#gotham reader insert

[sunflowerrosewood]

He Has a Nightmare HC~ Gotham Boys

Author's Note: Since my other account @cheekyredwillow got deleted. I am adding some of my favorite fanfictions to this account and revamping this one with new ones. I hope to make an actual list of fandoms I am still a fan of! NO requests for the time being.

Warnings: cursing, mentions of killing, nothing too graphic.

~~~

Jim Gordon 

~Jim has dealt with so much shit

~Between going after villains to dealing with the PD

~So when you two fell asleep one night

~He had a nightmare you were killed by multiple Gotham villains

~You don't notice he has a nightmare until you feel cold

~When Jim is sitting in the kitchen nursing something to drink

~But not facing the bedroom

~You have to come up from behind

~And hug him tight

~He will probably jump 

~But he melts in your embrace 

~He wont tell you want happened

~But he will allow to be vulnerable 

~And allow you to just mumble in a sleepy voice all the reasons you love him

Edward Nygma

~Edward didn't have nightmares often

~But seemed to have them after being in Arkham

~Then escaping to home

~You would only know when you heard him arguing with himself

~That he shouldn't wake you up

~That this makes him useless

~As you could hear him mutter these things

~Pull him down to the bed

~So you can cuddle into him

~And promise that you'll always be there

~Both sides will melt

~And he'll tell you about the nightmare 

~So you'll understand his pain

Oswald Cobblepot 

~Oswald had nightmares often

~And you usually knew

~The reason is that he talked in his sleep and would hold onto you tight

~You would feel his hands tighten

~And whimpers fall out of his lips

~You’ll probably have to wake him up

~Just to let him know that he is not alone

~He will be sweaty and his heart racing

~But as long as you kiss his lips

~And squeeze his hand

~Oswald will calm down

~Go get a washcloth to help him cool off

~And intertwine your hands before you fall back asleep

Jonathan Crane

~Nightmares plague his head all the time

~And it isn’t because it is his fault

~It usually has to do with his father

~And another person that you will know when he wakes up

~Because he gets as far away from you

~He is shaking in fear 

~It’s usually when he does not consume himself in fear

~But appears in his nightmare

~Allow him to slowly calm down on his own

~He’ll immediately climb back into bed 

~Because he needs to feel you by his side

~Usually he falls asleep slowly after

Jervis Tech

~Jervis usually has nightmares that his Alice runs away

~You ran away because he harms you

~Jervis is one of the ones who will wake you up

~Just to make sure you are real

~And still loves him

~Before you get tired again, you’ll notice the fear in his eyes

~Whisper to him how much you love him

~And kiss his cheek 

~Before cuddling into his chest which calms him down

Victor Zsasz

~Victor wont show he has nightmares 

~You usually know when you wake up

~And he’s sitting in the shared bathroom just staring

~No emotions are shown

~But you know what is going on

~So you’ll have to go in

~And kneel where you look up at him

~He won't say anything

~He’ll just pull you into his lap

~And holds you tight 

~Just the silent of the night is going to be heard

~Victor will pick you up and bring you back to bed

~Usually it takes just that before the two of you fall asleep

~Victor will probably mention his nightmare later on in the week

~When he is ready

Jeremiah Valeska

~Even after the spray, Jeremiah still gets nightmares

~It happens to be about him almost killing you

~And he’ll wake up to you being sound asleep

~He’ll touch your arm

~And sigh 

~Usually you know something happened because he’ll be in the lab

~Bent over

~And probably throwing things in anger

~When you ask him what’s wrong

~You’ll see the anger turn to worry

~An emotion you do not see often

~And Jeremiah will walk over to you to hold you tight

~Demanding you wont leave him

~Even though you never thought that way

~It’s feeling you near him that causes him to want to go back to bed with you

Jerome Valeska

~Jerome did not have nightmares too often

~He was awake in the middle of the night usually

~But when he did fall asleep and had nightmares

~He was similar to Oswald by holding you tighter against him

~But you would still be asleep 

~Until you feel him kissing your face and neck while rubbing your hip

~When you slowly wake up, Jerome will kiss you lips and grin

~Usually you wouldn’t ask much

~Until you watch his grin falter

~That’s when you touch his face

~And kiss him softly till Jerome makes you fall back into his chest

~Once the two of you hit the bed, he’ll still be rubbing your arms or hips

~But you’ll hear him yawn

~He falls asleep pretty quick

[loser-mobile]

Future Lover - Jason Todd x Reader

Synopsis: Trying to make it in the Big City, you are dragged clawing and screaming into a time travel mess with a man who claims to be your future husband.

Author's Note: This is my first fic in like.....years. plese be kind :)

Also this was loosely inspired by another writer's headcanon/work (that i can't find :((), and this song. I will continue to search for the fic and link it when I find it, bc it's really good!

I hope I do the idea and the character justice!

Content: Jason Todd x Reader, timetravel, swearing, mention of injuries, blood, more to come :)

ANywaayyss! Hope you like it :)

Word Count: 2k.

You’ve been daydreaming again. A third - no, fourth cup of tea, left to turn bone cold. 

Fuckin dipshit

It’s a warm day for Gotham. City of recurring nightmares, for some. For you, it’s home. A chaotic, fucked-up, yet charming-in-it’s-relentlessness home.

At 22, you’re at that crucial stage of your 20’s where it feels like you’ve seen it all, and yet done nothing of note. Job-hopping, relationship-failing, nothingness. Anxious to make something of yourself, yet not quite sure what that something would be yet.

Ambition currently took a backseat to survival. You worked for a federal community services program, which helped your clients find and access vital resources, like housing, healthcare, and food. You were a jack-of-all-trades for many in this role; a big sister, a life-coach and a friend, all in one. A soft landing. It was hard, but rewarding work. 

But damn if it didn’t drain you.

You let out a huff as you pour the cup into the sink, letting the stale chamomile brew be swallowed by the drain. You’re alone in your sharehouse, with all four of your housemates all out and about, taking full advantage of the sunny weekend. It’s a rare occasion. You gaze up, over the sink, through the window in the kitchen. Outside, sunshine beams down through silvery clouds.

It is a nice day.

Oh shit. What’s the time? And why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?

You rush back to your room and glance at your phone screen. 12:48. Oh shit!

Coffee! With your coworker, Matthew! Damnit!

Rushing around the house as quickly as you can, you damn near turn into a blur as your grab the necessities haphazardly. Jacket, keys, wallet, phone…. Where’s the damn phone, you just had it, dumbass! 

Slamming the door to your townhouse behind you, with your belongings all shoved into a low-slung leather shoulder bag, you rush three blocks down to the bus stop that will take you further into town, managing to just catch the bus before it leaves. Slotting yourself behind the other passengers from your stop, ignoring the glare that the bus driver gives you, and squeezing through the sea of patrons, that’s when you spot it. A seat. Yes! Perfect!

Collapsing into the plastic seat with a soft thud, your head tilts back and you exhale, catching your breath. You close your eyes in relief. Phew! At least now you’ll make it to coffee with your friend and former colleague Matthew on time.

Glad I got this seat. Free seats on buses in Gotham, especially on sunny days like this, are few and far between. 

Come to think of it…. Free seats in Gotham, on PACKED buses like this one, are exceedingly rare…

You glance to your right side, towards the side window. The man who sits beside you is, and there really is no way to put this lightly, huge. He looks straight forward, and it’s like he hasn’t noticed you at all.

A hulking presence, you can see he lurches forward ever so slightly. Broad shoulders that filled a dark brown leather jacket to the brim. Arms that squeeze into the worm sleeves. You glance away, folding your bottom lip into your mouth as you are prone to do when nervous or awkward. Inhaling, you steal one last glance up at his face, before quickly looking forward, and inwardly cringing.

Now it all makes sense. That scowl. Fuck me. This man might be a local crazy.

None of the other passengers are anywhere near him. Well, near either of you, since you foolishly decided to take the empty seat without first looking to see who it was you’d be sitting next to. Dickhead.

His face is a storied one. The first thing you notice are his eyes. Cliché, you think to yourself, Noticing the handsome stranger’s eyes first. But in all honesty, it’s quite hard not to. They’re a bright, piercing green. Almost…. glowing? Well, the left one is. You can’t see the right, as he’s facing forward. His disinterest in you is such that you think if you were to drop dead in front of him, he’d hardly blink.

His face, side on, is straight and chiselled, but aged. A large thin scar reaches from his left jaw, pointing like an arrow towards his green eye. And his hair, oil black, voluminous and wavy, with a streak of platinum white in his cowlick. It would be adorable if you weren’t so bloody mortified right now. 

His thick black brows are furrowed in deep concentration, or frustration. You can’t tell which. His glowering face, tense and focused, betrays the deep thought he is in. It’s not clear what exactly it is this man wants to stab the life out of right now, but it is clear that this man does not want to be spoken to right now. Hence the empty seat, you figure.

You squeeze your arms around your brown bag, the soft leather a small comfort in this awkward situation you now find yourself in. Oh, if only you could sink through this shitty plastic bus chair and splat onto the road below.

You take a deep breath, finally steading yourself. Finding yourself in close proximity with an unstable person in Gotham is like finding yourself in an enclosure with a lion. No sudden movements, and you might find yourself walking out of this with all limbs intact.

Without warning, the bus lurches forward, and you with it. Your arm shoots out to steady yourself on the metal pole in front of you, a small groan escaping your lips. You remain seated.

The man beside you, seemingly weighed down by rocks, doesn’t budge, but grunts softly. It’s probably all those damn muscles keeping him locked in place. 

You look to your side, observing the other patrons with mild curiosity. Across the small aisle from you, sits a small child and her father. Hand in hand, and she can’t be older than four. Blonde hair sticks out in tiny pigtails, and in her hands sits a stuffed giraffe toy. 

She looks over at me with large brown eyes, and smiles. You smile back, and offer a small smile. “I like your giraffe! What’s his name?”, your chirp, just as the bus enters a dark underground tunnel.

She opens her mouth to speak, a bashful smile on her face, but is interrupted by the bus skidding to a halt. You don’t even have time to turn my head forward, when, quicker than you can comprehend, hands move. Her father’s hands, and your left arm, both reach towards the small child. Your hand instinctively spreads out to cushion her small body, whilst your right reaches out for the pole in front of you. And completely misses it.

But you don’t flip head over heels onto the bus floor. A large arm has blocked you, reaching in front of you like a human seatbelt. The man beside you, still facing forward stoically, stopped you from breaking your teeth on the bus floor.

You softly curse, mouth agape. Your fingers find your bag, which has dropped unceremoniously to the sticky floor. That was quick. The bus doesn’t move. There isn’t any movement outside the bus, as far as you can tell. Instead, you hear chatter and confused mumbling from the other patrons on board, who lean and peer at something you can’t quite see.

But you feel it before you see it. A human body slams into the front window of the bus. One of the layers of glass completely shatters, sending shards of glass propelling towards you and the other passengers. 

You don’t get a chance to gasp before you are squished under the chest of the stranger beside you. His arms cover your back and you feel one of his hands on your head. You hear a thick heartbeat and a rumbling pair of lungs, and feel the warmth and softness of his black hoodie.

Seems like the weird stranger beside you had the same instincts as you; to protect people.

The bus rocks back and forth for a second, but once it has steadied, the stranger is gone. You see a flash of dark leather slip through the ajar bus door, and he is gone.

Holy shit. 

The body that landed on the front window of the bus is gone, a large indent of curved window glass in its place.

You hear screams, close ones and distant ones. To your left, the giraffe girl is tucked into the lap of her father, screaming in terror. You glance over at him, and he meets your gaze. Both of you, wide-eyed, communicate without words. We gotta get outta here. 

You reach out a hand to help him up, as he clutches his baby girl to his chest. A wave of patrons exit the bus. There’d probably be more injuries through the panic and distress of getting off the bus, if not for the complete shock that everyone is now in.

Your hands reach up to rub your face, and you quickly check yourself, then others around you, for injuries. Other than a light scare, and a few cuts and bruises, the bus of about 40 people seem to be mostly unscathed. You allow yourself a breath, and release a bit of fear.

Glass crunches underfoot, and patrons usher each-other through the doors. It’s like organised chaos. It’s Gotham, so as with every weird and horrifying event, there are naturally leaders and carers who always step up. Good people. Kind strangers whose motivation is just to get everyone home safe that day. The unsung civilian heroes of Gotham, along with the nurses and doctors, you think to yourself. 

As the last few people exit the bus, you stand, leaning a hand on the backrest of your bus seat. Giraffe-girl dropped her little giraffe toy in the chaos, and you slowly stooped down to pick it up.

Slowly picking shards of glass from the yellow and brown fur of the toy, you cautiously step towards the exit of the bus. Outside, there’s a fair amount of darkness, and you can hear distant gunshots and sounds of violence and chaos. 

Just before you reach the exit, the bus lurches violently once again, and as if possessed, you are tossed to the stick bus floor, landing amongst the glass shards. Crunch! Your thin jacket does nothing to stop the damage, and it’s like a thousand tiny knives have plunged themselves into your skin. You groan and cry out. Fuck!

The giraffe toy is still in your clutches, when you can feel the bus begin to lift into the air. It’s like that feeling of an elevator rising, you can just tell. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. 

You crawl and clamber to the door of the bus, clutching the sides and peering out below. You’ve been lifted barely six feet in the air, but you can’t see who’s doing the lifting. There’s a loud jarring scraping noise that comes from above you, and you glance upwards. It’s the roof of the bus, touching the concrete ceiling of the road tunnel above you. Metal pressing against concrete isn’t a wonderful sound, but at least you can’t go any higher.

But the crushing sound doesn’t stop, and the roof buckles. You are jolted around, as the bus begins to fold in on itself like paper. That’s when you cry out for help, as loud as you can.

“Hey! HEY! Stop! Please, somebody help!”. Your voice calls out, but there’s no immediate answer. “PLEASE, HELP!” You desperately cry out. Your heart pounds like a drum in your chest, and your head feels heavy with fear. Your eyes stretch wider than you thought was possible, and you begin breathing quick and shallow breaths.

Clutching at the sides of the bus door frame, you peer out below you. The gap between you and the ground is getting bigger and bigger. If you’re gonna jump, you’re gonna break your legs. But if you stay here, you’ll break… well, you’ll break your everything.

Fuck it.

With a panicked grunt, you launch yourself downwards… and lend somewhere soft. In someone’s arms. 

It’s the guy from before. Wait - no… is it? He looks older now. Grayer hair. More scars. And he looks at you with a grin and a glint in his eyes, almost like he recognises you. His red muzzle rests around his neck, low enough to show his black stubble.

That muzzle.. looks a lot like the one Red Hood wears....

He looks at you and smiles warmly. “Hey, honey!”.

A/N: AHHHH HE MAKES ME FEEEEEL. Hope you liked it? Also, reader kinda hinted at being neurodivergent, like myself, very forgetful and distractable and high energy.

Let me know if you have any feedback!

[angelofthenight]

Ed: My (s/o)’s been listening to these true crime podcasts and now they know too much

Ed: they just said,

You: “bodies don’t float if you puncture the lungs”

Ed: So if I go missing TELL THE COPS THEY DID IT

[myerssimp21]

Iceberg's Jewel pt. 1

This is just another idea rattling around in my head! While this is still yandere Batfam, the premise is slightly different—here, they haven’t quite met you yet. The focus starts with Oswald Cobblepot and the Iceberg Lounge, but trust me, the Batfamily won’t be far behind. Timeline-wise, this would technically come first, even though in my other yandere Batfam fics, Tim and Jason have already had their moments with you. So yes, there will be a plot hole later where they’ve somehow already hooked up with you—just roll with it. Consider it canon-ish, but mostly just me playing around with ideas. tl;dr: This is a prequel of sorts to my other yandere Batfam fics, but I’m mostly here to have fun with the concept. Hope you enjoy! 💙 word count: 3201

Oswald Cobblepot prided himself on running a tight ship. The Iceberg Lounge was a beacon of opulence in Gotham, catering to a clientele that wanted their danger with a side of champagne. When he put out that little “Help Wanted” sign as a joke—an amusing way to signal to the people he was looking for that he was ready to onboard—he hadn’t expected someone like you to waltz in.

You were nervous but bright-eyed, clutching a copy of your résumé (how quaint) in one hand, wearing a Gotham University sweater that screamed student loans and part-time hustle. The smile you gave him when he walked into the lounge floor was disarming—too genuine for this city. You asked to speak to someone about the janitorial position, and Os had to bite back a laugh.

“A janitor? Here? Sweetheart, you might be too good for this place,” he muttered under his breath, too quietly for you to hear, before waving a hand dismissively at one of his goons. “Send her to my office.”

His office wasn’t where interviews were usually held—far too personal, far too… revealing. But for some reason, he wanted to gauge you himself. Maybe it was your naivete; maybe it was the way your gaze lingered on the crystal chandeliers and plush carpets like you’d never seen luxury this close before. You were looking at him as a normal boss, not a criminal mastermind, and he realized he might like that.

By the time you’d been seated in the chair across from his polished mahogany desk for only 15 minutes, he was already hooked. He asked simple questions at first—your availability, your experience—but quickly veered into territory that let him know more about you. Your classes at Gotham U were interesting, but you worked too much to fully appreciate them. You loved your psychology major but struggled with scheduling, hoping that the pay here was more than the measly pay you scrounged from your other two jobs. He listened with great interest as you spoke of your genuine excitement to be working in a "classy place like this."

He didn’t have the heart to tell you this place wasn’t really classy—just good at pretending.

Cobblepot tilted his head, the curiosity in his expression sharpening as he tapped a finger against the arm of his chair. “You’re not from here, are you?” he asked, a sly grin forming. “So, what do you think of our little city?”

“Oh, uh…” You laughed nervously, shifting in your seat. “It’s… something, that’s for sure. Gotham’s kinda like… I don’t know, a scrappy mutt? It bites, like, a lot, but you can’t help but wanna pet it anyway. It’s scrappy and loveable.”

Oswald chuckled, the sound low and genuine. “Lovable?” he repeated, shaking his head. “You’re a strange one. Most people run for the hills when it comes to Gotham.”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “I’m already here, so I might as well figure it out, y’know? Plus, it’s not all bad. I mean, the people are tough, and the city’s got… personality. A weird, messed-up personality, but still.”

He found himself appreciating your honesty. It was a rare thing in his world—people who weren’t either trying to butter him up or wring him dry. And that smile… Hm. Something about it didn’t belong here.

Then, the door to his office slammed open. A goon stumbled in without so much as a knock, huffing like a dog chasing its own tail as he fumbled a thick stack of papers in his hands.

Oswald snapped to attention so fast it was animalistic. One second, he was relaxed, bemused by you—the next, his face contorted with fury, his lips curling back in a snarl that made the dim office feel suddenly suffocating.

“What?” Cobblepot snarled, his tone cutting like ice. The very air in the room seemed to turn electric, humming with the promise of violence.

The goon froze mid-step, eyes darting between you and his boss. He looked like he’d just walked into an execution chamber by mistake.

Oswald’s teeth clenched so tight a vein throbbed visibly in his temple. “You knock before coming into my office,” he seethed, voice dropping to something far more dangerous than the initial explosion. Cold. Calculating. A blade slipping between ribs. “You wait. You don’t—”

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you.

Frozen.

Wide-eyed.

And just like that, the change was immediate.

His snarl vanished. The storm passed in an instant, like flicking off a switch. The barely-contained rabid rage that had been twisting his face smoothed into something almost… embarrassed. Guiltily casual.

Cobblepot glanced back at you, then at the goon, then back at you. For a brief, telling second, he looked—not regretful, but calculating. Then he sighed through his nose, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off an unpleasant thought.

"Handle it later," he ordered, voice abruptly warm. Silk-soft. As if he hadn’t just been inches from taking a man’s head off. His hand flicked lazily toward the door, a dismissive gesture. “Can’t you see I’m with someone?”

The goon scuttled out of the room like a kicked dog, the papers in his hands rustling violently as he clutched them to his chest.

The moment the door shut, Oswald let out a measured breath, as if centering himself. Then, in a whiplash-inducing shift, he turned back to you with an awkward, almost sheepish smile.

"Sorry about that,” he said, voice dripping with artificial sweetness, as if his outburst had never happened. He waved a hand, dismissing it entirely, his gaze keenly watching your expression for any lasting tension. “Some of my employees just don’t have any manners.”

You offered a polite, thin smile, still shaken, but brushed it off with a shrug. You had already figured this place wasn’t exactly warm and welcoming, but the speed at which his fury had vanished was... unsettling.

Oswald noticed.

He noticed everything.

And for the first time in a long, long while… he wasn’t sure if he liked the way your smile still had a hint of nerves clinging to it.

The Batcave was unusually quiet, save for the faint tapping of Tim’s keyboard and the low hum of the monitors. Bruce sat at the console, watching the live feed from Oswald Cobblepot’s office. You were seated across from the Penguin, a mixture of nerves and polite excitement etched on your face. The Iceberg Lounge’s chandelier lights reflected in your wide eyes as you gestured animatedly, your Gotham University sweater and résumé betraying your earnestness in a city that thrived on deception.

“Can’t decide if she’s brave or just clueless,” Tim remarked, leaning back slightly as he toggled between camera feeds. “She walked into Cobblepot’s lair with a résumé. A résumé, Bruce.”

“She’s a student trying to make ends meet. That’s not bravery—it’s necessity.”

Damian’s voice crackled through the comms. “She really responded to a ‘help wanted’ ad? Tt. Typical. Of course that bloated bird would choose a naive one. She’ll probably end up scrubbing vomit out of his VIP lounge carpets.”

Tim tutted thoughtfully at Damian’s comment. “I mean…..he’s probably aiming higher than janitorial work for her. Did you hear the way he sweetened his voice?”

Damian scoffed but didn't reply. 

A new voice broke in over the comms—Dick, speaking from his position on patrol. “You think she knows what she’s getting into? Working there isn’t exactly safe.”

“She doesn’t,” Bruce answered simply, “But that doesn’t make her unique. Plenty of people stumble into Gotham’s underworld without realizing it. We can’t save everyone.”

Tim muttered, “Still doesn’t mean we should ignore it. If Penguin’s targeting her for something, we’ll want to know why.”

Damian chimed in again, his tone slightly mocking. “We already know why, Drake. He likes his toys naïve, optimistic, and disposable. She won’t last a week before she gets a reality check—or worse.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward the feed as Cobblepot stood, offering you a hand and gesturing toward the door. “They’re moving,” Bruce said. “Tim, keep the office feed rolling, and find another camera angle.” 

“We won’t have audio and depending on where he’s taking her, I’m not sure we’ll have visuals either.”

There was a moment of silence, the kind that spoke volumes in the Batcave.

Dick broke it. “She’s smart enough to know what Cobblepot is, right? I mean, who walks into the Iceberg Lounge thinking it’s just a nightclub?”

“People who don’t know Gotham,” Tim replied, scrolling through files, soaking in what he can on you. “..She’s a psych major at Gotham U, full-time. She’s been juggling two jobs already, so she’s probably just desperate for the paycheck.”

Damian’s tone turned sharper. “Desperation or not, she’s still a fool. You don’t wear a sweater with your university’s name on it when you waltz into the lion’s den.”

Tim smirked. “Guess she didn’t take Gotham’s prerequisite: Street Smarts 101.”

The screen now displayed the empty office, Cobblepot’s desk abandoned. You were out of their sight, and for the moment, out of their reach. But the Batfamily wasn’t about to let you disappear into the darkness of Gotham without a trace. Tim was scrambling to find a feed that would give them info as to where Cobblepot’s taking you, but at the very least, they have relevant info on you.

Dick’s voice again. “Did you hear her in that interview? ‘Lovable but scrappy.’” He smiled faintly at the words. “She actually likes Gotham. We should keep it that way.”

Tim again, confirming some details. “Transferred to Gotham U from out of state. No criminal record, no red flags.”

Damian’s voice cut in, sharp and dry. “Other than walking into the Iceberg Lounge with a résumé. That’s a red flag for stupidity.”

Dick countered, his tone softer now. “She doesn’t know any better. Give her a break.”

Jason laughed, his voice snarky over the comms line from his own patrol. “Oh, sure, Grayson. Let’s all gather around and shield her from the big bad city. What’s next, care packages?”

Dick sighed audibly, “Don’t you have a crime boss to scare right now?”

Jason chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Already done. You should’ve seen the look on his face. Priceless.” Another faint noise came through, likely the reloading of a gun.

Bruce’s voice cut through before Dick could respond. “Enough. Focus, Jason.”

“Whatever you say, B,” Jason replied breezily, though the teasing lilt was still in his voice. “I’ll keep an eye out, too, just in case our scrappy little friend stirs up any trouble at the Iceberg.”

Damian snorted. “I’ll enjoy seeing Cobblepot’s face when she quits.”

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His eyes lingered on your face, captured mid-smile on the monitor. Quietly, he murmured, “She’ll need another job. A safe one. I’m sure Wayne Enterprises will have something available for her.”

“Keep me updated,” Batman ordered as he stood, his cape swishing as he headed toward the Batmobile. “If she gets in over her head, we’re pulling her out. No debates.”

Damian’s voice came back, quieter this time, reluctant. “She’s already in over her head.”

Little did they know, Oswald Cobblepot’s schemes for you were the furthest thing from exploitative labor. In his mind, the idea of you actually toiling away with a mop and bucket was quickly becoming unthinkable—borderline offensive, even.

The moment he saw the way your eyes sparkled with hope and determination, and saw the way you'd listed your good grades on your resume in a hopeful attempt at impressing him and proving your aptitudes, he’d decided he’d let you sleep on the job if you wanted to. Hell, he’d set up a whole suite in the back of the Lounge if it kept you close and content. You could waste time dusting the empty liquor shelves or filing nonexistent paperwork all day if it made you feel productive. What mattered to him wasn’t what you did—it was that you were here, where he could keep an eye on you.

But of course, Cobblepot wouldn't admit that to himself. Not yet, at least. No, this was just “good business,” he rationalized. You were a valuable asset—your charm and friendliness were enough to lighten up even the Iceberg’s darkest corners. You had a way of making the whole place feel... welcoming and warm, like you were untouched by Gotham’s grime and crime. Plus you wanted to be productive. He scoffed under his breath, amused. Of course one of the first fresh faces ready to work at the Lounge was also someone who he didn’t dream of involving in his actual operations. Just his luck.

So, if you decided you needed an afternoon nap in the dusty janitorial closet? He’d send a goon to bring you a pillow. If you scoured the cleaning supply catalog for hours without actually ordering anything? He’d find it endearing. As long as you were happy and oblivious to the underworld swirling just beneath the Lounge’s polished surface, you could do whatever you wanted.

Unbeknownst to them all, while they debated your safety, Oswald was sitting back in his office, already plotting ways to make your life easier. Sure, he’d keep up the charade of being your boss for now—keep you busy with harmless tasks so you didn’t get suspicious. But he wasn’t about to let you work too hard. Not his sweet, naive new hire.

You didn’t belong in Gotham’s shadows. And as far as Oswald Cobblepot was concerned, he’d make sure you never had to find out just how dark they could get. Or at least, he’d try. 

By the time Oswald walked you to the janitorial closet—a tiny, forgotten room in the back of the lounge—he was already plotting how to keep you close. The closet was practically empty, a detail that normally wouldn’t bother him, but the way your face fell at the sight made him want to slap whoever was supposed to manage the damn place.

"Um… is this where I’m supposed to… work?" you asked softly, your voice unsure as you peeked into the empty closet. Your eyes darted around, taking in the barren shelves and dusty floor, as though you’d missed some hidden stash of supplies. "It just… doesn’t look ready yet?"

"Ah… this won’t do," he said quickly, covering his irritation with a smooth smile. "Looks like someone’s dropped the ball here. Don’t you worry about this, darlin’. I’ll get one of my guys on it—someone reliable. You’ll have everything you need to get started." 

His tone was honeyed, and though he aimed for casual reassurance, his sharp eyes flickered to the shelves like he wanted to set the whole closet ablaze for offending you. For fuck’s sake.

“No, no, this won’t do at all,” Oswald said again, shaking his head and clucking his tongue like he was personally offended by the state of the janitorial closet. “You deserve better than this mess, darlin’. I’ll have it sorted by tomorrow, you have my word.”

You blinked at him, “If you want me on the job today, I can make something work,” you offered tentatively, gesturing toward the dusty shelves. “I’ve been in worse spots before.” You gave him a sheepish smile, trying to seem accommodating.

Cobblepot scoffed softly, waving a dismissive hand. “No, no, absolutely not. I won’t have my new employee starting off in such... subpar conditions. It’s a poor reflection on me, and I can’t have that, now can I?” He straightened his tie with an air of exaggerated importance before leaning on his cane. “Here’s what we’ll do instead. You take the night to get familiar with the Lounge—on the house, of course. Have some drinks, relax, mingle a bit. Consider it my way of welcoming you to the team.”

You blinked again, even more confused. “Oh, um, that’s really generous, but shouldn’t I, like… fill out some paperwork first? Or sign something?”

Oswald chuckled, a warm, low sound that almost made you feel silly for asking. “Paperwork? We’ll handle all that boring nonsense tomorrow. No need to rush into the dull parts of the job, eh?” He gestured toward the door, ushering you back into the main lounge. “For tonight, enjoy yourself. Swing by the bar, meet some of the staff, maybe say hello to the security team. It’s important to me that you feel comfortable at the Iceberg.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if this was some sort of test, but his expression was disarmingly sincere. “Well… if you’re sure…”

“Positive,” he interrupted, clapping a hand on your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Now, off you go. The night’s young, and the Lounge is at your disposal.”

As you stepped out of the closet and back into the opulent main floor, you glanced over your shoulder to see him watching you with a smile that seemed too genuine for someone of his reputation. You didn’t know him, but you’d heard some things. 

Unbeknownst to you, Cobblepot wasn’t just offering you free alcohol or a night to relax—he was staking his claim. He wanted you to feel at home, to see the Lounge as a safe haven, a place you’d always want to return to. Sure, there’d be paperwork eventually, but for now, the only thing that mattered was keeping you here, comfortable and unaware of the darker dealings hidden beneath the glamour.

Tim leaned back in his chair, toggling between the camera feeds inside the Iceberg Lounge. He was alone in the Batcave now, the others out on patrol in the city. “Well, there she is,” he muttered, zeroing in on his view of you at the bar. You were perched on a sleek barstool, your Gotham University sweater a stark contrast to the high-end fashion of the Lounge’s usual clientele. “She’s… drinking. A lot.”

Jason, freshly back from patrol—or what little of it he actually bothered to finish—sauntered into the Batcave, pulling off his helmet and setting it down with a thud. “That’s her?” he asked, nodding toward the screen.

“Yeah,” Tim replied without looking away. “You decided to show up?” His eyes flickered to the time down at the bottom of his monitor. "Thirty minutes early? B's not gonna be thrilled."

Jason ignored the jab, stepping closer to get a better look. “Huh,” he muttered, crossing his arms as his sharp eyes drank you in. You were laughing at something the bartender said, your cheeks flushed. You gestured animatedly with your glass while saying something they couldn't hear. “She doesn’t look like much.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, glancing up at Jason. “That’s what you cut patrol short for? To see her in person?”

Jason shrugged, his gaze fixed on you. “I was curious. Heard you and Damian going back and forth about her. Figured I’d check it out for myself.” His lips quirked into a faint smirk. “Didn’t expect her to be… this.”

Tim tilted his head. “This what?”

Jason gestured vaguely at the screen. “This… normal. Sweater, messy hair, drinking like she’s celebrating her midterms being over. Doesn’t scream ‘Iceberg Lounge material,’ y’know?”

Tim chuckled, toggling to another camera feed for a better angle. “That’s kind of the point. She thought she was interviewing for a janitorial position, Jason. Janitorial.”

Jason blinked, then snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish I was,” Tim said, leaning back in his chair. “She walked in there with a résumé—an actual paper résumé—and asked about cleaning floors or whatever. Cobblepot probably laughed his ass off before offering her a drink.”

“He’s footing the bill by the way,” Tim added, toggling to a feed that showed the Penguin subtly watching you from across the room as he conversed with some guests. “She hasn’t reached for her wallet once. He’s just… letting her.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed as he studied the Penguin’s expression. There was no malice there yet, no obvious scheme in motion. Instead, Cobblepot looked almost… satisfied, like he was pleased with what he was seeing. “The hell’s his angle?” Jason muttered, his top lip curling in disgust at the possibilities.

“No idea,” Tim replied. “But if I had to guess? He’s trying to butter her up. Make her think the Lounge is a safe place, keep her happy and oblivious while he decides what to do with her.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the console.”She won’t last a week.”

Tim smirked. “You’re awfully invested for someone who just met her. Maybe you should prep a care package.”

“I didn’t meet her,” Jason shot back, though his eyes flicked back to the screen almost involuntarily. “I’m just saying, someone needs to give her a reality check before she gets eaten alive.”

“Maybe,” Tim said, watching as you swayed slightly to the music, chatting with another patron who’d joined you at the bar. “But she doesn’t look like she’s in danger. Yet.”

Jason grunted, pushing off the console and grabbing his helmet. “Yeah, well, I’m keeping an eye on this one. If Penguin tries anything, I’m ending it.”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so now you’re helping? Didn’t you just skip the last half of your patrol?”

Jason smirked as he turned toward the exit. “Hey, monitoring Gotham’s underworld is part of the job, isn’t it? I’m just doing my part.”

Tim shook his head with a laugh as Jason disappeared up the stairs. “Sure you are.”

Back on the screen, you were oblivious to the scrutiny, to the way the curiosities of Gotham's vigilantes were beginning to blossom into something more.

[ellesthots]

code of ethics

iv. “rumination”

read on AO3 🤎

parts: previous / next

plot: you devise a plan to get your professor to fess up.

pairing: professor!bruce wayne x student!reader

cw: 18+

words: 4k

a/n: sooo happy to be back with another chapter!! we're sooo close to the end 🤭 per usual, loveee to hear all of your thoughts if you'd like to share!

“No fucking way.” You and your roommate stared at her laptop, the word REGISTERED screaming at you in two hundred decibels. 

“Exactly what I said: he’s an asshole. Gets off on manipulating students so he can feel high and mighty, and feed whatever bullshit…” 

Unable to hear her over the blood pulsing against your eardrums with such force you thought it might rupture, you grabbed your phone and shoved it to her with shaking hands. She signed in, and you scrolled to her courses: ETHICS 511, TA, REGISTERED. 

Fuck. 

“It’s real, dude.” She held out her phone to an email from the registrar: ATTN: Required Materials for ETHICS 511 (TA): 

Dear ADRIANA,

Prior to your first day of class, your professor has requested you review these materials: COURSE SYLLABUS and TEACHING ASSISTANT EXPECTATIONS.

Please direct any questions to the professor of the course. This is an automated email that is not monitored. Be sure to mind Add/Drop deadlines for SPRING TERM to ensure proper disbursement of aid. 

Attached were the two documents, and you snatched the phone from her without question. She scoffed, mumbling something degrading about Professor Wayne as you zoomed through the documents, heart pounding. 

Arrive ten minutes prior to start time… communicate office hours on first day… be prepared to introduce yourself to the class… includes answering student questions and passing out materials… must have working knowledge of all elements of the Google Suite… attend all class sessions… 

When you looked up, the room was empty and your eyes bleary; you let the phone slip through your fingers and fall atop the comforter as shame and embarrassment flooded the space. So he had been avoiding you. In fact, he’d gone to considerable lengths to ensure you two would never interact again. It was like a bullet to the chest.

You plopped back on your bed, the ceiling swirling. Had you been so awfully unpleasant? You shut your eyes and thought back to the session prior to the final, before the switch, the last time things felt fine. Had you said something terrible you’d entirely overlooked? 

You and him had just finished going over your last-needed edits. You’d tucked the paper into your folder, then the folder into your backpack. Normal. 

You’d been wearing jeans and a sweater, your hair as it normally was, and he’d been wearing his usual button-up with slacks. His pen sat in his hand, not yet shelved. Normal. 

He’d taken off his glasses, as he usually did after revising. He’d cracked a joke about needing to get a lanyard thing to keep them around his neck, but you couldn’t place which word he’d used. Everything was… as it was. 

By this time of the meeting all of your anticipatory nerves had settled, and you’d gotten braver. “How old are you?” you’d asked, and you wanted to shove your head under a pillow at the memory. That must’ve been where you fucked up. 

But it wasn’t. You recalled his smile at that comment like the back of your hand. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and made the blue of them hazy, more tolerable to soak up without catching a chill. “How old do you think I am?” 

The question had been said as he sat back in his chair, eyeing you playfully. Even now while simply analyzing, you felt your cheeks heat. Angles, angles, and more angles; the slope of his chest to his hips when he relaxed, the hard cut of his jaw, and his hands that looked oh so capable. 

His hair had gone a bit limp and strayed over his brow, making you grip the edge of the seat. You remembered taking the opportunity to let your gaze fall upon all of him from the waist up. Selfishly roaming from the top of his abdomen up to his shoulders, down his biceps and the forearms that were delightfully exposed after another erotic sleeve roll-up when you came in, then all the way back to his eyes. Not normal to soak him up so transparently, but given the question, this couldn’t have ruined things. Right? 

“Could be twenty-eight, could be forty.” You’d mirrored his body language, easing back until your head hit the seat. His brow twitched, and you bit your cheek to hold his eye contact. 

“Forty?” He could’ve been offended, but the light dancing off his eyes said something else entirely.  

“You’ve got a PhD, Professor.” The instant it rolled off your tongue it had taken on a different meaning, at least to you; the word slipped out with texture, novelty. 

“Thirty-one.” 

“When’d you get your degree?” Your interest had piqued at him only being a few years your senior, concocting dirty fantasies you feared might escape in a Freudian slip; but besides that, it was pleasant, normal conversation. Normal, normal, normal, for two humans that had been privately talking to each other for an hour or two each week for three months. You couldn’t decipher a single thing that could have set him off, anything that would justify him disliking you so much. 

“Twenty-four.” He stood, likely—and thankfully—missing the way your jaw slacked. 

“How is that possible?”

“Had a lively social life in high school. No time for college credit.” He’d stood then, keeping to his predictable schedule. Push chair in, grab jacket, left arm, then the right, then a glance to see if you were getting ready to leave. 

“So you’re a genius.” 

His face had flushed at that—you wondered if that was the moment; you’d surely embarrassed him, and for a man of his status, that was a surefire way to get on bad terms. But, again, again, his response gave away none of that. “Kind way to describe a nerd.”

Nerd had sounded so foreign out of his beautiful, cut-from-marble form. On the walks there, you’d compared him to poison, taking a little bit each week to build a tolerance to his charms. Enough to act like a human with him, and pretend like you weren’t on the verge of sinking to your knees. “Trying to make sure I stay on that ‘pass’ side of things so close to the end of the term.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.” His voice was strong and reassuring, booming off your bedroom walls like it was the cramped office. He’d shaken his head while grabbing his bag from the desk. “You’re spectacular.” 

“Kind way to describe a paper about the politics of psychiatric facilities.” 

THERE!

You sat up in bed as you pinpointed the moment his demeanor shifted. His attention had moved from your face to his shoes, his blinking got faster, and he didn’t look up again. He’d hung behind and locked the door after you pranced out, and you’d managed to walk half the hallway before realizing he hadn’t followed. 

The evening ended with a wave for him to hurry, followed by a shred of hesitance you hadn’t caught in the whirlwind of being around him; you’d held the door open this time, and he slipped through with a quiet thanks. So over the moon with how his jacket brushed your arm as he hurried through it, you hadn’t caught that he didn’t wave back as you walked to the stairs and parted. 

“I don’t get it. We were getting along so well.” The kitchen was bright after the depressive abyss of your room, and you lamented on how fun it had been to be around him. Getting a peek behind the curtain at the man who was actually funny, a bit shy, even hearing the occasional stutter from the well-spoken Greek god. 

Your roommate pushed a plate of food toward you. “Probably how he gets ya.” 

A taco balanced between your thumb and pointer finger, fragrant and warm. “How so?”

“Act nice while he’s on the hook, then dip after the course evals roll in.” She rolled her eyes like he’d told her his ploy herself. You frowned, letting the taco rest against the plate. He had followed up with an email emphasizing completing the evaluations in a timely manner; no other professor sent reminders about them, and he hadn’t done that at the end of Fall term. 

Huh. The taco was a bit burnt, but nothing you could complain about as someone who neither cooked nor bought the groceries; but as the resident utilities-payer, if she’d left the heating on while the apartment was empty, you could’ve offloaded some of this tension. Lord knows she wouldn’t deserve it, but this stress took on a mind of its own and begged for release.

Why would she plate you so much food when you were so upset? Why could she take the class, and not you? Why’d you have to get ready for another term when the rug had just been pulled from under you? With his glare steady and ready whenever your eyes closed, you wanted to rot in bed on your phone, sulk in this sting, this sinking in your stomach, this clenching of your chest, jaw, shoulders, ugh! Thinking of walking through the humanities building now was horrifying; rushing past his classroom, praying with equal fervor that you would and wouldn’t catch a glimpse of him. The thought made a chill run down your spine, and you got up from the barstool. 

“So can I drop the class?” She put the remainders of the meal into a pop-top in the fridge. “Now that we know the frog is in fact not a prince?”

Mid-step, you paused. The chill morphed into something spikier, more resentful. ‘Maybe he gets what he wants because he intimidates people’ came to you in a thought bubble, echoing around the hollow cave of your chest. A loose plan was forming. “No.”

“I can’t just keep it, you know. I am not going to be around that loser, let alone pay to. He gets his dick sucked enough from everyone else.”

You shied away from saying you’d spent the past six months dreaming about that precise thing. “The drop deadline isn’t for two weeks.” You told her to forward the email to you, signing off as you entered your room with a firm and slightly giddy, “Trust me.” 

Thin black fabric skirted the middle of your thighs against the Gotham wind, your backpack pulling hard on your shoulders, symbolic in its want for you to go home and quit this ridiculous plan; a plan that was more likely to get you prioritized on his shit list than erased from it. You kept your head on a swivel, paranoid that Professor Wayne would see you at any moment, weaponizing his x-ray vision to see down to your bitter core and snuff you out. 

You yanked down your skirt you'd obsessed over for days before you climbed the stairs, heaving a deep breath as you strode down the main hall. Fussing with your hair and making sure your mascara hadn’t smudged in the rain was difficult whilst juggling printouts of the syllabus, and didn’t help with regulating your breathing. Fabulous. Each step made you less sure this was a good decision, and you nearly turned back.

“Excuse me, where’s room 142?”

A man—no, boy; he looked fresh out of middle school—stopped you, shoving a schedule in your face. You didn’t think anyone had seemed this young when you took ethics before. You motioned for him to settle in beside you, and winced at the memory of the professor rejecting you. “You can follow me, I’m headed there.”

“Thank god.” The stranger sighed with disproportionate relief, like you were a crisis responder and he had an active house fire. “I was wandering around for the last half hour. Campus is so big. Have you taken classes with him before?”

“Professor Wayne?” You kept your tone light and curious; he looked like the type to tattle. Did they let high schoolers take a free grad class in the spring or something?

The guy stepped on the back of your heel, and he yelped. “Sorry—yeah, yes. I looked at his Rate My Professor and it’s…” 

You grinned, feeling transported back to August the year before, terrified to meet the infamous Bruce Wayne. “It’s quite controversial.” 

“He was the only professor whose class wasn’t full. Which was weird, because isn’t he supposed to be ultra-famous here? Or his family is?”

“Maybe people caught that he’s a harsh grader, and it’s not worth the eye candy.” It was, and you prayed the boy wouldn’t pry. You wanted to curl into a ball at how you’d do the mentorship all over again, with the same result, just to be in his orbit. 

“Class is probably gonna be full of girls drooling over him.” 

You laughed to yourself; it was never just the women who fell over themselves. Some of the biggest kissasses had been men, who stared too long at Professor Wayne’s sculpted biceps before looking nervously down at their laptops. 

A heavy metal door zoomed into view, and your breath hitched, the waterproof folio digging into your arm. This was a terrible idea at baseline, and you’d tried to make yourself look as teasing as possible on top of it. Anything to frustrate him, including tempting an unwritten dress code just so he might snap and admit that he hated you, that he hated all students, but you especially so. 

Kid Who Was Definitely Not Going to Swoon Over His Professor opened the door, and you noticed a handful of students chattering amongst themselves as you strolled in. Their attention snapped to the door when it shut, disappointment coloring their expressions at the man of the hour yet to arrive. 

His desk seemed larger when you were standing behind it, the monitors dwarfing the folio you slid by the keyboard. What the fuck am I doing? “I have printouts of the syllabus to hand you all.” Your voice shook a tad, fumbling with the zipper catching on an unruly piece of paper. “He’ll—Professor Wayne will be here in a few minutes.”

Someone from the front row told you to speak up, and another asked what your name was. You cleared your throat and finally got the zipper unstuck, pulling out the stack to begin passing things out. “I’m Y/n, the TA. I took this class in the fall.”

You tried not to get a papercut while counting heads and ensuing syllabi to give to each row, but students kept peppering questions; when had anyone paid this much attention to a TA? 

“Is he as bad as the reviews say?”

“He’s—”

“Professor Wayne is not bad, he has high expectations. Some of us are here to learn.”

A brunette with a perfectly-laid spread of paper, pen, and MacBook sat with her hands in her lap. Her deep brown eyes struck you. Isabel. Her wide grin deepened the knot in your stomach. He hadn’t blocked her from registering for another course of his, so it wasn’t a mentor/mentee thing. 

“Make sure papers are formatted correctly, and that none of your questions are in the syllabus or lecture material. He’s very detail-oriented.” Standing in front of a sea of students made you hyper-aware of how short the skirt was. You were such a joke. This was such a joke. What were you thinking? What the hell would this even do? 

“As any professor should be. We’re paying to be here, aren’t we?”

“What’s up your ass?”

Jesus… Was this a goddamn high school class, truly? 

Isabel turned sharply to see who spoke. “Sorry I don’t care to gossip about someone here to teach us.”

You struggled with the last row of handouts, cursing yourself for this miserable plan. 

“Trying to be his sugar baby?”

Isabel slammed out of her seat. “Excuse me?”

“Hey, hey!” As much as you wanted her to go beat the guy smirking in the back corner, you didn’t want to know what Professor Wayne might say if a bloodbath broke out under your care on day one. “Everyone’s here to learn, alright? Let’s not make it hostile.”

You shot a glare at the guy snickering, and held in a scream when he stared at your exposed thighs. You got ahead of what was sure to be another sexist remark, and clenched your free hand into a fist. “If I hear another comment like that, I’ll have you booted from the course.” As for if you had that power, you didn’t think so, but it quieted the creep enough.

“Good evening, everyone.” 

The door creaked open, revealing Professor Wayne striding in donning his usual attire, satchel slung on his hip, coffee in-hand. “Staff meeting ran a bit long, but the syllabus is fairly straightforward. I assume everyone has already read it.” 

As if on cue, papers rustled around the room as everyone flipped it, scouring the detailed instructions like their lives depended on it; the temperature dropped considerably. In just a few month’s time, you’d forgotten how commanding he was in front of a crowd. 

“Adriana, thank you for getting the syllabus passed out. I—” He stopped mid-sentence, then recovered with a thunk of his books onto the desk. 

Oh, god. You could hear her voice in your head taunting you before you left: horrific idea, what if it comes back on me, he’ll kick you out, are you sure?

“Yes, Professor?” Fuck. 

He stared at you blankly. Should you walk to him? Stay put? His eye contact was scalding, like he threw boiling water over your head. 

“Excuse me, class. I need to consult with our TA for a few minutes.” He dropped your gaze, shoulders lowering with what seemed like an exasperated sigh; you couldn’t tell from across the lecture hall. “Want to make sure we’re on the same page.” 

You might pass out; you’d hit your head on the edge of a desk and never recover. Now that you knew he hated you specifically, that it wasn’t just a mix-up, all courage melted from your veins. You didn’t even have enough to deny him like you wanted, hightailing it to the front of the class as he walked toward the side door. 

We are on the same page, you thought between glances at his fucking shoulder blades. You won’t tell me why you despise me, so of course I pretended to be my friend and signed up using her information and stole the materials from her email to spite you. The door clicked shut behind you, and you blinked back to the moment.

Professor Wayne brought his hands to his hips. You couldn’t bear to look him in the face, but the movement of the air anointed you with his cologne and you could hardly breathe. Familiar, bright… “What are you doing here?”

“Assisting.” God, I’m such a smartass. But he makes me one! It’s his fucking fault! 

A disgruntled sound fell from him, and it speared right through you. You probably looked like a guilty dog, head down, all too still. 

“Tell Adriana to attend next week’s lecture, or I’m filing a report.” 

“A report?” His dark brows were scrunched tight, mouth turned down. A few fingers on his hips tapped against his belt, signaling his impatience. The hallway was barren and wide, but you couldn’t feel more claustrophobic if you tried. Looking at him now struck all oxygen from the building.

“Enrolling in classes with another student’s information is illegal.” 

“It’s not that serious,”

“Oh, it isn’t?” He shifted his weight to his back leg, his mouth falling open with a scoff. You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss it. “Then they shouldn’t care when I send it in.” 

“You said you didn’t need a TA.” 

“Plans changed.” 

“So I can sign up with my information, then?”

His lips formed a tight line, and you knew you’d found grip. “No.” 

Maybe it was because he looked tense, but you were brought right to October, standing awkwardly by his desk waiting for him to grill you; he didn’t need a red pen to prove his disdain, his distaste was evident in how he looked. Like you were a fly buzzing in his ear, or a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. Your voice softened, defeat and defiance lapping at you in equal measure. “Why not?”

Professor Wayne’s lashes fluttered, and his hands dropped from his hips. You wished they’d lift up your skirt already. “We should set up a meeting with the administration.”

“The administration?!” What happened to being a spectacular student? Having a perfect essay? Being the prime candidate for a TA? All the warmth you’d felt in his office vaporized. Gone like it never existed. 

“This conversation requires a mediator.”

You leveled with his glare for a second, sizing him up. Would pleading, demanding, or being a squeaky wheel get you to the truth faster? “Just tell me.”

“If you must know, we will go through the proper channels.” He pushed past to reach for the door, but you stepped in front of it on instinct. Pathetic, and desperate, to know why the first person who made you believe you were worth your acceptance letter was effectively throwing you in the trash. 

“Not happening.”

His jaw ticked, spiking your adrenaline. “Then unfortunately I can’t help you.”

“Why does anyone else need to be involved?”

“If you’d like me to set up a meeting,”

“Screw the meeting.” Whiny. I sound too whiny.

“Y/n.”

Impossible, but you did everything in your power to hurtle through the sound of him saying your name. Time was ticking, he was slipping, and you knew he’d beat you to the other door if it was a matter of racing. His eyes were so mean now, frigid; little resemblance to the refreshing, foamy waves of before. 

“I fucked up in ethics to the point you said it was impossible to pass, then said I wrote a perfect essay for 505, but suddenly you won’t talk to me? Won’t tell me why I can’t TA, when my friend can sign up without even taking the course herself?”

“Your work holds no concern.” Running on autopilot, responding like you weren’t even speaking, but you went with it.

“Then what is it?”

It was almost physical how tangibly you felt a wall go up. Something was right fucking there. You wanted to take a step closer. You couldn’t. 

“Is my work good, or do you want to get rid of me?”

His eyes flicked to yours and struck the air from your lungs. “Your work is good.” 

You could sense by the way he said it that he wouldn’t budge; that he held all the power here, and you could pound your fists against the brick all you wanted, but it would only break your own skin. Defeat won out, slamming your spirit into the dirt. You wished he hadn’t been so nice, so affirming. That his voice didn’t make you tremble, that his focused attention didn’t feel like ecstasy. Tears sprung, but you wished they wouldn’t. “You used to actually talk to me.”

“And it was inappropriate.” 

“What?”

“I’ll set up a meeting with the department.” 

“No,” he turned to head to the other door, and in a rush of panic, you grabbed him by the wrist. Your palm burned at the contact, but you didn’t let go.

He didn’t move, singing his same refrain. “You do good work. Leave it at that.”

“I can’t.” Tears carved wet stripes into your cheeks as easily as balsa wood. “I know it’s something. It’s nagging at me. I can’t—it runs circles in my mind all fucking day. Every day.” You needed to sob, release the boa constrictor around your throat, but you couldn’t. Not until you knew.

Professor Wayne looked back, and his shoulders dropped. Something unplaceable flickered across his features. “Then see me after class.” 

You dropped his wrist and watched him walk away, thrumming from the sliver of sympathy in his voice and the heat that lingered on your palm. 

taglist: @noisylime @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[adalwolfgang]

Jervis: Happy birthday my dear! It’s me! I’m your gift!

(Name), whispering to Jon: did you get a receipt or do i have to keep him?

———————————————

(Name): And that's how I got here...

Zsasz: Ha! You sure are a funny one!

*Zsasz stares for a long moment*

(Name): What?

Zsasz: I like you. Like a lot. I'm going to keep you.

*His hand tightly held (Name)’s*

(Name): Uh..okay-.

Zsasz: Good! There was no choice anyway.

———————————————

Edward: I always apologize when I'm wrong.

(Name): I don't think I've ever seen you apologize before.

Edward: I'm never wrong.

———————————————

Oswald: you're trying to use my ego against me?

(Name): I thought it'd work.

Oswald: no, it worked. I'll do it.

———————————————

Jerome: Something's off.

(Name): maybe you've finally developed human emotions and are actually feeling bad for hurting people?

Jerome: no, but that's funny!

———————————————

Jon: Have you heard the joke about the gas light?

(Name): no..?

Jon: Yeah you have.

(Name): no I haven’t.

Jon: You've literally heard it already.

(Name): I HAVEN’T?!

Jon: You're crazy.

[styluswritesdc]

Being a Nurse within Arkham Asylum

These are my own personal thought on how this would be! I really wanted to talk about this as for my own OC! this would be her background so I decided to just write out some thoughts on how it would be for literally anyone. and how you should interact with the rogues as patients.

Now, when I say nurse I would say the job would literally entail just that. they have psychiatrists and guards who have their own responsibilities within the Asylum so I was thinking about who would be administering medications and tending to wounds and ailments within the asylum.

these would be positions filled by persons within Gotham with little education, college students or anyone desperate enough for wok and due to the nature of the asylum positions that have frequent openings and new staff.

due to the sheer amount of resignations from each post there would be little experiences demanded. I genuinely believe that if you entered your CV you'd get a call the next day with a "when can you start?" no interview, just a small chat on your first day with what the work consist of and a contract.

this contract will be an NDA to some degree due to the abuse within the system against both employees and patients. and maybe even a contract of minimum period of work due to the sheer amount of employee turnover.

this job wont pay well, its Gotham like. but its liveable. and that's the most you could hope for.

Work consists of a schedule of medication for each patient on whatever floor/wing you're designated. there might not be any possibility of changing what patients you have based on how the more familiar they get with you, the more they'll cooperate (unless harassment or legitimate violent threats like Zsasz where its completely viable and you will die lol)

you would also tend to patients injured during riots, guard violence or scraps between patients.

the best way to cope in this role is if you adapt to your patients.

the incredibly insane (not any of the rogues gallery) are unironically the easiest, they're incredibly restrained with straight jackets, mouth gags etc. they're also held down on medical beds when you do tend to them and escorted back by armed guards.

its the bloody rogues that ssuuucckk ass as patients.

this is a guide based on my opinion plus some are excluded based on them being in black gate like Selina Kyle and Penguin or I don't believe any medication would be prescribed like Ivy or Clayface (purely there for containment purposes)

Riddler sucks. waiter waiter! a riddle per pill please thank you! so annoying. if you cant answer he will not take it so be smart and it will be grand. (no one will swap with you btw) due to the inhibitors necessary to keep him from escaping he will sometimes repeat a riddle.. its actually quite sad. he will get very upset with himself if you inform him. like I'm talking hitting his head in frustration level upset. however, if you build up a repour with him he will respect you and he's actually fine to deal with ultimately. difficulty level 7/10

Scarecrow is unsettling. that's about it. don't bother lying when he asks you what you fear. you'll end up afraid of it if you do. he can tell. will probe you about your fears etc.. its stimulating for him. its something to do. that's literally the hardest part, once you get over being slightly afraid of HIM you're fine! chat to him about psychology and his work and the visits will be over before you know it. difficulty level 5/10

two face is completely dependant on their mood. if they're good then they're genuinely a sound guy and easy patient.. if he's angry then.. ugh. if the coin says no medication you're fucked but you could try and convince them by asking loophole questions for the coin and you might get lucky. if the guards take their coin you will not be able to get near them. genuinely will freak. no job done for you. difficulty level 7/10

Mad hatter is unironically piss easy. not joking. play into his delusions slightly. write "eat me" or "drink me" labels in calligraphy on the medications and you're SET. that's it just.. don't put anything he gives you on your person or like y'know.. mind control. difficulty level 2/10

killer croc, depending on the canon you're looking at, for example the Arkham games have him in the sewer under the asylum accessible via lift. they only chuck food down there every now and again its extremely inhumane but he does come up into the building sometimes for therapy appointments. the protocol could be you put the medication into his hooks of meat or give the to him at his rare visits upstairs. just treat him like a person and you'll be fine! just keep hands away per Aaron Cash's warnings. difficulty level 7/10

Harley Quinn is just a fucking joy to treat at this point. she's literally one of the few rogues to actually rehabilitate like in BTAS. she's so easy and just chat to her like you're talking over coffee and you're set. honestly is quite nice! she'll gossip about the other rogues and its actually lovely. I loovvee her. an absolute pleasure difficulty level 0/10 (give her a lollipop she was excellent.)

firefly is just a bloke really. the only reason he's here instead of black gate is because he's a diagnosed Pyromaniac. he will sit there grumpily and tell you he's gonna burn this place down one day. very much a "that's nice, sweetie" treatment. just take your pills and go man. difficulty level 1/10

Bane, depending on canon, would only be in Arkham because he's teecchnically a metahuman. he's far too intelligent and strong to be held in anything either than the high security Arkham can provide. the only reason he would be treated would be to study titans effects and monitor his condition he's pretty easy but wants to know every ingredient of the medication. not my body is a temple shit, but he wants to know what (probable) poisons the doctors are prescribing him. overall a bit tedious and annoying but lets just say it isn't hard to find a vein on this guy so difficulty level 2/10

Freeze is there for containment but would receive medications for his obsessive disorder and to monitor his condition. he is kind and honestly uncaring. he is only thinking about Nora and how he's loosing precious time to save her.... you can ask about her if you like.. he might tell you about her but.. that's about it. safety level 0/10.

joker.. is just ugh. such a fucking pain. he's held down massively and labelled as incurable. he has so many different diagnoses and its like.. what the ffuuuckk do you give him? difficulty level is you may die. (10/10)

please defend them from the guards. they're absuive and the treatment they give the patients can be abysmil.

give Edward a pack of cards, stop them from beating Jervis and crane because they're physically weaker, allow Harley to have social time, ivy to have outdoor time (with a power dampener collar on), Waylon to see the outside, bane to exercise, Fries to have a picture of Nora and please please for your own sake allow Harvey to have their coin and reprimand the guards as much as you can for taking it in the first place.

whatever you do brother PLEAASEEE keep on good terms with the patients (minus joker, he don't give a fuck) cause when there's a riot or breakout and there WILL BE ONE. you don't want these guys to see you and want to kill you. I'm not saying they'll spare you but if they see you hiding in an office or vent they might just pretend they don't see you.. and if things go REALLY well and they actually like you they might just let you go unharmed. its been demonstrated in the Arkham games and even comics that if you're a fucking asshole they will hunt you down.

[adhdnursegoat]

Hello, welcome to my curated collection of questionable decisions, emotional damage, unsolicited genius, and Gotham-grade intimacy, starring one very high-maintenance man in green.

Sometimes the lights go out, and you don't bother finding the switch.

Sometimes he finds you reading smut about him.

Sometimes you're just trying to do your job.

Sometimes he's pretending you don't undo him with a look.

And sometimes—just sometimes—you both act like this isn’t the most important thing that's ever happened to either of you.

Features: accidental confessions, emotional constipation, too much eye contact, not enough self-control, a wellness journal Edward swears isn’t going to work, exactly zero logical coping strategies, and smut, smut, smut!

There are no rules. Only regrets and ridiculous amounts of tension.

Masterlist below:

In the Event of a Blackout - Arkham Knight Riddler x gn reader

This is Not a Drill - Young Justice Riddler x gn reader

Asset Extraction - Young Justice Riddler x fem reader

Puppy Love - Young Justice Riddler x fem reader

Oral Exam - Arkham City Riddler x gn reader (with mentions of a vagina)

Low Power Mode - Arkham Knight Riddler x gn reader

A Study in Wreckage - BTAS Riddler x gn reader w/ long hair

Informed Consent - Arkhamverse Riddler x fem nurse reader

Intellect ≠ Immunity - Arkhamverse Riddler character study (nonfiction)

Palustrine Dreams - Young Justice Riddler x fem reader

Unauthorized Biography - Arkhamverse Riddler x fem reader

[aspenmissing]

ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ -

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ, ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ, ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ, ᴊɪɴx (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ, ᴠɪ, ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ, ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ, ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ, ᴇᴋᴋᴏ, ᴍᴇʟ, ᴍᴇʟᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ

ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ -

ꜱᴀᴍ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴄᴀꜱᴛɪᴇʟ ɴᴏᴠᴀᴋ, ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪᴇʟ, ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴋʟɪɴᴇ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɢᴀʙʀɪᴇʟ, ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ, ᴄʀᴏᴡʟᴇʏ, ʀᴏᴡᴇɴᴀ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ -

ʀɪᴄᴋ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ, ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ, ʀɪᴄᴋʟʏ, ɴᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴍɪᴛʜ, ɢʟᴇɴɴ ʀʜᴇᴇ, ᴍᴀɢɢɪᴇ ɢʀᴇᴇɴᴇ

ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱ -

ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ ʀᴇɪᴅ, ᴀᴀʀᴏɴ ʜᴏᴛᴄʜɴᴇʀ, ᴇᴍɪʟʏ ᴘʀᴇɴᴛɪꜱꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʀᴏꜱꜱɪ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴅᴇʀᴇᴋ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ -

ʀʜᴀᴇɴᴇʏʀᴀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴅᴀᴇᴍᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏɢᴇɴ, ᴊᴀᴄᴀᴇʀʏꜱ ᴠᴇʟᴀʀʏᴏɴ, ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ , ᴀᴇɢᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴄʀᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ

ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇꜱ -

ᴊᴏɴ ꜱɴᴏᴡ, ʀᴏʙʙ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ, ᴛʏʀɪᴏɴ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴊᴀᴍɪᴇ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴀᴇɴᴇʀʏꜱ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴛʜᴇᴏɴ ɢʀᴇʏᴊᴏʏ, ʙʀɪᴇɴɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴀʀᴛʜ, ʀᴀᴍꜱᴀʏ ʙᴏʟᴛᴏɴ

ʟᴀᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ -

ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ ʙᴇɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅᴏᴍɪɴɪᴄᴋ "ꜱᴏɴɴʏ" ᴄᴀʀɪꜱɪ ᴊʀ, ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ ʙᴀʀʙᴀ, ʙᴀʀɪꜱɪ, ᴀᴍᴀɴᴅᴀ ʀᴏʟʟɪɴꜱ, ɴɪᴄᴋ ᴀᴍᴀʀᴏ, ᴅᴇᴄʟᴀɴ ᴍᴜʀᴘʜʏ, ᴍɪᴋᴇ ᴅᴏᴅᴅꜱ, ᴛᴇʀʀʏ ʙʀᴜɴᴏ

ʜᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟ (ᴛᴠ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ) -

ʜᴀɴɴʙᴀʟ ʟᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ, ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ, ʜᴀɴɴɪɢʀᴀᴍ, ꜰʀᴇᴅʀɪᴄᴋ ᴄʜɪʟᴛᴏɴ

ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ -

ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜɴꜱᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ, ​🇯​​🇮​​🇲​ ​🇭​​🇴​​🇵​​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​, ʙɪʟʟʏ ʜᴀʀɢʀᴏᴠᴇ, ɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟᴇʀ, ʀᴏʙɪɴ ʙᴜᴄᴋʟᴇʏ, ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ʙʏᴇʀꜱ

ᴄꜱɪ (ᴍɪᴀᴍɪ/ʟᴀꜱ ᴠᴇɢᴀꜱ) -

ɢɪʟ ɢʀɪꜱꜱᴏᴍ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɴɪᴄᴋ ꜱᴛᴏᴋᴇꜱ, ɢʀᴇɢ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʜᴏᴅɢᴇꜱ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ʜᴇɴʀʏ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡꜱ, ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴇ ᴊᴏʜɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅ.ʙ. ʀᴜꜱꜱᴇʟʟ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ ʙʀᴏᴅʏ, ᴛɪᴍ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ, ʀʏᴀɴ ᴡᴏʟꜰᴇ

ɴᴄɪꜱ -

ʟᴇʀᴏʏ ᴊᴇᴛʜʀᴏ ɢɪʙʙꜱ, ᴀʙʙʏ ꜱᴄɪᴜᴛᴏ, ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴍᴄɢᴇᴇ, ᴀɴᴛʜᴏɴʏ ᴅɪɴᴏᴢᴢᴏ

ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴡʜᴏ -

10ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 11ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 12ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 13ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ꜱᴘʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ, ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴏɴɢ, ᴄʟᴀʀᴀ ᴏꜱᴡᴀʟᴅ

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ -

ʙɪʟʟʏ ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ, ʜᴜɢʜɪᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴘʙᴇʟʟ, Qᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴀᴇᴠᴇ, ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴏʟɪᴅᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ, ᴀɴɴɪᴇ ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ

ɢʀɪᴍᴍ -

ᴍᴏɴʀᴏᴇ, ʀᴏꜱᴀʟᴇᴇ ᴄᴀʟᴠᴇʀᴛ, ᴍᴏɴᴀʟᴇᴇ, ɴɪᴄᴋ ʙᴜʀᴄᴋʜᴀʀᴅᴛ, ꜱᴇᴀɴ ʀᴇɴᴀʀᴅ, ᴛʀᴜʙᴇʟ

ɢᴏᴛʜᴀᴍ -

ᴊᴇʀᴏᴍᴇ ᴠᴀʟᴇꜱᴋᴀ, ᴊᴇʀᴇᴍɪᴀʜ ᴠᴀʟᴇꜱᴋᴀ, ᴏꜱᴡᴀʟᴅ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇᴘᴏᴛ, ᴊɪᴍ ɢᴏʀᴅᴏɴ, ʜᴀʀᴠᴇʏ ʙᴜʟʟᴏᴄᴋ, ꜰɪꜱʜ ᴍᴏᴏɴᴇʏ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ)

ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ -

ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴊᴏʜɴ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴀʟꜰɪᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴏᴍᴏɴꜱ, ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ -

ᴛᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴅᴏɴ, ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴋɪᴛ ᴡᴀʟᴋᴇʀ, ᴄᴏʀᴅᴇʟɪᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅᴇ, ᴋʏʟᴇ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ, ᴍɪꜱᴛʏ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ, ᴅᴀɴᴅʏ ᴍᴏᴛᴛ, ᴇʟꜱᴀ ᴍᴀʀꜱ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴊᴏʜɴ ʟᴏᴡᴇ, ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ, ᴇʟɪᴢᴀʙᴇᴛʜ, ᴋᴀɪ ᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴅᴏɴ, xᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴘʟʏᴍᴘᴛᴏɴ

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɴꜱ -

ᴄʀᴏᴡʟᴇʏ, ᴀᴢɪʀᴀᴘʜᴀʟᴇ, ᴘᴏʟʏ

ʀᴇᴅ ᴅᴡᴀʀꜰ -

ᴀʀɴᴏʟᴅ ʀɪᴍᴍᴇʀ, ᴅᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴄᴀᴛ, ᴀᴄᴇ ʀɪᴍᴍᴇʀ

ꜱɴᴏᴡᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇʀ -

ᴊᴏꜱᴇᴘʜ ᴡɪʟꜰᴏʀᴅ, ʙᴇꜱꜱ ᴛɪʟʟ, ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅʀᴀ ᴄᴀᴠɪʟʟ, ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴀᴜᴅʀᴇʏ, ʙᴇɴɴᴇᴛ ᴋɴᴏx, ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴏꜱᴡᴇɪʟʟᴇʀ, ᴊᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴅᴇ ʟᴀ ᴛᴏʀʀᴇ, ʙᴏᴊᴀɴ ʙᴏꜱᴄᴏᴠɪᴄ

2/ʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ -

ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ (ᴘᴇᴅʀᴏ ᴘᴀꜱᴄᴀʟ), ꜱʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴍᴇꜱ, ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀɪᴀʀᴛʏ, ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢꜱᴛᴀʀ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ "ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴍᴀɴ"

[x-gabrielle-x]

Withered Cards | III

Pairings: Jason Todd x Reader.

Warnings: Blood, gore, violence, murder, swearing, major and minor injuries, death.

Summary: Despite the many different problems you overcome with Jason Todd, you always eventually make it back to each other. Even after his death, how could you still love a man who changed so much? Even when you made a turn for the worst.

Series Masterlist

"Mistakes are not something you can afford to make, Jason," Bruce commented, though his gaze was trained on the screen before him. "I told you this was an intel mission. You should have waited for my queue."

Jason adjusted his position on the chair he was currently sat on, his gaze burning into Bruce's back the longer he continued to stare at the projective computer before him. The tape that he had collected from the mission played on repeat, and truthfully, it was becoming painful for Jason having to rewatch it over and over.

Yes, he had been given strict orders to merely stay hidden within the shadows and report back to Batman with the intel he was instructed to gather, but Jason wanted to do more than be a sidekick to gather information.

“How was that a mistake?” He retorted, pointing to the screen. “If I hadn’t gone, you would have never known what was happening down there.”

Finally, Bruce turned in his chair, his voice just as deep as always. Like a parent scolding his child - which was true to an extent.

"You're telling me that you found out what that whole ordeal was about?" He questioned, gesturing a hand to the screen. "Because it sure doesn't look like you do."

It angered Jason more than he would have liked to admit that Bruce was mostly right. The most Jason knew was that the Joker was up to something, but when was he not? The best possible answer he got was that he has an alliance of some sort. You seemed to be around his age, possibly younger, and yet you were one of the most skilled fighters he's fought. You were experienced, and no doubt deadly.

His nose ached from the harsh punch that you had thrown, the wet rag that was now soaked with crimson blood was discarded beside him.

When Bruce noticed his silence, he continued to ignore him from then on. His fingers dancing along the computer and leaving an uncomfortable silence that Jason wished to break.

Alfred walked in with a tray of coffee; something Bruce had waved him off to go and grab whilst he worked. Whilst the silence lingered, Alfred's gaze flickered up to the screen of the masked girl.

"I do not recognize this criminal," Alfred spoke as he settled the tray down. "Have we seen this girl before?"

Bruce shook his head, a frown etched on his features. "No, but there have been witnesses. Apparently, she's only shown up around Gotham the past two months."

Alfred hummed. “And what does this criminal do, exactly?”

Bruce pushed his body away from the desk with a long sigh, his brows still pinched into a deep frown as his hand dragged down his face. “Jason’s body cam just managed to pick up a little of their conversation before she ran off. The Joker is in on this, too. She knows him, and well.”

Jason's curiosity was piqued. What was the Joker's intentions, now? Surely it was another scheme to lure Batman into a trap.

“Perhaps another laughing gas?” Alfred suggested as he glanced over at Jason, gesturing toward the tea as he offered to pour some, but Jason shook his head.

"Not a laughing gas," Jason concluded, digging into the suit that he still wore. He pulled out the familiar vial that he had managed to snatch from the masked girl, holding it up for everybody's view. "I'm thinking maybe a drug, or maybe some sort of crazy mutation serum!" He looked between the two, a satisfied smirk on his face.

Bruce remained silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving the vial in his son's hand. Jason was expecting praise, a congratulations, maybe even a pat on the back and allowed more freedom whilst on patrol. But Bruce's face remained stoic.

"Jason," he started, tone very far from what he had expected. Was it anger? Disappointment? Shock?

He was quick to saunter over and take the vial from his hand, analyzing it carefully as he twisted it in his grasp.

With a shake of his head, his frown deepened. If that were even possible. He placed the vial carefully onto the desk beside the computer.

"You're too reckless," he began. "Not only did you go against my orders, but now you are involved with a crime much deeper than what you can handle. You've put yourself in danger. And not only yourself," he pointed to the screen again. "But you got her in danger, too."

Jason felt his anger boil, ready to spill over any second. Could Bruce not see his success for once? Could he not give him the approval he desperately wished for? It was risky, but he had got the job done.

"I did what I had to," he defended, the anger evident in his voice as he took a step closer.

Bruce quickly snapped back. "And what you did was wrong."

A pause.

"Next time something like this happens, you follow my order... otherwise the title of Robin goes to somebody else."

In the heat of his rage, Jason stormed past both Bruce and Alfred and made his way out of the Batcave, cape flowing behind him with every long stride. Before the door had slammed shut, he just managed to hear a little of Alfred's voice.

"They're both just children, Master Wayne," he tried. "Much like you once were."

"I can't have him making more mistakes."

A harsh slap landed against your cheek, your head snapping to the side from the force. The burning sensation left behind caused for your eyes to sting with tears, your vision blurred.

His maniacal laughter was all you could hear despite the ringing in your ears, and you didn't fail to notice the very evident annoyance behind each deep inhale of laughter.

"I can't believe it!" Joker paced. "You really let that little rodent slip past your fingers, just like that? My, my, I might have placed just a little too much faith in you."

He crouched down before you, masking a frown as his thumb came up to swipe the blood from your lip. Your tongue darted out to swipe at the cut he had left, the metallic taste lingering in your mouth.

"I must say I am very disappointed," Joker hummed, but oddly enough his hand came to rest on your shoulder, like an odd way of comforting. "But that's why there's always room to learn from mistakes!"

The vial that you were sent to retrieve merely a few hours ago was no longer tucked away safely in your pocket.

You had only realized once you were in front of Joker's latest warehouse that he used as a current hideout, your hands searching every pocket, each shoe, in search for the vial. Robin had managed to slip it out without you noticing, and it enraged you.

He was fast, skilled, and very obviously sly. Although it was a tough fight, it brought some adrenaline and excitement into your night. Something you had craved for a while.

Joker clicked his tongue in thought, now sat on a torn couch across from you with his leg propped up on his knee.

"You'll make it up to me, right, my little clown?" his tone was almost mocking. "Perhaps next time you might run into the little birdy again, oh, that would spice things up!"

You inhaled a shaky breath. "I'll get it back," you said, but he waved you off.

"Nah, I'll just get the doc to make me a new one. Although, we can't afford any more mistakes now, can we, Y/N?"

He looked at you expectingly, dread washing over you the longer his gaze pierced your own.

"No, we can't."

"That's my girl!" He clapped his hands. "Harley! Come get the poor girl cleaned up, will ya? She looks like she's been through hell!" He let out a loud cackle at what he considered a joke, slapping his knee.

Harley's head popped from around the corner of the cracked wall, pigtails swinging with every movement she made. With one look at you, she was rushing over.

"Puddin, what happened?" She practically squealed, ushering you to stand up, though the small smile never left her lips. "Oh dear, let's get you all nice and cleaned up!"

The bathroom that she had practically dragged you into smelt of urine and had broken tiles scattered across the floor. Mold was growing along the ceiling and puddles of water crowded at the base of the sink. You had to hold back the look of disgust when Harley took a small rag and wet it under some water.

It wasn't long until Harley was finally finished with dabbing your split lip with the cold water and tending to the few cuts you had littered over your flesh. It was a poorly done job, but the moment you had got to step into your own small room - a storage space that barely managed to fit the worn mattress you used to sleep on, you were instantly flopping down.

It was quiet and dark, but nothing that you weren't already used to. You enjoyed having some time away from the two clowns, after all.

Looking over, you reached for the same small bear that you've kept over the years, only now it wasn't as soft as it used to be, and the familiar smell of your old home was gone from the fur. Instead, it was now covered in dirt and grime. A button had been sewn on poorly as an eye after the last had fallen off, and its right arm was barely hanging on by a thread. Still, you carefully held it against your body as you laid on your side, alone and tense.

Your mind refused to settle, thoughts swarming with the Robin boy who had managed to make your night go from alright to horrific in only a few hours.

He had outplayed you - tricked you - and still somehow, he had managed to get your mind swimming. Your fight was oddly thrilling, and it confused you with his cocky comments. Batman was nowhere to be seen, meaning that Robin had let you go. Why?

Your knuckles had tightened their hold on the bear, a reminder of your life before any of this had happened. You didn't dwell on it, knowing that there was no way back. But the sadness lingered once you buried your face into the soft fur, allowing for the sleep to catch up to you. As usual it was never a peaceful one, but instead filled with nightmares and an all too familiar wide grin.

@annabellelee @stormz369

©x-gabrielle-x. Do not steal, copy or translate my works.

[gracelessace]

Nooooooo bbgirl don’t cry. Do you want me to kill that guy for you?

[lem0nshark-writes]

"Riddle me this, why does my heart hurt?" Part 2

Edward Nygma x Male Reader

Type: angst to fluff

Word count: 1767

Warnings: angst, two idiots, bullying, Riddler being a little shit, brief mention of Riddler telling Ed to kill himself, did I mention both Ed and reader are idiots?

A/N: I'm so sorry this took so long guys!!! I hope it was worth your wait!! I love you so muchhh!! ❤❤

You brought takeout that break but yourself was nowhere to be found, little note on the box sitting on Ed's desk letting him know you were sorry but you got pulled to work on another case and couldn't make it.

And you didn't make it, or any other break after that, supposedly busy and always rushing somewhere.

You didn't make it to any hangouts either, always too tired, too deep into work, too busy,..

In fact, it has been weeks since you two properly interacted, and you liked it that way, it kept the tears from bubbling up and heart from hurting at least while you're at work. You knew it wasn't his fault that he didn't feel the same way but you couldn't help it, you'd figured you'd start hanging out with him once the feelings subsided, yeah.. if they ever did.

And Edward was left confused and he was missing his friend, he was missing you... hmm "friend".. that word didn't seem to quite fit, the more Ed thought about it.

It didn't seem to fit because he's pretty sure no one feels like this about their friends, no one's heart skips a beat when they lock eyes with their friend, no one feels butterflies in their stomach when their friend smiles at them, no one stays up thinking about their friend unable to sleep because they are on their mind so relentlessly, thinking what it would feel like to hold them close, to hold their hands, kiss them, to-...

Yeah that's not what friends feel like.

He tried really hard to cast those feelings away, he tried really hard. He even tried to get closer to other people to get you out of his mind. But it didn't work. Kristen couldn't quite possibly rid you from his mind, not even the slightest. I mean not that there was anything between them, but he hoped hanging out with her and getting close to her would calm his mind, though all it seemed to do was chase you away, he wondered why.. it's not like you would ever feel the same as him..

Would you?..

Today was just like all the other, you always busy and Nygma trying to catch you for at least a chat. So he decided to do something about it. Clearing his schedule for the day by getting all the work done as soon as possible, he made it his mission to follow you around to see what you were truly up to, and to hopefully maybe catch you for more than just a minute or two.

Half the day passed playing cat and mouse with you. First you had to deliver some papers - quite urgently and they couldn't wait no way, then you had to do a patrol - which Ed was sure you didn't have that week because he overheard your superior put you on headquarters duty to help with the piling paperwork but you assured him he changed his mind for today and you really had to leave, then right before your break you reaaally had to go get Jim and Harvey coffees and pastry from a bakery across the city so you couldn't spend the extra couple of minutes before your breaks chatting with him like usual, then when the break rolled in you made another excuse, that you'll have to spend it with the detectives working on some case. He was getting sick of it. Not even secretly following you around on your alleged urgent tasks helped as you managed to slip out of his field of view in a split second and then you were gone. He had to get you this time.

"Hey Ed, where is your little boyfriend?" one of the cops shouted after him with a mouth full of whatever pastry he was messily devouring, leaning against his desk, as Ed made his way out of the headquarters, catching a couple of eyes glancing both of their ways.

"No don't tell me you two broke up awww!" the other one that was sitting beside him added, letting out a mocking sad noise, earning himself a roaring wave of laughter from the other two that stood beside them.

Ed scoffed, shooting them a glare before fixing his glasses and walking out the big door, trying to shake off the anger that was bubbling inside of him dangerously.

"Too bad I was really looking foward to the wedding!!" he heard one of them shout after him followed by another roar of laughter as he made his way down the street towards the building row that held you two's favourite restaurants, knowing he'd find you there getting your lunch for the break.

"Idiots," he muttered to himself.

Seeing you grab your lunch from your favourite mexican place he followed you into a nearby alley, just besides the headquarters. What the hell were you up to?? He moved a bit closer, making sure you didn't see him, and watched as you climbed the fire escapes all the way to the top of the building. Were you meeting someone secretly? You got his mind and jealousy working overtime.

Carefully he followed you suit, quietly going up the clanky metal stairs making sure he didn't make any sounds and signal you about his whereabouts and that he is following you. Once up on the roof of the headquarters he stared in confusion. There you were, sitting by yourself as you ate your meal, your back turned to him and no one else in sight. Weird. He decided to give it a couple of minutes, still thinking you might be meeting with someone but they didn't yet come.

Five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen, twenty,... no one was there and you slowly started to pick up your stuff as your break was coming to an end and you had to return to your post.

Huh. Was this really all you did every time you made an excuse for a break? You really were avoiding him. Why?..

"Oh poor little Ed, not even he wants you, anymore" Riddler mused in his ear making Ed glare in his direction, not having any of his nonesense today, or at least not wanting to believe it.

He came out of his hiding shaking the Riddler out of his mind and cleared his throat catching your attention.

"U-Uhm Ed- what are you doing here?" You stood up with a startle, fear and guilt washing over you as your brain tried to come up with an excuse but failed.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked calmly after a couple of moments of silence, his troubled expression made your heart hurt even more than it already did.

"Because he haaates you," Riddler mused. Ed tried to ignore him, mentally sighing at his failed attempt at brushing him off.

"I-uhm I-I'm not-," you tried, but you knew Ed was intelligent you couldn't lie to him, nor did he deserve it, "I-I'm sorry..."

"Is it something that I've done? I thought we were good but I-I can change. I can do better-" Ed started but was swiftly cut off by you.

"Here we go, another failed friendship. You will die alone. Might as well do it now," Riddler smirked, chuckling as he peered over the edge of the building.

"No! No no.. it's not you, you're perfect, it's just..." you fumbled around words in your mind, trying to find a way to explain yourself without having to reveal what you truly felt, but every attempt at doing so turned into a dead end.

Riddler sighed, bored expression on his face as he stared at Ed.

Ed waited patiently, bracing his heart for a heartbreak. Mind involuntarily giving in to the Riddler's ideas but his eyes remained focused on you.

You looked over at him, "shit."

"Ughh... here it goes, please don't hate me-" you started. You tried to muster up courage. Standing in front of a loaded gun felt less scary than this and you didn't know why as you couldn't help but fiddle with your fingers, avoiding his concerned gaze, "I... I like you."

Ed stopped for a bit processing what you said before blurting out again and stepping a few feet closer to you, "I like you too what's the problem then.."

"No, I like like you..," you looked up at him, "I know you're with Kristen I really don't want to cause any problems, just, I just need a few days to get myself together.."

"Oh.. I'm not," Ed blurted.

"What?" you asked, trying to push back tears that threatened to form at your waterlines, panic still simmering in your body.

"I'm not with Kristen, I never was," he continued.

You blinked a few times before looking up at him, "But you two, I saw you laughing and being close and I thought-"

"No, we are just friends, I did all that because I like you too... And I thought, that being close with someone might change that and get you out of my head," he looked away, but looked back to meet your eyes, still nervous of your reaction even though you just confessed to him not even a minute ago.

"Huh..," you were taken aback honestly, and he could see gears turning in your head as you processed what just happened.

"Uhm.. did it work?," you blurted out after a few moments.

"Nope.," Ed shot out, he held back a smile even finding some comedy in the whole situation.

"Huh..," you let out, "we're really both idiots."

"Yeah," he chuckled, fixing his glasses and looking up at you, warm smile spreading on his lips and remaining there, "you really like me?" he let out after a few minutes.

"Y-yeah," you couldn't help but look away avoiding his gaze, warmth creeping up your cheeks as the reality dawned upon you slowly.

Grin plastered itself on his lips as he tried really hard to push it back, fixing his glasses to try and calm his happiness, a whole horde of butterflies settling themselves in his stomach.

"So..," you glanced up at him after a few moments, "boyfriends?," you smiled a bit.

"Boyfriends," he grinned back and you squeezed him into a tight hug, burying your face into his shoulder, feeling like an immense weight melted off of your whole being and warmth washed over you.

"Wow I can't believe those assholes were right,.." Ed muttered under his breath as he hugged back.

"Huh?," you looked up at him in confusion, not sure what he is referring to.

"Uh nevermind, story for another time," he grinned.

[average-radio-kaos-enjoyer]

[Farrell!Oz x Biographer!OC] - Fic Preview/Concept

SUMMARY:

Oswald "Oz" Cobblepot, the Kingpin of Gotham. Previously only known as the right hand of Carmine Falcone, blah blah, everyone knows that story.

He had given up trying to tell it, he had sat down in front of his mother's old typewriter (no way in hell he would trust a fucking computer with the feds all up his ass). So naturally, the next best thing was getting someone else to tell it.

He got the contact information from Eve. A freelancer. Some kid from L.A. who had made a name for himself to tell real-life chronicles of different controversial personalities across the country.

So yeah, he called the kid to write his memoir.

[angelofthenight]

You: *Grabs Jonathan’s hand*

You: Man, This line is crazy!

Jonathan:

You:

You: You’re not my boyfriend.

Jonathan: Good job, that‘s what I was waiting for.

Victor Fries: You got the wrong hand, (y/n)!

You: So I have.

You: I feel compelled to complete this journey with you.

Jonathan: I’m not paying for you, (y/n).

You: Ugh, fine then, I’ll go back to the boyfriend.

Victor Fries: I won’t pay for you either, darling.

You: Aw, Victor!

Jerome, from the front of the line: Come hold my hand, Gorgeous, I’ll buy you whatever you want!

You: Ah, there’s someone who’ll treat me right!

[gotham25052]

Fire

drabble/short one-shot

Heath Ledger Joker x reader

warnings: description of buildings burning

You and the Joker look on as Gotham burns...

You could feel the heat stinging your face from the growing flames, even at this distance.

It looked like all of Gotham was on fire in front of you. You couldn't help but be fascinated by the dancing light flickering off the surfaces around you and the way the blaze towered off into the night sky. Some of the flames whirled in their own heat like small tornadoes, disturbing the still night air with the whoosh of wind they created as they reached up into the blackness of the night.

You felt guilty about watching the fire with such wonder. You tried to summon your conscience, to think about the destruction that this inferno must be causing.

You sensed him close behind you, his arms winding their way over yours, holding you in place as you gazed at the crackling orange and yellow light.

"Do you like it?" he asked with a false sweetness. He smoothed your messy hair over to the side, clearing a path for his infectious words.

"What if I had been there?" you said, trying to summon the feelings of sadness and worry that you thought someone should feel when they saw a city burning.

"But you're not there," he said, shifting slowly from side to side behind you with pent-up excitement, as if he already knew how thin your grasp on civility, your hold on morality, really was.

There had been a hasty evacuation of this part of the city before the fires began, so you hoped that somehow you could be forgiven for the perverse joy you felt as you saw it all go away, all disintegrate under the grip of this powerful heat. It wasn't exactly joy, though it was just as powerful - it was more like an all-encompassing relief, a comfort so strong that it was addicting, that flooded through you, as everything disappeared into the glowing mouth of the raging fire.

The places you had worked that paid you just enough to scrape by, the suffocating walls of your apartment, the streets where people had pushed you aside, on their way to do more important things… all of it was burning.

"How do you feel, when you see the flames climbing up the walls?" The vibration of his voice tingled in your ear as you felt his finger follow a winding path up the bare side of your neck.

He stopped shifting, holding you even closer, as if that could make his words sink in more deeply. "The fire takes everything, it doesn't think, it doesn't feel. The places you've been, your worries, your expectations, it's all gone. The good and the bad. The fire doesn't judge. It doesn't care. It just… consumes," he said, his voice becoming lower, quieter.

"Do you like it?"

His whisper was barely audible but traveled into your thoughts like his words were written there with an indelible ink, demanding an answer.

You stood silent for a moment, his breath lingering on your cheek and strands of his disheveled hair brushing over your ear. His hands held your arms firmly to your sides, making sure you faced the growing flames.

You let your head fall toward your shoulder, exposing more of your neck so he could kiss you there.

"I love it," you said, the words falling so easily from your mouth, now that you were telling the truth.

"Everything burns," he murmured, the paint from his lips melting hot on your skin.

Author's note: If you do like this, and you feel comfortable, let me know with a reblog/like/comment! I am arrogant and weak, it will help keep me going with my writing.

ps I made the fire video :)

[swanimagines]

Hi, Can I get C41 with Jerome Valeska, thanks!

Prompt: C41. “Fuck you! Get out of my house!”

EFFORT

Living in Gotham had never been easy, and some of your friends wondered why you would stay there despite all the crime, corruption, and being in some level of danger every day. You knew it might have sounded crazy, and it probably was — but you still thought of Gotham as your home, as flawed as it was.

This particular night had been a long day at work, and your boss had set you free two hours past your regular work time. He had done that a lot lately, whipping his workers to the edge, threatening to fire you if you dared to complain. So when you got home and kicked your shoes off and hung your coat into the closet, you felt at peace for the first time for hours.

You went straight to the kitchen and opened the fridge and took out the lemonade jug you had had sitting there for a few days now, sniffing it before shrugging - good enough. You poured it into the glass, adding some ice before chucking the lemonade down your dry throat. You let out a breath after swallowing, and watched the lights sprawling through your home street.

“Rough day, doll?” a voice drawled from the darkness of your living room, and you spun around, throwing the glass before even looking at the intruder — you knew exactly who it was. That fiery-haired boy had been following you for weeks, enough for you to see nightmares with his voice. You’d recognise it from anywhere.

And sure enough, it was him. He dodged the glass easily as it hurled into the wall behind him. He lounged on your couch, clearly anticipating you throwing something but he laughed anyway. “Woah, you have an odd way to greet your guests.”

“Jerome,” you growled, lifting the lemonade jug for protection. “What are you doing here?”

He stood up, smoothing out his jacket. “I saw your boss shouting at you today. Not very nice of him. I’m planning to give him a talk later, but I first wanted to check on you.”

“Fuck you! Get out of my house!” you shouted, waving the lemonade jug at him.

He pouted at you. “Am I really that unwelcome here? But I made all this effort to find you, to get into your apartment — I could get used to hanging out here occasionally, if you let me.”

You ignored it, turning to your bag for your phone, but Jerome reached you with a few quick strides, taking a hold of your wrist and pried the lemonade jug away from you, placing it on the counter. “Ah, ah, ah. Let’s not make this difficult. We could have so much fun, you wouldn’t want the police involved in our fun, would you?”

You tried to pull your wrist off his hold, but he just tightened his hold. You took a step closer to him. “Let me go, or I will make sure your balls will never again function.”

He tilted his head. “I just want to get to know you better.”

You tried to struggle yourself free as you seethed, “The feeling isn’t mutual.”

His smile disappeared for a moment. “That’s not very nice to say. I’ve been watching you for weeks. I know every little quirk and habit of yours. Doesn’t my effort mean anything to you?”

“You’re sick.”

His grip tightened again for a moment before he slowly let go, and you pulled your hand back as soon as his grip loosened enough, rubbing the red marks he left on you. He stepped back and sighed. “You know, you aren’t the first person to tell me that, and won’t be the last either.”

You took one more step further from him, your spine colliding with your kitchen counter. “What do you want from me? Why me?”

His grin returned immediately, trapping you in between himself and the counter. At that moment, you wished you would have been one of the people they experimented with in Arkham, that you could just… melt through the floor to escape, or something like that. He lifted his hand, caressing your cheek. “Isn’t it obvious? I want to study you. I want to learn what makes you tick. Why aren’t you like the others, others are boring but you… you’re like a puzzle. And I love puzzles.”

Your gaze jumped around the kitchen as you tried to make up a way to get past him. The kitchen knife was tucked away with your cutting board next to the sink, and your phone was still in your bag over your shoulder, but with Jerome so close that you could almost feel his breath… not a chance.

“S-stay away from me,” you stuttered out, grimacing internally at your attempt to sound brave. “I-I mean it, I’m, I’m going to get you locked up, I…”

He pouted again, cupping your chin. “Oh, doll. It’s cute how innocent you are sometimes, do you really think the police will find me? Or if they even bother looking properly just for you? Have you forgotten where you live?”

You swallowed, knowing he was right. The police wouldn’t have time to protect you like that, you weren’t important in any way.

“My friends will notice if I disappear,” you squeaked out, and he hummed.

“That’s the best part of it. The thrill of being chased. But don’t worry doll, I’m not here to take you away. Not tonight, anyway.” He took a step back again, and looked around. “But I see you’re in no mood of company today, so I'd better get going. Your boss waits for me anyway, that warehouse is cozy for me but for my guests, it’s… less cozy.”

He walked to the door, and you stared at him as he went. You finally found a piece of courage, and asked, “What are you going to do with him?”

He turned to you slightly, raising his eyebrows. “Your boss? Well, let’s just say… he may not come to work tomorrow. Or ever, depending on my mood. Don’t be too surprised if that happens, he needs to learn that my doll deserves some respect.”

Your heart jumped, and before you even had time to consider it, you took two steps towards him. “Jerome, I may lose my job if you kill him. And I can’t pay my rent, or bills, or food if that happens.”

He looked at you, and smirked. “Leave all that up to me. Just sit tight, all of your worries will be gone by tomorrow.”

Before you could reply, he was out, his steps echoing in your stairwell — and even when you knew it was wrong, you were unable to dash after him and plead with him to not kill your boss. You just stood there frozen and only went back inside when you heard the stairwell door close. You closed your door with a soft click and leaned against it, taking in deep breaths.

You knew you should call the police. Or even one of your friends. Tell someone. You knew it, but yet you just stood there like an idiot. A thought that filled your head, that you should just let him do it. It was true that your boss was being unfair, forcing you to work like slaves. Overtime without bonuses, knowing his workers wouldn’t be able to afford to get fired. And his superiors didn’t care about it. As long as money was pouring in, your boss was allowed to do whatever he wanted.

So maybe… this was a way out. Maybe you should just let Jerome do what he will to the boss. And it wasn’t like you knew which warehouse he was talking about, there were hundreds in Gotham. You could just pretend to be shocked when the news rang out about what happened.

You knew it was still wrong, and it may be that this was exactly what Jerome was after, but you couldn’t help it, the feeling of finding a way out.

So, you closed your eyes for a moment before you straightened up and made your way to the couch, moving it to clean the shattered glass from the floor — and you found yourself being intrigued about his next visit, even when you tried to shoo yourself from thinking about it.

---

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