#i am. decidedly not scrawny anymore

[artisanalpeanutbutter]

Important update:

I have become the douchebag who drinks protein shakes

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

Sorry about the rambling. I dunno why I wrote so much, but I don’t want to consign it to the draft folder purgatory I only so recently purged.

Today, in the grocery store parking lot**, a truck transporting hogs had broken down.

I dunno if everyone knows what these trucks look like. They are double decker things, these slivery crates with the animals packed in tight. When I was little, before the road was four laned, the trucks would come right through the middle of the town, reeking of pig shit.

Actually, those trucks and those too tiny pig lots local farmers used to have had me assuming pigs naturally stunk. When my little Ryoga showed up I assumed I was going to just have to endure a terrible stench out by the pool. It turned out that if you actually give pigs enough space they don’t stink at all! Who knew!

Anyway, as the trucker worked on his engine the giant cage rattled as hogs moved about. You could see them, the side of a pig, an ear, just glimpses through the gaps. Every now and then a snout would stick out, sniffing at the air. Despite the fact there was the occasional unhappy squeal, the pigs probably didn’t know they are on their way to die, only they were packed in tight in a metal box, and now that they weren’t being jostled around they were baking in the sun and smelling the same horrible diesel exhaust that was choking me.

My god, Ryoga doesn’t know how lucky he was when he ran away and found me! That would have been his fate. He would have been butchered years ago.

Instead he has his cozy house surrounded by trees. He has a human that feeds him twice a day, gives him apples, shares her oranges with him, gives him newspapers to thrash to death, rubs his belly, and frets if he pulls a muscle or catches a cold.

I was buying him fresh wood chips, hog feed, and apples on this trip, while I watched his cousins becoming agitated in a truck that started rocking. I’d be petting and scratching at Ryoga, snuffling back at him face to face just a few hours later. And they would soon be dying.

Look, I get humans are omnivores. I am too. But I can’t stand the thought of eating bacon, ham, etc ever since Ryoga entered my life. It’s no different than how most people would never seriously entertain the idea of eating dogs or cats. I see those pigs, and I see my “little one”.

Ok, Ryoga isn’t exactly little anymore(my tusky buddy weighs much more than me), but he’ll always be “my little one”, the scrawny, battered, little piglet the size of a cat that took Mom and I by surprise late one October day. He’s special to me, but maybe some of those pigs on that truck are smart or silly or cute or playful too. It was just insane luck that he escaped and found me.

At Walmart two people held up signs begging for money, one someone that looked decidedly sickly who said they were disabled, the other a frail old woman, hunched over. Both looked sad, ashamed, and exhausted as they struggled at different ends of the parking lot to keep standing.

So very little separates me from them, as my body breaks and my bank account dwindles. My home is dilapidated, but it is a home. Many of the things my family left me a broken, but some work. I have a very meager allowance to survive on, but it has so far been enough to not quite starve. But how long before I have no livable house and not enough money to meet basic needs?

And it occurred to me that I was like Ryoga. We both got lucky. And loved.

He doesn’t appreciate it, of course, and has no concept of the precariousness of existence. If I die before him, he is probably doomed.

I was like that once too. Taking my family and the life they offered for granted, intellectually getting I was lucky, but emotionally incapable of truly predicting the future that lay ahead.

Like most animals I have a terrible problem of existing too much in the now, and almost paradoxically that has gotten worse now that the reality of my life has proven the folly of such a life. The trouble is, once I started falling there is no time or energy for planning or preparing when everything has become about surviving. How an I exist outside the now, when every moment yanks me back with a new crisis?

Today I watched pigs in a truck, on their way to slaughter, and people that life has crushed desperately hoping for a moment of anonymous kindness from people that would rather not make eye contact. And I feel all the luck I have, and all the fear of how it cam so easily slip away.

**Super stressful shopping trip. I was trying desperately to get the essentials on my list yet still save enough I could pay a certain bill due this month. The good news is I succeeded. The bad news is I may or may not be able to buy groceries for myself again this month! LOL (Don’t worry. The animals come first. )

[dragonprincess18]

We Must Be Over The Rainbow

You would think being reborn and chucked into a different universe would be a lot more fun than this.

“Ugh!”

The taste of rotten meat and putrid fruit and rancid trash stuck in my throat, going down like it was crawling against my gag reflex, how could anything taste so bad?!

Coughing once that bite of disgusting mush cleared my airway for sweet, sweet oxygen, I threw the rest of that damn fruit away from me before it could try to kill me again, eyes watering reflexively with tears.

How did I go from getting run over by an asshole driver to swallowing that?

Was this some sort of divine punishment for a horrible crime I don't remember committing?

“Oi!”

My vision was blurry and indistinct, like my glasses had fallen off, but I immediately saw a splotch of red getting closer with that irritated voice that sounded strangely familiar.

But it seemed too…

Off?

“Quit being a crybaby! It wasn't that bad!”

Wasn't that-?!

“Yes, it was!” I shot back, too angry in the moment to realize my voice also sounded off, younger and higher than I'd gotten used to over the years after puberty.

“You don't hear me complaining!”

All I could see were slowly-defining blobs of color, a bright red and a pale skin tone and a gray lump that was surreptitiously kicked away by a dark leg, and pointed accusing.

“But you won't take another bite!”

“I'm just not hungry!”

“Liar!”

The cramp of hunger in my own stomach certainly said so, and I rubbed the tears away furiously.

“Quit being a crybaby!”

“Jerk!”

Vision clearing in a way that was disorienting, I glared up at the scrawny, dirt-smudged redhead and found amber eyes glaring back from a face I only recognized in abstracts.

Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Because I was looking into the face of a Eustass Kid that was decidedly young and decidedly female, and why did that feel normal?

Kid scoffed, kicking an empty can and mumbling under her breath, clearly not any more even-tempered than I remembered the male version being in the original anime, and this was a hell of an acid trip.

Maybe this was my dying brain trying to inject some levity in my last moments?

Synapses firing and getting muddled by medications from paramedics?

A startled yelp snapped my attention back to the present, and a little snort got caught in my nose at the sight of Kid flailing as she tried to shake off metal bits of trash, cursing colorfully.

“Shit, what the fuck-?”

Then reality hit me like a sledgehammer.

We both just ate Devil’s Fruits, and I had no idea what mine was.

“Fuck.”

“Hey, you’re too little to swear!”

“Then so are you!”

“Am not! I’m bigger than you!”

“A bigger idiot!”

“You little-!”

I immediately flailed backward, trying to dodge her grubby hands, and…

Well, I'm not really sure what I did.

I just felt everything stretch and squeeze and shift around and landed on the ground much smaller and fluffier than I had been a few seconds ago, and Kid was freaking out.

“What the fuck-Tori! What did you do?!”

Shoving myself up, I stared down at tiny, brown-furred paws, felt long ears twitch and looked back at a fluffy, cream-tipped tail, and realized Kid being a girl was not the only change in this topsy-turvy universe.

Shit.

========================================================================

“I can’t believe you two.”

Let me tell you, even a pre-puberty female Killer had a hell of a Disappointed Mom Voice.

It felt like deja vu, in a weird way, as if memories of this body were in watercolor bubbles that popped into my mind at random moments, the sort that had me calling Kid ‘gremlin’ like it was a well-used needling nickname and also had me sheepishly apologetic under Killer’s exasperation, even if I couldn’t see her expression through heavy blonde bangs and the faded blue handkerchief tied over the lower part of her face.

“How do you find two Devil’s Fruits and then just eat them without knowing what they do?”

And, on a reflex I already knew well from having an older brother, I threw Kid under the passing bus known as Accountability.

“Kid did it first!”

“Oi!”

Killer just let out this long-suffering sigh, like she was already too old for our bullshit at less than ten years old, but I was too busy ducking away from Kid’s lunge and the following flying soup cans to pay much attention.

“Get back here, you little shit!”

“Killer, Kid swore!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Shit’s not a swear!”

“Is too!”

“Smartass!”

“Killer, she did it again!”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Killer dropped her head in defeat as Kid screeched and lunged to get her hands around my throat before I ducked between her legs and ran.

“You two are hopeless…”

[chris-evans-indian-fanfic]

Worthy

One-Shot

Description: What happens when Steve goes to collect the Soul Stone instead of Natasha and Clint?

Warning: Curse words, spoilers for Avengers Endgame

This is for the awesome, caring and super-talented @jtargaryen18 's writing challenge. She eased my mind about the plot. Thank you 😘 Click here to know the rules and participate!

Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

...

Who was he? Steve Rogers? Or Captain America? Are they both different people? Or are they two sides of the same coin?

Steve wondered as he gazed down the cliff at Vormir, home to the Soul Stone.

When he had first arrived alone on the barren planet, he had been shocked and angry to see Red Skull guarding the infinity stone. To think that he went under the ice all those years ago stood for nothing. To have lost his life, his partner, his best friend and for what? Hydra was still active, the world was still suffering from war and now Red Skull was still alive, floating in space.

But as he understood Red Skull's predicament, Steve realised that while he himself was a man out of time, Red Skull was stuck here in his miserable existence till the end of time, out of place, out of touch. That brought him some satisfaction.

He was glad they had decided to send Natasha and Clint with Tony, Bruce and Scott to 2012. There was just too much ground to cover with 3 infinity stones in the same city. It made sense to have more eyes on the ground.

There was no way Steve would sacrifice anybody from his team for the stone. They had lost too many lives already. And if they were successful, then they would need all hands on deck to manage the chaos that would follow once everybody was brought back. 

Steve sat on a rock and pulled out his compass. He sighed as he saw Peggy, "What do you think Peg?" he murmured, lightly running his thumb over the photograph. 

After a few minutes, he clicked a button on the rim and the compass flipped open, revealing the hidden compartment beneath. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from within. It was as old and worn-out as Peggy's photograph. He closed the compass and looked at the other image. A black and white Bucky laughed back at him while at his side, a thin, scrawny Steve was looking scornfully at the camera, his face bruised. Steve chuckled as he remembered the day this photograph was taken. He had gotten into another one of his infamous back-alley fights. Some drunken idiot had punched Bucky because he had been flaunting his Sergeant's uniform at the bar amongst the ladies. While Bucky could have easily mopped the floor with the guy, Steve had decided to step in and push the drunken idiot. Then, as it always happened, Steve was dragged into the back-alley to be turned into a punching bag, with Bucky finally saving his skinny ass.

This photograph was taken later that night, with Bucky laughing at the whole incident.

The cold Vormir wind brought Steve back to the present. Ever since he could remember, he wanted to do the right thing, save the innocent people and just help those who needed it the most. 

While the asthmatic 90-pound Steve Rogers couldn't do that, the 240-pound Captain America was able to do that and much more.

That's why he loved being Captain America. He could finally do what he had always wanted to do. It didn't matter whether the Government labelled him as a criminal or whether the press questioned his every move. He was able to help people, change lives for the better and protect the little guy. Isn't that what mattered?

He opened the compass again. Looking at both the photographs, he whispered, "Thank you."

He picked up his shield and faced the cliff.

"What are you doing?" asked Red Skull, as if guessing his next move, "How do you know this will work? You are Captain America," he declared. 

Steve looked at him, his mouth turned into a smirk, "How would I know? I am just a kid from Brooklyn," and with that, Captain America jumped into the abyss below.

…

Steve's entire body was shivering with cold as he lay in the water. With his teeth clattering, he barely managed to sit upright. He started breathing rapidly as he took in his surroundings. He was still on Vormir. As he tried to get up, he realised two things. One, he was completely naked except for his time travel bracelet and vibranium shield, and two, he was holding something in his right hand. He opened his palm to look at the yellow Soul Stone. Almost laughing in relief, Steve looked down at himself. He saw he had the same scrawny body as the Steve in the old photograph. Shivering further with cold, he pressed a few buttons on his bracelet.

…

One by one as the Avengers returned to the compound, they looked around excitedly at their peers, relieved to find them safe. Steve was the last one to return. His knees buckled as soon as he landed. Hiding his naked bony body behind the shield, he threw up on the floor, his body not able to handle the stress of the quantum time-travel.

"Oh my God who is that?!" Scott exclaimed as Tony, Natasha and Clint stepped tentatively towards Steve. As his body convulsed with pain, he held up the stone towards them. The second Nat took the stone, Steve collapsed.

…

Steve woke up two days later on a hospital bed. 

"We are trying our best to keep your bodily functions from collapsing onto themselves. You should be thankful that we have medicines to treat most of your ailments. What were you thinking?" Tony spat with frustration.

Steve saw large swollen bags under Tony's red eyes. Steve was willing to bet that Tony hadn't slept ever since his return. He smiled, "It had to be done Tony," said Steve, his voice flat, having lost its 'Captain America depthness'.

"What happened on Vormir?" asked Natasha gently. Steve tried to sit, "The stone demanded a sacrifice. A soul for the soul stone. So I sacrificed him."

"Yeah and left us without a leader. What are we supposed to do now? You are meant to rally the troops. You are meant to lead. How do you think you will do that if you need an asthma inhaler every time you try to take a walk around the compound?" Tony voiced his concerns. "Tony, calm down. Shhh now," Thor said from his chair. 

"You look like you need a sandwich," Rocket commented, seated besides Thor.

"Your vitals look good Cap... ahem I-I mean Steve," Bruce flustered while checking Steve's reports.

"Captain America was never about one person. It is about what the title stands for; Bravery to face any challenge, Courage to stand up against the greatest powers for the right reason and Having a clear sense of duty, of what's right and wrong. Captain America can be anyone," Steve said, pointedly staring at Natasha. 

He turned to look at the shield placed by his bedside table. Carefully, he picked it up with a bit of struggle and held it out for her.

"I can't think of a better person to lead us," Steve said decidedly. Wide-eyed, Natasha looked at him with bewilderment. "No Steve. I am a spy. I am not a soldier. I cannot be trusted with…"

"You are not a spy. Not anymore. You have been leading the Avengers not just on earth, but across the galaxy, especially when most of us had given up. You are right though. You are not a soldier. You are a leader, Captain."

Natasha looked at Steve, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice almost breaking "I have too much red on my ledger Steve."

"You wiped that ledger when you joined the Avengers Nat. You deserve this," Clint supported her.

As Natasha took the shield and tried it on, Tony asked her, "We will have to render your suit. Do you want black with Red, White and Blue?" Natasha nodded. As Tony left, Natasha mouthed the words, "Thank you," towards Steve as he brushed it off.

"Have we brought everybody back yet?" Steve asked. 

"No. We are just finishing the gauntlet. It should be ready by tomorrow," Banner said.

Clint looked at Natasha proudly. "We have a female Captain America now."

"No," Steve said. He grinned at Natasha, "We have a Captain America now."

…

2014 Nebula kept her attention at Antman near the Quantum Time Machine. In the last two days there had been a lot of activity in the compound thanks to Steve's return. It would have served as a good distraction, but unfortunately, there were people working around the time machine. She was itching to bring her father and his army to this future. However, for that, she would need to have patience. A lot of patience. They were planning to undo the snap tomorrow, that's when she planned to strike. She cannot afford to fail her father. She must not.

…

"All the best guys," said Steve as he sat in the car, ready to leave the compound. There was going to be a tremendous blast of gamma radiation from the snap. Steve understood that he might not survive the blast and instead, had offered to bring falafels from the nearby restaurant for lunch.

He reached the modest Middle Eastern eatery. Only two tables were occupied when he placed his large order to go. The server looked at him in suspicion. He doubted whether Steve would be able to carry all the packages by himself. Still, he shrugged, large orders such as these were a boon in the post-snap world. 

After 5 minutes, the restaurant shook with a wave of energy blast. Steve fell down from his chair with the impact. As he got up, brushing himself off, he saw black dust materialising in front of him. He looked on as the dust came together to form a person, a man. Steve noticed this happening all around the restaurant. Within a span of a few minutes, the entire restaurant was filled to capacity, with more people appearing on the sidewalk. 

He heard terrified screams of people around him. Then guns were fired into the air. Steve turned, trying to determine the source of the violence, when he felt the ground shake.

"EARTHQUAKE!" someone screamed and they all tried to take cover, mostly bumping into one another. There was a loud deafening sound of a missile exploding, then another 4-5 such sounds in rapid succession as the ground shook relentlessly with the impact of the missiles. 

Shit, Steve thought. Who would be attacking them now?

A few moments later, when everything went quiet, Steve stepped out of the restaurant and looked in the direction of the Avengers Compound. He could see dark smoke rising into the sky, with a huge spaceship eclipsing the sun. Thanos.

Without a second thought, Steve entered the car. "F.R.I.D.A.Y," he commanded, "Take me to the compound right now." "There has been an attack Mr Rogers, I am not sure if…" the AI tried to reason with him, but Steve interrupted, "Now!" "Yes Mr Rogers," she said in resignation.

…

He reached as close to the compound as the car could take him. The debris of the buildings and the gaping holes in the ground preventing the car from going any further. Steve stepped down, and started making his way to the centre of the ground.

As he used his asthma inhaler, he realised Tony was right. If he couldn't even walk this much without needing his inhaler, how can he help them? 

When Steve reached the centre, his heart broke at the scene before him. Tony was lying on the ground having sustained multiple injuries. Natasha was trying to get up, her arms and legs badly cut. Thor was fighting with Thanos, but it seemed that was a losing battle as well. Steve couldn't just give up. He never had.

Looking around him at the ground, he saw a big piece of concrete. Lifting it, he tried to throw out with all his strength, but the concrete didn't even fall within 10 yards of Thanos. His eyes then went to Thor's Mjolnir on the ground. He still had to try right? 

He rushed towards the hammer and pulled on its handle, Mjolnir feeling surprisingly light in his hands. He aimed and swung for the ugly purple head. With Mjolnir hitting the mark, the hammer dutifully came back to Steve. 

"I KNEW IT!" exclaimed Thor, his reaction earning him a kick from Thanos.

Thanos's surprise was short-lived. He charged towards the little guy. Steve threw the hammer again but Thanos easily deflected it with his double-edged sword.

Before he could reach Steve, Natasha attacked Thanos, diverting his attention. "F.R.I.D.A.Y," she screamed, "get Steve a sandwich."

This isn't the time for a joke, Steve thought as he summoned the hammer and threw it at Thanos again.

Thanos threw Natasha to the ground and headed for Steve. A back-handed smack sent Steve flying in the air. He wouldn't have survived the fall, if it hadn't been for the S.A.N.D.W.H.I.C.H.H- an iron-man suit in the darkest shade of blue. The suit wrapped itself around Steve as it broke his fall. "Welcome Mr Rogers," greeted F.R.I.D.A.Y, "Do you like your new suit? It stands for

S - Steve

A - Always

N - Needs

D - Dangerous

W - Weapons

I - In-order-to

C - Cover

H - His

H - Homies"

Steve was still panting from the impact of the smack as he lay on the ground in the suit. "Not one of Tony's best acronyms," he managed to say between breaths. "Yeah," agreed the AI, "but he only put this together last night."

Steve struggled to get up again. He heard Thanos mumble something, but he couldn't care less. He stumbled in the new suit, barely being able to walk towards the giant alien, but still, willing to fight till his last breath. Just then, the microphone in his suit crackled a bit, "C-Cap, you ther--re?" He heard Sam's voice…

…

Steve couldn't believe it. The entire universe had come to fight with Thanos. He looked at humans and aliens alike, pissed off and ready to face the biggest threat to the universe. He managed to make it to the front of the line besides Thor, summoning the Mjolnir.

Natasha smiled at the army behind her, then turned to look at Thanos with a deadly stare.

She raised her shield as she called out to the warriors, her voice bellowing on the battlefield, "AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!" 

[thegreenfairy13]

Bird Catcher -  Part 1 - The Long Night

Written for an amazing writer and wonderful person @justsimplymeagain in the spirit of the Gobblepot Valentines event. This 2 to 3 part fic will eventually (tomorrow to be precise) end up on my Ao3-account. It’s just some fluff. Not an ounce of angst (hooray!)

This is going to be a very long night, Jim thinks, looking around the empty precinct. It’s already past midnight and with the snow-storm raging outside, only a few dim lights burning, and the ancient radio croaking out a Johnny Cash song, the detective feels like he could very well be on another planet.

The other cops are all at home. Even Harvey decided to spend a night like this rather in the safety of his own home than at the GCPD. Besides, nobody in their right would commit a crime tonight anyway. Which doesn’t mean Jim is alone at the department.

Heaving a sigh, Jim tentatively places another file on top of his never decreasing pile of workload. Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, he looks over to the holding cells. He’s got a flightless, limping bird trapped in there.

The Penguin, infamous mob-boss, scowls viciously at the detective. His hands are clasped around the bars as he bares his teeth with a spiteful snarl. Oswald Cobblepot rather reminds Jim of a ghoul or a leprechaun than of those cute, waddling birds.

“Release me at once!” he hisses furiously when the detective ignores him.

Turning his attention back to his files and Johnny Cash, Jim tries getting some actual work done.  

“I’ve got rights!” the slim mobster growls, rattling at the bars to no avail.

Humming in agreement, Jim turns a page. He’s not going to rise to the bait or letting himself get dragged into an argument with the mobster. He’s got hardly any chance to win it anyway.

“This is frankly ridiculous!” Oswald carries on, working himself up to what will soon certainly be an impressive fit of rage. “You can’t lock me up just for carrying my cane around with me. I need it to walk.”

“Really?” Jim drawls, finally snapping. “You need a sword hidden in a cane to walk properly? In a weapon-free zone? Opposite a kindergarten? I shouldn’t think so,” he finishes, hiding behind the folders again.

“Who in their right mind would walk the streets of Gotham unarmed let alone establish a weapon-free zone?! Besides I wasn’t using the blade, I was just passing by!”

“Oswald, considering your record I could have carted you off to Blackgate. Show some gratitude,” Jim growls. “Even your lawyer said 6 hours in the GCPD holding-cell are a goddamn present.”

“Six hours in your presence are anything but,” the mobster bites back, collapsing on the thin mattress. “Arresting me for such a bagatelle should be considered despotism.”

“Four hours and twenty-five minutes left, Penguin,” Jim answers sardonically. “Get some sleep. You look like you need a rest,” he adds mischievously.

“On top of your audacity, you expect me to get bitten by bedbugs! I am almost certain this sub third world country standard of the GCPD cells is a direct violation of the human rights convention.”

“Apologies.” Jim doesn’t sound the least bit sorry.

“Jim Gordon release me at once! I have places to be,” he shrieks, now completely losing his patience but the detective still won’t budge.

“No,” the other man retorts decidedly.

Clenching his fist, the criminal hits the wall. “James Gordon, I’m going to turn these four hours into the longest of your life!”

Giving the raging criminal a bored shrug, Jim dives back into his papers. “Challenge accepted,” he mutters disinterestedly and the man in the cell slumps against the wall.

As expected, Oswald’s defeat is a short-lived one. It doesn’t take long before the kingpin starts pacing his cell, dragging his bad leg behind for show, and eliciting small, high-pitched, and entirely false noises of pain.

In return, Jim simply turns up the volume on the radio forcing Oswald to change tactics. When the captured bird throws a glance over his shoulder at the detective, eyes blazing in three different shades of violet from fury, the detective can hardly suppress the amused chuckle about to escape his throat.

Jim might be reluctant to admit it, yet over the years he has become quite fond of the smart criminal. And despite everything he has done, the gangster’s skewed moral compass is not so very far off from his own anymore. Besides, Oswald has saved their city one or two times.

The Penguin is a contradiction. On the one hand, he’s the compassionate, adorable son of Gertrude Kapelput, on the other hand, one of Gotham’s most unpredictable and bloodthirsty kingpins. When Jim arrested him tonight, he had been on his way to take down another possible opponent.

It’s a sign of Gordon’s own crumbling integrity he hasn’t waited until he’d catch the Penguin red-handed.

So when the gangster opens his mouth again, Jim expects the worst. Bracing himself for a tirade, he ducks his head. Yet, Oswald does nothing Jim would have expected. Ever. Instead of going into some lecture, he simply starts singing along to the song on the radio. Very loudly.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation, Jim continues working. It’s not like Oswald would be bothering him. Quite the contrary - the criminal has an astonishingly beautiful voice. And so the entertainment programme carries on for some time until Oswald suddenly stops.

Jim blinks. Oswald glares.

The detective waits another five seconds before addressing the gangster. “Why did you stop?”

“Why didn’t you make me?” Oswald asks, raising his chin defiantly.

“I’m sorry. Was I supposed to?”

The mobster sucks in an outraged breath. “Well, you weren’t supposed to enjoy it.”

“Well, I did,” Jim retorts cheerfully. “You have quite a lovely voice,” he adds, throwing the gangster off guard. “You should rather go by oscine,” he adds, turning his back on him.

“You can’t just sit there and ignore me,” Oswald snaps back once he found his composure again.

“Can. Will. Doing.”

“I’m cold,” the criminal whines then and Jim seriously wonders if he caught a criminal tonight or some three-year-old.

“Then continue pacing. Do some yoga or one-legged knee bends. I frankly don’t care,” Jim hisses, starting to chew his pencil venomously.

“You can’t just lock me up and leave me to rot again! It’s freezing in here, I don’t have water and there’s neither a toilet. Once upon a time, you did believe criminals had rights, too!” Oswald screeches, gesturing for Jim to notice the miserable state of the cell.

It’s useless, Jim then decides. Getting up and walking towards the kitchen he heaves another sigh. It seems this night consists of a solid headache and heavy breathing. If he wants to get through this, he needs another cup of coffee. Or a well-aimed hit to the head.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

It’s not guilt, absolutely not, nor his bad conscience about Arkham. No, sir. Jim is just trying to be decent when walking into the locker room, searching for an old blanket he keeps around in case the never properly working GCPD heating system fails completely. It’s just an especially cold night, and if it helps Oswald to shut up for at least five minutes, it’s worth it.

“Here,” he says gruffly once he’s back, shoving the attrited grey thing through the bars.

Oswald takes the blanket from his hands with an expression of disgust written all over his face, careful not to touch an ounce of the detective’s skin.

“When was the last time this germ-infested piece of fabric saw the inside of a washing machine?” he demands to know, picking it up with disdain.

“Probably October,” Jim retorts. “Haven’t used it since.”

“You use the inmates' blankets?” Oswald asks skeptically, cocking his head slightly. And doesn’t that small gesture truly make him look like a bird?

The detective snorts. “No. That’s my own. I keep it here in case the heating is broken,” he elaborates, walking back to his desk again.

Jim’s plan had been working as the gangster is truly speechless for the following minutes. It suits him - just standing there and looking nice in his three-piece suits, gaping like the songbird he is. But eventually, the petulant criminal expresses another wish.

When the detective rises from him his seat to finally get that cup of coffee, Oswald cranes his scrawny neck.

“Jim?” the little tyrant starts tentatively.

“Yes, Oswald?” the detective answers, inwardly slowly counting to ten.

“I’m thirsty.”

Of course, he is.

“There’s water in the cell.”

“The tap isn’t working.”

Cursing under his breath,  Jim storms off into the kitchen. Oh yes, this night is going to be a long one.

[thegreenfairy13]

Mr Van Dahl’s Remarkable Double Life - Part 7 Love You Forever

A Gobblepot fanfic. Jim and Oswald have been married for years, fooling all of Gotham. When Jim decided their marriage shall not remain a secret anymore, all hell breaks loose for the detective. Read it here on Ao3. E-rated chapter! Read at your own risk! 

Even when having an existential crisis, there’s only so much you can do when being locked up in your own home’s basement. Jim is alternating between experiencing fits of rage and despair.

How dare Oswald hold him prisoner in their shared mansion? Well, it’s not even a shared place. It never was, Jim realizes. Does his husband ever even loved him or did he always regard him as his personal possession? The sheer audacity to tell the world he’s some kind of brain-washed pet. The cop can hardly breathe from anger.

Yet, it’s his very own fault. His track record when it comes to relationships is godawful. Each and every person he ever had an interest in turned out to be a psychopath at some point and Ozzie is decidedly the king of them. What was he expecting anyway when marrying a mob boss who won’t hesitate to stab his enemies right into their necks?

Despite all their shared years, Oswald, the Penguin, doesn’t value human life. Rather prefers regarding others as obstacles - with only a few exceptions.

Like him.

Jim once thought he might be able to change that. The bitter truth is, Oswald only contained his temper for Jim. Deep down, he’s still a stab-happy lunatic.

Well, that’s one side of the truth. He’s also loyal to a fault, he’s passionate, loves without abandon and all in all, is a force of nature, he reminds himself. Jim fell for the contradiction that is his husband and together they made Gotham a safer place.

Could he really leave all that behind? All those shared years in which they played mob bosses, fooled the GCPD and protected each other? God, how awful it felt to lie to his colleagues, especially Harvey. He pretended to be this self-righteous man while literally sleeping with the mob.

It hadn’t been easy to admit that he was in love with a gangster. But at some point it became inevitable. How many times did he allow Oswald to get away with crimes others would serve a life sentence in Blackgate for? He watched him take down Falcone, Maroni, and Mooney, watched him beating little tugs to a pulp without raising so much as a finger. And at one point, when truly realizing what the ingenious bastard was capable of, he actively started helping him while slamming his back into walls for the public.

Gotham prospered while Jim’s morals withered and faded to dust.

How on Earth did they even get away with their charade for so long? Didn’t their enemies wonder why Jim Gordon is still alive when others ended up with a bullet between their eyes only for calling the Penguin a freak? Wasn’t it obvious?

He told Oswald he’d be filing for divorce but that was in the spur of the moment. Imagining being at war with his husband churns his heart. Even thinking about it feels like getting his leg amputated without anesthesia. But he won’t allow him to get paraded around like a circus monkey. And he won’t continue playing this game of lies.

Reaching for his phone, Jim ponders giving his husband a call. He’s seriously worried their conflict else might be the cause of the premature death for some of his subordinates. The Penguin looked definitely shaken when leaving Jim behind in his prison.

Heatedly, Jim throws his phone away. Oswald wouldn’t dare to touch his employees if he really wants to stay married. He’s not going to give his man the satisfaction and cave in. No, instead he spends the next hours sulking in his room, waiting for his spouse to see reason.

Completely exhausted, he falls asleep.

When waking again, he notes two things right away. On the one hand, the entire room smells like cinnamon. On the other hand, he’s not alone anymore.

Oswald hovers over him, expression anxious. He’s holding a little tray loaded with fresh, warm waffles and whipped cream, looking the most erratic Jim has ever seen him. His eyes are red and puffy as if he’d been crying and his mascara is obviously smudged. He’s wearing that hideous make-up again that covers up his pale skin and never fails to make him look a bit like an orange.

The cop never understood why he uses it. His pale face in combination with those emerald eyes brought him to his knees after all. Oswald certainly has no concept of how beautiful he is. Shaking his head, he snaps out of it. It’s neither the place nor the time to appreciate his husband. Certainly not the place.

“Jim,” he exclaims when the detective gives him a discontented once-over. His lips spread into a wide smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I made you waffles,” he carries on ingenuously. “Your favorites,” he beams, almost knocking the tray against Jim’s jaw in his excitement.

“You think you can fix this mess with waffles?” Jim stares at him in bewilderment. If he doesn’t let him out the next minute he’ll get that whipped cream into his face and all over his beloved, decadent suit.

The smile drops from his face and if not for the tray Oswald would for sure either start biting his nails or fidgeting with his cane. “I, I thought it was a start?” he admits carefully averting Jim’s eyes.

“A start would be to release me,” the cop huffs while sitting up. Scooting a hand through his hair, he tries regaining some of his dignity - not an easy task when lying in bed, wearing a white shirt and shorts.

“I am sorry,” Oswald whines in response, finally setting the tray down. “I know what I did was wrong and I wanted to apologize and…”

“And so I’m free to leave, I hope?” Jim interrupts, glaring effectively at his spouse. The answer he receives is as frustrating as it is expected.

“Please wait.”

The detective rolls his eyes. “Then you can stuff your waffles where the sun never shines and get the hell back out,” he barks, pleased when the scrawny man looks genuinely shocked.

Swallowing hard, Oswald tries deciding what to do next. He doesn’t budge, probably painfully aware that Jim isn’t going to physically force him to leave. By now he definitely understands how uncomfortable his man is with violence.

His long, white fingers tremble slightly when he speaks again and his shoulders slump, bringing out the awkward shape of his spine more prominently. “I only ever wanted to protect you.” He searches Jim’s face after his confession. Hope the cop would understand written all over his features.

“Your protection got me killed,” Jim points out, tone cruel. Another spark of anger flares through Jim. Despite being constantly in pain, he doesn’t turn to one of Gotham’s various doctors to get his leg and back properly fixed but has absolutely zero qualms turning him into a zombie.

Well, not really into a zombie. Technically, he still feels human-ish enough but the point still stands. He just went and took a big part of what being human means from him without even asking. And what is it with his eternal youth? Was that really necessary? His husband probably merely fed his vanity with that one.

Yes, he knows he’d be dead otherwise but….his thoughts trail off. And now Oswald thinks some stupid waffles will fix that. It’s ludicrous. Jim doesn’t know what to do with himself.

It’s the exact moment Oswald’s determination cracks. Eyes filling with hot tears, the mobster sits down beside his husband. “Don’t you think I know that?” he whispers. “Don’t you think I know I made everything worse afterward? I panicked, okay?”

Wringing his hands, the King of Gotham becomes the pure picture of remorse. “You were dead, Jim. And I didn’t know what to do. I knew I could live in a world with you hating me but not in a world without you. And so I turned to Fries. Please, I’ll make everything to make it up to you!” he cries desperately.

Calmly, Jim picks up the bowl with the whipped cream. He truly had enough of his husband’s pathetic excuses. Sticking his finger inside the bowl, he tastes the cream. It’s good, refined with vanilla sugar just like he prefers it. Oswald meanwhile eyes him with rapt curiosity.

Good.

With one swift movement, he presses his face into the bowl, smearing the greasy cream all over his face, neck, and the collar of his shirt. The other man sputters indignantly when diving back up from the bottom of the bowl.

Jim bursts into laughter when observing his man gasping for air and trying to get the mass out of his eyes and hair. When flapping his hands around like that, he truly looks like a Penguin. A pretty enraged Penguin.

“Jim Gordon,” he accuses, smearing the whipped cream all over himself in his futile efforts to get rid of it. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you and..”

“You are not,” Jim interrupts more harshly than one would assume after his little joke. “You are trying to get your way. And as long as you are treating me like a prisoner, I’ll behave like an unruly prisoner.” Leaning casually back, he arches his eyebrow. “Or are you going to torture me next, hmm?” he urges.

“Of course not!” the mobster exclaims, appalled. “How dare you even think that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Jim drawls sarcastically. “Maybe cause you literally imprisoned me? Or cause you made me immortal without asking me first? Maybe because you didn’t stop there but gave me eternal youth as well so you can parade me around without being ashamed of me when I grow old. Or maybe because you decided to present me to the world as some brain-washed pet. How on earth do you want to make that up?!” he hollers, at last, dropping the indifferent facade.

Mouth hanging agape, the gangster stares silently at his cop for a long time. Breaking off a piece from the waffles, Jim dips it into the cream still covering his husband’s neck and starts munching. The King of Gotham squeaks unkingly and Jim chuckles mirthlessly anew.

The sad truth is, he might never find a greater love than Oswald. But everything considered, the divorce is inevitable. If there’s any pride left in Jim, he needs to walk away right now. His gangster might be sincere in his attempts to protect them both but that doesn’t give him the right to act the way he does.

Luckily for Oswald, there’s not too much pride left in Jim. The part of him that knows what’s wrong or what’s right died with Galavan and got stabbed for good measure in the months following that event. And despite telling himself what terrible fate Gotham might have awaited if he hadn’t done it, a part of him still misses the ambitious, goody-two-shoes boy he used to be.

“You are right,” the kingpin finally concedes with a heavy sigh. “I am selfish, Jim. But I would truly never hurt you. Not now, not in the future. Not if you stay, not if you leave.”

“You already hurt me. Multiple times,” Jim protests, dipping another piece of waffle nonchalantly into his husband’s neck. The ticklish mobster flinches but dutifully stays in place.

“Do you really want a divorce?” he demands to know at last, eyes big, pleading. A murderer shouldn’t have any right to look like an innocent puppy, Jim thinks as he moves behind him, wiping more cream from his pale throat. “Jim, I truly had no other choice. You were gone and Fries was at my disposal.”

Deep down, Jim knows his gangster is probably not lying. He wonders what he would have done if their roles had been reversed. Tries imagining Oswald cold and dead beneath his fingers. Would he have turned to Fries or Strange too? Or would he have accepted fate and moved on.

The delicate, deadly creature trembles as he caresses Jim’s jaw. “Your eternal youth wasn’t my wish, I swear. I just had no idea what to do. Please believe me, Jim,” he pleads, eyes big and so damn earnest it pains his heart. Those eyes once made him kill a man. They made him kill the man he used to be. It’s just consequent those eyes make him accept immortality.

Closing his eyes, Jim once again succumbs to the darkness of his Penguin. Leaning in closer, he tastes that damn cream again. This time without the waffle as a barrier but directly from his skin.

Oswald gasps in surprise.

“This time, we’ll have it my way,” Jim whispers into his ear. “You’ll be a nice, good hubby and release me. And then you’ll tell Gotham we played them all for years. And if they dare threatening us, we’ll remind them who exactly they are messing with.” His tone is too serious for Oswald to protest.

Fingers curling possessively into his man’s hips, Jim gently bites down on his ear. “We’ll let them know what the GCPD and your army are capable of,” he promises portentously, sending shivers down Oswald’s crooked spine.

“But first.”

“Yes?” Oswald asks breathlessly.

“I’ll make you pay,” he vows, lips curling into a dark smile. He might give in, but first, he’s going to have his wicked way with the little Penguin.

The gangster shrieks when Jim catches him around the waist and manhandles him onto his back in the process. Pinning his hands beside his head, the cop looks very pleased when his man’s eyes darken from arousal.

Leaning down, he presses a bruising kiss against his man’s lips, effectively distracting the devious imp in the process. He yanks the cravat from his neck next, using the piece of garment to tie Oswald’s hands swiftly to the headboard. Giving the mobster his dirtiest smile, Jim he straddles his narrow waist while already starting to rip the buttons of his shirt open.

“Told you I’d find a more pleasurable use for shackles,” he growls against his mobster’s skin, sucking the remaining cream from his throat.

As hoped, his little gangster agrees so very eagerly. It’s probably the relief from not getting a divorce right away, Jim muses. They haven’t even started but Oswald is already gasping and writhing beneath his hands.

Chuckling mischievously the cop starts his journey south and despite his delicate man moaning impatiently, Jim knows no mercy. Taking his time, he drags his tongue over the delicate clavicles, slightly biting down when Oswald starts trashing too much. Strong, calloused fingers then count fine ribs one by one, cherishing each treasured bone extensively.

By the time Jim starts sucking his nipples, the mobster is practically mindless. Eyes rolling back into his head, he starts begging his man to fuck him already. Of course, Jim doesn’t comply. Sitting back on his haunches, he enjoys watching his man’s hips rolling towards him. Desperately thrusting into nothing, the gangster searches for some form of friction.

Oswald sighs in relief when thinking Jim has finally pity. Instead, the cop decides to tease him with featherlight kisses right above where he needs him the most.

“Jim,” he whines, tossing his head back and yanking ineffectively at his makeshift shackles.

“Yes?” he asks indifferently, ignoring his own raging hard-on. The gangster pulls again at his restraints, eliciting another lewd smirk from his husband in the process. He’s truly good with knots, Jim thinks proudly as he starts caressing his man’s thighs. Tired of playing, he finally frees him of his pants and drops his own shorts.

“I like you like that,” he confesses as he drags his nails lightly over the exposed skin. “Naked from the waist down, covered in whipped cream, and tied to a bed. There’s not much damage you can do like that,” he snickers while giving Oswald’s cock a playful lick from base to tip. In return, the mobster nearly yanks the headboard off. Trying to calm him down, he leans down for another heated kiss, thoroughly enjoying when he feels Oswald’s cock press against his stomach.

Wantonly spreading his legs, the criminal starts moving his hips, trying to increase the pressure on his leaking cock. A distressed, guttural sound escapes his throat and finally, Jim has mercy. Sneaking a hand between their bodies, he starts pumping both their cocks in a firm grip. It takes Oswald only seconds to cum hard over Jim’s fist.

It would be a lie to say Jim’s wasn’t still mad at his husband. But when he curls up against his chest, head placed directly over his beating heart, he’s got a hard time being as angry as he should be too. Despite himself, he kisses each reddened wrist carefully before settling against the pillows.

“I still don’t like what we are about to do,” Oswald confesses tentatively, looking up at him through his long lashes. The cop deliberately ignores him. He’s got Oswald exactly where he wants him to be and like hell, he’s going to backpedal now.

“That’s not negotiable,” Jim reminds him, fingers curling around his husband’s arm.

“I could keep you down here,” the mobster suggests casually and to Jim’s dismay, only half-jokingly. His grip tightens in warning.

“I wouldn’t,” he concedes. “What I did was horrid enough.” Propping himself up on one hand, he looks his spouse straight in the eye. “I was pretty much unable to think in the hours following your death and resurrection. I...losing you...it would have killed me too,” he confesses earnestly.

“You had enough mind left to poison me,” Jim points out but the heat is gone from his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, averting his eyes again and blushing slightly. And that’s exactly when another alarm bell goes off in Jim’s head.

“You are hiding something,” he accuses as the mobster ducks his head behind the pillow.

“I’m not,” he squeaks unconvincingly.

Yanking the pillow from underneath his head, the cop glowers down at the rapidly paling form of his husband. “You would have died. What should I have done?”

“We’re past that. Try again,” Jim commands, giving his man his best severe stare.  If possible, Oswald shrinks further into the mattress.

“Jim,” he starts gently, lacking his usual confidence entirely. “Don’t you see the potential in being immortal?”

“No, not really,” he huffs in return. “I’m not really looking forward to seeing everyone I love die.”

Oswald’s slightly hopeful face drops as he starts nibbling his fingernails frantically. “Jim,” he tries again, and his tone would be perfect for a spooked horse. “Would it be better if not everyone you love will die?”

Horror settling in his gut, the penny finally drops. “You didn’t?!” Jim practically screams.

Oswald’s silence is answer enough.

“When?” he sputters.

“Shortly before Ed snapped. But the procedure wasn’t perfected back then. It took me weeks to heal but that shot would have killed me else,” he admits pulling the blanket over his head like a child trying to hide.

Well, Jim should have known Oswald was serious when promising he’d love him forever.