Drawing the cloth across the side of the boot, the yellow fabric now stained black, you ghost your fingers across the leather, satisfied with the job you’ve managed. Rocking back on your ass, you release the boot and await his inspection.

Submissive pride blossoms in your chest as you clench the cloth between trembling fingers. Your gaze flicks between the boots and Harvey’s thick frame, his tented cock and bulging thighs giving way to his wide chest – the dark hair there only marred by the scarring which cuts through the hair in messy patterns.

He shifts his finished foot, placing it flat on the floor and moving it enough to allow him to lean forward and examine the shine. The movement has the delicious effect of grazing your aching clit and your hips move of their own accord as they hump into the slight stimulation, your lips tight as they fight to hide a groan.

Exhaling a thick plume of smoke from his cigar, Harvey chuckles at the earnest reaction.

“Not a bad job.” He chides playfully. “Here, test it out for me.”

Pushing his boot forward with purpose, the thick tread of the sole slides along the carpet as the smooth top of the boot rubs roughly against your cunt and the cool sensation of it, as hard and unyielding as the man himself, draws a keening whine from your lips as your cunt clenches against it – lips spreading to gain as much purchase as possible.

“Harvey!” You groan out, hand wrapping around his exposed lower leg as you hold him in place against your grinding cunt.

“Come.” Harvey demands, his voice low and gravelled. “I know you can, you little brat.” As he speaks, he ups the rocking motion in his foot – the movement allowing the smooth top of the boot to massage your cunt in a deliciously brutal way as he assaults your clit.

Already almost there, it doesn’t take much and, with a keening whimper, you hump your cunt against him pathetically as your walls clench and tighten. Your release is just as pathetic, your juices quickly coating the top of his boot, and Harvey tilts his foot enough to rub the very tip of his boot in the mess; spreading it across the freshly polished leather with an observant hum as it visibly glistens.

Panting as you come down from your release, your fingers move of their own accord as they once again clean the mess from his boots. Brushing through your arousal, you bring it to your lips and taste yourself – the act earning you a rumble of approval from Harvey as his hand drops to his covered cock.

“Let’s take a break before you do the other one.” Harvey says, his voice almost a purr as his free hand cards through your hair with clear affection. “Your hands have been busy so let’s put that mouth to work for a change.”

Pulling his cock free, it stands to attention immediately and the sheer girth of him never fails to make your mouth water. Shuffling forward on your knees until your body was caged between his thick thighs, you wrap your hand around his cock and guide it towards your mouth with enthusiasm – a submissive determination to please settling deep in your chest.

“Yes, Sir.” You mutter, glancing up at him as you quick take his cock within your lips and set out to give him everything that he’s needing as you own cunt twitches with satisfaction between your thighs.

32 notes · View notes

callsigncrash · 30 minutes

Text

thoughts no one asked for but my mind has no mouth and must scream

Harvey Dent/Two-Face x Soft/Romantic Goth F!Reader

Word Count: 1K

Tags: established relationship, fluff, mention of blood/wounds/injuries Harvey POV

Notes: Song referenced in moodboard is “Love You to Death" by Type O Negative. Just a thing that's been on the brain that I had to get out. Self indulgent.

Thinking about Harvey with a soft goth girlfriend who dresses like she could be scary, but she's actually the most least threatening person he's ever met.

You dress in all black, your boots look like you crush skulls for a living, and you wear spiked accessories like social deterrents, but you're just the sweetest thing he's ever met.

It's laughable to him, how people might perceive you one way when you're nothing like that. It reminds him of himself, or how he used to be, anyways. He's always been a bigger guy and looks pretty imposing, but he was never actually like that...unless driven to be. It's different now though, of course.

Dating you happened naturally as he found himself unable to stay away from you. Both sides of him liked watching the visible signs of you getting butterflies when he would be near you and though he'd never tell you, you gave him butterflies, too. He just couldn't stay away from you and he found himself having a soft spot for you.

You frequent all the oddity shops in Gotham so you've seen all sorts of things. The books you read are...interesting to say the least, he's peeked at a few titles. You're not bothered by the grotesque or the strange.

And you're not bothered by his scars.

He remembers the first time you looked at him, really looked at him. Right into both of his eyes and how you smiled.

Christ, he could never forget that.

His burns never bothered you and both sides of him immediately were attached to you because of this.

The first kiss you two shared made him so nervous. It was one thing to be around him and spend time with him, but physical intimacy scared him nowadays for obvious reasons. He hardly loves himself, so how could you? He was fully prepared for you to just kiss his cheek, maybe make an excuse if he were to make the first move, but you didn't.

You made the first move, cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, not bothering to work around his less than stellar half. Any doubts he may have still had about you, gone.

Your soft and kind demeanor brings out the gentleman side of Harvey and the protective side of Two-Face. Sure, his other half likes to scare you sometimes just for fun, sneaking up on you, stealing soft touches, grabbing you and pulling you to him when you least expect it, but if anyone else bothers you, luck will not be on their side.

He may not be the most gentle person, but with you he likes to try.

Harvey enjoys helping you in/out of your platforms, in/out of your corsets or whatever contraption of a garment you're zipped into, and he even offered to paint your nails for you once. He absolutely adores spoiling you with affection.

Harvey loves that your style is your own, but Harv is totally into it. When he's feeling festive with his split suits, he lets you help design them. Some designs are more fun with spikes and chain adornments and others are a bit more fancy with brocade and such.

Most of your interests he's not super into it, but he respects it. He's protective so you probably won't be able to go anywhere without him if he feels it could be unsafe.

If you want to go out dancing or to some niche concert, he'll tag along, though he'll hang back at a table and keep an eye on your from a distance, make sure no one messes with you. The scene isn't his jam, but seeing you have fun is enough for him.

Some of you provocative clothing is sure to get a reaction out of him, especially the fishnets. That's his weakness.

You always take him as he is so if you're ever nervous about how you look or how you're dressed, he's sure to hype you up as best as he can.

Sometimes he feels grateful for what happened to him, without the accident, he wouldn't have met you. With his new outlook on life, he can understand you better. He's positive that if he remained district attorney, living in the light, that he would have never given you the time of day and even if he did, he wouldn't know how to appreciate you the way he does now.

Your love for darker things helps him love himself, not by much, but enough that with you he isn't always doom and gloom or woe is me.

You being a romantic is not what he expected when he got with a goth gal. You like using the fancy dishes and lighting candles for dinner. You like flowers all over the place though they're usually dark in color. You like to cuddle with him and watch movies, not afraid to make contact with his scarred side.

You like watching a lot of monster movies which made him roll his eyes at first, but he would catch the way your eyes stay glued to the monster be it vampire, a werewolf, or a creature from the black lagoon. The soft dreamy sighs escaping you made him curious.

"You realize that they're the bad guy, right? Literally a monster, not human," he says. "They're just misunderstood," you explain. "And they just want to be loved like everyone else?" "Yeah, buut they mostly resort to extreme measures?" "I think..." she ponders, "it's because they understand what it is to lose something or be lonely. And they found someone who understands them and can see them, even though they aren't human. To be fully seen by somebody, then, and be loved anyhow. Or however that saying goes." She shrugs and pops a few pieces of popcorn into her mouth.

Watching you fawn over the the creatures in those films makes him feel better about himself, makes him feel like less of a monster, like he's still capable of being loved.

16 notes · View notes

callsigncrash · 36 minutes

Note

Hiiii could you do a forbidden hero x villain romance of captain boomerang and reader? Thank you in advance 🙃

No Use Mending Bridges

Captain Boomerang/Reader, 2.7K words

He'd been everything to you then. Now he was a crumpled mess, laying broken and battered on your couch. Rated: M

Ko-Fi || Masterlist || Request Info

CW: Mentions of blood and violence , swearing, angst, arguing, unhealthy relationship dynamics, betrayal, lying.

Please know: I think you are absolutely wonderful!

The view through your peephole is distorted; it makes his head look bulbous and alien-like, but despite the skewed image and years of no-contact, he’s still immediately recognisable. Fully prepared to tell him to take a hike unless he wants a free ride to the police station, you swing the door open only to be halted by the unobscured sight of him. His coat and gloves were torn and bloodied, one hand clutched to his ribs, the other supporting his weight on your door frame.

“Hey, stranger.” He splutters between bloody coughs. His face twitches in pain at each syllable. There’s a cluster of nasty reddish-purple bruises forming around the left side of his face, and he appears to have lost another tooth.

“What the fuck George?!” Confirming the coast is clear with a quick scan of the hallway, you herd his limping form into the apartment, where he unceremoniously spreads across the couch. “What the hell did you do? Why even come here?”

“I didn’t do nothin’.” His speech is slurred, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s drunk, injured, or both. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Just stay still.” You instruct as you begin rummaging, looking for your first-aid kit; it must be somewhere here. “And don’t touch anything!”

By the time you locate what you’re looking for and return to his side, George is unconscious. His pupils constrict as expected when you shine a light on them. Moderately happy that he’s not concussed you allow him to sleep as you clean him up, disturbing him only to remove his coats and boots.

By the time you’re done patching him up, it's late into the night. You don’t really want to leave him alone… because he might steal something, not because you’re worried about him. But because you’re exhausted. Resolving to leave him alone for a few hours, you pack up your kit and head to the kitchen to grab him a glass of water and some painkillers.

When you return, he’s awake, barely. Bleary reddened eyes watch you in silence as you place the glass and pills on your coffee table.

“Can you talk?” You ask.

“Oh yeeeeeaaahhhhh.” His speech seems worse now than when he’d arrived. “Ripperrrr.”

He must have really got his shit rocked. Or gotten really pissed before getting his shit rocked. You wait for him to say something more, to thank you for taking him in and fixing him up. He sits there watching you back, threading his tongue between the new gap in his teeth. As more and more time passes it becomes increasingly apparent that he has nothing to say to you. Ungrateful bastard.

Although it shouldn’t surprise you, really. Years ago, when you’d been an item, you’d patched him up plenty of times, bailed him out of prison, even gotten into fights for him, and he’d never thanked you then, either. It was always someone else’s fault, someone else’s burden. He was a martyr, and you’d believed him, every time. Right up until you’d caught him red handed, fist full of stolen cash in the middle of Central City National Bank’s vault. Although every fibre of your being wanted to hear him out, to forgive him, and take him home, you knew then and there that there was no coming back from this moment.

He knew who you were and the things you stood for, and he’s barefaced lied to you, going behind your back, living a double life as a criminal.

Shaking with anger, humiliation, and heartache, you did your best to shut him out as you hauled his ass down to the CCPD, swearing never to look back. And you didn’t; you never looked up his record, never googled his name, never asked your mutual friends about him. However, that didn’t stop you from hoping for a card in the mail every holiday, or scrolling through your camera roll with a tub of cookie dough whenever you thought about him too much or turning down every offer at a date with literally one else.

He'd been everything to you then. Now he was a crumpled mess, laying broken and battered on your couch.

“Who did this to you?” You ask, maybe because you want to hear his excuse, or maybe because you really want to know who is responsible.

“Why? You gonna arrest 'em?” Between the swollen face and the way he keeps lolling his tongue around, it's difficult to make out an emotion until he follows up with what is clearly intended as bitter sarcasm: “Myyyy hero!”

You have mixed emotions. You almost want to be proud of him for not immediately giving you a name and for feeding you a story about some guy who totally started it, but really, you knew it wasn’t that. He’d probably deserved it, probably been caught with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar by a hero bigger and stronger than you, with less emotional attachment. Or maybe he’s just intentionally being a dick, still mad at you for putting him behind bars.

“I don’t arrest people, George.” You take a deep breath, determined to sound professional. “But if needs be, I will turn them in to the police.”

“Don’t ya know; Snitches get stitches.” The more he refuses to tell you, the hotter your blood runs.

How dare he turn up here, asking for your help, then refuse to let you do your job. You’d had every right to turn him away, but you hadn’t. The least he could do was tell you why he’d darkened your doorway.

“You were a mess. You are a mess, and you know it, or else you wouldn’t have come here.” Your composure is slipping, each word growing louder and more agitated than the last. You care far more than you should, and you know it, that is the problem. “Whoever did this to you must be held accountable for their actions.”

“’Must be held accountable for their actions’, blah, blah, blah. Do they teach ya all that fancy talk at crime fighting 101 or whatever it is you do?” All the colour drains from his face as he watches your reaction, the way your face twists with anger. Instant regret. “Alright, alright, am sorry. That was uncalled for. I just… can we talk about it in the mornin’?”

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

Caught in a half lie, George falls silent, turning his head to avoid your gaze. All that red-hot rage leaves your body, replaced with a similar emptiness that settles in your chest. You’d barely gotten him out of your system when he’d turned up, and now he was practically gone already. It was for the best, really. No use mending bridges and making up with him; it would do neither of your reputations any good.

“Right. I’m going to bed. Goodnight George.” You’re gone before he can respond.

The creak of footsteps against hardwood flooring stirs you from half-sleep. For a thief, he’s awful at keeping quiet. The smart thing to do would be to check on him. He was probably halfway out of a window with his pockets full of valuables, but whatever he’d taken would be a small price to pay to not have to look at him one more time.

Light from the hallway peeped into the room, not bright enough to blind you, but enough to put you on alert to the door opening. Confused and on edge, you dart up, finding George stood at the end of the bed. He’d removed his shirt and jeans, exposing some minor cuts and bruises that you’d missed, and leaving him in nothing but his briefs. A sorry sight for sore eyes.

“Forgot how uncomfortable the couch is.” He informs you nonchalantly.

“You picked it, ‘didn’t wanna pay more than $50 on a doghouse’.” You did you best to imitate his accent, earning you a laugh. The sound was strange, you hadn’t realised you’d forgotten it until you heard it again.

“Can I?” he gestures to you, to the bed.

“How bashed up is your head? Hell no.” You pull the sheets tighter around yourself.

“Oh, come on, ya said it yourself am a mess, an’ that lumpy old thing ain’t exactly helping.” The way he waves his arms around must hurt, must be agitating his wounds, and pulling his bandages loose, but the movements are so familiar, so quintessentially him, that you can’t help but smile. Clearly knowing he’s found a weak spot, he comes closer, dropping to his knees, elbows on the bed, head cradled in his hands as he bats exaggeratedly large eyes at you. “Technically, it’s our bed anyway, so… Please?”

“Fine.” He’s pulling the sheets back before you’ve even finished. Wriggling his ass against the mattress, batting the pillows into place, too late to take it back now.

“Is that my pillow?” He asks, pointing to your side of the bed.

Originally, you’d taken it because the smell reminded you of him, but it had been such a long time. It no longer smelled of him, and you could claim that you don’t remember. “Not anymore.”

“’Fine.’” He mimics you for the second time that night, probably payback for your atrocious attempt at Australian earlier.

Awkward silence befalls the room. It’s not as bad as it had been downstairs, not as hostile, but the tension is still thick. When you’d patched him up earlier, the air had been pungent with blood and steriliser. Now though, he filled the bed with a familiar spicy musk that made you more comfortable than you’d anticipated. You wondered if you’ll wash the sheets right after he’s gone, or if you’ll be swapping the pillows around once more.

You risk a peek at him, curious if he still the same up-close, all scruff and rough and homey. His green eyes are already staring back at you. Caught out, you refuse to shy away, allowing him to watch you watch him. He’s leaner now, and you note a few tattoos you don’t recognise across his upper arm and chest.

As the minutes pass, the tension simmers. It’s almost peaceful, being so close again. It all feels so intimate, so easy, at least until he says the dumbest thing you’ve heard all day.

“What happened to us, aye?”

“What happened? You lied to me, for basically all of our relationship. You humiliated me.” Once it started coming out, it didn’t stop. Unconsciously, you sit up straight, keeping your distance as you continue to rant. “You can’t just talk your way back in here and pretend like it didn’t happen. I trusted you, and you made a fool out of me.”

“Hold on now, it’s not like that.” He remains calm, still laying back in the bed, amused by your sudden outburst. His laid-back attitude had been so charming when you’d fallen for him. Now it pissed you off.

“Then what is it like, George?” His brows don’t furrow until you reach the end of the sentence.

“Stop it.” He finally sits up, hunched to ensure eye contact. “Stop calling me that!”

Even during the worst spells of your relationship, he’s never eyed you so intensely, not in this context, at least. Back then, it might have scared you, but now you were relieved to see some real emotion from him, even if he’s picking at a scab you don’t want touched. You know exactly what he’s getting at, but you don’t want to address it, so you repeat your earlier question. “What is it like?”

“You’ve never called me George before today.” He rebuffs your question again, zeroing in on his own issue. He’d never liked his birthname, so you’d never used it—not until you’d needed a way to distance yourself from him.

“George never broke my heart.” Your voice is a whisper but he’s close enough to hear it. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing as he mulls over your words. Every second is like torture until you put a stop to it. You grab his pillow from the bed as you stand. “This was a mistake. Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Please don’t.” Calloused fingers wrap around your arm, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to keep their grip as you’re tugged back onto the bed. “I’m sorry for what I did, for all of it—the fights, the stealin’. And I’m sorry I didn’t say sorry sooner.”

Those same strong fingers drag along your arms, attempting to offer comfort. Unable to muster the resolve to fight it, you let him pull you deeper onto the bed, encasing you in an embrace that is both unwelcome and wanted.

“Do you think there’s a way we can fix us?” He asks, voice cracked. He draws closer, nestling into the nook of your neck as he awaits your response.

You’ve laid awake in this very spot missing him for such a long time. Praying that one day, this exact moment might happen, but there are things you have to be certain of first. “Are you just saying all this to get laid?”

There is hesitation that briefly fills you with dread before he replies carefully. “No.”

“Will you give it all up?” You cup his cheeks, pulling him up until you’re face to face, where you can watch his reaction. You’re both so close, so ready to fold, but you can’t give up your morals, so maybe you can convince him to change. “The whole rogue thing? Will you quit?”

“Darlin’… Loving you has nothing to do with -”

You interrupt him with a kiss, a desperate attempt to change his mind before he commits to his statement. He tastes like copper and malt. Blood and beer. It reminds you of every kiss you’d shared before now. You shove your tongue inside his mouth, craving more, and he shudders in response.

When you pull away, he watches you with a dazed expression, scabbed lips pulled into a dreamy smile.

“That was ace.” Your foreheads press together, and he closes his eyes, thinking, preserving, you’re not sure, but his smile gradually falters. “But would ya do that in front of the bonze?”

“I would.” It’s an instant response, but once it leaves your mouth you know there’s a stipulation. “If you reformed.”

“We’re just goin’ around in bloody circles.” He releases you, hands thrown in the air as he falling back against the bed with a frustrated grunt. A giggle escapes your lips at the sight, but once he’s settled, you start to miss the warmth of his body with a force you hadn’t felt since the night of your breakup.

Unwilling to let the moment go just yet, you encroach his side of the bed, resting your head on his chest. He signals his approval by stroking his hand against your back.

“We’re supposed to be enemies, you know?” You’re talking to him but don’t have the strength to move in a way that allows you to look at his face. “I should hate you, why can’t I hate you?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious why.” He gives your shoulder a playful nudge. “Am just lovable.”

He laughs at his joke, wholeheartedly. You laugh, humouring his attempt to lighten the mood.

When the laughter dries up, you lay together in silence yet again, so many pauses, both of you so uncertain how to move forward. The beat of his heart thumping beneath your ears is the only sound you can make out.

“I just gotta pull one last job.” He cuts through the quiet.

“What is it?” You make the effort to angle your head upwards, but he halts you by placing his hand on the top of your head.

“Can’t tell ya.” He taps his fingers against your head the way he would a table, one fingertip at a time. It’s a nervous tick he’d picked up a long time ago. “Nothin’ personal, just don’t want ya tryna’ stop me.”

Could you call yourself a hero if you let him do whatever he was planning? If you didn’t take preventative measures, or hold him responsible for yet another crime?

“Digger, please don’t make me regret this.”

When you wake the next morning, the space beside you is empty and cold. The wrinkled outline of his body in the sheets serve as the only proof that anyone had been there the night before. No noises rung through the flat, no footsteps, no echo from the TV, no running water. Fighting through morning fuzziness you stumble out of your bedroom, searching for your missing bedfellow, only to find an open window and an empty wallet.

67 notes · View notes

callsigncrash · 60 minutes

Text

I think we all need more Boomerang in our lives :3

66 notes · View notes

callsigncrash · 1 hour

Text

Dear Alice

(Arkham!Mad Hatter x Fem!Reader)

● Ao3 ● X ● Retrospring ● Read on Ao3 ●

“More tea, Alice?” Jervis asks.

You smile. “Why certainly,” you answer, holding out your cup to him. It’s empty, and you’re eager for your third cup. The taste of cinnamon and citrus lingers on your tongue. Your eyes linger on him just a little too long, the way his hands shake as he steadies the teapot carefully over your cup.

You can’t help but admire him; he looks a little disheveled. Strands of brown hair fall gently at the sides of his face. There’s a hint of stubble growing across his cheeks and jaw, but you don’t mind. He’s scruffy looking in a sophisticated, Victorian-era way.

When he’s finished pouring your tea, he looks up at you and smiles. You bring your cup to your lips and sip. He sets the teapot down and rubs his hands together in excitement.

“Does this Wonderland please you? I’d hate to see you so blue. It’s been such a lonely year without you here,” he says. His eyes are sad, yet patient, as he awaits your answer.

Your gaze strays to the rest of the room. To the men lining the walls, wearing rabbit masks, guns in their hands. To the shadows creeping in the corners and yet, the lively party set out in front of you. Tiny cakes and treats and sweets of all kinds. Card tea sandwiches and, scones, and jam tarts.

The truth is that you don’t mind living here with him, with Jervis. He may be the embodiment of the Mad Hatter, but you are the everything that ever was and ever will be Alice. Your hair is pulled back with a black headband, and you’re wearing a blue dress in the exact style of the beloved character. But Alice is not fictional, not to you, because you are her and she is you. You’ve known it since you were a child, since the very first time you cracked open the pages of that dusty old book.

“Dear Alice, have I upset you so?” Jervis asks when you haven’t answered in a long while. “Please don’t fret, don’t go, don’t go.” His words are louder now, desperate.

You turn your attention to him and smile. “What was that?” you ask, so lost in thought you didn’t quite understand him.

“Alice, my dear Alice please,” he says again, reaching forward to catch your hand in his, rough fingers against your soft flesh. “I—”

Then, it’s as if what he said catches up to you. Your brain registers what he’d previously said, when you were listening but so taken aback by the Wonderland he’d built for the two of you that you hadn’t quite registered his words.

“Jervis,” you say, placing another hand over his to calm him, and he closes his mouth. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Do you mean that, dear Alice? Do you truly mean that? Please tell me your words are not filled with malice,” he says, a light jilt, a deep sorrow resonating in his tone. Too many fake Alice’s he’s lost along the way.

“Yes, my dear Hatter. I really do,” you reply. Because you are the real Alice, the one always meant for him. The moment you met eyes, that tiny spark of realization shooting between the two of you like lightning, there was nothing you could do to stop it. And you’ve never looked back.

Because he, Jervis Tetch, is all that matters to you. You are Alice and he is the Mad Hatter. Two beings made for one another, and you would not let your Wonderland and future be anything but frabjous days for all the years to come.

11 notes · View notes