#oc edison

gifts I made!

From top left to right, then down left to right:

Saros and the Webbs (Saros belongs to @smallestapplin)

Kes x Pecha (Kes belongs to @wardenswateringhole)

Maid Edison (Requested by @cupcakestreets)

Curly x @bumblehoneybee’s oc

X is done, Circle is requested

TWISTED - #1: Victim Blaming

Story Sypnosis: What if everyone you trusted turned against you? Edison is framed for a crime he didn’t commit, with evidence so airtight it’s like someone’s been watching his every move. No one believes his innocence, and he has no clue how to prove it. But the worst part? It all happened in the home of someone who’s been obsessing over him for longer than he could ever guess.

CW: False accusations, Public judgement, Violence mention, murder mention, hopelessness, Gaslighting, manipulation, Desperation and isolation

The room was suffocating, like the walls were closing in on him, crushing his lungs. He could barely hear the voices around him over the pounding in his ears, a relentless drumbeat that drowned out everything else. They were staring at him—eyes filled with a mix of pity and accusation, like he was some kind of monster.

"How could you?" The question wasn't even directed at him, not really. It was a judgment, an indictment. He felt it like a knife twisting in his gut, carving out pieces of him with every glance, every whisper.

He wanted to scream that it wasn't true, that they were wrong, but the words stuck in his throat, choking him. He didn’t know where to start, didn’t know how to explain something he didn’t even understand himself.

He could still see the scene flashing in his mind, over and over again—the blood, the shattered glass, the way everything had gone so horribly wrong. It played on a loop, like some sick movie that he couldn’t turn off. He hadn’t done it. He knew that much, at least. But that didn’t matter.

The evidence was everywhere, and it pointed right at him. They had found his fingerprints, his DNA, his goddamn fucking name carved into the table like a damn signature. It was a nightmare, and no matter how much he tried, he wasn't able to wake up from it.

“They found your shirt covered in blood. The same blood type as hers,” someone said. He wasn’t sure who—maybe it was the officer, or maybe it was one of those fake-sympathetic relatives who had been hovering around since it happened. “What were you doing there that night?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. He couldn’t remember. That night was a blur, hazy and distant, like something that had happened to someone else. He remembered being in his apartment, watching TV, maybe. But that couldn’t be right. His shirt had been found, stained red and crumpled in the corner of that house, and he had no idea how it had gotten there. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t.

“I didn’t—” He finally managed to say, his voice hoarse and cracking, even he didn't believe it was his own. “I didn’t do it. You have to believe me.”

They didn’t. He could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at him like he was some kind of criminal trying to wriggle out of punishment. They had already made up their minds, and nothing he said would change that.

“Your prints were on the knife,” someone else said, a woman this time, her voice trembling with barely-contained anger. “Your prints, on the weapon that killed her. You were there, you did this, and now you’re trying to deny it?”

He shook his head, a violent, desperate motion, but it was like trying to push back a tidal wave with his bare hands. “No…no, I wasn’t there, I swear. I didn’t—someone must’ve planted it. I wasn’t there!”

The woman’s face twisted into something ugly, something filled with hate and revulsion. “Planted it? You think this is some kind of setup? Why the hell would someone go to all this trouble just to frame you?”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t understand how any of this was happening. But the evidence was piling up, a mountain so high he couldn’t see the top, and he was buried underneath it, suffocating.

“I don’t know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I don’t know how any of this happened. But I didn’t do it.”

"You're a monster. A fucking monster." The woman hissed at him, almost going as far as trying to tackle him, before she was dragged away by the officers.

But the word was already branded in his mind. He wasn't a monster. His life was going absolutely fine, even if he was struggling with paying his school fee and managing two jobs in a day. He was just a simple 21 year old so how the fuck did this happen?

"Please. I didn't- I didn't do it." His sobs were getting harder and louder, inches close to hyperventilating. "I was in my apartment, doing my work all night. I had a test the next day.. I swear.. I swear I didn't.. I swear I didn't do it."

He could see it on their faces—the cold, hard certainty that he was guilty, that he was lying through his teeth. He felt the walls closing in on him, tighter and tighter, until he couldn’t breathe.

“It’s all there,” the officer said, almost kindly, like he was speaking to a child who didn’t understand what they’d done wrong. “The evidence is all there, son. What I think really happened was that Freya came to your house for a date, she said something that angered you and then you murdered her. Now why don't you tell us the truth hm?”

The way the officer said it, was as if all of this was no big deal. He wanted to scream, to cry, to run, to tell them how wrong all of them were. And the truth? The truth was that he hadn’t done anything. He wasn’t a murderer. But for them the truth didn’t matter—not when the lies were so much more convincing.

“I didn’t,” he said again, weaker this time, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t do it.”

But even he could hear how hollow it sounded, how desperate. They were looking at him like he was already convicted, like they were just waiting for him to finally admit it. The pity in their eyes was gone, replaced by something colder.

“You need to stop lying,” the officer said, his voice firm now, no trace of kindness left. “This is your last chance. Tell us what really happened, or we’ll have no choice but to charge you. Is that what you want?”

He felt like he was falling, spiraling down into a pit of darkness with no bottom. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to make them see that this was all wrong. His head was spinning, his thoughts racing in a thousand different directions, but none of them made any sense. He could barely breathe, his chest tight with panic, with fear, with the knowledge that he was utterly, completely fucked.

“I… I can’t…” His voice cracked, trying to stop his constant sobbing. “Please, you have to believe me. I didn’t do it. I didn’t…”

The officers only sighed, and the people around him continued to whisper and glare at him. He could see it in them, the way they were already writing him off as guilty, as a murderer. He felt like he was drowning, the air thick and suffocating, his heart pounding so hard it hurt. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fight against the tide that was pulling him under. And the worst part? He didn’t even know who had done this to him, who had destroyed his life so completely, so meticulously. He had always been so.. nice to everyone. He never had any enemies. So.. why..? Why this..?

He had no idea why. But as the officer’s voice droned on, talking about charges and evidence and court dates, all he could think was that it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His life was over, and he hadn’t even seen it coming.

He felt sick, the bile rising in his throat, the taste of fear and despair bitter on his tongue. ]He wanted to run and run, maybe flee to another country. Just somewhere people would look at him with kindness again. But how could he fight against something this big, this overwhelming? He was just one person, and whoever had done this to him—they had all the power. He was nothing, no one. A victim. A scapegoat.

They were still talking, but he couldn’t hear them anymore. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart, beating faster and faster, like it was going to explode. He needed to get out. He needed to run. His hands went to his ears, covering them. But there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from the truth that was suffocating him.

And as the realization settled in, as the cold, hard truth of it all slammed into him like a freight train, and he felt something inside him break.

He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. And no one, not a single soul, believed him.

His breath hitched in his throat, the room spinning around him as the panic tightened its grip. The walls felt like they were closing in faster, the air thickening with every passing second. He could see them, all of them, watching him, waiting for him to crack, to confess to something he didn’t do.

The officer's words became a distant hum, drowned out by the deafening roar of his thoughts. His vision blurred, the faces around him turning into a mess of shapes and colors. He felt the pressure building inside, a scream clawing its way up his throat, desperate to escape. But instead, a single thought cut through the chaos like a knife: Run.

The word echoed in his mind, clear and sharp, rising above the noise. His legs twitched, his muscles tensing, ready to bolt. He knew what he had to do. There was no other option, no other way out. Maybe this wasn't a good choice, but did it matter? He was only going to end up in a cell with no contact with the outside world and no love. He had to get away, had to find somewhere—anywhere—where he could breathe again. Where he could fucking think, where he could figure out who had done this to him. Just fucking run.

He swallowed hard, the taste of bile still bitter on his tongue. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the last remnants of the officer’s voice. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t let them box him in any longer.

With one final glance at the faces around him, at the cold, accusing eyes that had already condemned him, he made up his mind. His body was moving before his mind could catch up, his muscles coiled like springs, ready to snap. A last thought consumed his mind, repeating again and again. Run.

He was going to run.

Their names are Nathaniel (left) and Edison "Eddie" (right) and theyre horrible enemies and i love them.

Day One: Fav Oc

I was gonna draw something new but I got busy and then it got late so here is some art I had done already.

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sexy