#jericho.

REQUESTS ARE NOT OPEN ‼️‼️‼️

Latest works: [x] -- [x] -- [x] -- [x] -- [x] -- [x] -- [x]

Gabe | 22 | he/him | (fully) Black (AA) | bigender (m/f)

~ DNI/DNF ~ Masterlist ~ icon credit ~ header credit ~

-- There’s a blindfold tight around his eyes. He can move his forearms and hands, just enough room for him to sign, but not enough to remove the blindfold. The rope’s cutting into his shoulders just a bit and he rolls them, trying to keep the circulation going.

He doesn’t bother asking for them to be loosened. He’s too dangerous if he’s free for even a second. Even rendered unable to possess, he’s still a man raised by Adeline Kane, with a streak of Slade Wilson’s strength and speed running through his veins.

It’s like waking up from a dream. The memories are tattered around the edges. The possessor had been possessed, had attacked his friends.

Dick had taught him this, hadn’t he? Listening, feeling the air, the ground under his feet. He’s indoors, foot tapping against a tiled floor. It’s cool, a little stuffy like he’s indoors. There’s fans whirring softly in the background, he tries to remember where he’s heard the noise. Computers, the computers in the tower. He’s in the main meeting room, the long garish table. He turns his head to where the window might be, greeted with the smallest slits of sunlight through the top of his blindfold.

Thank god they’d practiced how to take him down. He doesn’t begrudge the bindings. There’s some bit of his father still there, that’s proud that it took so much effort to take him down, and so much thought put into how to keep him restrained. He’s a Wilson, he’s a force of nature-- no, something beyond nature.

There’s a touch on his shoulder and he jumps, spins around to see who it is. He’s got his hands in fists, protecting his core even as his upper arms are held tight to his side.

He can’t touch the sign to his chin, just holds it at his chest. A finger crooks in a question mark, demanding to know who’d touched him-- then he smells the incense and perfume, a warm hand on his shoulder that he knows.

He relaxes, sagging under the comforting hand. “Raven.” he mouths, lips tugging into a weary grin. He circles his fingers as one winds a clock, then moves his hands in a timeline. Pointer finger crooks into that question mark again, moving along the timeline he’s drawn in front of him. Then he points to the blindfold.