#oswald cobb x you

[ladylaviniya]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐮𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐧 — 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐀 𝐛𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐡é 𝐛𝐮𝐭- 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐛𝐛 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐛𝐭, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬?

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐛𝐛 𝐗 𝐅!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭, 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐃𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐄𝐚𝐭, 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐭-𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝟏 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐧, 𝐎𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐭, 𝐀𝐠𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐩 (𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐠𝐞!!), 𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐮𝐛𝐂𝐨𝐧, 𝐇𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐃𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐏𝐡𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐆𝐮𝐧 𝐕𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐂𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 *𝐍𝐨 𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫*

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟔𝐤+

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: 𝐈 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐮𝐩 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐞𝐱𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐩𝐩 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥.

𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: “𝐓𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝” 𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎

𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @dollywons

𝐆𝐢𝐟 𝐛𝐲 @nat111love

Mr Oswald Cobblepot wasn’t such a bad guy, at least that’s what you were told. He was the man who put the lights back on and supported the community with money and shelter because let me tell you, insurance ain’t no cheap fee in Gotham. 

He was often called The Penguin, which if somebody asked you, you’d find both cute but perhaps demeaning- yet Oswald wore the title like a badge of honour. Every waddling step he took with his solid black cane was made with pride, his chin held high and his chest puffed up.

He wasn’t a white trash bum, no, he was a boss, he was a businessman, he was a King with keys to the city of Gotham. 

He took down the Maronis, he took down the Falcones and sure enough he took down every greasy, greedy, lowlife slime ball who came around his turf trying to take what was his- what the people had given him. Respect. 

You see, what made this man so beloved wasn’t for the rumours of his ruthlessly cruel behaviour, it wasn’t for his money he graciously loaned to those in need- no, it was actually his kind and generous behaviour. He was a community man. He cared.

If you had a bill to pay, he paid it. If you’re out of cash and your kids are hungry, he’d bring you a box of food to last a month. If you were scared of some punks trying to vandalised your shop, boy-o did The Penguin handle it. He was even a little chummy with the police, often seen sharing a doughnut and coffee outside a cafe. And there weren’t no one filling the tithes basket like Oswald Cobblepot every Sunday Mass. 

He made sure the priest was happy, cops were happy and people were happy.

Everyone knew about the Iceberg Lounge, his most popular club, but since renovations, it got to be a little classier. It was the place to be of you wanted to listen to the finest swing and jazz. And you had heard strangers on the street gossip about how it sold the best rump steak. Steak? In this economy? 

He even knew your name. Your dad was a handyman, a plumber, locksmith, electrical guy, whatever really. Your dad was a hard worker and often was paid to do jobs for The Penguin. 

So yea, he knew your dad and came to know your name. It wasn’t a surprise when he would wink at you passing down the street with your book bag, sometimes you’d be seen running to catch the last bus of the day.

❆❆❆

The club felt quieter than usual, that’s how the Penguin knew it was daytime without checking his rolex; the usual staff were busy cleaning up shakers and glasses from the previous night’s shenanigans. As the bartenders busied themselves cleaning and tidying up in his wake, Oswald received a call from his trusted right-hand man, Iggy. It seemed that someone had racked up a hefty debt to him, a debt large enough to warrant Oswald’s immediate attention.

Oswald waddled out of the exclusive Iceberg Club with an air of confidence, his doors were lined by his awaiting men admiring his gleaming plum Maserati Quattroporte. He told them where to go. Who to shake down. 

The thugs headed off to do Oswald’s bidding, but before he followed, he took a moment to reflect on the task at hand. 

$100,000 he had loaned...and only $20,000 had come back to him. Normally he didn’t cover gambling debts too high risk in business, but hey he thought he could trust this man. He thought he could trust this working father, just trying to raise his kid, get her a good life. 

Oswald should’ve killed him and he would’ve done too if it weren’t for you. Sweet little princess that you were made him unbelievably charitable. Sadly a debts and debt and he couldn’t let the loss never be paid off. 

It was time to go chop some fingers, ears, mouths and noses. Deliver some punches and encourage a bit of violence.

He slid into the plush leather seat of his Maserati, his callous fingers wrapped around the steering wheel. He pulled out into the street, the purr of the car’s engine giving him a moment of peace to contemplate the road ahead. 

He came to a halt at the end of the road where his club was tucked away. On impulse, he turned his head to take a look at the young woman sitting at the bus stop. 

The sun hung high above the surrounding buildings, casting an orange glow across the cityscape. The evening air held the promise of a hot, sultry night.

The bus stop was a small, metal shelter, its exterior painted a faded red, and the paint chipping in several places. The roof was pitted and rusted, the windows were grime-covered, and the floor was littered with cigarette butts. There was a small bench inside the shelter. 

As his gaze took in the smooth curves of the womans legs, a rare moment of appreciation flickered on his face. Some black kitten heels were on those feet. White stockings. Oswald couldn’t believe it, what type of broad wore stockings on a stifling hot day like this?

His eyes widened in surprise as he recognized it was in fact you sitting there at the bus stop. He quickly rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the sill. A sly smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he regarded you.

“’That you, sweetheart?” he questioned, leaning further out of his car window.

You looked up with a totally surprised look on your face, your eyes meeting his. Your eyes widened as you recognized the car before the voice inside of it. The sight of you all alone at the bus stop made his blood heat up, and he bit his lip hard. There you were, looking so sweet with your book bag and a novel in your hands. Anyone could do anything to you, including him.

 “Hi Mister Cobb!” you chirped in greeting. 

He smiled.

He couldn’t help but consider how wicked he was to even entertain the idea of hurting someone as innocent and guileless as you. He was ashamed to be so perverted. What were you? Seventeen? Eighteen? Barely legal. Jail bait material.

He took a quick glance in his rear-view mirror, taking in the surroundings. It was daytime, and most people were likely hunkered down at their office jobs. But come the evening, the streets would be crawling with people eagerly queuing to gain entry to his club. For now, the coast was clear – no one was coming up behind him anytime soon.

He adjusted his dark ray bans and looked at you again, his hidden gaze lingered on your legs once more.

He asked, “Watcha doing out here, sweetheart?” he couldn’t believe he was seeing you of all people near his club, after all, didn’t you know this wasn’t a nice area? All types of bad people crawled these parts of town, he was included that crowd. The lenses of his shades masked the hunger and dark desire in his eyes looking over your legs and wide eyes.

You rotated your body towards him, but remained in your seated position. You pursed your lips, wasn’t it obvious? You glanced at the yellow station sign.

“I’m waiting for the bus, Mister Cobb,” you replied, crossing a knee over your thigh. Fuck he swore he saw your underwear under that shapeless skirt of yours. Your knees, Jesus, they deserved a good carpet burn.

He chuckled as he looked down at his rolex. 

“School finished an hour ago, didn’t it?” he questioned, curiosity and maybe being a little condescending. 

You smiled timidly at him, “I’m in college now, Mister Cobb,” you held up the large book bag at your feet. “And there are only two buses since the floods,” you added. 

Oswald’s gaze dropped to the book you were holding, then travelled back to your face. He wondered if you had been sitting there all day, waiting for the bus home. He took a few moments to study you further, admiring your youthful lips, imagining them around the tip of his cock for a moment.

‘C’mon baby doll, another load for daddy.’

Oswald couldn’t help but let out a small smirk as he heard those words. “College girl, huh?” He jerked a thumb towards the passenger side of his Maserati. “Well, c’mon, get in,” he ordered, “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Oh, no, you really don’t have to do that,” you protested politely, but you began rising slowly, your fingers toying with the strap of your book bag. It would be wildly inappropriate to accept a ride from him. He was the Penguin.

He let out a sharp snicker, shaking his head in disbelief at her sweet rejection, “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, “Tell me, when does the next bus arrive?”  his rings flashed in the sweltering sunlight.

He watched you pull out a phone and check the time. If your dad was thousands in debt to him, he would’ve bought you a nice watch for Christmas. The cogs behind your eyes worked before you shared the time.

“About an hour,” you confessed.

The Penguin let out an exasperated sigh, “Yeah, you don’t wanna be sittin’ out in this heat for another hour, do ya?” he said, waving at the baking bus stop.  “It’s hotter than hell out there. Come on, hop on in hun, I’ve got the AC cranked up. You can sit up front with me. I’ll drop you off at home.”

You chewed on your lower lip nervously, clearly you were weiging your options. He grinned when you finally rose from the bench, sliding your book into your bag. You made your way around the car and opened the passenger door. 

He cranked the AC as high as it would go.

Once you slid into the leather seat, his gaze dropped down to the supple flesh of your thighs, his throat going dry in response. His throat bobbed, his hand clenched the stirring wheel. God help him if he got an erection. Not that it would bother him too much, but he needed to focus on the road and not on the vision of you fingering yourself on the passenger driver seat.

“Seatbelt kiddo, safety first.”

You smiled at him as you clicked the seatbelt buckle into place and surveyed the dashboard of his car with a sense of awe. The sun made it sparkle. 

 “Wow,” you murmured, your hand slowly moving forward to gently touch the smooth, supple leather. 

The Penguin let out a small chuckle at your fascination, enjoying the way your eyes lit up as you explored the plush interior of his Maserati. You were just another underprivileged girl, unexposed to the luxury of finer things. He knew your father kept you well away from The Penguins world— or else you would be already dancing in heels and a thong in the 44 below lounge beneath the club.

Maybe you could dance for daddy still. Maybe some private dances. Oh how cute you’d be in a white babydoll and some high heels that you would wobble in every step.

The Penguin’s voice broke your admiring reverie, and you looked up at him. “Now let’s get you home, yea?” he said.

Your hands folded on your lap delicately. You were a little lady, a real sweetheart, a princess. Nah, he wouldn’t make you dance.

He knew that the drive to your place would take only about twenty minutes, but he also knew that once you got home, things would go haywire. Taking one final glance at your exposed knees, he pulled back onto the road.

Your wide eyes fluttered slightly as you leaned back into the plush seats. He didn’t miss the chance of watching your knees part lightly. 

“Thank you Mister Cobb for driving me home,” you said with weariness in your soft voice, “It’s been a long day.”

Oswald hummed, “Oh, yea? Why so long?”

You looked down at your hands and fidgeted, nervously picking at your nails as you spoke. “Just anxious about the future, about the exams I’ll might be taking in the future,” you admitted, averting your gaze towards the passing landscape out the window. “I ain’t really in college but it was an orientation day today.”

Your neck and wrists caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but envision how easily he could wrap a hand around your throat. Imagining how easily he could hold both your hands above your head with just one of his own. 

“Nah,” he clicked his tongue, a smirk forming on his lips. “You ain’t got nothing to worry about, sweetheart,” He paused, “You’re a smart girl. You’ll make it.”

Your cheerful smile was greeted with a sly smirk from him. He noticed how well you responded to the praise. God he wish he could pull over down an alley street and turn you into his slut. 

“I’m starting college, If not in the spring, then I’ll start in the fall after summer break. In September.”

He responded with a simple, “Hey, that sounds alright, I didn’t go to college but I bet you’ll knock ‘em right outta the park.” before flicking on the blinker and merging onto the highway. His grip tightened around the gear stick as he skillfully switched gears, causing the car to accelerate at a rapid pace. “Why ugh, why the fall?” 

You cleared your throat, “Oh um-”

Oswald’s gaze shifted briefly in your direction as you spoke. 

You fidgeted nervously, gnawing gently on your lower lip, and explained, “I’ve almost gathered all the money I need. For a full-time enrolment, I still need a consigner, dad’s not willing— but I’m close to having enough saved up to cover a part-time year’s tuition. I can start work at The Corner Diner to make up the difference.”

Oswald’s eyes softened, warmth crept into his smile. He took in your fierce ambition, your unwavering determination to study and better yourself. He noted the spark in your eye, the fierce hunger to rise above and lift yourself out of this hell hole in downtown Gotham and create a new life for yourself.

“I believe you’re gonna go far sweetheart,” he said strongly, “You just gotta put your mind to it, know what you want and know what you’re willing to do and sacrifice to get there.”

In response, a shy smile curled on the corners of your lips as you gazed down at your hands, embarrassment tinged with pride.

Oswald’s gaze flickered over in your direction, memories flooding his mind unbidden. He envisioned the wide-eyed young girl who had once perched on a tall bar stool, sipping a milkshake through a straw, your chubby cheeks puffed up with curiosity and naivety while you asked where your dad had gone. Your dad had business with Carmine Falcone and had no choice but to take you to the Iceberg Lounge with him. You were what? Fourteen back then? He couldn’t remember if you had braces or not. But you’d complimented Oswald for the rosary he wore around his neck.

You still had that innocent look about you, except...a full figure, maybe a little taller, less acne. 

Oswald’s attention lingered on your legs for a brief moment before he returned his gaze to the road, downshifting and swiftly maneuvered the car behind a slower vehicle in the middle lane. He shifted two lanes to the left and gunned the engine, abruptly switching back into the fast lane. Glancing at the dashboard, he kept a watchful eye on the speed gauge, ensuring the speed remained below the legal limit of 90mph.

As the car barrelled down the road, he ventured a conversational question, his tone casual but with a hint of genuine interest. “Whatcha want to study, doll?”

Your cheeks felt unbelievably warm with embarrassment as you hesitantly shared your aspirations with the Penguin. “I’ll be starting with some general education classes, I think, like history, art, maybe writing,” you began, your voice trailing off somewhat. “I hope I do well enough to qualify for a scholarship. It’s my dream to join the journalist program,” you admitted sheepishly.

The Penguin’s lips twitched into a sly smile as he replied, his tone tinged with friendly encouragement. “You’d make a fantastic reporter,” he said. “But you’d best write only good things ‘bout me, ya?”

A soft, nervous giggle escaped your lips, and your hand instinctively travelled to the back of your neck. Your nose wrinkled in a cute, almost bashful fashion as you responded. “Of course,” you said, the words coming out a little more eagerly than you’d meant.

The Penguin took an exit off the highway, signalling with his blinker before turning. He turned to you, his tone both curious and engaging. “What made you choose writin’, doll?”

Your soft lips parted gently as you answered with full sincerely, “I want to write real news, say it how it really is,” you paused. “Sort of like what you do, Mister Cobb.” 

In that moment, you turned your gaze in his direction, and his eyes flicked over to meet yours through the dark tint of his glasses.

The Penguin’s knuckles turned bone-white against the leather of the steering wheel, his mind wandering into dangerous territory again. He mused on how easy it might be to seduce you, how much fun it could be to have you beneath him, moaning his name. You seemed to adore him, and he wondered how you’d react if he placed his hand upon your thigh and told you that you had grown into a bright, gorgeous young lady...how easy it would be to shove you into the backseat and hold you down.

He tried to push those images from his mind. He tried not to dwell. You were out of the question. Not because he had any actual ethical problem with engaging in a sexual relationship with inappropriately young women… but your dad was working for him and most importantly, you truly were an innocent. He reckoned you’d grow up and live a boring life— Marry a highschool sweetheart, raise some kids, join a Parents and Teachers Association group, grow old, bunch of grandkids.

If he tried anything with you, it wouldn’t surprise him if you started squealing bloody murder. 

“I’m impressed, you choose writin’ when you could be a news anchor if you wanted, sweetheart, the prettiest little weather girl of Gotham.” he commented. He turned down a narrow side street, the last vestiges of the setting sun bathing the world around him in twilight. The Penguin kept his sunglasses on, wanting to take one final, lingering look at your legs before you left out of his Maserati totally unmarred. 

“I doubt it,” you replied with a bit of sudden insecurity and self-deprecation. “I’ll be lucky if I’ll be able to even afford the tuition as a journalist let alone a news anchor.”

Oswald wondered if you were trying to ask for money...he would give it to you, but he’d fuck your tight little asshole first before giving out something like tuition money.

The Penguin pulled up in front of the apartment building where you resided with your father. As he parked the car, he was all too aware of the reason why you were pushing yourself so hard, studying until your eyes burned. He knew that you were striving to escape the cycle of struggling to make ends meet month after month. He knew this because, in a twisted twist of fate, he was your landlord, discreetly observing your life from the shadows, silently bearing witness to your efforts.

The Penguin pinned you down with a sly, knowing smile, his hand boldly ventures out and touched your cheek, his thumb rolled over the skin, skating just across your lip before digging into your chin, “You’ll get it, sweetheart,” he hummed, the words rolling off his tongue with blind confidence. 

You felt so small in his palm. The smell of his cologne must’ve been overpowering with how your nostrils flared a little. 

Your gaze rose to meet his, your big eyes fixed upon his face, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. As your lips parted in anticipation, the Penguin revelled in the way your eyes widened, taking in every expression that flickered across your face. It was almost tragic, how easily teenage hormones could control your heart...

The Penguin pushed up his raybans, observing you intently as you stumbled over your words. “Uh... thank you for the ride,” you managed to say, attempting to break away from the intensity of the moment. In your haste, you accidentally fumbled and dropped your book bag. 

The Penguin continued watching, a hint of amusement in his eyes as you knelt down to retrieve your belongings.

The books spilled out onto the floor, creating a small pile amidst the plush carpet of the car. The Penguin’s eyes tracked your movements with a growing smile, watching with a lazy, almost sadistic pleasure as you knelt down, gathering your books, pens, and crumpled receipts. Is this how you’d look on your knees, head bowed, ready to suck his cock? His sweet, innocent, little college girl? 

His smile suddenly froze on his lips as he caught sight of one of the books that had fallen over the cup holder, its cover facing up – the cover of a book on- no, surely not, surely not you. You couldn’t read that, could you? You wouldn’t read that type of thing, fuckin—

Oswald seized the book from your frantic grasp. You tried to reach out for it, but he swiftly jerked his hand away, a cruel smirk cemented on his lips. He relished the brief moment of control, holding the book just out of your reach. But eventually, you managed to grab it from him and shove it into your bookbag, your cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment.

Your voice trembled with anxiety, words tripping over each other in your attempt to explain, “It’s just... it’s...”

But the Penguin cut you off, his voice low and purring as he replied, “I know what it is.”

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and full of trust, just as they had been when you had first visited the Iceberg Lounge club, your lips parted ever so slightly.

It was the adult novel, ‘The Negatives of Shooting People.’ A cheesy pornography book about some journalist girl getting used like a ragdoll by a mafia leader.

Oswald could’ve laughed. Was this the real reason why you wanted to be a Journalist so bad?

“Please...it’s not mine,” you whispered, your voice trembling. Sweat trickled down your neck. “I’m just holding it for a friend...I promise.” Your eyes pleaded, hoping he’d believe your lie. “I don’t usually read that type of thing...” your voice choked, eyes welling up with tears. Shame truly flooded over you. “Please, Mister Cobb,” you implored, “You must believe me... I’m not...I’m not a...”

“A slut?” Oswald said as he let out a low chuckle, finishing your sentence. “Of course not, sweetheart,” his body shifted. 

He locked eyes with you, studying your face. Those big, innocent eyes. Those beautiful, trusting eyes. He pictured you, your sweet lips, just like your eyes, puffy. He imagined the tears flooding down your cheeks staining them with mascara, while his cock was pressing down the back of your throat and your backside marked with angry welts from a thorough belting.

The Penguin’s eyes flickered up to the apartment building, a pang of guilt gnawing at the back of his mind. A part of him wanted to tell you to wait in the car, to keep you away from the horror that potentially awaited you. But he knew it was too late. This was it. You were about to see the real side of him. 

The car drive home would be the last kind thing he’d ever do for you.

"Let me escort you upstairs," he grunted, turning off the ignition. "I’ve got business with your ol’ pops."

❆❆❆

As the Penguin got out of the car, you scrambled to follow, walking a few steps behind him as he waddled towards the buildings steps. You didn’t want to walk in his way, didn’t want to show that disrespect. You moved your book bag to your other arm.

“Please,” you begged him, “Please, Mister Cobb, don’t tell my dad about the book.”

The Penguin cast a sidelong glance at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, kid,” he chuckled, “Don’t you worry ‘bout it. You got a key?”

The short walk up to your apartment seemed to take forever. Every step into the building, into the foyer, and towards your apartment door was filled with a prickling tension and an underlying sense of dread. 

As you fumbled with the keys, you could feel the Penguin’s gaze boring into the back of your head, his presence looming over you like a shadow. He was much taller, larger, and more imposing than you in every way, his scarred face making him look deadly, dangerous. But beneath the rough exterior, you knew he had been kind to you, warm and almost comforting. And yet, right now, he seemed like a shark, waiting to pounce and strike.

What surprised you was that your dad had never invited The Penguin over for dinner which you found had been customary in the neighbourhood. It was a bragging rights to invite The Penguin over and have that invitation accepted. 

Hell, even Mrs Occhipinti next door; old lady, cat addict— served The Penguin her famous linguine recipe she brought from the Old Country. 

But your dad? Not a fucking word. Not a damn desire to have his Boss and landlord over for a cup of wine, not a loaf of bread to break, not a cigarette to spare— nothing. 

Which you found incredibly odd. And he never wanted to talk about it either. Everytime you brought up the idea of making gnocchi for the notable man, your dad would tell you to not worry about it and to just keep your nose clean and your head down. 

Your dad made it clear from the day one, he didn’t want you to forever live here in Gotham, not in the Downtown at least. He wanted the best for you. Which is why he made damn well sure your grades were good and you studied hard. 

“You can make friends when you’re an adult, focus on your education.” Was his favourite quote. 

And boy, did you live by it. And it paid off. You were going to get a scholarship, a program that went towards kids that had been traumatised by the terrorist flash flooding incident. You were so excited! You would have the opportunity to go to Gotham University! 

You opened the apartment door and heard a loud humming moan come from inside.

“Dad?” You called out, “Mister Cobb is here for you.”

You jumped as a loud crash echoed from outside, followed by the sharp sound of shattering glass. A shiver coursed through you as the low chuckles of nearby men filled the air, a malevolent sound that sent a chill down your spine. A sense of dread coiled in your stomach, and your skin erupted in a sea of goosebumps. Every instinct within you screamed that something was wrong.

As the Penguin moved up behind you, you felt his stomach brush against your back, his large body pushing you deeper into the apartment. You reasoned with yourself that it was just the television, that maybe your father had dozed off watching a comedy show and tripped, causing something to break. You tried to shake off the unease that clutched at your stomach.

You didn’t have to walk long until you saw the chaos of your home. 

The kitchen cabinets were open, the contents of broken glasses and dishes strewn across the countertops. Curtains had been totally torn from their rods. The living room furniture was all askew, the chairs and sofas overturned, and bookshelf empty of all the contents smashed and scattered across the floor. Picture frames were broken, glass spread out like sharp glitter thrown across the rugs. The whole apartment looked like it had been thoroughly ransacked and violated.

And in the center of it all? Your father on a chair, red stained rag in mouth, tied up with rope. His face was a bruised and bloody mess, his right eye swollen shut from whatever besting he’d endured. Over six different men, all dressed in black, stood around the chaos that was your home. 

“Oh god,” You cried out, “Dad!”

Before you could rush forward to help, two arms snaked around your body, their grip tight and cruel. Oswald jerked you backwards into his chest, the sharp movement forced you to flail and gasp in surprise.

“Woah there, sweetheart!” cackled Oswald. 

Fresh tears stung your eyes, as a lump began to build in your throat. You didn’t understand why Oswald was holding you back from going to your father’s aid. You tried to twist and struggle against his firm grip, your feet thrashing behind you in a desperate attempt to break free.

“Let me go!” you yelled, your voice breaking into a sob. “He’s hurt!”

He ignore how you flailed and scratched at his arms. He lifted you back and off the ground for a moment before throwing you into the arms of three men.

“Let go of me! Let go of m—” a hand clamped hard down over your mouth. 

You fought like a wild animal, kicking and scratching at everyone within reach, unable to tear your eyes away from the horrifying sight of Oswald, who was panting now, a sly smile playing on his lips as he looked from you to your father.

“Fuck me, she’s got some fight in her, boys,” he chuckled, his voice was filled with a purely cold and sinister glee. “Who would’ve thought she could pack such a punch?”

The men around you erupted in a chorus of mocking laughter, their voices made your heart sink. The sound of your father’s tears filled the air, a pitiful sound that echoed the despair you felt. 

You were led to an empty chair, forced to sit down as one of the men’s large hands clamped down on your shoulders, holding you in place. The Penguin paced back and forth across the room, his footsteps heavy and measured, his presence imposing. They didn’t tie you up, but the weight of their hands on your shoulders was enough to keep you from making any sudden moves. Someone behind you grabbed at your hair and pulled your head back. 

“Schools in session kids,” Oswald hummed, glancing your way before glaring at your father, “If the Penguin loans Pops one hundred thousand dollars and Pops only pays twenty thousand dollars back, how much does Pop owe the Penguin?”

Your eyes darted between your father and the Penguin, desperate to make sense of the situation. The amount he mentioned was staggering, and you couldn’t imagine your father ever borrowing that much money. But he remained silent, his moans and whimpers the only sounds that escaped his gagged mouth.

Your stomach lurched, and a whimper escaped your lips as fresh tears streamed down your cheeks. Frantically, you shook your head in denial.

“Pl-” you gulped, your wobbling lip tried again, “Please,” you whispered in a trembling voice, “p-please, Mister Cobb.”

Oswald pulled a gun from a holster inside his jacket, the black metal gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. He checked the bullets with an expert hand before turning back to you, turning the safety off.

“C’mon sweetheart, use that noggin of yours,” Oswald grunted, “How much does he owe me?” 

Your whole body trembled uncontrollably, and you feared you might even soil yourself from sheer terror. With a trembling voice and a sharp intake of breath, you choked out your answer.

“E-eight—” you stuttered, your voice breaking as a hiccup escaped your lips, “Eighty thousand?”

A harsh laugh burst from his lips as he confirmed your answer. “That’s right baby doll, eighty fucking thousand,” Oswald repeated, his voice rising with anger. He rounded on your father, his voice becoming a sharp, booming bark.

“Where the fuck is it!?” he thundered, spitting with rage, “Where’s my goddamn money, huh!?”

Your father's face jerked to the side as Oswald struck him, the force of the blow sending his head jolting to one side. The Penguin turned back to you, his hand on his chest as he continued speaking.

“I'm guessing pops didn't tell you he was borrowing big bucks from the big man, to cover his Gambling debts, huh?” his scared lip curled back showing off his gold tooth, “Here you were tellin’ me 'bout you wantin' to start college and here I was thinkin’ gee what a nice pop, bankrollin' tuition fees. but then you said you couldn't afford it. What a piece of shit father you got here kid.”

There was a sharp and loud click as the safety was pulled back, before the cold tip of the gun barrel pressed against your father’s blood covered temple. Your father began to sob and the front of his trousers grew a large wet patch, the scent of urine filled your nostrils. You felt sick watching the whole thing.

“Where. Is. My. Money!!?” he roared, his eyes were wide and wild.

“Please no! No! God!” You squealed and scratched the hands that were holding you back in your chair. You twisted and wailed, “Mercy! Please!” You coughed, snot dripping down your lips and chin, “Oh fuck! Please god!”

With a burst of energy and adrenaline, you managed to wriggle out of the hands of the gang members, but as you fell to your knees, you grabbed at Oswald’s trousers and shoes, your fingers desperately clawing at the fabric. 

“Don’t kill him!” you pleaded, your voice choked with tears, “Please! I’ll do anything! Please, I’m begging you! Please!” You buried your face into his knee, your wet face soaking into his expensive trousers. 

A heavy hand came to rest on top of your head, patting you gently as you leaned, trembling against his leg and wept. You heard the softest shushing sounds, from the man with the deadly firearm held in his other hand.

"Anything?" he whispered softly with a curious and considerate edge, though the threat in his hand remained ever-present.

Your hands trembled uncontrollably as you looked back up at Oswald, your fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers tightly. Your father’s eyes widened in terror as he desperately shook his head from side to side, his weak struggles against the bindings doing little to loosen them. He protested loudly against the gag in his mouth, whimpering and grunting in fear.

The penguin rolled his eyes, “She’s doing you a solid,’ Oswald barked at your father, “should be grateful.” His gaze snapped back down at your wet blinking orbs, “How are you gonna pay what he owes me?” he looked honestly interested in what you were offering, he smiled even.

Your tongue flicked out to wet your dry bottom lip. “I’ll—I’ll work at the lounge,” you stammered, “I’ll pick up babysitting.” The words came stumbling out of your mouth, your mind racing as you desperately tried to find some way to satisfy the demands of the mobster. “I won’t go to college, just give me time!”  You prayed he would offer some leniency.

The Penguin’s scoff was cold and dismissive. “Your pops has had a year, honey,” he retorted, “You wouldn’t be able to make that much bussing tables and waitressing let alone playing nurse maid.”

His words stung, and you felt a sharp pang of helplessness. He was right. There was no way you could make that much money to pay off your father’s debt.

Your hands clasped together, your shoulders drooped, you felt just how you looked, pathetic and small, “Please, please Mister Cobb.”

As he twirled his gun idly in his hand, the mobster hummed, “You wanna help your pops? You wanna pay off his debt?” he tilted your chin up with the tip of his gun. The safety was still off.

“Yes, hm,” you whimpered, “yes, Mister Cobb.”

He withdrew his pistol, setting it aside, and now cradled your face in his large, warm hand. His voice was gentle as he inquired, “Be honest with me Doll, did you read that book?” 

Your breath hitched in your chest as you realized he was referring to that smutty book, the one that had caused so much upheaval and embarrassment before you’d come inside to this horror.

Your face crumbled as you choked out your answer, a single syllable word. “Yes.” You wouldn’t dare lie to the Penguin. Not now.

The sinister smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth made your stomach churn. His reaction seemed almost gleeful as if he was secretly pleased by your admission. Extending his hand towards you, he quietly encouraged you to take it.

Your legs trembled weakly as you slowly stood He pulled you into his side, and your body was pressed close against his, intimate and too close for comfort.  He groaned happily, “Alright then, give me a kiss.”

You gulped hard as you tried to steel yourself, desperately holding back the well of tears that threatened to spill over again. He wanted a kiss from you, just a simple little kiss, it wasn’t that hard. You pressed your lips to his cheek. You shuddered and then pressed your mouth to the corner of his. He groaned and squeezed at your waist. Your fingers trembled violently as they gripped his lapels, your breath coming in short, shaking gasps.

“Good enough,” he groaned, “Now say goodbye to your Pops. You’re gonna come with me and you can see him once the debts been paid.”

Your father went back to fighting his binds, hollering behind the gag. He pleaded that the penguin would not take you. 

Your mind raced, filled with a library of questions about your impending fate: If you accompanied the Penguin, would you ever get to see your father again? What exactly would you be expected to do to pay off his debt? What could the Penguin possibly want from you? Where would you even stay, how would you survive?

The panic rose in your chest, and your voice trembled as you asked, “How long will that be?”

Oswald pinched your chin and pressed his nose against yours, “Depends on you, doll face,” he drawled, “I reckon a good six months to a year should be enough.”

Your chest felt tight, your heart clenching in sadness, as you whispered, “Oh.” Oswald allowed you to pull away and step over to your father. You gently cradled his bruised and bleeding face in your hands, tears streaming down your own cheeks.

“I lo-love you, dad.” Your voice cracked as you spoke, “Please, I’m sorry.” Your father cried into your palms, his sobs choking out through the gag.

Squeezing your eyes shut, your mind struggled to take in the gravity of what was happening as fear bubbled inside of your stomach. You felt a thick, black bag being dragged over your head, the rough cloth pressing against your face and blocking out what little light had been left in the room.

To be continued...

  𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒:

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞, 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐮𝐥𝐭 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬, 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐧𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐬. 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬.

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[strawberryloft]

You've been dating the penguin for a year, and hanging off his arm has been a dream come true. He's the whole package kind, doting, and handsome to boot. Up until recently that is. As the Iceberg Lounge has become more popular you've been left at home more often as Oz works later into the night. Your relationship is starting to strain, but you love that man more than a few lonely nights.

[ladylaviniya]

No but wait cause-

I'm eating this the fuck up because you somehow read my mind!!! All of this is him. ✨Thankyou for writing this omg

⸻ being oz cobb’s sugar baby would include:

The first time he sees you, he’s taken with you.

Hell, he’s a man from the East Side. of course he likes pretty lil’ things. 

That’s not saying he likes only ‘lil’. Curvy women? Sign him the fuck up. Curves & softness & love-handles to hold onto? Goddamn, a man can only get so erect, sweetheart.

He’s watching you from an upper floor while you sit at the bar, sipping at your drink, shyly tucking hair behind your ears, laughing quietly at the way your friend flirts with the men around her.

You don’t know your beauty—your feminine power. But he fuckin’ does.

You sure as hell deserve some male attention of your own. 

So he pulls aside one of his girls.

❝You see that sweetheart right there? The one in the purple sequin dress? Yeah, you get her another of whatever she’s drinkin’. She asks? You tell ‘er it’s from me.❞

You glance around once you’ve been given your drink, searching for your mysterious suitor—sure the young woman must be wrong about it being the Penguin himself.

You’re not sure whether to be flattered or afraid. The powerful man he is…will he expect something in return?

And then your eyes meet his—he stands balconies above where you sit, watching you with a small smile upon his scarred lips.

And he merely gives you a small nod while you shyly raise your glass in a silent thanks.

And then the young woman asks if you’d like to meet him.

You’re sure she’s part of some ploy to get you into his bed, but with a heady amount of alcohol running through your veins, you go against your better judgement…& tell her yes out of simple curiosity.

A few girls are mingling around when you’re taken up, so you stand aside awkwardly until you see movement from the corner of your eye & watch as he steps out of his office, with an unexpected limp to his gait.

You flush, watching him take step after step toward you.

A limp, heavy-set, scarred, well-dressed, older…he’s so handsome.

But you can’t let on that you think that, because you don’t do one-night stands. Don’t do casual flings of any sort.

You’re very much the committed, romantic relationship type. And, well, look at the women he surrounds himself with. He most certainly is not, you’re sure.

❝Would you like to sit, sweetheart?❞ He asks, gesturing to the dark, plush couch situated before a row of polished glass windows that overlook the Iceberg Lounge below.  You nod nervously, smoothing your skirt beneath you before seating yourself—hyper-aware of your every move as you cross your legs at the ankles and delicately rest your hands in your lap.

God, you’re a real sweet young fuckin’ lady is what he thinks of you. What—with those innocent, wide eyes, soft smile, & flushed cheeks, how can he not?

❝You mind?❞ He asks, pointing to the seat next to you.  You shake your head, smiling invitingly. He seats himself heavily next to you and you bite back a grin at the way the cushion dips under his weight. You have no control over the way your cheeks have remained warm since the moment you set eyes on him, however. He rests an arm behind you, and with your head lightly swimming, you have half-a-mind to cuddle into his side—sure that he feels soft, yet firm. Steady. Safe. And then you get a whiff of his cologne. You don’t know the scent by-heart, or anything, but it’s intoxicating.  You want to bury your face in his chest, you think, admiring the dark hairs that peek out from the top of his shirt where it’s slightly unbuttoned, wanting to run your fingers through them. ❝So,❞ he says, leaning back. ❝You been here before?❞ God, his accent… It causes a pleasant feeling of warmth to bloom between your thighs. You want him to shove his large hand between them and ease his fingers inside of you—rings and all. Your eyes flit to his and you shake your head.  ❝First time,❞ he says, nodding. ❝You come with a date?❞ You giggle from the alcohol, shaking your head, and he grins at the beautiful fuckin’ sound. ❝You like it, then, doll?❞ He asks, glancing to the glittering, thumping club below, then back to you.  You shrug slightly, leaning back. ❝It’s very…noisy. Busy.❞ He smirks. ❝Yeah, you’ll have that at the biggest nightclub in town, huh?❞ ❝It’s the first one I’ve been to. My friend wanted me to come. She said I have to come out of my shell.❞ You lean your head against the soft cushion, pulling your legs onto the sofa while you turn toward him, tossing your heels onto the floor. Makin’ yourself comfortable? He likes that. ❝You shy, baby?❞ He asks, wanting to desperately to reach out and fuckin’ touch you—to run his fingers through your soft, curled hair, or along your young, supple body.  But he knows the minute he makes a move, you’ll do like all the rest and scram—disgusted and scared. He can look—but even then, only in measured glances—but never touch. Not unless he’s payin’ for it. And you ain’t no prostitute. You nod quietly, smiling slightly, as if you’re sharing a private joke with yourself. Maybe he’s the punchline, he thinks. Wouldn’t be the first time. ❝Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?❞ You grin, glancing down and you giggle quietly. ❝You’re very handsome.❞ He’s immediately dumbstruck. Did you just call him fuckin’ handsome? Ain’t no broad ever called him that ‘cept his ma. Never. He raises a brow. ❝Had a bit much to drink, then.❞ You shrug slightly. ❝Not so much to have beer goggles, if that’s what you mean. I just get giggly is all. And it makes conversation easier.❞

He stays silent for a moment, watching as your eyes trail along his body, and he fights against shifting nervously under your…it ain’t a lustful gaze, is it? Maybe ya ain’t all there. Done some time in Arkham, for all he knows. God, he’s fuckin’ pathetic. To think the only way a woman could ever want him is if she’s batshit. ❝I like heavy-set men,❞ you state quietly. ❝And I don’t mind older. They…they know what they want, at least. How to treat women, I think. Well, some of them. A lot of men are the same…❞ He rests his head against his fist. ❝Sounds like y’know from experience.❞ You shake your head. ❝I just know young men aren’t what I want. Things aren’t like they used to be.❞ Your eyes meet his.   ❝I’m a romantic,❞ you say with a soft smile. ❝And men my age only want—❞ He chuckles, cutting you short. ❝If you’re gonna say sex, doll, ‘fraid to tell ya they’re all after that.❞ You waver for a moment. ❝Are you?❞ He immediately clocks the tinge of doubt to your voice; knows you’re probably worried that that’s why he bought you a drink and invited you up here. ❝Nah,❞ he says with a shake of his head. ❝Just wanted to have a conversation with a pretty girl.❞ You smile broadly at that and his heart fuckin’ skips a beat when you do. Already you’re doin’ a goddamn number on ‘im. ❝You think I’m pretty?❞ You whisper, glancing around to the tall, slender women around—who look like they just walked off the pages of a magazine—then back to him. ❝Got eyes, don’t I?❞ He asks, gesturing with his hand. You tug nervously at the hem of your dress, trying to conceal as much of your legs as you can, lest he look too close and see you’re not nearly as attractive as what this dim lighting must make you instead seem.  ❝Don’t do that,❞ he says, reaching out, taking your hand in his, and you quickly look at him.  ❝You’re fuckin’ perfect, baby. Every inch. Caught my attention from all the way up here. And my eyes ain’t what they used to be, but I couldn’t take ‘em off of ya.❞ He leans in slightly toward you, sliding a hand up your thigh. ❝Any man who doesn’t treat you like the goddess you are ain’t worth a second of your time. Ya understand?❞ You nod, nervously biting your lower lip, and he nearly groans at the sight. And then he lets you go and you fill with disappointment.  ❝So, you ain’t got a man is what I’m hearin’. Find that hard to believe. They must chase you down the street, I’d say, if I didn’t know any better.❞ You shake your head, running your fingertips through the sequins on your dress. ❝I stopped trying a long time ago.❞ His scarred mouth tugs into a frown. 

Somethin’ young & sweet & beautiful like you given’ up on love already? You’re breakin’ his fuckin’ heart.

❝Can’t tell me you don’t ever get lonely,❞ he states. You pull at a loose sequin. ❝I always am. But I don’t see anyone coming along to change that anytime soon.❞ You shrug, fighting back the tears that sting your eyes, not wanting to sour the evening.  That makes two of you, then, he thinks.  He glances around—only a couple girls still left upstairs then, talking amongst themselves—then back to you. He can’t believe he’s about to fuckin’ say this—offer it—and he can’t even blame it on bein’ drunk. He’s only had one martini tonight. But you all on your own—just your voice and the look of you and the brief touches he’s already been granted have already intoxicated him in another way. ❝What if you was wrong?❞ He asks, his voice quiet and evenly leveled. You glance to him with furrowed brows. ❝Hm?❞ He shrugs slightly, reaching up and smoothing the hair at the back of his head. ❝You ain’t the only one who’s lonely, doll. Maybe we, uh, come to an arrangement?❞ Your stomach drops and the hairs on the back of your neck stand on-end. You should’ve never come up here. Should’ve never accepted that drink. ❝I… I appreciate the offer, but—❞ He raises both of his hands, palms facing toward you. ❝Just let me finish, hon.❞ You grow silent again. ❝I��m not askin’ you to go down on me, or nothin’. I ain’t that kinda gent. Just…❞ He sighs. ❝I know we only just met. And I’m just suggestin’ a trial run for the time bein’ ‘til we’re both sure we know what the hell we want and what we’re doin’.❞ He takes your hand in his once more. ❝I got more dough than I know what to do with most days. And livin’ in Gotham ain’t always cheap. Who knows, maybe you come from money. Either way, we keep each other company. Just…spend time together. Let me take you to dinner a couple of times, and we talk—keep gettin’ to know one another. That sort of thing.❞ You glance down to where your hand rests in his and he continues.  ❝If you decide you’re not interested—that it ain't what you’re lookin’ for—we part ways on good terms. No hard feelings. But maybe you like what you see—like what I got to offer—and we see where things go.❞ He rests his hand back in his lap then, in disbelief at himself. Is he that fuckin’ desperate for female companionship that he’s willing to offer himself up to some girl he’s only just met to be her personal piggy bank? But he knows that’ll only ever be his real value to a woman. What else does he have to give one? ❝Are…you suggesting you be my…❞ You waver for a moment before saying it, your eyes staring to his own of warm brown. ❝Sugar daddy?❞ He grins slightly, chuckling. ❝I guess so.❞ You chew your lip nervously for a moment, unsure how to respond. You're supposed to say no. That's what decent good girls do when propositioned like this. But like he said, the two of you can start things out with a trial run. And you're feeling more bold than usual with being somewhat under the influence. And he seems nice. Well, nice enough so far, that is. ❝Okay,❞ you say with a smile. He returns it. ❝Might want to start out by tellin' me your name, doll.❞ ❝Y/N,❞ you say shyly, scooting the least bit more toward him in interest. He chuckles, pulling out his cellphone. ❝Thinkin' maybe we should exchange numbers.❞

Oz sends you home in a cab that he paid for.

And come the morning, you’ve got a slight hangover, along with a text from your new benefactor.

It doesn’t take long for you & Oz to begin getting along with utter ease, simply via text alone. 

He’s very easy to talk to; kind, easygoing, sweet.  

And then the day finally comes where he invites you to dinner. 

And, while nervous, you agree to go.

He of course, the gentleman he is, asks if he can be the one to pick you up, & you consent.

When he pulls up outside your apartment, he shoots you a text & you come right down.

And god, if you ain’t fuckin’ beautiful.

Oz stands at the passenger side of the car, holding the door open for you, utterly fuckin’ speechless at the sight of you. From your curls, to your glossy smile, to that sweet little dress you got on. How lucky a man is he that you’re the woman he gets to have on his arm tonight? You shyly step over to him and smile, then laugh quietly—nervously. You can’t believe you’re going on a dinner date with one of the most notorious mobsters in Gotham. Even in your most ridiculous daydreams you never could’ve plotted such a story. Oz rests a hand on your hip and presses a soft kiss to your cheek and you flush at the gesture.  ❝You look beautiful, doll. Absolutely breathtakin’,❞ he says, tucking a curl behind your ear. You slip your fingers down his black satin tie. ❝Thank you.❞ Your eyes flit to his. ❝You look very handsome. But we don’t… You didn’t have to make reservations at some fancy restaurant. Burgers and fries are perfectly fine with me.❞ He grins at that. ❝Gotta make a good impression on our first date, don’t I?❞ You climb into his car then.

Dinner goes really well.

The two of you laugh & eat & you quickly come to learn that Oz's drink of choice are martinis.

He orders a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine & you down a glass, but pace yourself after, not wanting to seem a lush.

And you let him order for you, in regards to your dinner, & he gets you an extravagant lobster & pasta.

He orders for himself a steak.

You like how he cleans his plate.

And by the end of the evening, you decide that you’re his. 

You like spending time with him.

He’s not as intimidating as you’d imagined he’d be. 

Or maybe it’s just because it’s you that he’s complimentary & kind & gentle.

Either way, you really like the way he treats you, & touches you, & looks at & speaks to you...

And it honestly kind of turns you on the way some people look at him in fear, or avert their eyes when they speak to him in timid tones.

It makes him seem so…powerful.

❝You really mean that, sweetheart?❞ You smile widely, nodding. ❝Even if all we do is talk, I’m happy. It’s nice…having your attentions.❞ You take his hand in yours, sliding your thumb along the cool metal of his ring. He cups your cheek in his hand then. ❝You don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’ to me, baby.❞

You quickly manage to wrap Oz tightly around your finger without so much as trying.

You go to visit him at the loft on days off from work, simply so you don’t have to sit around lonely all day.

He tells you to make yourself at home—that what’s his is yours.

He likes to ‘joke’ about movin’ you in with him, lettin’ him take care of you—makin’ you a kept woman.

In truth, you don’t mind the sound of that, but you can’t just up & change your life that drastically.

What if things go sideways & you’re out of a job & left hurting for money.

And then Oz starts giving you an allowance—begins to regularly wire money to you every week.

More than you’d have ever expected.

More than you make at your job in a month.

❝Just want to make sure you’re taken care of ‘s all.❞ ❝I don’t… Oz, I don’t care about the money. I’m just happy not to be lonely anymore.❞ He presses his lips to yours. ❝I know. It’s what makes you all the more deservin’ of it.❞

You begin to occasionally spend the night. 

Your long days together sometimes tend to run over into the evening, because you’re reluctant to leave you’re having such a good time.

And then the later it gets, the more tired you are. And, well, he has no issue with sharin’ his bed with you.

Likes it when you use his shower.

Likes it even more on the nights when you use his soaps instead of the expensive designer ones he purchased for you. Likes it when you smell like him.

And then, when you pad into his bedroom & drop your towel & slip on one of his shirts to sleep in... Fuck, do you want to give this old man a heart attack?

The two of you haven’t been intimate yet, & he’s not holdin’ his breath on that, but just havin’ you sleepin’ next to him? It’s enough to give him a hard-on.

Especially when you cuddle into his side & rest your hand atop his broad chest & the two of you talk quietly in the dark about everything & nothing.

Like you’ve been doin’ it for years.

And when he wakes up in the morning to you cookin’ him breakfast? Swayin’ your hips in his kitchen to music while you fix him pancakes, or bacon & eggs?

He can imagine havin’ his days start like this every day.

So he gives you a key to the place & tells you to come & go as you please. 

Hell, you’re already there more than you are at your own place now. Might as well start callin’ it your second home.

And while you can be a homebody, he still likes to take you out shopping when he gets a break from business.

❝Ozzy, I don’t… This necklace is five hundred dollars. It’s just a piece of jewelry. Do you know what I could get for this same amount at a thrift shop, or—❞ ❝It’s chump change for me, sweetheart. You know how I love spoilin’ you. So let me. C’mon, let’s take it up. Unless you wanna keep browsin’?❞ You shake your head, not even wanting to have him buy this. And while it’s done with his money, he always likes watching you be the one to pay with his black card.

You quickly come to learn why when the two of you get back in his car & you glance between his legs & see his erection.

Your eyes flit to his & instead of shying away from it, he shrugs.

❝You see what you do to me?❞ He turns the Maserati over. ❝Guess you finally get why I like blowin' money on you now, doll.❞ You flush, biting your lower lip while you slip your necklace on, leaning your head back against the seat while you give him a sultry look. ❝Can I show you how grateful I am back at the loft?❞ He raises a brow in utter fuckin’ shock. ❝Baby, you don’t gotta—❞ You run your hand over his erection, feeling a pleasant pulse settling firmly between your slick thighs. ❝I want to,❞ you whisper. And then you do something most unexpected. You reach under your dress and slip off your soaked panties, and reach over, stuffing them in his pocket. ❝Now you see what you do to me, too,❞ you say, brushing a kiss over his lips.

He stands there silently as you unbutton his shirt with slightly shaking hands.

He tries to talk you out of it more than once, until you finally tell him something to calm him.

❝I’m insecure, too. I…I can find something wrong with myself literally from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. Why do you think I like to wear such…conservative clothing? Why I don’t like to show much skin? I hate…my body.❞ Tears sting your eyes and you drop your hands, slowly changing your mind. But for his sake. To not have to see what lies under your clothes. Not the stretch marks or cellulite or your pudgy thighs or stomach, or— He takes your face between his hands, brushing his thumb over your lips. ❝There ain’t nothin’ you could show me that could drive me away, angel. I want what I want, doll. And what I want is you.❞ He slides his hands down your waist. ❝All of you.❞

You blush madly once he’d undressed.

But he insists on keeping on the sock on his right foot. That it’s not something he’s ready for yet. He needs you to be patient with that.

So you are. Thankful he’s willing to even try.

You climb into his lap, & run your hands down his large chest before wrapping your arms around his neck, sinking down the length of him, rocking your hips against his own. 

And Oz fucking worships your body.

Your calves, & your thighs that you think are too big—have too many stretch marks.

He tells you he’ll get to it once he looks over every inch of you, but he fully intends to shove his face between ‘em to taste you.

He kisses your stomach & grips your round, squishy hips in his hands, squeezing tightly. 

He tells you they’re fuckin’ perfect for holdin’ onto.

He grabs your ass, smacking it gently, liking how it spills out of his palms.

And your breasts? 

Christ have mercy.

They’re fuckin’ perfect no matter what size—what your nipples look like. Whether they’re perky, or they sag. They’re breasts. That’s all he needs to know.

What any man does, really.

He just incessantly praises you. He tells you how beautiful you are. How unbelievably fuckin' perfect.

More than he deserves. Thought he'd ever have.

Your heart is near to bursting when you repay the sentiments.

Relay to him how his heavy weight makes you feel so safe & secure.

How sexy you think his limp is.

And his scars—good lord you just want to run your tongue over them.

His voice, though? It's all that's needed to make you wet.

When you come on his cock & in his arms, he holds you close while you cry softly from happiness.

He follows along right after.

He already knew you were a keeper before, but now that he gets to have you in bed? I mean really have you?

Forget about it.

He buys you a fucking car.

When you come over, it's always to gifts waiting for you—clothes, jewelry, shoes, purses.

He doesn't listen a bit when you insist it's all too much.

He feels like it's not near enough.

Not for the gift you're given 'im.

❝I wanna make sure you're looked after, baby. Have everythin' you want. I wanna spoil you fuckin' rotten. Gets me so hard seein' you wearin' the things I picked out for you.❞ You crawl into his lap, pressing your body and lips to his own. ❝I love you.❞ His heart actually skips. ❝Hon—❞ ❝I do, Ozzy.❞ You run your fingers through his thinning hair. ❝I really do.❞ His eyes flit between your own before a satisfied grin spreads across his lips while he slides a hand up your thigh and beneath his button-up that you have on which dwarfs you. ❝I love you too, baby. Every part of me.❞

Oz takes you to meet his mother one day.

And while you're shy & very nervous about making a good impression, you give her your best.

You can't lie. She's a tough & intimidating woman.

But Oz clearly loves her & it warms your heart to see that he still looks after her.

How many others would do the same for their parents at his age?

So the three of you have dinner together & you remain fairly shy & quiet throughout the evening.

You worry it will make her think less of you. Or give her the impression that you don't like her, you're stuck-up, etc.

After dinner, Oz tells you to go make yourself comfortable in the living room.

So you do, until you get thirsty & go to retrieve yourself a glass of water & overhear what is supposed to clearly be a private conversation.

Once the two of you are back to the loft, it's when you let him know you heard every word.

❝She seems real quiet, Oswald.❞ ❝She's always like that, Ma. She still gets shy around me sometimes. Just her nature. I don't mind.❞ ❝Well, she loves ya, I can tell. And you love her?❞ A beat of silence. ❝With my whole fuckin' heart.❞ You fight back a teary smile. You hear dishes clanging. ❝You going to give her a ring, then, or—❞ ❝Ma—❞ ❝I'm not gonna be around forever, Oswald. I want to see you settled. Married. Maybe with a kid runnin' around. She's a good girl. Sweet. She'll do you good. Already has from the looks of things. You ain't gonna find another one like her.❞

He sighs in exasperation. ❝She deserves better than spendin' her life next to a broken down old man. I'll die before her, leavin' her all alone. I ain't gonna subject her to that.❞

And that maybe instead of just deciding for you, he should ask you what you want so you can give him your own answer.

❝Doll, I'm not—❞ You climb into his lap—your favorite position when it comes to not only getting your way, but forcing him to listen to you. ❝You're the man that I love. I'm not... Forcing you to ask me that if you truly don't want to. I'm just saying that... If you do, to do so: ask. When you're ready.❞

And the time comes when he does.

His Ma had given him her old wedding ring the same night she met you.

He seems the picture of composure the night he asks.

He does it over dinner in the loft which he had made—salad and bread and one of your favorite pasta dishes.

You stand, put yourself in his lap and tell him, with tears running down your cheeks, yes, yes, yes.

You have a small wedding at a Catholic church he & his Ma used to attend services at in his younger years.

You wear a designer dress that he had flown in all the way from Paris.

He finds himself in constant disbelief that you're all his & want to be. Much more since you know the things he does.

You've washed the damn blood out of his clothes before, for Christ's sake.

He knows you're too good for him. That you'll have always deserved better.

Even if you tell him... That he's the best there is.

[finniestoncrane]

💗 with penguin? from the batman

Farrell!Penguin x Fem!Reader, word count: 750 mmmmmmm yes please anon!! this old romantic??? he'd be aching to tell his partner how he felt about them, but he's a shy boy at heart!! little bit of ozzie losing his calm exterior and accidentally spilling the beans about his devotion while he's balls deep in you coming right up!! 💜🐧 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: penetrative sex, sweetheart/baby used, daddy!kink, reader has vagina, confessions of love, eeny weeny bit of dirty talk

Any and all fears that you had about what you meant to Oswald seemed pointless in that moment. The worry that you meant nothing more to him than a good, easy fuck at the end of a long day quickly dissipated when his cock was buried inside of you, his large hands holding your body as he rutted into you. You could do a lot worse. And if that was all you were to him, then you were grateful for it.

Who would turn down such a lucrative opportunity? Spoiled when he could, or when you let him. Fucked with the kind of feral attitude you might only find in someone trying to prove something. Given an insight into what life was like for the true rulers in Gotham. Importantly, though, you were also offered respect and care. A little bit of affection when he let his facade drop. The gold glinting grin would slip just a moment every so often, and his eyes would soften as he watched you put your clothes back on, or when you left his office at the lounge.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe that there were words behind the warm smile he offered you. A deeper meaning. You weren't willing to push him though, so you kept your questions to yourself. It was easy enough to do when your lips only opened to take in his cock, his fingers, his tongue, or to let out moans of pleasure and groans of sweet, delicious pain.

Oswald did most of the talking between you both, socially and sexually. As he pummelled into your hips, you watched his lips form the lust-driven rambling from your position on top of his desk. His hands skimmed down your thighs, tracing over the sides of your torso as he spoke.

"Fuck baby, that's it, that's the stuff right there... Let daddy show you... You gonna take it good?... Yeah you know what to do... Cos you're a good girl... My good girl... You're amazing baby doll... God, I-... I uh..."

The sudden pause, the way he almost stuttered, wasn't something you'd seen in him before. He was unsure of himself, of his words, of his intentions. And Oswald was always prepared. Given that the pace had slowed, you caught your breath and used the brief moment of reprieve to check on him.

"Ozzie? You ok?"

"Nah, I'm fine baby, don't worry about it."

He could tell the mood had shifted though. You had a distinct look of concern in your eyes, and he realised that if he held back from you now that he might lose a little bit of trust from you.

The brief pause was over though, and he realised he'd missed the moment. It was too late to say it now, so he tried to bring his focus back to the present, how you felt against him, around him. Maybe now was the time. Maybe he could feel vulnerable, open, honest. Your eyes, staring up at him, concern, genuine feeling behind them, only confirmed to him that this was the right thing to do.

Oswald's finger and thumb gripped at either side of your chin, holding your head in his palm as he redirected your attention to him. It felt like an eternity, his eyes gazing into yours, focused and intense, his cock buried up to the hilt, throbbing against your clenching walls.

"God... I love you, sweetheart."

He couldn't keep it too sweet though. You'd find out how soft he was soon enough, for now, he could be honest, but he felt like he had to remain sexy and confident. So he kept going, hoping that you wouldn't linger too long on his sentiments, trying to lull you back into dazed arousal before you criticised him for his confession.

"I love your skin. I love your mouth."

His pace picked back up, and you could only moan in response to each declaration of affection.

"I love your hands, your body."

You could feel your body tensing, giving way to the control of your orgasm as he continued.

"I love that warm, wet cunt of yours too. Love the way it makes me feel."

Oswald groaned as he let the last world trail out, his fingers digging into your skin where he held you, pulling you down onto his cock. His length pushed into you, bottoming out, up to the hilt, each thrust pressing against your limit as he emphasised each word with the branding of your walls with his cock.

"I. Love. 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 •‿• !!

[gilverrwrites]

Won't Stop Me Worryin'

2022!Penguin/Reader, ≈500 words

AN: This is a request for the below prompt. Its pretty much all soft fluffy Oz, but I'm thinking of doing a part 2 where Oz actually makes good on his word. A fuck around and find out fic.

Prompt: “anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as looks at you the wrong way- you come get me, and i’ll set them straight. understand?” with 2022 Oz? (Established relationship) Rating: Mature

CWs: No real warnings I can think of. Gives of a very sugar-baby dynamic, very mild arguing, protective Ozzie. Petnames: Baby, Doll. GN!Reader.

Please remember: You are loved, today, tomorrow, and forever.

“What do you need to earn money for? I got you, anything you need. All you gotta do is ask.”

When you’d told Oz that you wanted to go back to working at 44 Below, he’d loathed the idea. It was one thing to let you mingle with his criminal business associates, they were dangerous, but he was close by, and could keep you safe. It was another thing to leave you alone with the sycophantic drabble who visited the club. But this wasn’t about him, or what he could do for you. You loved him regardless. No, this was about you, about not feeling dependant on someone. You’d never make enough to pay all your bills anyway, this was just a surface thing, something to keep you feeling like your own person. Plus, it gave you something to do besides sitting pretty on his arm.

Again, it wasn’t that you didn’t enjoy spending time with him, but oftentimes you’d get bored of lounging around, listening to Falcone and his men drone on about… well, things you didn’t care to hear. Besides; “What if I want to get you something? It’s not a gift if I’m using your money, right?”

“Oh baby, you don’t gotta get me nothin’. You’re gift enough for me already.” It had taken a while for him to come around to it, but eventually, you’d convinced him. The winning argument being that you were gonna find a job anyway, better it be somewhere he could keep a close eye on you. 

On your first night back, he’d accompanied you to the dressing room. Nobody minded him being there. He didn’t have a wandering eye, because only had eyes for you, and nobody was gonna begrudge the boss from going where he pleased. 

“Anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as looks at you the wrong way- you come get me, and I’ll set them straight. Understand?” His thick fingers brush against the back of your neck as he clasps a gifted necklace closed. His skin is warm and sends a soothing fuzziness to your brain. You nod in response to his statement but that’s not enough. “Come on doll, use your words for me here.”

“Yes, Ozzie.” You turn to cup his frowning face in your hands. Determined to see his smile; you plant a quick chaste kiss to his lips, then another to his nose, and each cheek, over and over peppering his rough skin with light kisses until he lets out a hearty chuckle. As soon as you hear it, you lean back to get a good look at his reluctantly cheery expression. “I promise you don’t have to worry about me.” 

“I know, I know. But that won’t stop me.” Both of you silently watch a group of dancers pass by as they head out to the floor. You can’t help the apprehensive smile that spreads across your face, both nervous and excited to be joining them. Oz smiles at you, soft but sceptical as he inclines his head to the door. Tentative acceptance. “Go on then, knock ‘em dead.” 

Request Info || Prompts || DC Masterlist || Ko-Fi

[acapelladitty]

`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: lapdance

☆ pairing: Oswald Cobblepot/Reader

☆ summary: Oz has something you want and you know exactly how to get it.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

Unveiling your outfit with a dramatic flourish, you allow the long trench coat to drop to the floor as you arch your back and stand in what you hope is a sexy pose. The thin, barely there material which makes up the bra and panties set that only just covers your most intimate parts is paired with fishnet thigh-highs which cling to your lotion-soaked skin.

Giving a low appreciate whistle as he taps his fingers against the wide leather chair which houses him, Oz is clearly impressed with the look if the predatory leer which jumps into his thick features is anything to go by.

“Hmm, looking good, doll. Haven’t seen an outfit like that in a while,” he praises, his right hand falling from the arm of the chair as he adjusts the groin of his slacks. “So, what’s this going to cost me?”

Immediately found out, you bite back the laugh which threatens to break free of your lips as you instead give a quick twirl – showcasing every inch of you in the vague hopes of distracting him from his suspicions.

“You really think I would use an opportunity like this just to get something? Oz…really? Maybe I just wanted to show you a real good time.”

“I’m still not hearing the ask, sweetheart.”

“Well,” you pause to unlatch the hooks of your bra, allowing the thin material to drop to the ground as you stand tall and allow your tits to hang free in the warm air, “if I was looking for something, there’s a pretty little dress in the window of that Italian boutique that Silver St Cloud owns.”

“Cheap as hell, I’m sure,” Oz mutters and his eyes narrow at you with a definite playful edge that let you know he was still somewhat amenable to your wiles. “My wallet isn’t as thick as my gut, doll.”

“Mmm,” you shift forward to place your hands on his knees and gently spread his legs apart, “I’m sure your wallet is big and thick enough to give me what I need.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, yeah. I’d love to touch it and feel it in my hand.”

“How’s your mouth feeling about it?” Flashing his teeth, Oz groans as you turn in place and sit pretty in his lap – making sure to press your ass against his cock as it remained trapped in his slacks.

You tilt your head back at him and sigh as his hands swiftly shift to wrap around your torso and grope at your exposed tits, the feel of his thick fingers grasping at your skin instantly making your cunt ache as you slowly rotate your ass in his lap. While a lapdance wasn’t your area of expertise, Oz was never one to complain about getting a free show and if the bulge of his cock was anything to go by, he certainly was enjoying himself.

Rubbing yourself on his wide frame like a cat in heat, the thrum of the club music which rattles the almost-soundproofed windows helps to guide your movements as you match its beat; swaying, grinding, and running your hands across his body as you work him into a subtle frenzy.

“I’m gonna fuck you silly tonight, doll. You won’t be able to walk straight.”

“Is that right Mr. Cobblepot?” Answering him with a husky tone, you drop into his lap and face him directly – wrapping your hands around his neck and pressing your tits into his chest. His thick thighs provide a solid base for you to grind on and you roll your hips against his groin, the slightly slickened panties sliding across his tented bulge in a wicked tease, “We’ll see.”

You focus on your dancing, loving how solid he feels beneath you with every slow movement that you tease across his body. His suit is a very deep purple, almost black in the limited light, and the texture of it is soft against your skin as you slip off his lap and drop to the floor – turning so that you can kneel between his spread legs.

Catching his zipper between your teeth, you pull it down slowly and enjoy the way that his chest visibly hitches as your mouth dives further to mouth at his cock through the thick material of his boxers.

“You’re a menace, doll,” Oz groans, slipping his back down a notch lower to give you all the access you need.

Smiling up at him, you drop his cock from your mouth and instead slip your hand past the waistband of his boxers – pulling his cock free with a pleased sigh as you run your fingers across the fat length. He was thick, the thickest you’d ever known, and you hum excitedly as you take in the small, pearlescent bead of pre-cum which sits prettily at his slit of his cock. You swipe your thumb across it and admire how it makes his breath stutter.

Openly groaning as you work his painfully-hard cock over with your talented hand, it’s not much of a surprise when you feel his length twitch after only a few strokes and he spills his release across your fingers with a low growl – his hand dropping past your hand to grip your tit roughly as he rides out his orgasm on your willing chest.

His cum is warm against your hand and you don’t stop stroking him until he shifts with the beginnings of overstimulated discomfort and grips your upper arm firmly to pull you back up onto his lap.

“What colour?” Oz pants, his breathing not quite yet caught back up to him.

You settle into his lap, wiping the mess of his release on the upper part of your panties, “Hmm?”

“The dress. What colour was it?”

“Red.”

“Get it, and order another in purple,” lip curling at the corner, Oz spares you a soft wink, “Deep purple. The kind that I like.”

Laying against his chest, you give him a throaty giggle as you link your fingers within his own, admiring how heavily his rings sat against your smaller fingers, “Thanks, Oz. When I get them delivered, you’ll be first in line to get another private showing.”

“Damn right I will.”

[taintandviolent]

・❥・All fics are female!reader, and 18+. Please read warnings on fic summary!

Regular (Oz Cobb x reader)

Bliss (Oz Cobb x reader)

Coming soon.

[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.

[tirnalilc]

Oz Cobb x Reader!Falcone daughter.

200 words.

I uploaded this to my tik tok account, I modified it to be an Oz cobb x reader story, but in my videos it's Oz x Oc.

English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes :(.

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMhQhC3BC/

There was something about Oz, something explainable and inexplicable.

It that moment, she did not understand what it was about Oz that attracted her to him. At the time, he was her sister driver. He had no important power, nor was Carmine Falcone's right-hand man.

So why did she fall so quickly deeply in love with him?

It was true that Oz always had a flirtatious or sarcastic comment that immediately made her day. She wasn't going to deny it, others could say the same words as Oz, even with the same tone, but it wasn't the same. With the other guys she had to give her best fake smile and play along, but with Oz? It was all so real, the blushes and the nerves, the shyness his presence aroused.

She had to hate him, because of him her beloved older sister, was in that damned place she hated to think, but in just three years her feelings were changing, from hate to interest, from interest to friendship and from friendship to wanting everything from him.

She wanted his love, his revenge, she wanted it all, she would kill for him and Oz would kill for her.

tirnalilc.

[lawrites]

Oswald Cobb x Gender Neutral Plus Size! Reader

CW: NSFW, like HEAVY NSFW, descriptions of Oz's body and a little massaging of his club foot (the poor man deserves it), body worship, PLUS SIZE/FAT LOVE, and lots of blowing/cocksucking and dirty talk.

This is for the people who watched the first episode of the Penguin show and went "okay so...raise a hand if you wanna suck his cock?" Like I'm not joking this is mainly 2k words of Oz tummy worship and cocksucking. So...enjoy 😅. Ty to @finniestoncrane for encouraging me to post this lol

------------------------

You feel like you are in heat tonight. A voice snaps inside your head, asking what's wrong with you, but you brush it to the side. You can't tell if your reactions are due to Oz’s weeklong absence or if it's because he's being particularly doting towards you. Or…maybe it's his outfit.

Oz being out on business was always stressful, 1) because he is a criminal at the end of the day and he could never return again and 2) you are left to your own devices for a whole week. Sometimes he calls to see you through his security cameras, walking you through it and getting off on the other end, but it is never the same as having his hands, his voice in your ear, his tongue…

And his first night back, Oz has decided to forgo his usually very well-dressed image, instead opting for a white suit with a fitted purple shirt. It's casually done up so you can see his chest and a little bit of his belly, the dark hair that covers all of his skin on full display. To complete his look, Oz is wearing a nice, heavy gold chain, which sits directly at the point of his body where his tummy begins to round out.

You lost your mind when you first saw him, but kept your cool. The only thing that betrayed your initial feelings was your face turning red and your inability to meet his eyes, which Oz supposedly attributed to your choice of tight dress and nervousness to head to the Lounge with him. Thankfully he didn't pick up on or didn't comment on your pupils which had blown wide, and your slightly husky voice when you said you were ready to go.

Before you left out the front door, Oz grabbed you to his side, his thick fingers digging into the generous meat of your hip, and whispered in your ear, "I like this dress, Dove. You look so good for me tonight."

And now you find yourself at the Lounge, directly next to Oz as he schmoozes and smiles and charms those that come to ask him favors or update him on business. (You tease him about his Mob-boss like behavior, saying that he should just have them kneel down and kiss his ring at this point, with all the groveling he makes them do. He grins wolfishly in response to you calling him Don Corleone. “Sweetheart, I'm being nice to them by letting them leave with a little dignity here.")

Oz has gone from having you sit next to him, to laying a hand on your soft, plush thigh, to pulling you so close that you're almost on his lap. His strong hands dig into the softness around your waist, forcing you against him so your hands have to hold onto him for support and your head rests on his shoulder.

Leaning on Oz, he occasionally whispers sweet nothings in your ear and chuckles when they make you squirm in your seat.

"Who bought you that pretty dress, Bird? They have good taste."

"You're so soft against me, Dove. Driving a man to distraction over here."

"Want Daddy Oz to get you one of your fancy drinks, hmm? For bein' so good tonight?"

It's like you're possessed, you can't help it…your hands start to wander. Not too much, you don't want to make him nervous or be inappropriate, but Oz has never minded you reminding others that you're his.

First, when Oz has no business partners around, you slowly move a hand through the fuzz at the nape of Oz's neck, carding your fingers through his hair a bit farther up and making his eyes roll back. "Guh, that's the stuff, sweetheart. You treat me so nice."

Then, your other hand slowly inches down to rest just at the edge of where his shirt is unbuttoned. One finger extends to trace the seam, where it slowly, slowly inches so it is lightly running up and down the little sliver of tummy he is showing, right below his gold chain. You pick up the texture of his rough body hair against his soft, warm belly, and it makes you clench your thighs together. His breath hitches just slightly and Oz lets out a soft groan. "Just playin', Dove? Or do you intend to follow through?"

You look up at him, and Oz has to hold back a pained noise when you say, "I'll do whatever you want Oz. Been gone for so long, and you look so handsome tonight. Can't think."

Oz grins, still unused to a pretty thing like you giving him so much attention. "Yeah? You like this look? That why you're feeling up my chest?"

You stop your hand in its path, realizing that you had started fully running it up and down his hairy chest absentmindedly. You blush and pull it away, but Oz grabs your hand and brings it up to his lips. He coos at you, voice low "Pretty Dove, don't be ashamed. Just surprised that you're so handsy tonight." He leans over a bit so you can feel his breath against your neck as he whispers in your ear, "Where's my prim and proper birdie, huh? Flown away for the night? Left a sexy little thing like you in place?"

He nips your ear when he pulls back, making you whimper and squirm again in your seat. Oz takes you in hungrily, eyes roaming down your rolls and bumps on display as he presses you to him harder. "God, you do look good, kid. Decadent. So much for a man to grab and play with. Perfect for a guy like me." His hands dig into your hips, shaking the excess flesh there and taking in the way your body wobbles with dark eyes.

Oz looks at his watch, takes in his club, and then stands up, hauling you up with him. "Let's leave early, Sweetheart." You giggle and take his arm when he offers it, acting the gentleman even after his teasing words.

Heading back to his place feels like it takes forever, especially with Oz getting handsy. The driver closes the partition between you and the front as Oz’s rough hands pet up and down your body, pulling you all the way onto his lap. He gives you a mischievous grin as he brings you down against the bulge in his pants and grinds up into you, his eyes shining when you let out a soft whine.

But he keeps your pace slow, trying to edge and tease but not end anything too soon. You feel your eyes screw up as your body gets hot, letting out a groan of frustration as they open again to give him a pleading look. He lets out a sound like he's been punched, throwing his head back against the seat. "Can't look at me like that, makes me wanna just give you everything you want.”

A thrill moves through you, filling you with a tingling pleasure at the thought that you were so pretty you could make him do whatever you wanted, in this moment. But instead, you just give him a pleased grin paired with a blush that makes his heart skip a beat.

The driver taps on the glass, and the two of you hurriedly try to straighten your clothes as much as you can. Oz hands over a tip, and then you both turn towards his place. He limps behind you as fast as he can, trying to match your pace. Usually, he may feel insecurity over his leg at this moment, but instead he just thanks whatever fate allows him to get a glimpse of your ass and wide hips shifting and swaying as you take the lead.

As soon as you're through the doors, Oz pushes you up against them and kisses you. You both breath heavily and desperately try to take in as much of the other as possible. Separating, Oz presses his forehead to yours and shakily speaks, "Whatever you want tonight, Dove. I'll do it. You…you got me. I can't say no.”

The thought of bringing such a powerful man to his knees…it makes you whine and grind against his front. He bucks into you, his soft tummy pressing against your own. "O-Oz! I-"

He grins, realizing how flustered you already are. His fingers skim up and down your hips, lightly pressing into them, "Yeah? What's my Angel want, huh? You just gotta say it."

You pause and swallow heavily, trying to slow your racing mind and even out your heartbeat so you can think. The mind you're stuck with manages to form only one thought: "God, Oz...wanna suck your cock."

Oz blanches, but then grips your hips harder and grinds into you again involuntary. You whimper and grab desperately at his arms. Oz is breathier now, "F-fuck, bird. Whatever you want."

He starts to pull you behind him quickly, desperate to get to anywhere where you can kneel in comfort. Oz grips your hand harder as you see his office, bringing you through the wide doorway and shoving the doors closed behind.

He hurriedly walks to his desk, stealing a cushion from the couch as he goes and putting it on the ground for you. Impatiently, you wait for him to settle in his office chair, and then get on your knees immediately.

You look up, hands resting in your lap, and Oz groans at how good you're being for him. He hastily starts undoing his belt buckle, but fumbles a bit. You whine, "Ozzie…let me help."

Oz groans and holds his hands up, gesturing for you to get to work, and your hands dive in. They make quick work of his buckle and separate his belt, and then start unbuttoning, unzipping, even undoing his shirt, until his cock is free, so hard it's resting against his soft, fuzzy belly.

You almost drool. But then, you go a bit further. You move down his pants-covered legs and start to leave little kisses on his brace, making him draw in a shaky breath. When you get to his shoes, you carefully untie them, slowly and gently removing them until he is left in socks. Your clever hands start to knead and rub his club foot, making his eyes roll back and his posture soften almost instantly.

After a few minutes of massaging his poor foot, that he never lets anyone know is almost constantly in pain, his whole body is relaxed and his voice lets out occasional grumbles of praise. "Right there, Dove, yeah, that's the stuff."

Deciding that you've given him enough kindness for the night, your hands pull away. Oz's head raises up, and you almost giggle as his face screws into a confused look. "Why'd you stop, sweetness?" You do giggle now, "Oz, don't you remember why we are here in the first place?" And to remind him, you spit in your hands and Oz whimpers, "Dove, so dirty, where'd you learn that?"

But he doesn't get to speak more as they close around his length, your fingers gently tracing and running up the vein at the underside of his cock until he's panting, already leaking. You take time to gather a drop from his tip, sweetly looking at it on one finger before desperately plunging it into your mouth, groaning at his salty taste. Oz sees your thighs rub together and his eyes roll back, hands gripping his chair.

You lean forward when you're done, looking up at him and sweetly licking the tip of his cock with your pink little tongue, making Oz shiver and moan. "G-good, good job-fuck."

His praise makes you whimper, and that's when you decide to really go for it. You barely give him notice before your mouth is surrounding his tip, tongue laving around the head and making Oz shout out your name. Your mouth works down his length, using your fingers to spread out your own saliva and Oz's precum to allow you to move further down his length.

Oz is spewing obscenities, doing everything to keep from bucking into your mouth like some sort of teen who is getting his first blow, but it's difficult. His heart, his sweet bird, acting like a whore and begging to suck him off? Your sweet little mouth and hands working him so nicely? He's close already.

Vision starting to go black around the edges, you realize you have to breathe after being so obsessed with him for too long, and you pull back. Your lungs fill with big gulps of air and you can only taste and see Oz, his cock, his tummy…"So good. You taste so good. Wanna take you all the way now." Oz swears again.

He nods, out of breath, and you sweetly wrap your lips around his length and start opening your mouth wider, opening your throat, letting him slide in until your nose is pressed into his hairs and his gut is pressing into the top of your head. You whine, feeling him surround you, and your hand reaches down, pushing up your dress and playing with yourself. Oz looks down, sees your glazed over eyes and your drool around his cock, your plush body pressed into his leg, and hears your hand moving.

Oz bucks up, unable to help himself. "Fuck, Angel." You choke around his length, your throat muscles clench, and then he's finishing with a shout of your name. Sputtering, you're unable to even think about swallowing, allowing it instead to drip down your chin and onto your chest. Oz feels like he's in heaven and hell as his orgasm lasts a while, for him, groaning and throwing his head back and reaching for you. He clenches a hand in your hair and murmurs to himself “Mine, sweetness, God" around his moans.

When he comes back to Earth, he sees the mess he's made of you. His spend is pooling in the valley of your soft chest, and he groans and bucks up, his cock softening. "Dove, you killed me. You gotta stop it."

But his brain kicks in only a moment later, his eyes darkening and cataloging every part of you like he needs to remember it. "Fuck you look good, all covered in me." His hand reaches out, fondling your chest and making you moan and whimper as his cum starts to run down from where it had pooled and onto your dress, soaking it.

He fishes a handkerchief out of his pocket with his other hand blindly, loathe to stop playing with your chest or look away for a moment. Then he gently starts with your mouth, cleaning your chin and pressing a thumb to your lips, making you open for him. You do, of course, eagerly, gladly.

"You got messy, Sweetheart. Too eager for my cock, huh?" You nod and blush and he is on the cusp of getting hard again, your embarrassment after basically pawing at his cock making him feel obsessed in a way he only remembers experiencing around you.

He grins, but his eyes remain dark, like his mind is racing with vicious plans. “Well, fair’s fair, Dove. Gotta let me show you how a real man thanks you for a show like that, huh?”

[siolixz]

ღ Of Love and Loyaltyღ

+18

Part 2

<Part 1> <Part 3: final>

Pairings: Oz "The Penguin" Cobb x Reader

Reader takes Victor's place in this story. She and Oz have developed a relationship of sorts and she changed based on everything around her.

Reader is a young girl infatuated with a man decades older than her- who is also very dangerous and powerful (͠≖ ͜ʖ͠≖)👌 pls take everything with a grain of salt. Oz's mom is actually dead in this story. I will write a third and final part to this after the last episode. Everyone in this story is 18+ and consenting 100%.

Enjoy, give some feedback if you want. (>‿◠)✌

Warnings: violence, age-gap relationship, smut(¬‿¬)

You finally made something of yourself. Sure it was all blood money, but you did- you did what you had to do to survive and not only that, to thrive. 

Before leaving he told you to get in the car while he talked to Sofia outside, when you got back he was on his knees- a gun pointed at his face. You acted on impulse and drove the car into one of the guys there; best thing you could’ve done at the moment he told you.

 You would think that planning to escape would distance you from him but it did the opposite- even after wrecking his car, that poor gorgeous car; you’ve never been in one as fancy before- let alone drive it.  

“I’m so-sorry about your car.” you said as you stared at it in flames. 

“Yeah- what're ya gonna do 'bout it- only the good die young.” he came closer to you and grabbed the back of your head- forcing you to look at him. “Don’t be sad about it- you’re worth a thousand more to me.” 

He told you that you two were “really in it now”- and he couldn’t have been more right about that.

He got the Bliss operation back from the Maroni family by burning the mother and the heir apparent to their family- together. His brutality frightened you but If he wanted to rule the mob- he had to be brutal and unwavering in his choices, at least that’s what you told yourself to justify what he had done. Now not only Sofia Gigante was after you, but also Sal Maroni.

In the weeks following you had your own operation- underground, in a sewer system that connected you to all of Gotham, you became Oz’s eyes and ears above ground, traveling on your motorcycle- giving him news about the world above and delivering his money directly in his hands. He had given you your own gun—"just in case someone messes with you"—though you never ended up using it.

 Oz trusted you, even after your attempt at an escape- he moved you two to an apartment on the East Side, one that reminded you of your old one; without electricity but it did its job. In the apartment you got very close to him, you got to know him much better and you changed too in the meantime, you were more confident- more sure of yourself next to him. 

He was all you had, the one person who made you feel like you were the center of his world. One night- he came "home" late, as he often did. You were already in bed, curled up and trying to stay warm when you felt the familiar weight of his body sinking into the mattress. He slid under the covers and pulled you close, and you sighed, finally feeling the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

"The people in charge really don’t give a fuck about us," you murmured, exhaustion lacing your voice. It was a tired frustration—being cold at work and now being cold at home. Winter was coming, and your mind drifted to families with children who needed warmth.

He took a deep breath. The long days weighed heavily on him; managing his people and the constant stress left him drained. Most nights, he would grab a bite, and as soon as his head hit the pillow, cold or not, he’d fall into a deep sleep. You’d take advantage of those moments, cuddling close and pulling his heavy arm over you. Oswald slept like a rock.

"I’ll do something about it," he said, his deep voice vibrating through you. In the weeks you’d been together, you’d learned how to speak to him, how to make him feel powerful—your man, your only one. He was the only man who had ever made you feel this way, and you couldn’t deny the rush you felt watching him command respect when he barked out orders to his men, a cigar perched between his lips. God, he was handsome. Your stomach would flutter every time you caught a glimpse of him, even if only for a second.

He was a towering presence, terrifying when he loomed over you, and seeing him angry was enough to scare you senseless. But it also sets your heart racing for other reasons too.

Before the club, his gaze never strayed from you; now, it was his hands that constantly sought you. He couldn't help himself when you were close, sometimes grabbing you in public like an eager kid in a candy shop. You learned that when he called you into his "office," it meant he was either seething with anger or burning with desire—either way, you knew he’d end up taking it out on you. 

He’d told you more than once that he hadn’t felt this alive in years, and you could sense the shift in everything he did—from the way he spoke to the intensity in the way he fucked you. He had changed.

You told him about Squid- about how he came up to you today- asking you where you got your clothes- “what shit you got cooking” - Oz asked you if it was going to be a problem, you told him no; he could count on you- you won’t let him down.

“You know, I think you’re the only thing keeping me good, doll.” he traced circles on your arm. If you were keeping him good, what was Oz like when bad? The thought sent a shiver down your spine.

You felt his hands traveling under the blanket and beneath the sweater and t-shirt you had on and you proceeded to hiss once they made contact with your skin “your hands are so cold” you said and he chuckled.

The next day, you made true to your promise and met up with Squid- you had a plan, of course you did, you would give him some money and hope he would leave you alone.

Of course the dumb bastard declined the money- of course he tried to intimidate you to “bring him to the big man” or else he was gonna go to the Maronis or Falcones- maybe they would help him; the fuck was he thinking?  That a small-time asshole like him could make a deal with Oz? 

So many thoughts were running through your head, what if you did bring him to Oz? You didn’t want to bother him, he had enough stuff he had to worry about- plus the things Oz would do to him were too graphic to think about. What if you ran? No, he would catch you- probably beat the shit out of you too. Shit.

“Ok, I’ll take you to him.” you said as you were going down the steps, him following. Fuck-fuck you had to shoot him, this motherfucker was going to ruin whatever you had going on.

You had to shoot him, no other time better than now- your pistol was in the front of your jeans. Do it now.  You grabbed your gun from your pants and before you knew it, you turned around and pulled the trigger. 

When you opened your eyes, Squid was gripping his throat- blood was coming out in buckets- he stared at you and your shocked face. Neither of you believing what you just did. Your breathing was becoming heavier and heavier- almost gasping for breath- you just shot someone- he was going to die. 

Oh god, he was dying. You watched as the light drained from his eyes and you didn’t want to stick around to see him pass so you ran- you ran to your motorcycle and then you drove above the speed limit, probably breaking a few laws too until you got underground.

 He was probably dead by now- you just killed him. You never realized that you were crying as well; you ran to his office and thanked the lord that no one was around to see you. 

You opened the door and there he was, wearing a well tailored shirt and a vest- writing something down- money next to him. He quickly looked up as he heard you come in and then dropped his head down to continue what he was writting “Well look who decided to pay me a visit”,  he muttered with a smirk; you tried to control your sobs and when he heard the shallow breath you took to steady yourself- he looked up again “The fuck happened?” he immediately got up and went towards you.

You told him what happened between sobs as he held you on his lap, seated in his chair.  You told him everything; about Squid- how he threatened to go to the Falcones or the Maronis- how you knew you had no choice and while leaning back he told you that it will get easier, this isn’t the end of the world.

“You wanna know something?” He grabbed your face and made you look at him “You did what was right, you protected yourself, what you have. No one can take that from you- I’m proud of you.” Your sad demeanor was gone by now and replaced with the familiar warmth you had whenever he said something like this.

 He kissed you and brought your body and embraced you “You’ve grown so much in these weeks, you’re no longer the kid that used to sneak around buildings-” you kissed him, bringing his lower lip between your lips. You wanted to forget- forget what happened and what you did- he always made you forget all your worries, you only ever thought about him when you were in his presence. He put his arm beneath both of your legs as you were sitting and you almost yelped when he got you on his desk.

“Oz-” Ok, maybe getting him started wasn’t the best idea, whenever you got him going he would forget about the windows in his office or the fact that someone might hear you.

You tried to bring one of your legs between the two of you, trying to stop him “-Oz, when we are home” you tried to reason with the man, even if getting fucked in his office would turn you on in the worst ways and you would be lying if you said that you weren’t getting wet already.

 He loved the power he would hold over you- whenever he would manhandle you in any position he would like or whenever he would order you to do something- you couldn’t lie, you liked it too; sometimes he would have you suck his cock as he solved the men's pay, sometimes he would have you on all fours on his bed- Oz was a man that loved to be in control, to be number one- the best. You knew that. 

He was already getting your jacket off, “Oz-” he grabbed the money from the table and placed it away from you two, before getting back to kissing and groping you.

He grabbed hold of your clothed pussy and from the feeling of his hand there- you raised your butt slightly up and pushed back into him.

 This relationship that you two had, it made you feel like a woman- it was so different than the one you had with Robert, where it was just light touches on your face and small kisses- Oswald was a man, whenever he wanted you, he would have you and it made you feel as if you were wanted and desired- it made you feel alive.

He stopped and you knew someone was probably at the door. Shit- this is so embarrassing, you looked down and without making eye contact, went into the small room connecting to his office- he had a bed there, a small one; not big enough for two people to sleep comfortably but it was something. It was also way more warm in here than outside where everyone else was working. 

You took your sweater off and sat on the bed, while listening to what he was saying to the guy that came in, something about the meeting he had and a surprise. You had to ask him about that, but after he was done with you.

 Your heart was beating out of your ches- the door opened. 

He looked at you and made small steps towards the bed, you were smiling while scooting back- with butterflies dancing in your stomach; wondering what he was gonna do next when he grabbed both of your legs and placed them on either side of him before joining you on the bed- on top of you.

One of his hands immediately went to your ass, giving him easier access to rubbing himself over you and the other one was supporting him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer as your lips met his. Despite the darkness and heaviness of the moment, he still radiated a magnetic presence—full of charisma as ever, his scent enveloping you in a way that made everything else fade. From the sharpness of his aftershave to the depth of his cologne, he had it all. He started pushing himself even harder against you, where it was almost painful; you moaned in his mouth and against his tongue. 

He raised himself on his knees on the bed, casting a shadow over you and ordered you to take your jeans off and get on all fours while he was taking his vest off and unbuttoning his dress shirt. Your hands were shaking a little bit as you unbuttoned your pants and took them off.

After you obeyed him and raised your butt in the air, he grabbed hold of it- to angle you how he wanted; excitement so palpable you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, almost laughing. You felt him slowly enter you, giving you a few small moments to adjust to his size- you closed your eyes and moaned, you don’t think you’re ever gonna get enough of this man; all of him.

“Oh baby-” he was always so vocal during sex. 

The feeling of him stretching you out and the feeling of him pushing himself in you in and out- whenever he would press himself back in, he brushed up against your g-spot- the sound of his body when it connected to yours was so loud- it made your cheeks burn- you were so wet and he didn’t even touch you all that much, like that night at the club. He had a gun under your chin and you were so wet, who even were you anymore?

You arched your back, consciously making yourself as pleasing as possible for him. The act itself sent a thrill through you, but it also made your cheeks flush with a mix of desire and shy uncertainty- the usual girlhood embarrassment that flushed your cheeks overtaking your body whenever he had you like this. 

When he found his rhythm- while grabbing your waist and pushing you back into him, he’d shower you with praise. “You take me so well… you’re such a good girl—my good girl.” He knew exactly how to make your stomach flip with words like that—this old dog. 

He pulled you back against him time and time again before you felt like it was almost painful, your moans of pleasure mixing with those of pain.

He pulled himself out and got on his back next to you, ”Come ‘ere” you giggled in excitement- he loved whenever you rode him.

You squatted over him- your legs on either side of his body and with one of your hands- you brought his cock between your legs and you watched closely as his stupid grin was wiped from his face when you lowered down on him, mouth open- you gave him a quick peck on his lips. Your legs were almost shaking and a thin layer of sweat covered his forehead. 

From this position you could feel him so deep inside- you started to grind yourself on him- it felt so good; you almost started crying again. 

Oz grabbed your tits from underneath your shirt and was slowly pushing himself deeper in you “You’re my girl- I’m so proud-” he groaned as he said that, this mountain of a man- beneath you, between your thighs; you felt like you held the power “-I’m so proud of you.” 

From this position you could feel him brushing against your clit, the feeling only making you go faster, the thrill of reaching your peak on him taking over “easy…easy” he repeated- obviously, you didn't listen. 

You shifted the tempo, lifting yourself up before sliding back down, causing him to grimace. Without missing a beat, he pulled your upper body down, pressing you flush against him- you pressed your face against his shoulder and he grabbed it- holding it there; the cold feeling of his rings compared to how hot your face was giving you goosebumps.

You felt him adjust his legs and from this position he started to fuck you how he wanted to. He thrived on being in charge, practically reveled in the power it gave him. God, your throat was dry- you were sure you would be sore down there after you two were done.

 You knew anyone walking by could 100% hear you at this point, you tried to be quiet but to no avail with this man. Oz seemed to like whenever people would stare at the two of you and it excited him to think anyone would be listening in.

You brought your face up when he slowed down and kissed him, putting your tongue in his mouth. This felt so amazing but you knew he probably had places he had to be. “Do I make you feel good baby?” you nodded, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to the right side of his face, right on the thick scar that ran from his mouth to his cheekbone.

He was a strikingly intimidating man, his features hardened by a life of danger. You slowly brought yourself down and up- trying to match his movements. 

“You get so tight around me-” he placed his arm over you, bringing you as tight as he could on him. 

One of your hands went under the pillow he had under his head and the other was gripping the side of the bed. His rhythm was becoming sloopy- switching between fucking you and kissing you, on your cheeks or on your mouth; he grabbed your ass in both of his hands, squeezing and pushing you down on him while he fucked you. 

You looked in his eyes, the light from above casting a shadow over them that only added to his allure.  “-I’m gonna cum” you nodded again- words escaping you “Tell me where-tell me” he closed his eyes- you knew he would start with that, the only way he finished was inside you. 

Whether it was your mouth or your pussy. Oz loved when you would describe how he felt in you, how you loved when he would fuck you- how you wanted him to cum in you. It turned him on. It turned him on how embarrassed you would feel most of the time he made you say those things.

You told him you wanted it inside and It wasn’t long before he started his fast pace again and you closed your eyes, trying not to moan as loud as you would like- fuck he felt so good. It mustn't have been long before you felt him slow down and the familiar feeling of his cock pulsing inside of you. You had to drink some water- your throat was hurting. Oz hugged you close to him and while one of his hands was rubbing your back he kissed your forehead- “You feeling better?”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's note: Bro you just fucked him AGAIN?

Finished there the story because I KNEW i would start writing a lot and I wanna finish part 2 in time for the finale. I'm sososos excited for it and sad it will end ugh. Anyways hope you enjoyed and thank you to all the people that wrote nice things to me regarding my writing, I've been having some health problems lately and your messages made me feel so much better, truly. Have a nice day :))))))

[finniestoncrane]

Farrell!Penguin x GN!Reader, word count: 500 hi i went a little bit insane about the thought of oswald using my face as a cushion so you're welcome for this short little glimpse into my mind lmao 💜🐧 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: rimming, masturbation, ball fondling, kind of milking, angel and beautiful used for reader

Your tongue was outstretched, firm and pointed as you neared him. His flesh trembled as your wam breath got closer, tickling his ample body hair the closer you got. Bent over his own desk, submissive and ready, with his pants around his ankles. It wasn't the position he had seen himself in, if he were being honest. But it was one that intrigued him from the moment you'd suggested it.

"Wait, Ozzie... won't someone come in?"

"Door's locked, sweetheart."

"What if someone calls you? Or interrupts us?"

"What do you want me to do? Write it in my calendar? Do not disturb, I'm getting my asshole devoured by some beautiful, but filthy, angel."

You smiled at his pitched tone. He was getting impatient, and that meant he was excited about what was coming next.

"You could always write it down as a medical appointment. By the time I'm finished, I could tell your doctor everything he needs to know for your next prostate exam."

His grainy laugh was cut short, choked into a gasping moan and a soft, whistling exhale as you buried your face between his cheeks. Your nose nuzzled against him, hands gripping at his hips, fingers sinking into the deep, soft skin. Wriggling your tongue out past your lips, you made sure to take it slow, long laps dragging upwards and flicking back down over the puckered, sensitive hole before making their way back up again.

Desperate for more, Oswald shifted himself backwards, closing in on you, hoping you would take the hint and press your tongue deeper. He wanted you frenzied, starving, taking advantage of this submissive position he had gotten himself into for you.

You took the hint, shaking your head from side to side, running your tongue quickly across his hole, moaning in echo to his groans of gratitude.

Oswald reached behind him, his fingers stroking through your hair before he gripped hard and pushed you forwards, burying you into him. Your tongue was pressed out, firm and pointed, letting him fuck himself on it. You were drooling, salivating at the taste of him, at the way he was so vulnerable and desperate. The hairs were matted on either side of his cheeks, and as you reqached forwards, you could feel the precum leaking from the tip of his cock.

In a bid to have him weak and trembling, you reached your other hand forwards, cupping his balls, gently queazing them as you jerked his cock, tongue still lapping at the sensitive skin around his asshole. He was close now, nearing orgasm as you slobbered over him. This needed to be exceptional, beyond anything he'd felt before. So you sank your tongue down to his perineum, hoping to tingle his g-spot, milking him for every bit of his cum you could.

Oswald's fingers scratched at his desk, body convulsing as you coaxed his orgasm out of him, hoping to have him spilling over your fingers, his pristine image, his dominance, all forgotten as he let himself be ruined by your hands. And your tongue.

[saltysskin]

The Penguin x ex detective

MDNI

(NSFW//Oral//Ass play//Fingering)

Summary: An ex detective is introduced to Oswald Cobb after being caught snooping around his club for clues of her missing friend. After sparing the detectives life, Oswald calls on her to return a favor, looking after his mother (who has dementia) long enough for him to find a doctor for her. After the detective proved her loyalty by defending Francis Cobb’s home from intruders, he decided to keep her around. Only for something more to blossom between them after multiple tense interactions with each other.

“You enjoy seeing me like this?” His voice sounded sinister and low, he pulled me even closer now holding me against him. “Like what?” My big full eyes stared up at him as my brows furrowed. “You know exactly what I’m talkin’ about,” His accent came through, narrowing his eyes at me, almost glaring now. I pulled away to admire him for a moment, such nerve to grab at me the way that he was. “You’re sweet on me, Oz,” my voice was soft and familiar making his eyes widen by my statement. “It’s okay,” I cooed at him, rubbing my hand through his black chest hair, “I’m sweet on you too.” Before I could say anything else, Oswald began to kiss me, as he leaned down to reach me, I stood on my tip toes to reciprocate. He opened his mouth pushing his tongue in between my lips, making me respond similarly. I caressed his face with my hand, making his grip on me tighten. His large hands wrapped around my waist, pulling me up against himself, feeling his belly and chest through the clothing. He brushed my hair behind my ear, while still applying kisses to my flushed face. “Sweet on you, huh?” He mocked my accent, “What would you call it then?” I hummed up towards him.

As we continued to kiss, I didn’t notice Vic barging in to retrieve something that he’d forgotten. “Vic, Jesus!” Oswald called out making me pull away from him, to find Vic with a horrified look on his face, afraid Oswald would kill him from interrupting. “S-sorry! I left my phone,” He explained before making a hasty exit for the door. “I gotta lock that fuckin’ door,” He growled before limping over towards the door to do just that. I was stunned, my head was swimming and I couldn’t think of anything other than climbing that man like a tree. I removed my jacket, showing my black tank top underneath it, exposing my shoulders. I tried to keep my composure, my body swayed where I stood. “I’m not done with you,” He insisted, grabbing me pinning me between the kitchen table and him. His fingers tucked into my cleavage pulling at my clothes. He unbuckled my belt, then my jeans, unzipping the zipper slowly. Admiring the patterns on my panties, Oswald pulled my jeans down past my ass. Making me gasp, while keeping my hands flat on the table. After standing back up he pushed two of his fingers into my mouth, insisting that I suck on them, so I do. Lathering my tongue up against his thick fingers, I begin to move my head back and forth before he pulled them out and quickly pushed them into my underwear. Oswald noticed my trimmed bush immediately, growing harder by the second. He found the lips of my pussy and pushed them apart. I couldn’t keep eye contact with him, I was too flustered, too shy. I writhed underneath him as he stimulated my clit with his thumb, pushing one of his fingers inside of me. “Tight little thing, huh.” His voice was low and breathy, “Can’t even fit both fingers in,” He continued, as I let out a moan in response. “I should’ve done this a long time ago,” He added, as he began to kiss my neck, sucking on my skin and earlobe. I cradled the nape of his neck with my left hand, keeping my right hand against his shoulder. Oswald pushed one of my legs into the air and over his shoulder, before pushing his second finger inside of me. Able to see what he was doing now, he stared down towards my pussy with his fingers inside. Shining from my juices I watched him, watch me, letting sweet moans escape my lips. “Oswald,” I hummed, grabbing at his shoulders now, he pulled his fingers out of me then brought them up towards his lips. Sucking at his fingertips before kissing me again, not allowing a chance to breathe. Oswald began to pull at his belt buckle, before I insisted on helping. Unbuttoning his pants then unzipping his zipper before kneeling down in front of him. I pulled his pants down to his ankles, glancing at his leg brace for a moment before staring up towards him. I removed his boxers, exposing a large cut cock, curving upward. It was weeping from the tip, throbbing from how hard he was. Just by me grabbing his shaft made Oswald grunt. I put him into my mouth, and closed my eyes, enjoying every second of this. It’d been awhile since I’ve done anything like this, but I was unable to stop. He placed his hand on the back of my head, pulling my hair into his fist to get it out of the way. “Good girl,” He cooed down at me, watching my every move. “Ahh wahhh,” I tried talking with my mouth full, “Yeah keep talking baby,” He mocked, grinning down at me. “Tell me how much you like this,” He insisted, before moving my head more aggressively with his hand. “Awwwss ahhh” I played his game, with tears welling up in my eyes now. Moving my tongue against him before he suddenly pulled out, resting his member against my face. “Come here,” He grabbed at me, pulling me up to my feet before pushing me onto his kitchen table. He removed my panties throwing them to the side before spreading my legs open again. “Look at that pretty, pink pussy,” He breathed out, before spitting on my slit and attempting to press himself inside. I grabbed at his member to guild him inside, feeling pressure and resistance. Bullying his way inside Oswald began kissing my legs, as I let out small cry’s in response to his girth.

He pulled off my tank top exposing no bra to protect my chest. My nipples were hard and erect, making him lick his lips before leaning forward to kiss them. Bucking his hips into me, as he began sucking on my chest again biting at my nipples. My legs wrapped around him desperately wanting more of him, “Just like that,” I moaned before lifting my leg once more to all him deeper. He pulled out for a moment before flipping me over onto my stomach, standing on my tip toes to match the height of Oswald. With a slap of the fat of my ass, Oswald was mesmerized by my behind. Staring at me from behind for a moment before spitting again but this time on my asshole. Pushing his cock inside of me, he hooked his thumb into my behind. Stretching it, due to his thick digits, I began bucking while bent over so close to climaxing. “Oswald I—” I whined as he continued slapping my ass. “Tell me what you want baby,” He purred, still working his thumb inside my ass. Oswald hurried his bucking, grunting more often now, with sweat dripping down his forehead onto my naked body. He grabbed one of my arms pulling me backward to gain leverage on how hard and deep he can go. “What’s wrong? Too cock drunk, detective?” laughing to himself as my eyes rolled from the back of my head. I pushed Oswald off of me in a desperate attempt to change positions once more; feeling him pull out of me as he stumbled backward. I walked over towards one of his leather chairs and motioned for him to sit down, which he obliged. He limped over towards the chair of choice. He was completely covered in dark hair, with excess body fat plumping up his body. After sitting down, his cock still stood erect, waiting for me. I climbed ontop of him and lowered myself down, guiding him inside once more. “Fuck,” He groaned before I began to bounce on his lap, wrapping my hands behind his neck and allowing my ass fat to smack against his legs. “Ugh yes,” I moaned while throwing my head back in pleasure. He wrapped his hand around my neck, squeezing just enough so I don’t pass out. His big forearm rested between my breasts, using his other hand to fondle my now sore nipples. “You like that?” He gritted his teeth at me, but continued to stare at me and the state he had me in. With Oswald bucking even faster than before, meeting me as I continued to bounce my eyes began to cross. My clit began to vibrate then suddenly a wet hotness was felt. My eyes were kept rolled back, and I was left speechless with my mouth agape. I was climaxing, my body shaking and sweating from my animal antics. I was cradling Oswald’s head against my breasts when I came to. Still naked sitting on top of him, I lifted my head still seeing stars when Oswald looked at me while I still hung onto him. Taking in his glossy eyes and full lips. He was handsome, more so than ever—he was exhausted, his hair damp from the sweat, his labored breathing underneath me. I brushed his short black hair behind his right ear, before kissing it softly. After crawling off of Oswald he grabbed at my wrist, pulling me back towards him for a kiss. He kissed me hard, pushing his tongue inside my mouth once more. Shifting where he sat groaning to himself while watching me walk away with a white sheen dripping down my leg.

[sarahreesbrennan]

I remain mad that Long Live Evil doesn’t have a movie because I want to edit the characters so bad. What do you mean I can’t make an edit of Eric with the intro of ‘The reason I walked in like I own the place is because I do.’ and the song is Brat by Charlie XCX??? This is ridiculous.

I thank you and I could see it!

Long Live Evil is the book I ‘see’ most of all my books in a cinematic way because I was thinking so much of adaptations as I wrote it. Not of getting an adaptation (though it would be nice, wouldn’t it!) but of how stories change in the telling, as they did with oral tradition and bards back in the day. But as they do now mainly from being transformed from one medium to another.

And that transformation necessitates change. Even a good and considered faithful adaptation should bring with it the change of needing to work in a different medium for a different audience, and the change of another person’s vision altering the telling.

I’m not just talking movies or TV shows in Long Live Evil but plays - we have a major playwright character, we start off with a Richard III epigraph and have innumerable Shakespeare references thereafter - plus references to Greek plays, the chorus, and catharsis - plus musicals and pantomimes (I tried to foreshadow in such a way that some would be surprised and some would spend much of the book yelling ‘behind you! The narrative doom is BEHIND YOU!’).

One major thing shouted out in the acknowledgements was Wicked, a musical that is very different from its book (I really enjoy both), which is getting a movie adaptation I’m interested to see, and which is full of villainous sympathy and joie de vivre. I believe Wicked foreshadowed the runaway success of Frozen.

Musicals are also a refuge for joy and camp in an increasingly self-conscious world of story. I was talking on… sigh… X about the change of Oswald Cobblepot’s name to Oz Cobb in ‘the Batman’ universe and I said ‘everyone is afraid of being cringe, and tbh I think being afraid of being cringe IS cringe. Let’s get a little silly sometimes. Let’s be wild and overblown and sincere.’

Musicals DO that. They have to, by their inherently artificial nature - we can’t pretend people burst into song and dance numbers - and that gives them a certain freedom. I love a musical. I went to see the Vampire Lestat the musical and The Lord of the Rings the musical. I can’t be kept away. The second-most-common note from my critique partners was to get rid of the musical in Long Live Evil and I just couldn’t, as the musical was one of the first seeds of the story, and it said what kind of story I wanted it to be: a joyful celebration of art that wasn’t afraid of anything. Including being cringe.

… I’ve wandered off the point I fear. I would also like to see an adaptation! Love an adaptation.

[blackbeautifulqueen]

You dont love me anymore

Oswald Cobb x Black!reader

Y/n thinks Oswald is cheating on her.

You and Oz had been married for about a year at this point everything was good. Then when Vic came everything was better that is until Sofia came back. Sofia was gorgeous you couldn't deny that. Way prettier than yourself you believed. And when you say how close Oz and Sofia had gotten it made you sick to your stomach. He would never talk about business when he was home it was a rule you created. You didn't want to know how many people he had killed you never liked knowing those things. But that same rule had you hurt in the long run. You wanted to know what they were doing and any time you’d ask about Sofia hed say “there aint nobody else in the world I want but you” or “your all I need baby you know that” or even “its just business” but something was off. 

You had waited for Oz to come home and it was around 12 when you decided to go to bed. About 15 minutes go by of just laying there and you were so close to sleep but you heard the door open and soon after felt the bed dip. You took in his smell It wasnt any perfume you owned or any he owned. It killed you. 

The next moring you saw oz getting ready and wanted to do something nice so if he was cheating youd hope hed fell bad and this would pull him back to earth a bit, so you made him breakfast.

“I made you breakfast ozzie” I say with a smile he walked into the kitchen and kissed me then just held me for a moment.

“Thank you sweetheart” he said and took a piece of bacon popping it into his mouth.

“Hm this is good baby”

“You think so?” I said with a smile

“I know so” He said grabbing my hips

“Whats the plan today huh?” I ask

“Im going with Sofia-” I and with that name my face fell and I bit my lip. All noise was drowned out. Thank god he was behind me. 

“Hey sweetheart you good?” he asked I shook my head, yes bitting my lip. I didn't want to come off as the jealous wife so I just stayed silent as he continued with what he was gonna do today. Then he looked at his watch and said

“Oh, shit I've gotta go baby. I love you”

“Ok have fun. I love you too” I said as we kissed and I watched as he walked out the door.

I walked to the living room and went to the record player. All these albums that Oz had brought for me all cuz I said I like this song or this album. I pulled out beyonces lemadae album and started to blast it full volume.

And keep your money, I got my own

Keep a bigger smile on my face being alone

Bad motherfucker, God complex

Motivate your ass, call me Malcolm X

You operator, or innovator

Fuck you, hater, you can't recreate her, no, no

You'll never recreate her, no (hell no)

I started to sing. After my “concert” I went to get a bottle of wine. Withing 30 minuted a full bottle was gone and I got another. The pain of Oz wanting another women was to much for me. So instead I drowned my feelings. Almost as if it was a movie we find love starts playing and Oz walks though the door.

“You dont love me anymore

Lets see how you like this song”

“Baby?” Oz questioned and I stayed silent tears threatening to fall. 

“What the hell?” he asked

“What are you doing?” and I just looked at his through my tears and sang with the song

“You don't love me anymore” And stood up and walked to him. Pushed him back and sang

“Let's see how you like this song” cocking his head to the side

“What?” he asked

“You” I emphasise by pointing at him

“Don't love me” I say pointing at myself then laughing to keep myself from crying.

“Sweetheart, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Do I need to repeat?” I said in a conceding tone

“y/n” 

“Dont even start that “there's no other women for me” shit I fucking know what the fuck you do”

I say as he stares in shock

“Baby”

“Don't baby me why don't you baby that bitch your with instead of your fucking wife!” I yelled showing my ring

“y/n” He said loud enough so he wasn't yelling at me but I stopped talking

“y/n, baby, you talking bout Sofia?” he asked eyebrows raised

“...yes” I said quietly 

“Baby I'm doing this for us. I wasn't gonna tell you this but I killed Alberto Falcone. I'm hanging around Sofia to get in her good graces or whatever so she doesn't think it was me and more importantly she stays away from you.” It was silent for a moment then I asked

“Why did you kill him?” 

“...He laughed at me baby”

“Aw baby” I said and I reached for his face with my right hand

“Im sorry” I said with a sympathetic smile

“But you know I can take care of myself… right?”

“I know but I like to take care of ya doll. Its my job I gotta look out for you.” he said pushing your braids out of your face and giving you a kiss.