#penguinedit

The meeting with Oswald felt less like chance and more like the universe itself had deliberately orchestrated it. It wasn't a casual encounter at a coffee shop, or a shared glance across a crowded room. It was a collision, a sudden, irreversible shift in your trajectory. You, living your quiet, ordinary life, never imagined venturing into the shadowed alleyways and opulent dens of depravity that defined his world. A world where the air felt thick with unspoken threats, where whispered deals replaced polite conversation, and every sunrise seemed to paint the streets with the residue of the previous night's violence. Yet, somehow, you found yourself drawn into his orbit, a moth irresistibly pulled toward a flickering, dangerous flame. It wasn't love at first sight, not in the traditional sense. It was something far more complex, a magnetic pull born of recognition. You saw, beneath the gruff exterior and the calculating gaze, a profound brokenness. You saw the cracks in his carefully constructed facade, the remnants of a soul that had been battered and bruised by the harsh realities he had endured. And in that brokenness, you glimpsed a reflection of your own vulnerabilities, a shared understanding that transcended words. You couldn't just walk away. You found yourself compelled, almost against your will, to sift through the layers of anger and ambition, to find the buried pieces of the man he once was, the man you believed could still be.

But even in those early days, as you explored the labyrinth of his personality, you were shadowed by a chilling understanding. You knew that a man like Oswald Cobblepot—a man who had clawed his way up from the depths of despair, who had been betrayed and abandoned by those he had trusted, who had tasted the bitterness of injustice time and time again—was fated to a life of perpetual struggle. He yearned for peace, for a sanctuary from the relentless battles he fought every day, but you knew it was a yearning that would forever remain unfulfilled. Loving him, you realized with a sinking heart, was an act of self-condemnation. It was like stepping onto a path of thorns, knowing full well where it would lead, yet unable to resist the allure of the rose at its center. You had bound yourself to his destiny, and there was no turning back.

When his mother, his last anchor to the gentler parts of his past, died, it was as if the very foundations of his world had crumbled beneath his feet. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a storm of grief so intense that it threatened to consume him.

You could see it in his eyes. There was nothing there, no glimmer of the usual sharp intelligence, no quick wit or dark humor. Oswald Cobblepot was a man who had always fought for control, always strived to stay one step ahead, but in that moment, it was clear that even he couldn’t control the storm raging inside of him. His mother had been the one constant in his life, the one person who had cared for him in the way that only a mother could. She was gone, and with her, a piece of him died, too.

“Do you understand, (Y/N)?” he asked, his voice shaking. The coldness in his eyes was gone now, replaced by something far more dangerous—raw, unfiltered pain. “She’s gone. And I… I’m alone.”

The words cut through you like a blade. You had never seen him so exposed, so vulnerable. For a moment, it felt like the wall he had built between the two of you—between himself and everyone—was cracking, and you could almost see the person beneath all the layers of anger and resentment.

But even in that moment of weakness, you knew better than to think he would let you in.

You reached out to him, but he recoiled. The pain was too much. The fear that anyone could get close enough to hurt him, to take something else from him, was too deep. The walls he had spent a lifetime building slammed back into place, stronger than before, and you were left standing there, desperate and broken.

“I tried to do everything right. I tried to make her proud,” Oswald’s voice cracked. He stumbled backward, his hand gripping the back of a chair like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “But it’s never enough. Never. She’s dead, and I still can’t fix it. It’s never enough, is it?”

The tears that had threatened to fall for so long finally spilled from his eyes. You’d never seen him cry—not in all the time you’d known him. But there it was, the most vulnerable moment he would ever give you, the most raw, broken piece of himself. And you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to reach out and take away his pain. But you couldn't.

Because you understood the cost. You understood that even for a touch, even for the slightest moment of connection, there would be consequences. With Oswald Cobblepot, you could never have happiness. You could never have peace. Not when he was so determined to burn everything to the ground.

The days that followed his mother's funeral were a maelstrom of raw, unchecked emotion. It was as if the very fabric of Oswald's being had been torn, leaving behind jagged edges of fury and a bitter resentment that seemed to cling to everything he touched. He moved through the world like a wounded animal, snarling at any attempt at connection, retreating further and further into the solitude he seemed determined to forge. He became a ghost in his own life, his presence a heavy silence that suffocated the space around him. And you, who had shared laughter and whispered secrets with him, found yourself on the outside, gazing in at a stranger. You were left with the hollow ache of what was, and the painful recognition of what was quickly becoming.

The distance between you was not a physical thing, but a vast, icy chasm that widened with each passing day. Every unanswered question, every averted gaze, every sharp word delivered like a blow, contributed to the growing divide. You could feel its chilling tendrils wrap around your heart, squeezing the hope from your chest. You were desperate to reach him, to tear down the walls he was so meticulously building. You yearned to drag him back from the abyss of grief and despair that threatened to consume him. You had seen the light in him, however flickering, and now you watched, helpless, as it threatened to be extinguished. The thought of him disappearing into the darkness, swallowed whole, tore at you with a sharp, possessive grief.

But a grim understanding settled in your bones, cold and heavy as lead. You knew the stories. You had heard whispers of the Cobblepot family's tragic history, of the curse that seemed to cling to their lineage. You had watched Oswald navigate a world that seemed designed to break him. You knew, with a stark certainty that mirrored the unwavering despair in his eyes, that Oswald Cobblepot was a man destined for tragedy. His arc, you realized with a chilling finality, was not bent towards joy but towards a slow, agonizing decline. And as much as your heart ached, as much as you longed to be his lifeline, you knew that reaching for him in his despair was akin to grabbing a drowning man. You wouldn't pull him to safety; you’d only find yourself pulled under by the undertow of his sorrow. You would be dragged down, swallowed whole by the darkness, leaving two souls lost instead of one. The realization was a cruel truth, a bitter pill to swallow, but the hard-won wisdom of survival wouldn’t let you ignore it.

It happened on one of those nights when the weight of the world seemed to rest on Oswald’s shoulders. You found him standing in front of a window, looking out over Gotham, his posture stiff, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Oswald,” you whispered, hesitant, like stepping into the room might shatter the fragile moment between you.

He turned to face you, his face unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—told you everything. The pain was still there, raw and bleeding, and no matter how much he tried to hide it, you could see it. You could feel it.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, knowing there was nothing you could do. “I wish I could make this better.”

Oswald’s lips curled into a bitter, mocking smile. “Make it better?” he echoed, his voice laced with sarcasm and something darker. “You can’t make this better, (Y/N). This is who I am. This is all I’ll ever be.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you didn’t back down. You never did.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you said, your voice faltering. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

But he shook his head, his eyes hardening. “I never asked for your pity, (Y/N),” he spat, taking a step closer to you, his face inches from yours. “You think I need you? You think I can let you in and make this better? Look at me.” He motioned to himself, his voice rising with anger. “I’m a monster. And I will destroy everything in my path, including you, if I have to.”

You could feel his pain, his grief. It consumed him, and you knew that he was right. He would destroy everything in his path, because that was all he knew how to do. He had been abandoned, betrayed, and now, all he had left was the cold, suffocating need for power.

And you. You were just another casualty in his war against the world.

The inevitability had hung over you like a leaden sky, a constant, oppressive weight you’d grown accustomed to carrying. You had known, deep down, that this day, this devastating moment, was lurking around the corner. Yet, knowing didn't lessen the impact. It still crushed you, the wind being knocked out of your soul, leaving you gasping for air in the vacuum of a shattered hope.

The argument, the final, agonizing battle, had erupted in the suffocating stillness of the night. Not the kind of disagreement that could be smoothed over with apologies and understanding, but a brutal, vicious fight that tore at the fabric of your relationship, leaving both of you bleeding and broken on the battlefield of your love. He had unleashed a torrent of anger – yelling that vibrated within the very walls of your home, screams that tore at your eardrums, objects flung with reckless abandon, each one a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging within him. Every outburst, every cruel word felt like a sharp, jagged stone hurled directly at your heart. But beneath the surface of his rage, you saw the truth, as clear as a reflection in a still pond. He wasn’t just angry; he was petrified. His terror was a palpable thing, a suffocating fog clinging to him. The loss of his mother, a wound that clearly hadn’t healed, had fractured him, leaving him a fragile, terrified creature. He was terrified of the connection you two shared, the deep, abiding love that had blossomed between you. He feared the vulnerability that came with caring, the raw exposure of his heart. In his twisted logic, feeling something so profoundly for someone meant leaving himself open to the possibility of being utterly and irrevocably destroyed, a fate he clearly couldn't bear to risk again.

"I never wanted this!" The words ripped through the tense air, his voice cracking with the weight of his confession, the carefully constructed mask of anger slipping, though only for a fleeting instant, revealing the raw, wounded soul beneath. "I never wanted to care about you, (Y/N). I never wanted to need you.” His words, laced with a desperate kind of pain and fear, were like daggers twisting in your heart. The declaration, the honesty behind it, was a devastating blow, a confirmation of the darkness that had taken root within him.

Your instinct was to reach out, to wrap your arms around him, to pull him close to your chest and soothe the tremors wracking his body. You wanted to whisper words of comfort, to assure him that everything would eventually be alright, that you could navigate this storm together, that it didn’t have to end like this. But the cold, hard truth settled upon you, like a shroud. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that words wouldn’t mend this brokenness.

It would never be okay. Not really. Not for him, and certainly not for you. His heart, so deeply wounded, so completely shattered by grief and fear, was beyond repair, beyond any hope of healing. And with a horrifying clarity, you realized that your own heart, bound to his so tightly, was destined to follow him into the desolate, burning ashes of his pain. You were already burning, feeling the heat of his despair, knowing the fire would consume you both. The connection, once the source of so much joy, was now the tether that would drag you down. You were inextricably linked, and his destruction would be yours as well.

In the end, it wasn’t the world that destroyed Oswald Cobblepot—it was himself. And it wasn’t your love that tore you apart, but the knowledge that no matter how much you cared for him, no matter how much you wanted to save him from the darkness, there was nothing you could do. You were both destined to suffer, to burn for each other, and in the end, to lose everything.

Because there was no happy ending for you.