#Gotham!Oswald cobblepot x you

[yanderemystic]

⋆˚࿔ৎ⪩ Yandere Oswald Cobb Headcanons

— Oswalds traits: Manipulative, clingy, impulsive.

Oswald is pretty clear with his intentions. If he wants it, regardless of the so-called value, he’s going to get it somehow and someway. That comes with the same price as you.

Impression is always his go-to. With that and his high interest, these two combined can become quite a mess. He tries greatly to reel you in with his wooing—using every romantic strategy he knows from his heart to get your attention. He goes all the way to town, like gifting you very expensive items to hint that he can care for you. Giving you a few thousand when dropping you off at your apartment, or even offering to pay for it.

His favorite thing is taking you out to nice restaurants in Gotham, showing you off with your gleaming outfits that he’s gifted you himself. He’s a known gentleman, always putting your necklaces or rings on–even earrings if you want him to. Everything you could want is gifted from him.

Apologetically pushy. From the moment he’s met you, he's always wanted to be in your personal space. Calling you constantly. Always finding excuses to visit your apartment, even at late nights, showing up with takeout and shoving himself through the door before you can fully open it; that glimmering smirk of his, as he rambles and calls you his sweet doll.

Oz doesn’t mean too, truly, but he’s gotta know every detail in your life—admiring those picture frames you have, to the specific color you use, maybe makeup or even your own bedroom which you have decorated to express what you like. Maybe, if he finds a diary, if he is lucky enough, he knows damn well it’s coming with him. He can always say he found it. Pretended to never read it, right?

Your parents will most definitely approve of him. It’s a dream come true, a gentleman in this century? What a lucky dream. Though, if your relationship isn’t as strong as between him and his ma, he’s always willing to share her with you. Share sweet memories, even.

With each piece of newfound information with you, he really begins to get nosy with you. He doesn’t mean to press his nose into where it doesn’t belong, but he has to know what you are doing. To know what restaurant you are at with some friends, what times you get home, who you were hanging out with, and when you left. If you hide something from him, he will know about it.

A worry freak. If you don’t message him back within a few hours, he begins to panic. Watches your conversations like a hawk, waiting for the bubble to rise. If he doesn’t see it, he rushes to your apartment like a mad man. When all is good, and you are fine, he gets irritated—why can’t you just message him back with ‘i love you too’?

He makes it clear that he is obsessed with you—his hands keep near you like second skin. If you decide to go with him to the club, or to a nice place where there are a lot of people, he’d love for you to sit on his lap. A hand on your waist, squeezing every once a while. His pinky accidentally swiping over your thigh. His lips chasing down your shoulders, kissing your revealed skin.

I had such fun writing this. Please enjoy it as much as I did! Requests are open so please come and send em in •‿• !!

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter eight | back to black.

masterlist.

pairing : battinson x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : FUNERAL DAY !! I originally planned for this chapter to be 10k words, but it felt like too much, so I decided to split it into two parts. I’ll post the next part soon after this one! As always, feel free to leave a comment—I love hearing your thoughts!

cw : Bruce being a simp, Maryam and her sisters making fun of him, I forgot what else, 18+, thriller, medical procedures, angst, mental health issues, depression, ptsd, noire, canon-typical violence, POV alternating, gritty, horror, illness, slow burn, action, fluff, mutual pining, forced proximity, crime families, crime, fighting ect… read at your own risk !

THE CAVE FEELS MORE LIKE A TOMB than a workspace, cold and silent, echoing only the low whirring of Bruce's gadgets. 

Beneath Wayne Tower, Gotham's pulse feels distant, dulled by layers of concrete and steel.

At his workbench, as usual, Bruce sits alone, bathed in the soft blue glow of multiple screens. His face is as unmoving as stone, but his eyes burn with an intensity that belies his calm. 

On the screen before him, the footage replays—not of Gotham's criminals, not of the streets he prowls, not even of Selina's contacts or his enemies. But her. Maryam.

Maryam—like the Virgin Mary, but nothing so innocent, nothing so untouchable. Maryam is fire and ice, contradiction and certainty, strength and vulnerability. She is as untamed as the storm and as steady as the mountains. 

He knows it well, and yet, even after all this time, she's still a mystery he can't solve, a puzzle with pieces he's terrified to touch.

The screen freezes on her face, capturing her in mid-sentence, her expression twisted not in anger, but in something deeper—hurt. Her brow is furrowed, and those striking hazel eyes, that impossible green-gold, blaze with a betrayal that lances through him like a blade. Her lips, poised to unleash a torrent of words she'd held back, are pressed tight in defiance. And all he can do is stare, feeling the sting of his own stupidity.

Valuable. 

He'd said it as if it were a compliment, as if it justified the risks she took, as if it somehow explained the place she'd carved out in his life of shadows and secrets. But he hadn't anticipated her reaction, the flicker of hurt that had flashed across her face, the way she'd recoiled, as though he'd reduced her to a pawn in his endless game of vengeance.

His hands, fingers tense above the controls, curl into fists as her words echo back, slicing through the silence of the Cave like a ghostly accusation.

"Just some asset to monitor, a liability to contain—like a ticking bomb?"

He could see her in his mind, fire in her eyes as she spat the words at him, her voice trembling with fury, her frame taut with unspent energy. And he'd felt that pang, deep in his chest, as if something inside him had cracked, letting in the tiniest sliver of vulnerability, one he'd locked away long ago.

He remembers the way she looked at him, her gaze searching, peeling back the layers of his resolve with an intimacy he wasn't prepared for. "I'm not just... valuable. I'm a person. I bleed, I hurt. And you... you can't just..." She'd hesitated, her voice wavering, raw with something achingly human. "You can't just treat me like I'm another cog in your mission."

She'd left him speechless. 

He, who always had an answer, who prided himself on his ability to read people, who knew Gotham's darkest corners like the back of his hand—he had nothing to say. 

Because she was right.

He'd built his life on walls, fortress upon fortress, a castle to keep everyone out, and her words had broken through like a wrecking ball.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table, burying his face in his hands. 

And for the first time in years, he feels the weight of guilt, sharp and foreign, pressing into him like a blade he can't remove. He'd made a vow to never let anyone in, to keep his mission above everything, and yet here she was, tearing down his carefully constructed armor with nothing but her honesty.

He's so absorbed that he doesn't notice Alfred's quiet approach, the soft click of his footsteps as he stops a few paces behind. 

After a moment, the butler clears his throat gently, breaking the silence. 

Bruce doesn't turn, but his body tenses, the mask slipping back into place, though the rawness lingers in his eyes.

"Enjoying the view, sir?" Alfred asks, his tone laced with mischief as he steps into the dim light.

Bruce clenches his jaw, not answering his guardian, the words swirling in his mind—valuable, asset, liability. He feels the weight of them now, heavier than ever.

He'd built walls so high around himself, walls no one—not even Alfred—could breach. But Maryam... she had found a way through, dismantling his defenses piece by piece, forcing him to confront things he'd long since buried. 

Things he swore to himself would never resurface.

"Looks like you upset her," Alfred says softly, "Again." he says putting his arm behind his back, inspecting the screens before him.

Bruce exhales, shifting in his chair, his annoyance barely concealed. "It's not... like that, Alfred." His voice is low, roughened by something that sounds almost like regret. "She just... she has this way of getting under my skin."

Alfred chuckled softly, moving closer and crossing his arms as he leaned against the edge of the workbench. "Under your skin? Good heavens, I'd say that's quite the understatement, Master Wayne."

Bruce didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the monitor. 

The screen showed Maryam's face frozen in a moment of hurt, her emotions laid bare. That expression gnawed at him, more than he cared to admit.

Alfred caught the flicker in his young master's gaze and raised his brows, making his point.

"Not many people would stand up to you like that."

Bruce frowned, his jaw tightening as he turned his gaze back to the screen. "It's not about standing up to me," he muttered, his voice so low it was almost a gravelly whisper.

But Alfred, as persistent as ever, pressed on. "Oh, I think it is. That kind of anger comes from caring, Bruce. Even if you didn't realize it at the time."

Bruce let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. Stubbornness radiated off him like armor. "She misunderstood."

"Did she? Or did you just say the wrong thing?"

Bruce's jaw tightened further, his teeth grinding almost audibly. "She doesn't understand what I'm trying to do."

"And whose fault is that, hm? Communication has never been your strongest suit, sir."

Bruce didn't respond, the tension in his body evident in the way his hands gripped the computer mouse and his knuckles whitened.

Alfred watched him in silence for a moment before speaking again, his tone softer now, more measured. "People aren't tools, Bruce. She said it better than I could. They're not assets to be managed or risks to be calculated. Especially not someone like her."

Bruce's gaze faltered for a moment, his mind replaying the moment on its own, no longer needing the footage. He could hear her voice, see her expression, feel the weight of her words. The hurt in her voice cut through him like glass, and her defiance still lingered in the space between them.

Was she wrong to be angry? No. If anything, she'd been right. He had reduced her to a tool in that moment, another pawn in his endless war. But Maryam wasn't a tool. She wasn't a pawn. She wasn't like anyone else.

She had her own battles, her own scars. And yet, she had stood before him, unflinching, demanding more. Demanding better.

And he had failed her.

"If you truly believe she's valuable," Alfred said quietly, "perhaps you should show her why."

Bruce finally turned slightly, his eyes meeting Alfred's briefly. The butler gave him a small, encouraging smile.

"You'll have another chance, I'm sure," Alfred continued. Then, after a pause, he added, "Didn't you tell me that she seems familiar—?"

"She's a medical examiner. Nothing else."

There it was again—his stubbornness, a trait they both shared. Or was it something else? More like fear. 

Fear from a man who claimed to have none.

The thought of letting someone in, of opening even the smallest part of himself, was too much. Too dangerous.  It wasn't practical; he told himself that over and over. There wasn't time for it.

The butler sighed, shaking his head, as though reading Bruce's thoughts. "You keep telling yourself that, sir."

Bruce didn't reply, his gaze drifting back to the darkened screen. The weight of his choices, of his words, hung heavy in the cave, like a storm cloud refusing to dissipate.

A beat of silence passed before Alfred's voice cut through, pulling him back to the present. "Shall I take it as a good sign," the butler asked, a faint smile playing on his lips, a touch of humor in his tone.

Bruce furrowed his brows, not understanding. "What?"

Alfred gestured toward him. "Your attire." he clarified, raising a brow. "Is Bruce Wayne making an actual appearance?"

Oh, that.

Bruce glanced down at himself. He was, indeed, dressed in a suit—formal and impeccable, though he had barely noticed the effort it had taken.

Blinking as if shaking off the question's sudden intrusion, he straightened, rolling his shoulders to cast off the weight of his thoughts.

"There's a public memorial for Mayor Mitchell," he explained, his voice steady but cool. "Serial killers like to follow the reaction to their crimes—Riddler might not be able to resist."

"Oh, that reminds me." Alfred reached into his waistcoat pocket, producing a folded piece of paper. "I took the liberty of doing a little work on this latest cipher..."

Bruce finally turned from the screens, the faint screeches of bats echoing from above as he focused on Alfred. The butler unfolded the paper, gesturing to the symbols.

"I'm afraid his Spanish is less than perfect, but I'm fairly certain it translates to, 'You are el rata alada.'"

Bruce took the paper, his brow furrowing as he studied it. "'Rata alada'... rat with wings?"

"It's slang for pigeon," Alfred explained. "Does that make any sense to you?"

Bruce nodded slightly, his mind already working. "Yeah... a stool pigeon."

Before the thought could deepen, Alfred's sharp eyes caught something else. "Where are your cufflinks?" he remarked, gesturing toward Bruce's bare cuffs.

Bruce muttered distractedly, "Couldn't find them," his attention still fixed on the cipher in his hands.

Alfred sighed and pulled a pair from his own pocket, stepping forward. "You can't go out like that—"

"Alfred, I don't want your cufflinks," Bruce snapped, irritation flickering in his voice as he glanced briefly at the older man.

"You have to keep up appearances," Alfred insisted, his tone calm but firm as he took Bruce's wrist and began fastening the cufflink. "You're still a Wayne, after all."

Reluctantly, Bruce let him.

As Alfred worked, Bruce noticed the monogrammed 'W' on the cufflink. He raised an eyebrow and let out a small, wry chuckle. "What about you? Are you a Wayne now?"

Alfred smiled faintly, moving to secure the other sleeve. "Your father gave them to me," he said quietly, the words heavy with unspoken emotion.

Bruce paused, the statement catching him off guard. 

He looked at Alfred, his expression softening slightly. But Alfred, ever the professional, broke the moment with a lighthearted smile. "I'm just loaning them to you—I want them back."

The billionaire nodded, a rare, fleeting warmth passing between them before he turned away, the weight of their conversation still lingering in the cave air.

The sun had barely risen, casting a dim, gray light over Gotham as Dr. Halimi adjusted the collar of her tailored black coat, her eyes scanning her reflection in the mirror. The soft morning light filtered through the small windows of her apartment, bathing the room in a quiet, muted glow.

She took a step back, her gaze moving over the sleek lines of the black coat, which hugged her figure with an austere, precise elegance. The cut was sharp, the fabric smooth, cinching at the waist and falling just below her knees—a perfect balance of timelessness and severity. She smoothed the lapel with practiced hands, tugging at the waist one last time before letting her eyes rest on the black veil pinned to her pillbox hat.

The veil draped softly over her high cheekbones, adding a quiet touch of drama to her otherwise composed appearance. It rested at a slight angle, lending her a timeless, classic look, while her caramel hair was half-up, the rest falling in soft waves down her back.

Sherine had teased her about the veil, calling it "a bit much," but to Maryam, it felt like the only choice. It was right for today—appropriate, even necessary.

Her black high heels clicked sharply against the hardwood floor as she stepped back once more. The impracticality of them was a minor sacrifice for the sake of elegance. She adjusted the pillbox hat once again, smoothing the veil, allowing herself a fleeting moment to indulge in the kind of grace she rarely had the chance to embrace.

Maryam wasn’t one to lean into vanity—not because she didn’t enjoy it, but because her line of work didn’t exactly leave room for it. But today... today was different.

Her eyes dropped to her hand, where she held her mother’s brooch—an old, delicate thing, with silver vines curling around soft pearls. She ran her thumb over its familiar curves, feeling the weight of its history, its stories, pressed into her skin.

It was a relic, a link to a past long gone, and for years it had been tucked away in a velvet box beneath her bed. Pinning it to her coat had felt like the right choice—small, subtle, and close to her heart. But now, doubt began to creep in.

Would it draw too much attention? Invite too many questions? She wasn’t sure if anyone here would recognize it—or what it would mean if they did. For a moment, she considered leaving it behind.

Just then, Sherine yawned from the hallway, adjusting her earrings in the mirror. Dressed in a sharp black dress and high heels, she looked every bit the polished, worldly journalist and archaeologist she was.

She'd flown in from Metropolis just for this, bringing with her an extra pep in her step and an almost comical disbelief at Gotham's perpetual gloom. Despite being a Gothamite herself, it seemed that Metropolis had rubbed off on her.

"Okay fine, I admit it, the veil looks amazing," Sherine's voice broke through Maryam's thoughts as she stepped further into the room, reaching out to touch the delicate fabric. 

The doctor quickly slapped her hand away, and Sherine rolled her eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

Maryam smirked, smoothing down the veil with a delicate hand. "Thanks, it's called 'honoring tradition,' Sher."

Her sister raised an eyebrow. "Right. A tradition you remembered just for today, I see. You look like you're about to attend a royal funeral."

"Close enough," Maryam retorted with a dry laugh, checking her reflection again. "Besides, with Bruce Wayne rumored to make an appearance, it might as well be. Gotham's royalty, gracing us commoners with his presence."

"Ah, yes. Mr. Wayne," Sherine replied, practically snickering. "The hermit king himself."

Maryam shot her sister a sideways glance, a smirk tugging at the corners of her otherwise serious expression. “Can you believe it? Word is, the elusive Wayne heir might actually make an appearance today,” she said, raising an arm dramatically and waving it like she was unveiling a grand banner.

Sherine scoffed. "Nepo baby royalty. It's ridiculous, really. His family practically built Gotham—and I don't mean that in a good way. He's the poster child for unchecked capitalism."

Maryam chuckled, shaking her head. "You're not wrong. The Wayne legacy is all around us, and yet he hides away like some... Gotham myth."

"Not unlike Falcone," Sherine added, raising an eyebrow. "Though between the two, I think Falcone's the scarier recluse."

The mention of Falcone brought a flicker of unease to Maryam's face. "Do you think he'll show up?" She asked, more to herself than to Sherine. The thought of Falcone coming out of his shadows was unsettling, to say the least.

"Not a chance," Sherine dismissed with a wave of her hand. "That man's probably hiding under a dozen layers of security and shadows."

"Still, I wouldn't put it past him. He's got his hands in everything in this city."

"Not more reclusive than Bruce Wayne, though," Sherine snorted, reaching for her clutch. "At least Falcone actually does something—however terrible it is."

"If he shows up with his son Vittorio, I swear to God, I'll—" Maryam began, spritzing a hint of her favorite perfume on her wrists.

"You will do absolutely nothing," Sherine cut in, standing beside her and fussing with her hair in the mirror, her vibrant red waves catching the muted morning light. "You don't want to start anything, especially today. It's the mayor's funeral, for crying out loud."

"Oh, I'm serious, Sherine. I went out as the Wraith just two nights ago and yesterday as a civilian, and still nothing. Nothing! If Vittorio even glances in Alma's direction, they're going to find out exactly what I'm capable of," Maryam muttered, her eyes flashing with a hint of defiance as she twisted off the cap of her perfume.

Sherine raised an eyebrow. "And that's exactly why I'm reminding you to keep it together. This isn't some Gotham street brawl—it's a funeral. Dignity, remember?"

Maryam scoffed, setting the perfume bottle back on her dresser. "Falcone is the last person who deserves any respect. And his son? The only thing he got from his father is that insufferable sense of entitlement."

Sherine just sighed, too tired to argue with her stubborn sister. "You're impossible," she muttered, shaking her head.

Maryam responded with a faint, tight smile, but her eyes flickered back to the brooch now sitting quietly on her dresser.

She picked it up, her thumb tracing the delicate silver vines and tiny pearls. It felt almost too precious for a day like this—too bold, too revealing of a heritage she'd rather keep hidden.

Sherine noticed her hesitation. "Are you really going to wear that?" she asked, softening her tone, then quickly added with a grin, "Actually, I hope you do."

"I don't know," Maryam murmured, uncertain.

"Oh, for heaven's sake. Just wear the damn brooch," Sherine said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "No one here is going to recognize it. The average Gothamite probably thinks the Romanovs are a brand of vodka."

"Not everyone's that ignorant of history," Maryam replied with a hint of amusement.

Sherine smirked. "Maybe not, but Gotham has its own blind spots. Who's really going to scrutinize your jewelry today?"

Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers hovering over the brooch before slipping it back into its velvet box, closing the lid firmly. "I just... don't want any unnecessary attention."

Sherine shrugged, looking Maryam over. "Fine. But you're still the most elegant one there, veil and all. That coat is practically regal."

Maryam's gaze lingered on the box, feeling the familiar tug of unease. She'd nearly decided to leave it behind... but, almost on instinct, she pinned the brooch to her coat, the weight of it settling against her heart.

"Yeah, fuck it," she said with a finality, sliding her clutch under her arm."So, are you ready? We need to pick up Aunt Meysa and Alma before they complain that we left them to fend for themselves."

"Oh, trust me," Sherine replied, laughing as she slipped on her coat. "Aunt Meysa is probably lecturing Alma as we speak. You know Alma's in hiding mode—poor thing can't even escape her law books without Aunt Meysa giving her a full interrogation."

Maryam smiled knowingly. "It's probably good for Alma. Keeps her grounded."

As they made their way out of the apartment, Maryam's heels clicked against the floor with a steady rhythm, each step seeming to amplify her resolve. 

Sherine chattered beside her as they descended the stairs and headed to Maryam's car, parked just down the block. The streets were already buzzing with Gotham's peculiar mix of early risers and the last stragglers of the night.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Maryam took a deep breath, her fingers gripping the steering wheel. Her sister glanced over, reading her sister's tension.

"Hey, it's just a funeral," Sherine said, trying to sound lighthearted.

"It's Gotham," Maryam corrected, a hint of grim humor in her voice. "Funerals here are never just funerals."

Sherine laughed. "Alright, fair. But come on, it's the mayor's funeral, not some mob boss's funeral. How bad could it be?"

Maryam shot her a look that clearly said, You should know better by now.

As they drove, Sherine’s phone buzzed incessantly, its ringing filling the otherwise quiet car.

The name "C" flashed on the screen, and Maryam caught the subtle twitch of her sister’s eye— the same one that always appeared when this particular contact reached out. The phone rang again, and Maryam couldn’t help but glance at her sister, who tried to hide the faint blush creeping up her neck.

They exchanged a quick glance, and both reached for the phone. Sherine, always quick, made a grab for it, but Maryam, with a mischievous grin, was quicker.

She snatched the phone away before Sherine had a chance to react.

"Ooooh, who is this, dear sister?" Maryam teased, unlocking the phone and scrolling through the messages. "Hmm? Someone special?"

"Nobody!" Sherine snapped, her voice tight as she stretched for the phone, but Maryam held it out of reach, enjoying her sister’s discomfort.

Maryam clicked on the contact photo, revealing a handsome man with black glasses, a shy smile, and messy black curls that fell just above his forehead. It looked like one of those professional photos you’d put on a company badge.

"Ooh, very cute. Very your style. Very glasses, very nerdy... very American," Maryam mocked playfully.

Sherine blushed deeply, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. "Khalas, Maryam! We’re gonna have an accident!" she scolded, her voice sharp as she tried once again to reach for the phone, but Maryam pulled it away.

Maryam continued scrolling, her fingers dancing across the screen. "Come on, tell me his name, and I’ll stop."

Sherine sighed in defeat. "Okay, fine! Clark, his name is Clark!"

Maryam raised an eyebrow, clicking her tongue. "Very American," she said with a grin. Sherine’s face reddened further, and her voice hardened as she reached for the phone again.

"Maryam."

Maryam sighed, finally giving in and tossing the phone into Sherine’s lap. The car remained perfectly still— Maryam was too precise behind the wheel for anything to disrupt their calm drive. The silence lingered, but Maryam wasn’t quite ready to let it settle just yet.

With a small smirk on her lips, Maryam reached for the radio, her red nails glittering as they stopped at a red light. She glanced at her sister, then at the road, before breaking the silence.

"So?" she asked, her voice laced with curiosity and mischief.

Sherine let out a long sigh, her voice softening as she glanced at the passing streets. "Ugh, yes, he's very American. From Kansas, farmer’s son and all that," she muttered, her tone losing some of its usual edge. "And... yeah, he's very attractive, to put it simply. Clark Joseph Kent. That's his name. He works at the Daily Planet as a journalist with me."

As Sherine spoke, her voice steadied, but Maryam could hear the quiet vulnerability slipping through her words. Sherine always said a person's full name when she was crushing hard on them.

"We're just friends, okay?" Sherine added, biting her nails nervously as she stole a glance at the road. "I mean, what am I even saying? Just colleagues. He's... he's interested in someone else." Her gaze drifted out the window, and Maryam caught the subtle clench of her sister's jaw, the silent struggle to hold back her feelings. "I met him three months ago and made him visit our place of work per Perry's order. That's all there is to know. We work together, and that's it." It was almost as if she were trying to convince herself.

Maryam raised an eyebrow, her smirk never wavering. She knew her sister too well. Sherine could pretend she didn’t care, but Maryam could see the truth beneath the layers of nonchalance.

But she also knew when to stay silent and let her sister talk in her own time.

"You better not tell anyone about him," Sherine said quietly, her voice carrying a hint of caution.

Maryam turned the wheel to the left, steering them through a turn, and made the motion of zipping her mouth with one hand. "Your secret’s safe with me," she teased, her smirk still in place.

They pulled up in front of Aunt Meysa's building, where both Aunt Meysa and Aunt Jamila were already waiting at the curb. 

Aunt Meysa, the picture of elegance, stood tall in a somber black dress, her usual veil draped gracefully over her greying hair. She raised an eyebrow, her usual approving expression settling on her face.

"Masha'Allah," she said with a nod, her eyes scanning their outfits. "You both look presentable, thank goodness."

Maryam smirked, fighting back a laugh. "Shokran, Amti Meysa."

Beside her, Aunt Jamila let out a low chuckle, her lips pulling into a wry smile as she cast Maryam and Sherine a quick, assessing look. "Almost like they didn't grow up running around in dusty alleys."

Maryam only hummed in response, stepping forward to kiss the cheeks of her two aunts in turn.

Just then, Aunt Meysa cast a sharp look back toward the building entrance. "Alma's coming down," she announced, a hint of exasperation in her tone. Her gaze flicked to Maryam. "You know she's ignoring you, right?"

"Isn't she always?" Maryam replied, shrugging lightly.

Sure enough, Alma appeared in the doorway moments later. She wore a simple black dress paired with an elegant coat and high-heeled boots. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, and her gaze remained downcast, deliberately avoiding her sisters.

"Ah, finally!" Aunt Jamila clapped her hands, her tone hovering between amusement and reproach.

Sherine leaned out of the car window with a grin. "Ready to face the lions, Alma?" she teased as Alma climbed into the backseat, her expression resigned.

Alma rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly. "Like I had much of a choice," she muttered, shooting Aunt Meysa a half-hearted glare.

Aunt Meysa arched an eyebrow, her voice thick with her Arab accent. "I swear to God, girls, I don’t want any problems. I’m warning you!"

When they finally pulled up in front of Gotham’s City Hall, the scene outside was pure chaos. The streets were teeming with people, their chants rising in the air—"No more lies." Banners with the Riddler's ominous symbols waved above the crowd like a dark omen.

"Shouf," Aunt Meysa gestured toward the crowd, her head tilting slightly, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "What is this?" she demanded, clutching her veil tightly as she observed the scene with sharp, calculating eyes.

No one responded right away. The atmosphere was heavy with tension as they all stared out at the gathering, unsure of what they were witnessing.

Suddenly, a cop tapped on the glass, pulling Maryam from her thoughts. She snapped to attention, rolling the window down with a slight hesitation.

"Hello, names please," the officer said, his tone bordering on a command as he looked at them expectantly.

"Ben Halimi, sir," Aunt Jamila replied smoothly, handing Maryam an envelope with the invitations.

Maryam passed the envelope to the officer, who took it and quickly skimmed the contents. "Alright," he said with a nod, pointing toward a nearby parking lot. "This way, please."

As they parked, the air felt thick with humidity, the wet pavement reflecting the city’s lights. The sound of heels clicking against the slick ground echoed through the otherwise quiet street. Aunt Meysa led the way, her steps measured and dignified, her head held high as always. Sherine, Maryam, and Alma followed closely behind, the weight of the evening settling over them in the form of a quiet procession.

"Why didn't we get the same service?" Aunt Meysa asked, casting a critical glance at the sleek, elegant cars pulling up nearby.

"Because we're peasants, Amti," Maryam quipped without missing a beat, her tone dry and laced with humor.

Aunt Jamila laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Maryam, you look like royalty. We should've had the same treatment," she teased.

Maryam gave a mock grimace, her lips curling into a wry smile. "Yes, of course. And maybe we should've brought our butler too, right?" she retorted, which earned her an exaggerated eye roll from her aunt.

As they approached the entrance to City Hall, Maryam’s eyes scanned the crowd, noting the sea of black suits and dresses, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional camera flash from the paparazzi. Her gaze landed on Warda and her husband, Ryan, standing near the grand staircase. They were mostly overlooked by the flashing cameras, an odd relief in the sea of attention.

Warda stood with her hands gently resting over her growing belly, radiant even in mourning attire. Ryan hovered close beside her, one hand protectively on her back, his gaze sharp as he scanned the bustling crowd.

Aunt Jamila waved at them, her expression softening into something warm and affectionate. She shuffled over to greet them while other attendees glanced their way. Sherine offered those onlookers an awkward smile, but Maryam merely raised a brow, daring anyone to say something.

"Finally! We've been waiting for you. Rania's been fussing—"

"We know," Alma interrupted, her tone curt as she slipped her hands into her coat for warmth. "We saw the messages in the group chat."

"Feeling alright?" Maryam asked Warda, her instinct as a doctor surfacing as she nodded toward her sister's rounded belly.

Warda smiled gently. "Just fine. Ryan's the one fussing over me, though."

Ryan shook his head with an amused smirk, but Maryam chuckled, looping her arm through her sister's. "That's what husbands are for."

In Gotham, even a funeral felt like a performance, and Maryam couldn't help but wonder what kind of show was waiting for them inside.

She didn't have to wonder for long.

Not far from them, Carmine Falcone emerged from a sleek black car, flanked by his usual bodyguards. 

He extended a hand to help a striking woman out—a companion for the day, no doubt. Behind them, his son, Vittorio, followed, phone pressed to his ear, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd with calculated precision. Maryam heard Alma shift nervously behind her.

"Is that—" Ryan started, narrowing his eyes.

"The Falcones," Maryam muttered, an unexpected flare of anger tightening her jaw.

"No, I meant Bruce Wayne," Ryan clarified.

"Oh my god, yes!" Warda whispered, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

"He's even more handsome in person," Aunt Jamila added, squinting like she was assessing a priceless possession.

"Look, Maryam! Go talk to him!" she urged, her voice practically bubbling over with enthusiasm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Amti," Warda replied in Arabic, trying to suppress a laugh.

But Maryam wasn't paying attention. She hardly noticed the paparazzi shouting for Wayne or her family's chatter, because at that moment, Vittorio's eyes locked with Alma's. Alma immediately turned her head, a blush creeping up her cheeks, while his jaw tightened visibly.

Sherine squeezed Maryam's arm. "Mar—"

"Don't you dare, Maryam! You'll embarrass me!" Alma hissed, but her words went ignored.

Maryam shook off her sister's grip, her focus narrowing as she strode confidently toward the Falcones. Aunt Meysa's voice trailed after her, sharp with disapproval. "Where is she going? We're supposed to go inside!"

But Maryam didn't stop. Every step she took drew attention. As she closed the distance to Gotham's notorious crime family, one of Falcone's security guards stepped in her way.

"Ma'am, what do you think you're doing?" he asked, his tone cold and dismissive.

Maryam pointed at Vittorio, her eyes burning with intent. "I need to speak to him."

Carmine's dark-rimmed glasses gleamed in the dim light as he turned his attention to her. His gaze, a mixture of curiosity and quiet menace, lingered on her before he spoke, his voice a low rumble. "And who might you be?"

Without flinching, she met his stare, her voice steady. "You should ask your son."

Vittorio said nothing, his gaze dropping away as he clenched his jaw and slid his phone into his waistcoat pocket. But Carmine didn't wait for an explanation. His sharp eyes flicked over Maryam's shoulder, settling on her family. His gaze lingered on Alma, and a knowing smirk tugged at his lips.

"They weren't lying when they said you girls were a sight to see. Beautiful," he murmured, his tone as smooth as it was unsettling.

A shudder rippled through Maryam, her unease deepening.

Then, from behind him, came a laugh—loud, brash, and unmistakably familiar.

Oz Cobblepot. Of course.

The sudden jolt of recognition struck Maryam. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. 

What did he mean by that? The way he spoke, like he already knew them—knew her—made her uneasy. Before she could find her voice, Carmine slipped his hand under her arm, his grip surprisingly gentle, almost as if she were fragile porcelain.

"Take a walk with us," he said, guiding her forward.

Still in a daze, Maryam let herself be led, her feet moving almost automatically as they began climbing the stairs. 

She glanced back, catching the confused, wary looks of her family. Aunt Jamila's eyes narrowed, a mix of concern and indignation flashing in them. Alma, on the other hand, seemed like she wanted to vanish into the ground. Aunt Meysa's stern expression softened, her lips pressing into a tight line, as if she wanted to call Maryam back but couldn't bring herself to.

As they ascended, Maryam's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with questions she couldn't yet voice.

Bruce gripped the steering wheel, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the city hall ahead. 

The city hall loomed ahead, its steps swarming with mourners and a sea of makeshift memorials. Flowers, candles, and angry placards blurred together in the drizzle, the wet pavement reflecting glints of firelight and the oppressive gray sky.

People were chanting "no more lies" people who at first thought were mourners but needed people who were protesting.

Among them , a group of hooded men caught his eye, their scrawled question-mark signs mimicking the Riddler's mark. 

Always lurking, he thought grimly.

Not far from him, another protestor waved a sign reading "Who Else Dies for Gotham's Lies?"

His blood chilled at the sight.

The honk of a traffic cop jarred him back to the present.

He avance with his car in the traffic before he could even down his window, an officer was already double-tooking through it when he recognized Bruce, his stoic professionalism cracking into something close to reverence. "MR Wayne over here!" he pointed to the place where valets were waiting down the stairs of the city hall the cop waved him forward.

The valet opened his door, and Bruce stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit. The murmurs started immediately.

"Is that the Bruce Wayne?"

"Bruce Wayne's here!"

The paparazzi swarmed, shouting over each other as camera flashes exploded around him. Bruce reached for his wallet, barely paying attention.

Then he saw them.

Carmine Falcone stepped out of a sleek black car, his phalanx of bodyguards forming a protective shield around him. 

He moved with a calm, deliberate arrogance, the kind that only a man like Falcone could carry off. Bruce's eyes narrowed as he watched him reach out a hand to help someone step out of the car.

A slender leg, clad in a high-heeled boot, emerged first. Bruce's stomach tightened. The boots were strikingly similar to the ones Annika and Selina favored in the club. The woman followed, her face obscured by a hat, her movements poised and deliberate. For a moment, Bruce's mind reeled. Was that Selina?

But before he could process further, his attention snapped to something—or someone—else.

Maryam Ben Halimi.

The haunting of his dreams. 

Her face appeared in his line of sight, pulling his focus away from the unfolding scene. He recognized immediately despite her elegant veiled pillow box hat. She stood a short distance away, surrounded by a cluster of women—a pregnant woman, likely her sister, stood closest to her, her husband at her side. Maryam's hand rested gently on the woman's arm as she spoke, her expression soft but firm.

Bruce's hand, mid-motion to hand cash to the valet, faltered. 

The noise of the crowd, the paparazzi's shouts—it all faded into a dull hum. 

All he could see was her.

Even in the somber atmosphere of a funeral, she looked radiant. Her dark attire was elegant, almost regal-- like royalty, a stark contrast to the gritty chaos around them. 

For a fleeting moment, Bruce forgot why he was here. 

He forgot everything except the way she held herself—graceful, poised, utterly captivating.

Then she moved.

Bruce's brows furrowed as he watched Maryam break away from her family, her stride purposeful, graceful. She was heading straight toward Falcone.

What is she doing?

His pulse quickened as Carmine turned, his sharp eyes narrowing with interest as Maryam approached. The woman on his arm seemed momentarily forgotten.After talking for a few minutes, Carmine slipped his arm under Maryam's, his demeanor shifting to one of calculated charm as he began leading her up the steps to City Hall.

Bruce's stomach dropped.

No. No, no, no.

Before he could think, his body moved on instinct. 

The crowd was thick, a crush of mourners, reporters, and onlookers. Cameras flashed, and the paparazzi's voices rose in a cacophony around him, but he heard none of it. His eyes were locked on Maryam and Falcone, his focus razor-sharp.

He couldn't call out to her. No, that wasn't an option. She didn't know him—not as Bruce Wayne. To her, he was a stranger, a man with no place in her life.

And yet, none of that mattered. The only thing driving him forward was the unshakable instinct to pull her away from that man, to shield her from whatever danger lurked behind Falcone's veneer of charm.

As he closed the distance, the bottleneck near the entrance to city hall became a wall of bodies. Falcone's security detail fanned out, forming a human barricade between the mob boss and the growing crowd.

Bruce's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting as he tried to maneuver closer. Two bodyguards stepped into his path, their imposing forms blocking his view. His gaze darted past them, landing squarely on Maryam.

She turned then, her veil shifting slightly as her hazel eyes caught his. Bruce felt a jolt run through him. Her gaze met his directly—steady, searching. She took a shallow breath, her eyes narrowing as though trying to place him. Recognition? No, it couldn't be. She didn't know him. Not like this.

Still, he couldn't look away. 

It was as though the crowd, the noise, the chaos around them all melted into nothing. She held his gaze, her expression unreadable, while he stared back, caught in the moment.

It was only when one of the bodyguards slammed a hand against his chest that he snapped back to reality.

"Hey, hey—give us some space here, slick," the man growled, shoving Bruce back a step.

Bruce bristled, his frustration threatening to boil over. His piercing glare bore into the man as he fought the urge to push back harder.

The commotion finally drew Falcone's attention. The crime boss paused on the steps, his grip still resting lightly but possessively on Maryam's arm. He turned toward the scene, his eyes glinting with amusement as his thin lips curled into a smirk.

"Watch it, fellas—you've got the prince of the city there!" Falcone's drawl was smooth, mocking, every word dipped in condescension.

The bodyguards hesitated, exchanging glances before loosening their grip slightly at Falcone's signal.

Bruce stood rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Maryam as if the sheer force of it could dissolve the distance between them. For a moment, something flickered in her eyes—uncertainty, hesitation, or perhaps a fleeting recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. He didn't know, couldn't know. 

But it pierced him all the same, an ache he wasn't prepared for.

The woman with the hat and the heels that had first caught his attention—the ones so similar to Selina's—turned as well, revealing not Selina, but Carla, the girl from the club. 

The realization barely registered; his focus was elsewhere.

"Some event," Falcone drawled, stepping forward with a smug grin. "Brought out the one guy in Gotham more reclusive than me. To what do we owe the honor, Mr. Wayne?"

Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Maryam. She stood beside Falcone, her posture stiff, her body tense, but her expression now unreadable. If she was afraid, she didn't show it. Instead, her composure was as calculated as a blade—poised, sharp, and ready.

Falcone noticed. He followed Bruce's gaze back to Maryam, his grin deepening. Then, in a move so deliberate it felt like a taunt, he slid an arm around her waist.

The effect was instant. Maryam's shoulders tightened, and though she didn't flinch, the discomfort was plain in the set of her jaw. Bruce's fists clenched at his sides, a surge of anger coursing through him. He stepped forward again, but the bodyguards moved in, one of them shoving him back with a heavy hand.

"Easy there, Wayne," Falcone said, raising an eyebrow, his voice laced with mockery. "We're just having a little chat." He turned back to Maryam, his expression almost playful. "Do you two know each other?"

Maryam's hesitation was barely perceptible, a single heartbeat of silence before she answered. "No," she said, her voice steady but tight. She looked away from Bruce, breaking the connection between their gazes. "He's a total stranger."

The words landed like a blow. Bruce's chest tightened. But weren't they true? She didn't know him—not here, not like this. Outside of the cowl, he was nothing to her. A stranger. He reminded himself that he couldn't fault her for that.

And yet, the sting remained.

But Bruce didn't falter. His gaze stayed locked on her, even as she avoided his. The tension between him and Falcone thickened, an unspoken challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

"Let her go," Bruce said quietly, his voice low and even, each word a deliberate act of defiance.

Falcone's smirk deepened. His hand on Maryam's waist tightened ever so slightly, a gesture so subtle it might have gone unnoticed. But not by Bruce.

"Why don't you run along, Wayne?" another voice interjected, this time Vittorio's, dripping with false civility. "This is family business."

Bruce ignored him, his eyes narrowing at Falcone. "I thought your father never left the Shoreline," he said coldly, his tone cutting. "Aren't you afraid someone'll take a shot at you?"

Falcone's smirk didn't waver, but his eyes darkened. "You mean now that your father isn't around?" He turned slightly, calling over his shoulder. "Oz, you know Bruce Wayne?"

A gravelly voice answered, "Whoa—s'that right?" Oswald Cobblepot emerged from the shadows, his calculating gaze sweeping over Bruce from head to toe. He looked unimpressed, but the sharp gleam in his eyes betrayed him.

Falcone chuckled, turning his attention back to Bruce. "His father saved my life, you know. I always tell the story to Vittorio here." He clapped a hand on his son's shoulder, but Vittorio didn't react, his cold gaze fixed on Bruce as he dragged on a cigarette.

Falcone tapped his chest. "Took a bullet right here. Couldn't go to a hospital, so we showed up on Dr. Wayne's doorstep. Operated on me right there on the dining room table. Kid here saw the whole thing." His grin widened. "You don't think that meant something?"

Bruce's jaw clenched. He wanted to fire back, but Maryam's voice cut through the tension.

"I should probably go," she said, her voice steady but edged with tension. She stepped away from the group with a fluid grace that bordered on defiance, her grip tightening around her clutch. Falcone didn't even acknowledge her departure, his attention still fixed on Bruce.

Her heels clicked sharply against the pavement as she moved, the sound cutting through the charged air. For a brief moment, she turned her head back toward him, a flicker of something in her eyes—uncertainty, or perhaps contemplation. Her brow furrowed, a brief pause in her otherwise composed demeanor, as though something was weighing heavily on her mind.

Then, with a final, decisive glance, she hurried into City Hall, blending into the crowd, her figure swallowed up by the throng of people.

Bruce's eyes followed her until she disappeared inside. 

Then, finally, he spoke. "It meant he took the Hippocratic Oath."

Falcone's laughter was sharp and derisive. "Hippocratic Oath, huh? That's good."

Vittorio, his silence thick as always, flicked his cigarette toward Bruce's shoes, a subtle yet pointed gesture. Bruce didn't so much as blink.

"'Scuse me," he muttered, brushing past them without a second glance.

His focus was singular now.

Maryam.

previous chapter | next

Oooooop 👀👀

I know this might be a bit cringey, but I can’t help myself—I just love doing it! So, here’s what I envisioned for Maryam’s outfit in this chapter :)) :

[ Translation ]

Amti : aunt.

Khalas : stop.

[knoepfl]

DC Masterlist

Here is the DC Masterlist! Here I will post everything about DC! So if your a fan be sure to keep checking this Masterlist. I will show updates as soon as possible!

Last Updated: 03.01 25

Main Masterlist

Characters: Arthur Fleck, Heath Ledger, Jeremiah Valeska, Jerome Valeska, Jervis Tetch, Jonathan Crane, Oswald Cobblepot, Edward Nygma, Viktor Zsasz

✧ The Joker

✧ Arthur Fleck

A Warm Embrace

Beyond the Mask

A Night of Firsts

Bang Bang

A Cozy Christmas

A Fleeting Fantasy

Part 1

Part 2

A Christmas Dance with Arthur

Christmas Feelings Christmas Special 7/24

✧ Gotham Series

✧ Edward Nygma

The Riddle of Us

✧ Jeremiah Valeska

Pain and Pleasure

✧ Jerome Valeska

Laugh Until It Hurts

✧ Jervis Tetch

Down the Rabbit Hole

Madness in Mourning

Trapped in Wonderland

Mad as Love

Madly Festive Christmas Special 4/24

✧ Oswald Cobblepot

A Kid For Christmas Christmas Special 14/24

✧ Viktor Zsasz

Stolen Shot

✧ The Dark Knight

✧ Heath Ledger

Unraveled Dreams, Twisted Love

✧ Batman: The Animated Series

✧Jervis Tetch

Tea for Two

A Very Merry Unbirthday Christmas Christmas Special 12/24

A Wonderland of Our Own Christmas Special 18/24

✧ Jonathan Crane

Shadows of Fear

✧ Arkham Games

✧ Edward Nygma

Mind Games

The Riddler's Reward

✧ Jervis Tetch

Through the Looking Glass

Down the Rabbit Hole

Tea Time Consolation

[acapelladitty]

Oswald Cobblepot/Reader - Teasing 💖🐧

Summary: A commission for the absolutely lovely @nygmanotnashton in which Oswald Cobblepot finds himself on the receiving end of some fun teasing.

A surprisingly warm late afternoon had forced a full retreat to Ozzie's office as it was one of the few areas within the Iceberg Lounge to possess enough tasteful luxuries to make the suspicious heat seem bearable.

As always, Ozzie had immediately taken up residence in his favourite chair, more of a throne really, while you settled yourself comfortably against the solid oak desk, perched with your legs hanging off the side to block the stack of drawers which were built-in to the furniture.

Ozzie's thick fingers move with surprising dexterity as he taps away on his phone with a casual pace. A soft silence hangs in the air as you split your attention between your hanging legs, bouncing off the small brass handles of each drawer, and the uncomfortable way in which your shirt is clinging to your sweat-slicked back. The evening plans were long set and a gentle rumble in your stomach sparked a fresh excitement for the restaurant which Ozzie had booked for you both.

An Italian with a four month advance in bookings.

Well, four months to anyone who wasn’t Oswald Cobblepot and his plus one.

"You're quiet." Ozzie mutters, catching your attention with a quick nudge of your leg.

Looking up, you met his gaze and the questioning look there forces a small smile to tug at your lips as you pick up on his unspoken concern.

"I'm just thinking, Oz." You answer, tapping the heel of your foot against the wood. "Nothing too fun or exciting."

"What would it take to make my pretty bird sing then?" He hummed in response, running his finger along your clothed knee until his palm enclosed the joint to rub at it gently. "A new foreign car? Some expensive trinkets? Or should I say, more expensive trinkets? How about a full inch?"

"Only an inch?" You cut in quickly while your body shifts, ghosting your shoe along the bulge in his slacks as you tease him with a sudden playfulness. "Now i’m worried. What happened to the rest of it?"

Ozzie’s laughter is easy and open, his large chest shaking with the effort as he fixes you with a heated glance.

"Keep your foot there and you'll be seeing it sooner than you think, dear."

He leans forward and makes to reach for the drawers which are hidden behind your legs. Sensing another opportunity for some fun, you spread your legs for him to reach between, rather than moving them off to the side. A salacious move which nets you another small chuckle as he presses his knuckles to the inside of your thigh before pulling free the middle drawer.

Unable to see what he's doing, you instead allow your eyes to wander past him to the extravagant fish tank which sits behind his desk. Fish of many colours and sizes flutter around the water with the casualness of creatures that know they're well fed and taken care of.

A feeling you know well, and one which makes a goofy smile tug at your mouth as you drop your eyes to Ozzie once more and lean forward enough to run a gentle finger along the back of his exposed neck.

"You're trying to kill me today." He growls, shuddering at the soft touch. His neck had always been particularly sensitive, and you exploited that fact with unrivalled joy.

Leaning back, his thick body filling his chair like the king he were, thick fingers produced a stack of crisp, neat bills which were wrapped together by a straining rubber band; the heft of the bills easily sitting at over an inch wide as he quickly thumbed through the money to ensure it was all there.

"Would this be enough?" A teasing smile touched at Ozzie's thin lips, the edges curling upwards as he held the stack of money out.

"Hmm," you pretend to think it over for dramatic effect, "I could probably buy something nice to wear out for dinner and then something even nicer for you to rip off after."

Reaching for the money, you find it snatched away in an instant.

"Hey-"

"Nothing for nothing, my darling."

"Ozzie, please. You don't have to-"

"Nothing for nothing." He repeats, the words gruff yet bordering on a sing-song quality as he reclines in his chair even further.

Grumbling playfully as you were forced from your comfortable perch, you join him on his chair - carefully placing your knees on either side of his bulging frame as you lean gently against his expansive chest.

Catching his lips in your own, he tastes of red wine and you groan into his mouth as he reacts to you immediately; wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you in place as he enjoys the messy kiss. His presence envelops you and you bite at his lower lip until you pull away to catch your breath a little.

"Maybe I should treat you to something nice. I think the King of Gotham deserves a little something for being so kind and generous to a poor little waif like me."

"Poor little waif." He repeats with a squawking guffaw. "You're too cruel for such a title. Besides, don't waste my money on me. Treat yourself and show the world that Oswald Cobbelpot knows how to keep his little bird sweet."

Dropping your hand to his crotch, you roughly cup at the heft of his bulge through his slacks.

"I wasn't talking about money." You growl into his ear and a satisfying delight washes through your overheated body as he visibly shivers in response to your unspoken promise of a much more physical treat later in the evening

[clericxhood777]

How did his scrawny ass

Pull two of the most dangerous people in Gotham

[yandere-toons]

Yandere Oswald Cobblepot (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: Mentions of Gore, Violence, Blood, Stalking, Alcohol Use, Use of Firearms, Mentions of Torture, Death, Undeath, Desecration of Corpses, Mention of Abduction, Incarceration, Psychological Manipulation.

Platonic:

From his days of spying and backstabbing as a human footstool for Fish Mooney, Oswald has understood that most relationships are transactional and devoid of real intimacy. Hence, he becomes so readily attached when someone goes out of their way to make his time on this earth a little easier.

In this person, whom he now wishes to have as a lifelong friend, Oswald sees a shining exception to human ugliness, for whose sake he is willing to break laws, spend vast sums of money, and take lives to keep with him. The late Gertrud Kapelput taught him that one must give everything to those dearest to one's heart, a lesson Oswald will honour for the rest of his life.

In addition to assassinating people on his friend's behalf, this devotion translates to buying out entire inventories of jewellery and clothes for them. He offers free drinks at his nightclub, guarantees protection if they operate a business, and provides super-secret special access to all his mother's recipes.

Being sentenced to Arkham or Blackgate is no matter when Mayor Cobblepot is eager to finagle the early release of an old friend. He will blackmail, intimidate, and coerce all the appropriate offices until the person he wants is back with him. Oswald becomes exceedingly irritable and anxious if separated from his friend for too long.

He relies on them to lend him an ear whenever he needs to castrate a rival verbally. Although he is not the most cooperative, Oswald is sensitive to any advice from his friend, a sensitivity that doubles if they tell him he is a good man.

As soon as they are more than a few hours late for a meeting and have not contacted him with an airtight explanation, Oswald is howling at his goons to find them and phoning the GCPD to babble about filing a missing persons report. He refuses to sleep or stop pursuing their alleged killer after his worried heart tells him they lie dead in an alley.

Oswald is drowning in grief and hysteria, attacking anyone who delivers bad news about the search when his friend returns to him alive. He collapses into their arms and rejoices that he can delay learning how it would feel to live without them a bit longer, at which point he begs them to clear their schedule in favour of accompanying him through his day.

If anyone dares make a laughingstock of this relationship and, by extension, him, Oswald paces up and down his home while guzzling wine and ranting about how he will roast these people's entrails like chestnuts over an open fire.

Practising emotional honesty for something other than anger takes every courage Oswald can summon. It is safer for him to live out his days half-satisfied and fantasizing than to put his hopes to the test and risk terrifying rejection, so while he is weighing the pros and cons of coming clean, Oswald awaits a sign that the attachment is reciprocal.

In his ideal world, he lives in his father's mansion and drinks tea with his mother and friend while everyone talks about how he proved the critics wrong and became a great man despite everything. This dream will never come true for various reasons that keep Oswald awake at night, so he persuades his friend to take one of the guest bedrooms and dispatches those who might threaten his monopoly on their attention.

He does much to sweeten the deal, which, when broken down to its most basic elements, is a request for his friend to devote themselves to him, as Gertrud did and as he says he did for them. A gourmet breakfast and dinner from Olga every day are a given, but the only item on which Oswald will not make concessions is permission to leave Gotham.

Suppose his friend chooses a life of crime. Oswald considers himself their proudest and most adamant supporter. If they are arrested, he will burst into the police station with an army of sycophants — if necessary, an angry mob of misguided citizens — and demand that all charges be dropped. If the GCPD resists, he will send Victor Zsasz to raid the precinct in a hail of bullets or turn the case into a political issue for the cameras and journalists to shame the police into submission.

A constant sense of danger looms over the friendship, like wolves over a sick deer. Oswald sees it every day in the crowds wishing him to suffer, in the way his heartbeat jumps and pushes him to lash out each time someone approaches his friend with a suspicious look. This hypervigilance may one day prove too stressful, and Oswald decides his best course of action is to fake his friend's death and sequester them in a safe house until he rules Gotham's underworld with absolute power.

If they do die, Oswald embraces their corpse and wails like a lost child until he has to retreat to survive or gets a chance to mangle the one he thinks is to blame. Afterwards, he is subject to fits of rage and melancholy when reminded of his departed friend and enlists Hugo Strange to revive them.

Operating under a fat paycheck and the threat of torture if he fails, Strange is cleared to sacrifice as many people and make as many monstrous modifications as necessary to succeed. Driven mad by loss compounded, Oswald finds scarcely a price not worth paying if it allows him to have back one of the few bright spots in his life.

Romantic:

In terms of relationship security, Oswald experiences some cognitive dissonance. He wants to believe that his partner will never abandon him, but at the same time, he fears losing them to anyone with a pulse.

Oswald, pathologically insecure, suspects his partner of finding a replacement for him after one ill-timed joke, one misunderstood smile, or one rejection of another's flirtation that he does not feel was direct enough. He flies into a tirade about how they lead him on and play with his emotions to leech off his wealth and influence.

This explosive tantrum sends his every minion scurrying far away, for whichever lackey is standing closest to him at that moment will be stabbed in the neck with a broken bottle or beaten senseless with a fire poker, depending on the setting. Even though the physical aspects of his rage never touch his partner, the threat of what he could do to them is present evermore.

Throughout his life, the only people who have invariably been kind to him without ulterior motives are his parents, especially his mother. Therefore, a genuine compliment from his partner overwhelms him with the feeling of being wanted and makes him grossly overestimate his importance to them.

If someone claims that his partner has been disloyal to him, Oswald disregards any evidence as forged and maims the messenger for, in his eyes, being a filthy liar. The only way he would believe such a thing is if he uncovers the evidence himself, in which Oswald would rather blame a third party for forcing his partner's hand than let go of the comforting delusion that this relationship is meant to be.

As his rise to power destabilizes him mentally and puts a glaring target on his back, Oswald fears leaving his partner alone, even for a minute. His paranoia spirals out of control until he becomes obsessed with the possibility that enemies he knows too well and those he has yet to discover will come to murder or kidnap and torture the last good thing in his miserable existence.

Oswald assigns Victor Zsasz to keep vigil over his partner day and night for the foreseeable future, giving Victor — who in turn gives his henchwomen — strict shoot-on-sight orders for any visitors not on his list. The list is shorter than a pig's tail and consists of Oswald himself, Victor and crew, and as an on-again, off-again member, Edward Nygma.

In his deranged mind, not even Jim Gordan has business speaking to his partner without him there to monitor the interaction. Suppose Oswald gets the impression that someone is trying to wheedle information out of his partner or bully them into betraying his trust. In that case, this interloper is slain with extreme prejudice at the earliest opportunity.

Suppose a friend or family member decides to come over unannounced and receives a bullet to the brain, que será, será. Oswald has convinced himself that all the others in his partner's life are traitors waiting to happen, or, if not traitors, vulnerabilities that his enemies will use to lure his partner away from the safety of his watchful eye.

Acts of disrespect towards those he cares about make Oswald apoplectic, so if he hears anything about anyone accosting or assaulting his partner, someone is getting an umbrella crammed down their throat.

Whether he beats the culprit to death with a baseball bat, lets Victor have fun with them, or mounts their severed head on one of his end tables and calls it a decoration depends on the severity of his partner's distress. If tears are shed, and blood is bled, whoever caused them this pain is hunted like an animal and reduced to meat paste.

Through mass execution and permanent disfigurement, Oswald makes it clear that his partner is off-limits to Gotham's underworld, even to those members who have been licensed to do wrong by the Pax Penguina. Anyone still holding them at gunpoint loses an arm and then a life, and Oswald insists that he take that life himself because everything that threatens his partner threatens him, too.

If in Arkham together, Oswald deems himself far more honest than the rest of these ruffians and thus makes a promise. Any violence against his partner will be inflicted tenfold on the perpetrators, whom he adds to his big book of names to disappear once he regains his status as King of Gotham.

Locked alone in the asylum, Oswald worries that his partner will leave and forget about him. Once free, he tracks their current address by any means necessary and seeks confirmation that they have not forsaken him. This absence has so reinforced his inability to separate that the appearance of a new person or a request to distance himself from them is perceived as a betrayal.

Although Oswald will always forgive his partner, he will not quit plotting revenge against those who gave them these terrible ideas. The day of reckoning for these pond scum will come when and how he pleases. In the meantime, he would like to share a ribeye steak with his partner while everyone else in Gotham starves.

[humanplaypretend]

have some more of these bc it's all I can do lately

[manny-hughez]

Nygmobblepot from TWO FUCKING YEARS AGO. Where is this energy now… 2022 me where did you go. 😭😭😭

[philosopherking1887]

Rating: M

Ships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma (endgame); Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon (temporary but substantial)

Fic summary: Jim and Oswald agree that the relationship between Edward Nygma and Lee Thompkins is a disaster waiting to happen, so they come up with a desperate plan: plant evidence that they're having a secret affair to spark jealousy in Ed and Lee and draw them away from each other. Their plan is both complicated and helped along by simultaneous crises involving the brothers Valeska…

Chapter summary: Having drawn a confession from Oswald, Edward makes a confession of his own about the significance of a particular song, and they go to bed together.

Here it is: Sex Chapter Part II, a.k.a. Ed finally gets off (after some more delays for conversation).

And now all that's left is an epilogue. Seriously, that's it. No more increases to the chapter count.

[keffirinne]

Masterlist

Series:

🔥 Better call Saul:

Let's have some fun / Lalo Salamanca x Reader / WIP, smut

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8

💎 Birds of Prey:

Please not him / Roman Sionis x Reader / smut, completed

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 |

You would look good in red / Victor Zsasz x OC / WIP, smut, angst

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |

🐧 Gotham:

Don't lose control / Oswald Cobblepot x Reader / smut, on hold

1 | 2 | 3 |

Oneshots/Requests:

Learn some patience, Sionis / Roman Sionis x YN

Bad dream / Roman Sionis x YN

Overprotective!Roman Sionis / Roman Sionis x YN

Feel free to ask me anything! Always happy to talk to you guys.

[ccalhoun]

hey can you do relationship hc for oswald cobblepot (sfw/nsfw) with a male or gn reader

thanks!

≻ ┄┄ ♡ ┄┄ ≺

oswald cobblepot/the penguin x m!reader headcanons!

warnings: amab/male reader, switch reader, switch oswald, russian oswald, penetration, praise kink, blowjobs/handjobs, short sorry

wc: 600+

note: erm ignore how this took almost a year bye

cut for length!

sfw;

☆ - knows he can be snappy at times so he makes up for it by lots of apologizing if gets mad at you, as well as flowers and an expensive dinner <3 

☆ - various petnames, some in english some in russian. he loves his native language and thinks calling you russian petnames is the best thing in the world. his favorites are лапушечка (darling), умняшка* (clever/smart), солнышко (sun/sunshine)

☆ - he adores how smart you are. it doesn't matter if you're not a genius and just know common knowledge, he's in love you and your mind and could listen to you talk about anything for hours

☆ - secretly a cuddlebug. he always want to be touching you even if small ways, in public he'll always want to be sitting next to you. and in private, he'll always wants hugs. if you two move in (which he heavily wants), cuddles, every night. he doesn't mind any cuddling position, i really dont think he has a preference. he just wants to be close to you.

☆ - can and will show up to your house uninvited just to say hi

☆ - wants you to move in with him or buy a house for the two of you to live in. he has the money, he doesn't get why you won't let him. if you do cave and say yes, he'll look at every house available and show you all of them, requesting a walk through for the two of you and everything. he wants the house to be perfect for the both of you, and he won't accept anything but perfect.

☆ - very protective of you, would do anything you asked him. he doesn't want anyone to be rude to you, so what if your coworker who was yelling at you was found dead within a few days? it couldve been anything...

☆ - loves kissing you. forehead kisses, cheek kisses, normal kisses, he just wants to kiss you :(

☆ - kind of very clingy. just always wants to be around you. it doesn't matter what you're doing, he'll try his hardest to find a way to go with you. you have to do paperwork? he'll sit in your office with you. you have to cook? he doesn't mind waiting. you have to clean your house and do chores? he'll help! there's really no way to avoid him.

nsfw;

☆ - a switch, obviously.

☆ - doesn't mind being a dom or sub, but it would definitely take awhile for him to warm up to the idea of penetration either ways.

☆ - i hc that he's a virgin when you start dating LOL. u can not tell me that man fucks

☆ - loves hand stuff and oral! horrified of going all the way.

☆ - i think he would probably have to be really close to you and have to wear/make you wear protection for penetration. he's a bit of a germaphobe and just doesn't think its very cleanly.

☆ - after awhile and he's more comfortable with it though, it's over for you. he can go hard either way, one day he wants to be completely under your control and the next day maybe he wants to boss you around and take control over you, it really just depends on how he's feeling!

☆ - i also heavily hc that he has a praise kink, he wants to be praised and he wants to praise you. he turns into putty and basically gets hearts in his eyes whenever you tell him he's doing a good job or he's being a good boy. but on the other side of things, he also wants you to know how much he loves you. like i said before he really likes complimenting how smart you are, so expect him to praise you over every little thing you do!!!

☆ - probably wants to hold your hand while fucking lol, will basically beg to hold your hand if he has to.

≻ ┄┄ ♡ ┄┄ ≺

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Imagine # 1,045

Gif NOT mine.

Year posted - 2023

*This man runs cold and you can't convince me otherwise, and I personally am a walking furnace! So this popped into my head while reading fics with Oz, and this is the product of that thought. (Also just look at his stupid lil face, I just wanna smoosh his cheeks together and call him my dumb lil baby.)

"I've missed you my darling." Oswald groaned tiredly as he nestled into (Y/n)'s comforting embraced. "And I've miss you my King." She cooed with a smile, knowing just how much he loved that title, pride swelled in her chest when he visibly shuttered. "You are always so warm." Oswald murmured, hiding his face into her neck, his skin practically ice compared to hers. "I'm glad you like that." She chuckled to herself, finding it oh so endearing how he cuddled into her. "I love it." He corrected, all but purring as he lay slack against her. He needed this, he'd had a rough day, like most days anymore. Oswald loved his darling (Y/n), and he was certain he always would. But he especially loved just how warm she always was compared to him. On long cold Gotham days, he longed for the end of the day to cuddle up with his love in their shared bed. All nestled together under the luxurious blankets, safe and warm. It helped to ease the tension in his body, and relax his frazzled mind. And it was a lovely way of showing just how much he not only missed her throughout the day, but also how much he loved her and wanted to always be near her. "Can't I convince you to quit your job, and join me in mine?" Oswald mused thoughtfully, wanting nothing more than to spend every second of every day with his lover. "Afraid not darling, I love my work." (Y/n) kissed the crown of his head, holding him a little tighter. "I know." He sighed sadly, but quickly kissed the side of her neck to assure her that it was okay. "Rest now my King." (Y/n) instructed before she started humming a tender melody, knowing it would help to lull Oswald into a peaceful sleep.

[adalwolfgang]

ADAL!!! saw your requests/inbox is open…and i had to send in a little something something!!!

heard you do “i ship you with…” so i was wondering what gotham character you might ship me with!!!

As far as physical appearance goes, I’m a 4’11 cis female with long brown hair and brown eyes, tan skin, hispanic, and wear a lot of black and red :> (and wearing glasses when im not in my contacts sksksk)

As far as personality goes, I’m a little eccentric, lots of jokes teehee, my MBTI is INTP, aquarius zodiac sign, and I love a possessive jealous protective man 🤞 I’m bisexual with a preference for men, and my ideal date idea is a movie at home !! or a grocery store date (i love shopping!!)

tysm adal ^_^ u dont have to if you dont want too, or if you dont do these anymore!! Just thought it might be fun !!

A/N: AHHH YES!! I wont ever stop doing these so you're good! Also sorry for the wait! Im trying to get through asks today because the numbers are starting to stack up and I don't want to keep holding it off anymore! But my inbox will always be open!

I ship you with...

Oswald Cobblepot!

Let's start with the height difference.

He loves it.

A lot.

Almost everyone he's ever encountered is always taller than him, or his height is used against him.

Definitely has a sort of power kink toward it if yk what I mean.

Now onto your color scheme.

We've all seen his many outfits throughout episodes and how fashionable he is.

He'll spoil you to your hearts content on whatever you want.

Including clothes.

There's a black and red outfit you've been wanting from a store down the street?

It's sitting on your bed by the next hour or so with a little love note attached to it.

If he's feeling it, you'll both be matching that day, wearing the similar black and red that you love so much.

He'll also make sure you always have a spare set of glasses or contacts on hand.

Just incase yk?

If anyone dares to even tease you about your clothes, glasses, looks in general?

Dead.

I can't stress the 'anyone' enough.

He knows what it's like being talked down to and mocked so he isn't having non of that when it comes to you.

He doesn't want his darling going through the same shit he went through.

He's gonna do whatever it takes to make you live the best.

As a queen.

His queen.

He's not the best at telling jokes but he does have a certain sense of humor.

Like laughing at the people, who've hurt either him or you, who are on the ground screaming in pain.

Again, a certain sense of humor.

Lets say you try a harmless prank on him, and end up scaring the shit out of him.

He'll scold you but is smiling by the end of it.

If you tell him a joke, he'll laugh at it.

While also staring at you with a loving gaze.

Back to him loving to spoil you, he much prefers taking you out to extravagant places for a ideal date like a fancy restaurant but won't mind just chilling at his mansion and snuggling up on the couch with you.

He doesn't get the whole shopping dates you mention though.

Why do something like that when he can just make others do it for you?

If you beg for it enough, he'll agree.

But he makes sure zsasz and a couple other of his men come along.

Again just in case.

He'll tell them to spread out and not stick so close to you both so it can feel like it's just you and him having a nice bonding moment.

Don't expect him to carry anything though.

Poor Zsasz we'll probably get stuck acting as some pack mule.

[too-much-heaven-on-his-mind]

I wanna cry, how do I explain that I ship Oswald and The Riddler MORE than I ship Oswald and Edward 😭

LIKE, I'm gonna have to write a fanfic just to make my point because AO3 doesn't understand me when I try to look for a Oswald/Riddler with Jealous Ed on the background fic 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

PLEASE IF ANYONE KNOWS ABOUT A FIC LIKE THAT PLEEEEEASEEE SEND THE LINK, I CANT- I CAN'T FIND ANY AND I'M CRYING RIGHT NOW I NEED IT 😭😭😭😭 I'M STARVING PLEASE

[clericxhood777]

Barbara: Ed likes being pegged, prove me wrong

Oswald: I can confirm

Isabella: Can confirm

Lee: Can confirm

Kristen: Can confirm

Barbara: I'm not surprised he takes the strap

[philosopherking1887]

Rating: M

Ships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma (endgame); Oswald Cobblepot/Jim Gordon (temporary but substantial)

Fic summary: Jim and Oswald agree that the relationship between Edward Nygma and Lee Thompkins is a disaster waiting to happen, so they come up with a desperate plan: plant evidence that they're having a secret affair to spark jealousy in Ed and Lee and draw them away from each other. Their plan is both complicated and helped along by simultaneous crises involving the brothers Valeska…

Chapter 23 (of 24): No Man's Land. Gotham has been cut off from the mainland and descended into near-anarchy, save for a few pockets of order and relative safety -- most importantly, the Green Zone, where Jim Gordon leads the ragged remnants of the GCPD in protecting a few hundred stranded civilians; and the territory that Penguin rules from his fortified citadel in City Hall and protects by controlling the city's ammunition supply. Running out of ammunition and food, and losing his tenuous hold on order in the Green Zone, Jim takes a desperate risk and goes to Penguin to propose an alliance.

LOL, did I say "no more increases to the chapter count" when I posted the last chapter? Well, I lied. Again. Because what was supposed to be a short epilogue turned out not to be that. And it was getting so long that I decided it would make sense to split it into two chapters (and there was actually a decent place to do that, fortunately). So here's Epilogue-ish-thing Part I.