#oswald x reader

[thatssomegoodsoup]

GOTHAM! PENGUIN X READER HCs

He didn't trust you at first, thinking you had ulterior motives

He gets you really expensive and elaborate gifts

He is scared of losing you, because he lost his mother and father

He calls you his dove

Penguin is the small spoon in cuddling

If he ever loses his temper he will immediately apologize

^ He would NEVER lay a finger on you btw

You're friends with Ed also

He makes sure people know you're the queen of gotham and address you as such

Oz's love languages include acts of service, words of affirmation, quality time, and physical touch

Oz is VERY clingy

He loves cuddling

He would burn down all of Gotham for you

If you have a disability, he would empathize because he has one too (I am so tired and this sentence sounds wrong, lmk in the comments if I messed up the sentence)

Oz would keep you away from the messy mafia stuff and would be reluctant to let you join in if you asked to help him

Is the soup man alive again? No, I am in a natural state of decay and I have been for the past month. Mental health aside, I will try to make more HCs for y'all and catch up on requests!

Credit for divider: @caesariawritesstuff

[frost-queen]

The right approach (Reader x Oswald Cobblepot)

Requested by: @stygianoir Forever tag:@missmelodramatic, @floatlosers, @alex–awesome–22, @merlieve, @wildiefleur , @meyocoko , @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23, @melsunshine  , @venomsvl, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedrava-bitch-187, @erikasurfer , @slythetic  , @eliscannotdance, @p0nycurtis, @slythetic, @bitchybananaflower, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr

Oswald cleared his throat loudly. Gazing at his own reflection for a moment. Adjusting the tie around his neck. Wanting. Needing to look absolutely perfect. This was an important decision and he wanted it to be perfect. Knowing he might only get one chance. Taking a step closer to the mirror, he smiled shyly.

Gaze dropping low to avoid eye contact. – “My darling.” – he began flashing his gaze back up to himself. – “Remind me again of how many years we are working together now?” – he asked himself. Imagining he was speaking to someone else. He flashed a teasing smile at the mirror. Letting his finger trail against the frame, mindlessly.

He chuckled softly, turning his head down.  – “Yes, three glorious years now.” – he answered for himself. Oswald moved his cane to the other hand, leaning hard on it. – “You see I was wondering…” – he continued, fluttering his eyelashes at his own reflection.

His gaze shifting just a tat in the reflection. Noticing a spectator in the door opening. His smile faltering, his gaze going stern. – “What do you want?” – he snapped, turning sharply around. Victor snorted loud, removing himself from against the doorframe.

“Are you trying to flirt with yourself?” – he asked with a dashing smile. Knowing just how much he would taunt Oswald with it. As expected, Oswald groaned annoyed, making him even laugh even more.

“You don’t know anything!” – Oswald called out, looking ashamed away. Victor moved his hands up in defence. – “Should I give you some space with yourself?” – already backing back up. – “Leave the mirror untouched if you like or you can clean it yourself.”

It took Oswald but a few seconds to understand his joke. Scoffing loud. As if he was going to kiss his own reflection. – “I’m practicing.” – he let out to make a clearer understanding. – “Hey, whatever floats your boat.” – Victor answered with a cheeky smile.

Oswald scoffed again. – “For Y/n!” – calling your name out as he was getting annoyed with Victor. Victor furrowed his brows, brushing his fingers over his chin. – “I knew it.” – victor spoke, moving his finger up and down on him. – “You have that virgin kiss written all over you.” – he specified. Oswald’s mouth dropped in shock.

Moving his cane up, ready to hit Victor a few times with it. – “There is no shame in it.” – Victor said jumping back from his swinging cane. – “I’ve kissed before!” – Oswald shouted at him. Lowering his cane with exhaustion. Victor simply pulled his shoulders up, not entirely sure about it.

Oswald had enough, giving up. He stumbled towards the armchair. Letting himself fall into it. Sighing loud, resting his hand against his forehead. – “I want to commit my partnership with Y/n.” – trying to make it clear to Victor, he wasn’t doing some idle things.

“Oh…” – Victor responded. Oswald sighed again. – “I want to ask her to rule by my side. I… I was practicing…” – looking nervously away, to avoid Victor’s judgement. Victor hummed loud. – “In that case, it was terrible.” – he outed, making Oswald gawk at him. Annoyed, he looked away, fuming with irritation.

“You don’t know anything.” – mumbling under his breath. Victor pulled out his gun to check it for a moment. Breathing on it, then cleaning the top with his sleeve. – “You got it all wrong. You will get it all wrong if you go like that.” – Victor said casually. Dropping some advice for him.

Oswald scoffed, turning his posture more away. Not wanting to listen to another word of him. – “Y/n is straightforward. You should approach it straightforward. No idle dreading.” – he advised. Oswald laughed a bit. – “I’m not just going to ask her so bluntly.” – he answered. Victor pulling his shoulders up in response.

“Why not?” – asking a simple question. Oswald got up, laughing more. – “That is ridiculous. Woman like to be wooed.” – making his statement clear. Victor still wouldn’t give in. – “Well, not Y/n.” – Making it extra clear to him he was taking on the wrong approach. Oswald waved his hand away, not having ears for it. – “Suit yourself.” – Victor putted his gun back away.

“Don’t come crying when she rejects you… hard!” – with those final words, he took his leave. Oswald bit his nail nervously, feeling a bit frightened of his words. Wondering if he would have it at the right’s end. Groaning loud, he tossed all of Victor’s advice out of the window. Knowing his own way would be the right one.

Oswald’s gaze went down to his watch. Seeing the time made him widen his gaze briefly. Making him hurry up to get everything in order for your arrival. Waiting the last few minutes by the window. Swallowing nervously upon hearing your footsteps on the stairs. – “Oswald! Os! Are you in here?” – you called out, appearing into the room.

Oswald turned around, moving away from the window. – “What’s the urgency?” – asking as you watched him move away. Returning with shuffling feet and clearly hiding something behind his back. – “Os?” – you questioned. Surprised when he shoved a bouquet of flowers forwards. The gesture made you look uncomfortable away.

“What this?” – you wanted to know, curious about the sudden flowers. – “These are for you.” – Oswald spoke. You accepted them without further questions. – “Y/n… how… how many years are we working together now?” – he asked stumbling a bit nervously over his words.

“What does that have to do with anything?” – you responded loud. – “Indeed three…” – he answered, not listening. Eyes widening when he your response became clear to him.

He rubbed the back of his head nervously with a sheepish laugh. – “Well you see…” – he continued. Getting very nervous. “What are you talking about?” – you cut in, getting slightly impatient with his delaying. – “What’s with the flowers?” – giving them a good shake. – “Spill it out Oswald!” – you let out.

Oswald gulped loud, cursing at himself for throwing his own approach away. Taking a deep breath, he let his gaze settle on you. – “I want you to become my queen, to rule the underworld with me.” – he confessed. Waiting for your response with a frightened heart.

“Oh why didn’t you just say that! I would love to.” – answering, throwing your arms around him. Kissing his cheek, made him look sheepishly away. – “I thought you were having a stroke or something, good thing it wasn’t.” – you teased him, giving him a poke in the cheek. Oswald showed you a goofy smile. You kissed him again on his cheek, before kissing him on the lips. Sealing your promise to him.

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Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[i-smoke-chapstick]

can you write gotham ozzie x reader?? like, their first time together and all; smut obviously, but with kinda feelings (we respect our emotional short king)

‘OFF TO THE RACES,

-GOTHAM!OSWALD COBBLEPOT X READER-

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; Oswald embraces his rather crude interests.

⋆ tags/warnings. GOTHAM!oswald x female reader. SMUT! (with feelings) PORN WITH (some) PLOT! I can’t stop writing oswald smut fics to lana del rey songs. Oswald being soft,,,and a bit rough. He’s a gangster, after all.

♫ “My old man is a bad man, but I can't deny the way he holds my hand / You are my one true love” Off To The Races by Lana Del Rey

You stare at him from across the table. God, you love this place, and you know he does too. His luxurious mansion and a banquet full of food parallel to you.

It feels like home to you two. And he’s been riding on a high ever since the both of you aknowledged your feelings. He still remembers it like yesterday- the way your eyes lit up. The way this feeling of sheer adoration, love, admiration; was reciprocated.

But somethings different tonight. You can’t quite place it. He’s at least eight feet away from you, fidgeting with his cain like how he did before you admitted your feelings to eachother. He’s stuck in his own head, and a blush dusts his perfect freckled face. He refuses to meet your gaze, and in his other hand, he lazily stirs a glass of brandy in his palm. Every now and then, you catch him looking into the swirls of the glass.

It surprised you, how much he drinks when somethings on his mind. Not to mention, he typically didn’t ask you to dinner like this. No, not now that the two of you were dating. This type of behavior was reserved for those flustered days beforehand- not now.

Your almost scared he’s going to break up with you. Let you go. Do something rash. Does he think you betrayed him or something…?

You tap your fingers along the side of the table. The food infront of you has gone uneaten, both of you anxious.

Finally, his blue-green eyes look up- and he clears his throat. He looks at you through dazed, hooded eyes. He’s obviously a bit tipsy from his drink, but not over confident. You almost jump at the sound of him. You cross your fingers and pray for the best.

He stares at you and his eyes narrow, feigning confidence. But in a way, his lip quivers, betraying how nervous he is to speak.

“Y/N. A man comes to a crossroads in his life, and he has to make a choice. Does he choose safety and cowardice, or…does he opt for courage, and risk everything?”

You take a beat as you follow his words. It almost sounds rehearsed. Just what the hell was he saying?

You can audibly hear him swallow.

“A man, ahem, also has…needs. So to speak.” He clears his throat again. “I choose courage. What I’m trying to say is-“ He sucks his teeth, almost rolling his eyes at himself. “The thing I’ve been wanting to ask you all day long is…”

His voice gets caught in his throat like a fish out of water. He continues to stare at you incredulously, almost horrified with himself for not being able to speak. You go to prompt him- before the dots connect in your head. The crimson blush on his cheeks. The fidgeting.

A man has needs.

You let out a loud bark of laughter, interrupting his crestfallen scilence. He immediately looks even more terrified, mouth opening and closing in surprise at your outburst.

“Y/N!” He tries to reprimand you, but it wavers. He’s flustered beyond belief, sure he’s made a fool of himself. “Why are you laughing?!” He weakly demands, a clear expression of dread on his beautiful face.

Through soft chuckles, your laugh dies down. “Are you asking to sleep with me, Oz?”

He’s rendered slack-jawed at the bluntness of your response. He immediately goes to defend himself, as to not sound offensive or vulgar.

“What?!? No-“ He quickly denies, before catching his breath and closing his eyes in a huff. “Yes.” He says quietly through gritted teeth.

It makes you chuckle again, and if his pale skin could get any redder it would. He glares at you now, obviously feeling a bit rejected.

“Okay, well you don’t have to laugh!” He squawks. The grip on his drink is so tight you can see his knuckles go white.

You realize that laughing might not have been the best idea. But you can’t help it. The man set up a dinner to ask his own girlfriend to sleep with him. It’s…sweet. Very gentlemanly. You flash him a smile.

“No, Oz. Trust me, I want to. It’s just…we are together now. You don’t have to ask me to dinner like you’re courting me in the 1800s. If you want to have sex, just say so.”

He’s stunned into scilence, obviously still a bit embarassed. He wants to explain himself. That he isn’t used to this. That he doesn’t want to offend you. He doesn’t want to lose you.

You realize you might have to make all the first moves for now. You quickly stand up from your seat at the table, and he watches your every move like a hawk.

“What are you-“ He goes to ask- before you stand over him. You offer him your hand, and nod.

“Bedroom.” You lower your voice to a whisper. Through utterly confused and stunned brows, he stares at you, before standing up in a hurry. He smooths his suit jacket down and spins his cane in his hand; quickly following you in a hurry out the dining room.

It started painfully slow, his hands messily stripping you of your clothes. His nose bumped into yours while the two of you kissed, his teeth clashing against you in a desperate and needy attempt to be closer. But you knew- every moment and kiss and too gentle peck placed against your skin was all out of love.

He got hard almost embarrassingly fast, and he knew it. But how could he help himself? The woman he loved was about to open her legs for him. You two were going to become one. What could be more fitting for his one true love? The amount of pleasure the act could bring you both had been on his mind for days. But he couldn’t necessarily just…ask for it. For one, it was embarrassing. And two, he’s fairly inexpirenced. That much he was sure everyone could see.

His lips ghosted over every inch of your skin, kissing you like his life depended on it. He worshipped you, eyes widening when you laid bare before him. He took in the sight, mouth agape as he stared intently at every curve of your body. You shuffled needily under his gaze, and felt his cool hand trace a long stripe down your chest to your slit.

You gasped when he inserted a finger suddenly. Without giving you time to adjust, he musters a pitiful “I’m sorry,” in a whisper. Oh, you can see right through him. He’s not sorry at all. He’s been waiting for this on the edge of his seat for the past week, you’re sure. And you’re happy to give it to him. Especially when his hand reaches a spot inside of you that makes you mewl underneath him.

The sound of your wet slick fills the room. You can tell he’s smiling at the sound, confidence finally spurring him on.

He hums at you underneath him, and quickly undoes his trousers in a much less elegant fashion than he had undressed you. No, now all of his moments are hard and fast. He keeps his suit jacket on, keeping himself clothed. You don’t see his cock, but you feel it peirce you in a swift movement.

The both of you let out an embarrassingly loud moan at this. You pray Olga is in a room much farther away.

He buries his face into the crook of your neck, soft grunts following as he thrusts slowwwww. You thread your hands in his hair and trace the light muscles in his back, and you hear him panting. He’s already getting close.

Only a few more seconds pass, before his whole body stills- and you know he’s cumming inside you. He becomes rigid in your hold, his hands grasping at the sheets and your body hard. You let out a yelp at the bruising grip, and feel his load in between your thighs as he slips out of you.

He lets out another series of “I’m sorry”’s, and these are much more genuine. He can’t bare to look at you, finishing so quickly. But you felt so good. So tight. And he hasn’t done… this in a long time.

You gently shush him, and feel him press soft ghosts of kisses to your head. Oh, he’s embarrassed. Let him catch his breath.

A few more moments pass and he’s lifting himself up on his elbows, looking down at you.

Your confused as to why he’s staring until he enters you again.

He places his forehead against your own, eyes closing. He gasps, sweat tainting his brow. You let out a loud moan at the feeling of being stretched out again- you know this must hurt for him. He must be overstimulated beyond belief. Not to mention how quickly he got hard again.

…But you think a part of him loves this. The feeling of his partner clenching around him, the feeling of the walls of your cunt grasping onto his cock. It makes him feel needed. The joining of your bodies and minds. After this, he is yours for eternity; like a dog on a leash. Just as you are his.

Prepare yourself, this is just the begginning. He intends to stay up all night claiming you like this, for many more nights to come.

[eudoraink]

♡ 𝐼𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑜𝑑𝑢𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑃𝑜𝑠𝑡 + 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ♡

𝐻𝑎𝑚ℎ𝑎♡ 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔. 𝐹𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑚𝑒 "𝐼𝑛𝑘𝑦" 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡. 𝑀𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔 𝑖𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑧𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑒𝑙𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑑𝑜𝑤𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑜!♡ 𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑠𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑒 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ.

𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑑𝑜 𝐼 𝑑𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑚𝑎𝑦 𝑎𝑠𝑘? 𝑊𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝐼 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑏𝑖𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑡𝑜𝑜. <3 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑦 𝐼 𝑚𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔 𝑏𝑒𝑣𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑚𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑧𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ.♡

❀ 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝐿𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❀

Oswald, Mickey, Alice, Bendy (Batdr) with a suicidal s/o

Bring Bendy Home Headcanons

Showing Bendy (batdr) Social media

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔: ✓

❀ 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓

❀ 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑠𝑡

❀ 𝑌𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑒

❀ 𝑃𝑜𝑙𝑦 𝑅𝑒𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠ℎ𝑖𝑝𝑠 (𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜𝑜)

❀ 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

❀ 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑥 𝐶ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟

❀ 𝐻𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑐𝑎𝑛𝑜𝑛𝑠 (𝑀𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦)

❀ 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠: 𝑇𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑠, 𝐴𝑢𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑚, 𝐴𝐷𝐻𝐷, 𝐵����𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠, 𝐷𝑖𝑠𝑎𝑏𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑒𝑠, 𝑒𝑡𝑐.

❀ 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑄𝑢𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠

❀ 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐

❀ 𝑃𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑐

❀ 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝐸𝑞𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑦. 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑢𝑡𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑢𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝑢𝑛𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑖𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑤𝑖𝑠𝑒.

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑑𝑜 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔: ✕

𖣘 𝑁𝑠𝑓𝑤 (𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑠...𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑛𝑠𝑓𝑤 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑠.....𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑟𝑎𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑠ℎ𝑦 𝑡𝑜 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚)

𖣘 𝑃𝑒𝑑𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑎 (𝑃𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑛𝑜, 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑛𝑜)

𖣘 𝐼𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑡 (𝑇ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑𝑛'𝑡 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑟𝑠𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒 ✕)

𖣘 𝑅✞𝑝𝑒

𖣘 𝑀𝑎𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑢𝑝𝑠 (𝑆𝑜𝑟𝑟𝑦! 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑘)

𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑛'𝑡: ♡

🤍 = 𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟.

🩵 = 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑤ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟.

🩷 = 𝑁𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑓𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑡𝑜 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑓𝑜𝑟.

♨ 𝑀𝑖𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑦 𝑀𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 🤍

♨ 𝑀𝑖𝑛𝑛𝑖𝑒 𝑀𝑜𝑢𝑠𝑒 🤍

♨ 𝐷𝑜𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑑 𝐷𝑢𝑐𝑘 🩵

♨ 𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑓𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑜𝑓 🤍

♨ 𝑃𝑒𝑡𝑒 🩷

♨ 𝑂𝑠𝑤𝑎𝑙𝑑 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐿𝑢𝑐𝑘𝑦 𝑅𝑎𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑡 🤍

♨ 𝑂𝑟𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑎 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑡 🤍

♨ 𝐶ℎ𝑖𝑝 & 𝐷𝑎𝑙𝑒 🩵

♨ 𝐹𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑥 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐶𝑎𝑡 🩵

♨ 𝐵𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑦/𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐼𝑛𝑘 𝐷𝑒𝑚𝑜𝑛 🤍

♨ 𝐵𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑠 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑊𝑜𝑙𝑓 🤍

♨ 𝐴𝑙𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙 🩵

♨ 𝐻𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑦 𝑆𝑡𝑒𝑖𝑛 🩵

♨ 𝐽𝑜𝑒𝑦 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑤 🩵

♨ 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐵𝑢𝑡𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐺𝑎𝑛𝑔 🩷

♨ 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑟𝑜𝑗𝑒𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑠𝑡 🩷

♨ 𝐴𝑢𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑦 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑤 🤍

♨ 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑠𝑜𝑛 🩷

♨ 𝐷𝑎𝑖𝑠𝑦 𝐷𝑢𝑐𝑘 🩵

𝐼 𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦'𝑟𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑡 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛.☆ 𝑂𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦 𝑓𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ.

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑡𝑜 3 - 4 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑙𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡. 𝑀𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑏𝑜𝑥 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 24/7 𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝐼 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑓𝑐 𝑛𝑢𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑚. (30 - 50)

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑎𝑛𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑠𝑐𝑟𝑖𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑎 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑡 𝑖𝑓 𝑚𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑐𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑟 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑎𝑖𝑑, 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑔𝑢𝑦𝑠 𝑒𝑛𝑗𝑜𝑦 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑔. 𝐵𝑦𝑒-𝑄 ♡

[everydayyoulovemeless]

Day 4: Escapee ↠ Oswald Oppenheimer

➼ Word Count » 1.3k ➼ Warnings » Mentions of slavery ➼ Genre » Romantic, Hurt/Comfort?

You'd almost forgotten how light your neck felt when the collar wasn't on. Even though you weren't free, you still felt incredibly liberated. Just standing there with no bomb attached to your head reminded you of how it felt to exist before your capture.

You stared silently at the Operator who had taken it off for a moment to check for any malfunctions in the device. They hardly ever took the collars off, and this would most likely be the only moment you'd ever have away from the devilish instrument that kept you locked in captivity. So, you did your best to enjoy it while it lasted.

It'd been so long since you'd felt the wind, that you couldn't help but drift your eyes toward the beaten path it was blowing towards. It led to somewhere in the park and, although you knew it'd be dangerous, the slight chance of freedom felt better than spending the rest of your life as a slave, and your inclination to follow it fueled your mind the longer you stared at it.

For a moment you just sat there, trying to build up the courage to run before they slapped the bomb back around your head. You didn't want to live the rest of your life doing nothing but work and be humiliated, and you'd never get another opportunity like this. So, when the raider wasn't looking, you stood and began sprinting straight down the dusty road.

Your heart rate increased dramatically as the angry shouts and bullets flew past your head, a few of their shots even hitting you, and, if it weren't for the adrenaline that flooded your veins, you were certain the pain would've caused you to hit the ground.

After a minute of chasing you, you noticed they'd all stopped their pursuit catching you.

It didn't matter, though. Those stupidly colorful gates were just in the distance, and you desperately wanted to cross the threshold and get away from them.

You had found it a little odd that they'd given up on you so quickly after your escape, but after spending a few minutes wandering into the kid-ish enclosure, you discovered why.

Your shoulders slumped when you spotted the ferals. The disappointment mixed with the bleeding from the bits of metal lodged into your limbs caused you to faint, and you seemed to accept whatever it was that would come to you.

It wasn't like you had the energy or drive to move any farther than this anyway. You didn't even have a home to go back to.

You hit the ground heavily, the air escaping your lungs as you lay there in the dirt, unable to do anything but pray that you somehow survived the predicament you'd placed yourself in.

---------

"Hey, kid, wake up."

Your eyes started to flutter open at the voice. You winced when you felt the sharp pain in your leg pulsing throughout your body, but you were grateful that it kept you from falling back asleep again.

Your hand came up to cradle your forehead as you started to sit up. You squinted at your surroundings for a moment, desperate to find spot anything that you could recognize before your gaze met with those of the glowing green man squatting beside you.

You jumped back a bit at the sight. You'd seen a Glowing One a few times before, but never this close, and the ones you'd seen were always feral.

"Where... am I?" You asked, sitting up a bit straighter on the dusty brown couch.

"My old theatre." He responded, his small black pupils searching you for any fear or hostility, but the most he found was confusion. "Are you alright? You're a slave, aren't you?"

"You're not planning on taking me back, are you?" You questioned, bringing your knees up to your chest to try and comfort yourself.

You had to admit, that you were finding yourself a bit overwhelmed at the striking unfamiliarity of your situation. Not only have you never been in a 'theatre', but you also can't recall a time you've ever spoken to a ghoul. Scary.

Your arm brushed the scratchy white bandages that were strictly wrapped around your calf and, as you peered down at it you felt a growing sense of safety. Surely, he wouldn't help you out if he wanted to harm you? Or, at least that's what you hoped.

"No, no, my dear, you're safe here... I don't mean to frighten you."

"I'm sorry," You began, apologetically, "It's nothing against you... I-"

"You're fine." He quickly interrupted, "I understand how you must feel."

He stared at you for a beat longer before ending it off with, "You're welcome to stay for as long as you need. I'll clear out the underground areas for you to leave safely if you decide to go. Just make that decision within the week."

You only nodded, looking curiously around at the posters that littered the walls and the show lights that still seemed to work after all the time that'd passed.

"Yeah... thanks."

----------

You had shaped the backstage room of King Cola's Court into a comfortable area for you to reside in. Despite the obvious dangers that lurked outside and the knowledge that your captives were just around the corner, you had decided to stay. Stupid, sure, but you liked it here, and you hadn't anyone else to go home to, so you figured you'd make the most out of what you were given.

"Oswald?" You called, stepping hesitantly into the extensive seating area that covered the theatre floors.

You didn't actually know if the ghoul was here or not, you had just made it a habit to ask after all the times he popped up out of the blue and scared you half to death. Not intentionally, you didn't think, but it frightened you nonetheless.

Green smoke flooded your vision as the magician appeared before you, gripping your hands caringly as you coughed.

"What are you doing out here, my dear? You have to be more cautious of my friends, they're drawn to voices."

"I know," You replied, "I wouldn't harm them."

"It's not you harming them that I'm worried about." He mused, snaking his arm around your shoulder as he guided you up toward the stage, still covered in the blinding lights of show biz.

He sighed, sliding a coat over your shoulders and accessories across your body, "Darling, it truly is a shame the former world never got to see you."

You giggled when he spun you, adoring the way the lights bathed and blinded you at the same time.

"Please, you know I don't have the personality for these things."

He shook his head, "Wouldn't have needed it. I knew many people who lived life on the stage without being outgoing."

You hummed in thought as he dipped you down, his arms still secure around your waist, "Maybe backstage."

He let out an amused breath as he pulled you back up, "Perhaps." Was all he said before taking your hands in his and guiding you around the stage again in one of those dramatic old-world dances he seemed to like so much.

You never understood them, let alone got the hang of what to do with your feet, but he had a way of directing that allowed you the freedom to do whatever it was you felt was natural, while he did the actual dance.

Either way, being a clumsy dancer would always be better than the life you used to live in Nuka-Town. One day you hoped to move, or, at the very least, find a way to run the gangs out, but for now, you were happy to reside peacefully in Kiddie Kingdom's Castle.

[n0tdisturb3d]

Lucky Rabbit

Fanart for @bumblehoneybee ‘s Oswald fanfic

ITS SO GOOD, PLEASE I BEG YOU TO READ IT

[audaciousacolyte]

Ah yes, I see you are a fellow Oswald enthusiast.

Mind forking over some Ozzy content?

Lucky Little Rabbit

Oswald the lucky Rabbit x reader general headcanons

AN: 《|| Of course! I see so little Oswald fics, and it makes me quite sad. Especially since Ozzie is one of my favorite characters. Anyway, I do hope that this is to your liking, Anon!! ||》

ROMANTIC (|| Fluff ||)

♡|| It took him a long, long, LONG time to accept that he likes you more than a friend. Definitely longer than it took him to get the wastelands operating semi-decently, and even then he STILL denied his feelings

♡|| Emotional constipation might as well be his middle name at this point, because he REFUSED to acknowledge his crush on you after he figured it out. Gus (probably) Definitely needed to snap him out of it with some sort of pep talk, because there is NO WAY he would have confessed otherwise.

☆|| (Now that I think about it, all the fictional men and women I have crushes on are all mega tsunderes/emotionally evasive… I dunno what THAT says about me, but I THINK that I have bad taste in romantic partners)

☆|| (well…except for Amy, Felix and Wendy IG)

♡|| When he DOES confess, it’s either going to be a massive affair that ends up being one of the most romantic dates you’ve ever been on™ or completely on accident and out of context.

♡|| That being said, Dear ol’ Ozzie is an absolute sweetheart when he’s in a relationship. (Think Westley from the princess bride, as an example for what he’s like)

♡|| First date activities may include; Moonlight boat rides, Movie nights, Candlelit dinners, and Rollerskating

♡|| Ask him about his inventions, PLEASE I BEG OF YOU, he LOVES to ramble about them and he gets so, so happy when you want to hear about them

♡|| Pet his ears. Don’t ask why, just do it. He will MELT in your hands. (It’s the fastest way to get him to relax, but be warned: this ALWAYS leads to cuddle time, and he WILL NOT be letting you go anytime soon)

♡◇|| You MIGHT end up also dating Ortensia, but if you just want to date Oswald, Ortensia doesn’t mind sharing with you. As long as Ozzie is happy, then she’s happy.

♡◇|| (If you DO start dating Ortensia, be prepared for a LOT of flirtatious compliments and presents. Any opportunity to charm you is taken IMMEDIATELY, and Oswald WILL join in. you cannot escape.)

♡|| If how he acts with his wife is any indication, Oswald is pretty big on physical affection and PDA. If he’s given the opportunity to hold your hand, he will.

♡|| (He just loves you so much! If he can, then why wouldn’t he hold you? Forget what other people think, He’ll be damned if he goes even one minute without letting you know how much he cares about you!!)

PLATONIC ||Fluff||

◇|| I would assume that if you ended up in the wasteland, then Ozzie’s probably gonna have quite a bit of sympathy for you right off the bat.

◇|| As the first toon to be forgotten, he knows what it’s like to be alone and scared.

◇|| He offers you a place in town and gives you a place to settle down, then introduces you to everybody in hopes of making you feel more welcomed here

◇|| After the Thinner disaster, and the loss of Ortensia, Oswald becomes…reclusive, withdrawn. He’s hardly ever out in town anymore, and you rarely see him any more. Try as you might to visit him, he refuses any visitors and stays locked up in his lab all day.

○|| The two of you end up drifting apart for a while.

◇|| When Mickey comes through with the magic paintbrush, Oswald doesn’t trust him. At all. However, since you happened to accompany Mickey through his journey, he decides to tag along too.

◇○|| Depending on the Route that Mickey goes on, Oswald either ends up losing you as well or Regaining your friendship

○|| (Whatever happens in the Paint route is up to interpretation, but in the thinner route Oswald and Mickey get into a pretty serious brawl over the wasteland after your death)

[cryptidpvppy]

no one gets it but... he was my childhood crush and theres no content for him. NONE.

[keffirinne]

Don't lose control/ Oswald Cobblepot x Reader fanfic

READ CHAPTER 1 ON AO3

Title: Don't lose control

Fandom: Gotham (TV Series)

Pairing: Oswald Cobblepot x Reader

Genre: smut

Summary: Being the king of Gotham was everything Oswald ever wanted. Now when the business was going well and he had control over the whole Underground, nothing indicated that this would change anytime soon.

So why did Oswald start having sleep problems? There were no reasons to be affraid of something. Or someone.

A healhy dose of paranoia was always acceptable, but this time Oswald felt this was something else. Somthing that won't go away so easily.

With more and more time Oswald became quite sure that he needs to find solution of his problems, whatever it takes.

Next chapter➡

Polish version here

[strawberrybyers]

being a slut and mentally ill means i’d do really well as a patient in arkham asylum

[bruhseidon]

Y/N, being captured by the Penguin: I’m full of truth juice! Don’t tell him nothin’, Red—

Penguin, pointing a gun at her: Shut up, kid! You’re lucky I don’t hit girls!

Y/N: Me neither… but for you I’d make an exception~ OHHHHHHH!

Jason, as Red Hood, tied up next to her: OHHH!

Penguin: Enough!

Y/N: ₒₕₕₕₕₕ…

[urdreamydoodles]

Batman Villains x Fem!Reader

You are a criminal hiding under the role of a psychiatrist in Arkham

You introduces yourself as a new psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, but beneath your professional facade, you're also a criminal with your own agenda. During your sessions with Gotham’s notorious villains, you forms twisted, romantic relationships with them.

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, The Riddler, Two-Face & The Penguin

Joker

- You introduced yourself as the new psychiatrist in Arkham, armed with degrees and a mask of professionalism, hiding your true nature beneath the surface. Your sessions with the Joker began with cautious probing, dancing around his mind like any other doctor would. But the moment his cold, dark eyes met yours, you both knew it was a game—one neither of you intended to lose.

- His smile, wide and unhinged, widened further each session as he slowly unraveled your façade. You found yourself intrigued by him in ways you weren’t supposed to be. The chaos he offered was intoxicating, his unpredictable mind a puzzle you craved to solve. And while you knew the risks, you couldn’t help but draw closer to his madness. In your second session, his laughter became personal, no longer mocking Arkham's walls but meant for you.

- Joker had a way of pulling you in, teasing out the criminal lurking beneath your skin. You weren’t just a doctor—you were a kindred spirit, someone who understood his twisted view of the world. He could see it in the glint of your eyes when you spoke to him about Gotham’s hypocrisy, about the system’s flaws. And one day, as you were closing your notebook, his voice cut through the air: "You’re not one of them, doc. You’re like me."

- Your heart raced, but you played it cool, chuckling softly as if you weren’t shaken to the core. From then on, your sessions turned into something more intimate. Conversations turned into whispered secrets, truths about your past crimes, the people you manipulated to rise in the criminal underworld. Joker reveled in it, seeing the darkness he knew you were hiding. He began to speak about you in ways that made your pulse quicken, about how you could rule Gotham together, throw the city into disarray with your combined intellect and chaos.

- The tipping point came when, during a particularly charged session, he reached across the table, his gloved fingers brushing yours. There was a promise in that touch, something raw and dangerous. The lines between doctor and patient blurred completely when he pressed his lips against yours, leaving a smear of red lipstick on your mouth. You didn’t pull away—you couldn’t. Instead, you let him pull you into his world of madness, where logic twisted into a wicked kind of love.

- After that day, it wasn’t just therapy anymore. You became his accomplice, helping him from the inside, pulling strings behind Arkham’s walls. And when he finally escaped, you were right there beside him, both of you laughing at the chaos you would unleash. You weren’t just the Joker’s psychiatrist—you were his queen of madness, his partner in crime, and Gotham was yours to play with.

Harley Quinn

- When you walked into Arkham as the new psychiatrist, you were immediately drawn to her. Harley Quinn, the infamous former doctor turned criminal, sat across from you, her playful smirk never faltering. But you knew better than to take her lightly. Behind her giggles and flirtations was a woman who had once been where you were, a professional undone by obsession. Little did Harley know, you had the same spark of madness within you, hidden under the guise of professionalism.

- Your sessions with Harley were like a dance, a back-and-forth of wit and insight. She would tease you about your job, mock the way you spoke in clinical terms, but you both knew she was testing you. You always answered with a smirk of your own, showing her that you weren’t as buttoned-up as you seemed. You weren’t just here to analyze her—you were here to connect, to peel back the layers of her mind because you saw yourself in her.

- One day, during a session, she leaned in close, her eyes flickering with interest. "You know, doc, you remind me of someone." Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial, and you knew she meant herself. You chuckled, leaning back in your chair. "I’ve heard that before." She narrowed her eyes, suddenly serious. "You ain’t like the others." And she was right. You weren’t.

- You started to let bits of your real self slip through, sharing small pieces of your criminal side with her. You knew she would understand, maybe even admire it. Harley watched you carefully as you spoke about the schemes you had been part of, the power you wielded under the radar. She loved it. And before long, your sessions were less about her and more about the connection between the two of you.

- The day she kissed you was a blur of impulsive passion. After a particularly heated exchange, Harley had grabbed your tie, yanking you toward her, your lips crashing together. There was no hesitation on your part, only a thrilling sense of liberation. You were no longer pretending to be the psychiatrist, and Harley wasn’t just your patient. You were equals, two criminals playing a dangerous game of love and power.

- From that moment on, you were inseparable. You used your position to smuggle things in for her, weapons and plans for her next big heist. Harley, in return, made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could. She saw your darkness and embraced it, encouraging you to step deeper into the life you had been hiding. You became her partner in crime, but unlike the Joker, you weren’t controlling her. You were both free in each other’s chaos, equals in madness.

- The day you helped her escape Arkham was the beginning of something wild. Together, you wreaked havoc on Gotham, her unpredictable energy and your calculated cunning making you an unstoppable duo. You were Harley’s new obsession, but it wasn’t one-sided. She was yours too. You weren’t just another doctor who fell for the wrong patient—you were a criminal mastermind who found the perfect match in Harley Quinn.

Poison Ivy

- You introduced yourself to Arkham as just another psychiatrist, another cog in the system. But from the moment you sat down across from her, the infamous Poison Ivy, you knew you were dealing with someone who could see through your façade. Her green eyes were sharp, watching you with a knowing look as you asked your initial questions. You were careful, though. You knew better than to underestimate a woman like her.

- Each session was a test, a game of wits between the two of you. Ivy wasn’t like the others—you couldn’t simply manipulate her or play into her weaknesses. She was strong, both mentally and physically, her connection to nature giving her a kind of power you admired. And she could sense something off about you, something that didn’t fit with the usual Arkham doctor. You were good at hiding it, but not good enough. "You’re not just a shrink, are you?" she asked one day, a sly smile playing at her lips.

- You leaned back, meeting her gaze evenly. "And you’re not just a criminal." It was an admission, a silent agreement that you were both more than you appeared. Ivy’s curiosity grew from that moment, and so did yours. She wasn’t just another patient to you—she was a woman who had taken control of her life, her body, and the world around her. You respected her, even admired her strength, something you had always craved for yourself.

- Slowly, your conversations turned into something more intimate. You shared pieces of your own life with her, your involvement in the criminal underworld, your ability to manipulate others without them ever realizing it. Ivy listened carefully, her expression neutral, but you could tell she was interested. She liked the idea of someone who wasn’t afraid to challenge the system from the inside, someone who understood the game she was playing.

- One day, she leaned in close, her fingers brushing against your wrist, sending a strange, almost electric pulse through your skin. "You’re beautiful," she whispered, her voice low and sultry. You felt your heart skip a beat, but you didn’t pull away. You were drawn to her, to the danger, to the idea of losing yourself in her world. It wasn’t long before your professional boundaries crumbled, and you found yourself kissing her, tasting the sweet poison of her lips. It was intoxicating, like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

- From that moment on, your relationship was no longer confined to Arkham. You helped her in secret, bringing her the resources she needed, aiding her in her environmental crusades. Ivy saw the criminal in you and nurtured it, just like one of her plants. She didn’t want to control you—she wanted to empower you, and you let her. Together, you became a force to be reckoned with, a dangerous duo that Gotham wouldn’t soon forget. Poison Ivy had claimed you, body and soul, and you loved every minute of it.

Bane

- Your arrival in Arkham as the new psychiatrist was unremarkable to most, but when you were assigned to Bane, things took a darker turn. His reputation was terrifying, the man who broke the Bat, a living embodiment of strength and intelligence. But you weren’t afraid. You were drawn to him, to the power he represented, both physical and mental. You had always craved control, and Bane was the perfect subject—someone you could manipulate, or so you thought.

- Your sessions with Bane began like any other, with you trying to delve into his psyche, trying to understand the mind behind the monster. But he was different from the others. Bane wasn’t just brute strength—he was calculating, strategic, and he quickly saw through your act. He didn’t say it right away, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting for you to slip up.

- It didn’t take long for him to speak up. "You’re not here to fix me," he said one day, his voice deep and commanding. You froze, knowing you couldn’t hide from him anymore. "No," you admitted, a smirk tugging at your lips. "I’m not." You weren’t just a psychiatrist—you were a criminal, someone who had risen through Gotham’s underworld, and you wanted to understand the man who had brought the city to its knees.

- Bane respected honesty, and from that moment, your dynamic shifted. He didn’t see you as a doctor anymore—he saw you as an equal, someone with the same hunger for power that he had. You were fascinated by his mind, by the way he strategized and planned every move. He was a genius, far beyond what most people gave him credit for, and you couldn’t help but admire him.

- The tension between you grew with each session. Bane was controlled, disciplined, but you could see the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. It was subtle, but it was there. You were drawn to his strength, to the raw power he exuded, and you knew he felt the same. One day, after a particularly intense session, you found yourself standing too close to him, the air thick with unspoken desire. His hand, large and calloused, reached out to gently touch your cheek, his eyes dark with intent.

- "You are more than they realize," he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You closed the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a heated, dangerous kiss. There was no softness in it—only raw passion and the unspoken understanding that you were both forces of nature, bound by a mutual respect and hunger for power.

- From that day on, you were no longer his psychiatrist. You were his partner, his equal in every sense of the word. Bane trusted you in ways he trusted no one else, and you used that trust to help him plot his next move against Gotham. You were the brains behind his brawn, working together to bring the city to its knees once again. You loved him, not just for his strength but for his mind, for the way he saw the world and molded it to his will. Together, you were unstoppable, a force that no one could stand against. And you reveled in the chaos you would unleash.

Scarecrow

- When you first introduced yourself as the new psychiatrist at Arkham, you were already aware of Jonathan Crane's reputation. The master of fear, the Scarecrow, was infamous for his obsession with the mind's darkest corners. But what intrigued you wasn’t just his fixation on fear—it was the brilliance behind it, the cold, calculating intellect that twisted psychology into something deadly. You weren’t there to cure him, though. Beneath your polished exterior, you had your own darkness, your own secrets, and a hunger to learn from someone like him.

- From the first session, there was a tension in the air. Crane wasn’t like the other patients who tried to charm or manipulate you—he studied you, analyzing every word, every gesture. His voice was calm, his demeanor almost detached, but you could see the wheels turning in his mind. He knew you weren’t like the other doctors. "You’re curious," he remarked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But not about my recovery."

- You smirked, leaning back in your chair. "No, Dr. Crane. I’m curious about your work." That was the moment he saw you for what you were—a kindred spirit, someone who wasn’t afraid of fear but fascinated by it. Your sessions became less about psychology and more about power. Crane saw potential in you, and you in him. You started talking about fear on a deeper level, about how it controlled people, how it could be harnessed and used.

- As the weeks passed, you found yourself drawn to his mind, the way he saw fear not as a weakness but as a tool. You began to share your own experiences, the times you had manipulated fear in others to get what you wanted. Crane listened, his interest piqued, and for the first time, he opened up about his own experiments, the thrill he felt when watching his victims crumble under his toxin’s effects.

- One evening, after a particularly intense session, you found yourselves standing close, too close for a professional boundary. His hand brushed against yours, sending a jolt through you. His eyes, dark and penetrating, locked onto yours. "You don’t fear me, do you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. You shook your head, smiling. "I admire you." That was all it took. In an instant, his lips were on yours, the kiss filled with an electric tension that had been building for weeks.

- From that moment on, your relationship was no longer patient and doctor. You became his confidante, his partner in exploring the darkest aspects of the human psyche. He showed you things no one else knew about—his latest fear toxin formulas, his plans for Arkham and Gotham. You helped him, using your position to cover his tracks, to gather resources, and to watch as he slowly gained more control over the asylum.

- But it wasn’t just about fear anymore. It was about power, control, and a twisted form of love that grew between the two of you. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just your patient—he was your equal, your partner in crime, and the two of you reveled in the chaos you could create together. The city would learn to fear you both, and you’d savor every moment of it.

The Riddler

- Arkham had seen many doctors come and go, but when you introduced yourself to Edward Nygma, better known as the Riddler, he immediately knew you were different. You weren’t just another psychiatrist trying to “fix” him. No, there was something in your eyes, something calculating. You enjoyed puzzles, mysteries, and games of wit—just like he did. You weren’t there to cure him. You were there to challenge him.

- Your first session was more of a mental sparring match than a therapy session. Nygma tested you with riddles, trying to throw you off balance, to make you stumble. But you never missed a beat. Every time he threw a challenge your way, you met it with ease, answering his riddles with a smirk. "Impressive," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But you’re hiding something, aren’t you, doctor?"

- You tilted your head, feigning innocence, but you both knew he was right. Edward Nygma thrived on solving puzzles, and you were a puzzle he wanted to crack. But what he didn’t realize was that you were just as much a player in this game as he was. As the sessions progressed, you began to drop hints, letting him see glimpses of the criminal mind beneath your professional exterior. It fascinated him, the idea that you weren’t just there to help, but that you had your own agenda.

- One day, during a particularly charged conversation about Gotham’s elite and their weaknesses, Nygma leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You’re like me, aren’t you? You see the world for what it is—a game. And we’re the ones smart enough to win." You didn’t deny it. Instead, you smiled, leaning closer. "Maybe I am."

- That was the turning point. From then on, your sessions were no longer about his rehabilitation—they were about planning. You shared your own insights into Gotham’s corruption, its flaws, its riddles. Nygma loved it. You became partners, planning your own schemes from inside Arkham’s walls. You used your position to feed him information, to help him plot his escape and his next big move.

- The chemistry between you grew with every session, the tension crackling between the two of you like static. It all came to a head one night when, after hours of trading riddles and plotting, Edward stood and crossed the room, pulling you close. "I always did enjoy a good mystery," he whispered before his lips met yours in a fierce, possessive kiss.

- After that, you were inseparable. You weren’t just partners in crime—you were lovers, bound by a shared intellect and a thirst for control. Nygma trusted you in a way he trusted no one else, and you used that trust to help him execute his plans, bending Gotham to your will. Together, you were unstoppable, a pair of masterminds who thrived on chaos and complexity. The city was your playground, and every riddle, every challenge, only brought you closer.

Two-Face

- When you walked into the room for your first session with Harvey Dent, you knew you weren’t meeting the famed district attorney Gotham once adored. No, you were staring at a man who had been broken by fate, his face a stark reminder of the chaos that ruled his life now. But you didn’t flinch. You introduced yourself calmly, sitting across from him like you would any other patient, knowing full well you had your own reasons for being here.

- Two-Face sized you up immediately, his scarred eye twitching slightly as he watched your every move. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice low and suspicious. You smirked, leaning back in your chair. "Maybe I’m just curious about how someone like you thinks," you replied coolly. He chuckled darkly, flipping his coin in the air. "No one’s ever *just curious* about me, doll."

- Your sessions were a constant tug-of-war. Harvey’s dual nature fascinated you—how he constantly struggled between his desire for justice and the dark side that had overtaken him. You, too, had a duality hidden beneath the surface. You played the part of the psychiatrist well, but beneath that, you were a criminal, drawn to chaos just like him. And as much as he tried to intimidate you, you didn’t back down, and he noticed.

- Harvey respected your strength. The more you pushed back, the more interested he became. He saw something in you, something different from the other doctors who had tried to “fix” him. One day, after a particularly heated session, he tossed the coin in the air, catching it in his palm before smirking. "You know, I’ve got a feeling you’re not so innocent yourself." You met his gaze evenly. "What if I’m not?" That was the moment you saw the shift in his eyes—the dual sides of Harvey Dent were no longer fighting each other, they were intrigued by you.

- It wasn’t long before your relationship took a darker, more intimate turn. One night, after hours of discussing Gotham’s corruption and his place in it, Harvey stood from his chair and crossed the room, pulling you close. The kiss was rough, almost desperate, as if he was trying to claim you as his, but you didn’t resist. You wanted it, wanted him. There was something thrilling about the danger, the unpredictability that came with Two-Face.

- From that moment on, you were his partner in more than just therapy. You helped him plan, working from within Arkham’s walls, aiding him in gathering resources for his next move against Gotham. You fed into both sides of him—the one that craved order and the one that loved chaos. Two-Face trusted you in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone since his fall, and together, you were unstoppable. His coin may have decided fate, but you held the real power in your hands, manipulating the outcome to suit your shared goals. You were drawn to the danger, and with Two-Face by your side, you reveled in the chaos.

The Penguin

- As you introduced yourself to Oswald Cobblepot in Arkham, you could feel his eyes assessing you from head to toe. The Penguin was a man who built his empire on manipulation, control, and knowing exactly who to trust—and who to use. But you weren’t just another psychiatrist walking into his cell. You had your own agenda, and the second you sat down, you knew Penguin would be a challenge worth taking on.

- Oswald wasn’t subtle. "So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this?" he sneered, the cane in his hand tapping the ground softly. You smiled, unphased by his attempt to unnerve you. "Just trying to understand what makes you tick, Mr. Cobblepot." He chuckled, clearly amused. "Is that so? Or are you here for something a little more… profitable?" He had you pegged, and you didn’t deny it. Penguin wasn’t someone who responded to weakness. He respected ambition, and you had plenty of it.

- The sessions became a delicate dance. You learned quickly that Penguin wasn’t just a gangster—he was a mastermind, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He loved the game, the power plays, the manipulation. And you knew how to play the game just as well. Every conversation with him was layered with unspoken meaning, your words carefully chosen to show you weren’t just another Arkham shrink. Oswald began to respect you, intrigued by your sharp mind and your ability to keep up with him.

- It wasn’t long before the lines blurred between professional and personal. Penguin’s calculating gaze would linger on you a little too long, his smirks becoming something more suggestive. "You’ve got a real talent for this," he’d say during one of your sessions, his voice low and dripping with amusement. "Maybe you should be working for me instead of this place." You didn’t disagree. In fact, the idea thrilled you. Gotham’s underworld was where you truly belonged, and Penguin saw it.

- One evening, after a particularly intense conversation about Gotham’s crime families, Oswald stood, walking around his desk with that unmistakable limp. He stood close, closer than ever before, his hand gently brushing your arm. "You and me, we could run this town," he whispered, his eyes dark with ambition and something more. You felt the electricity between you, the pull of power and attraction, and when he leaned in, you didn’t pull away. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and filled with the promise of what could come.

- After that, you were no longer just his psychiatrist. You became his confidante, his right hand, and eventually, his lover. Together, you plotted his rise back to the top, using your position in Arkham to gather information and pull strings. Penguin admired your cunning, your beauty, and your ambition. You weren’t just someone he used—you were someone he trusted, and in his world, that was more valuable than anything.

- You found yourself falling deeper into Gotham’s criminal underworld, by his side. Oswald respected your mind as much as your beauty, and you thrived in the power he gave you. The city became your playground, and together, you schemed to take it all. Penguin may have been a ruthless crime lord, but with you, he was something more—an equal. And together, no one could stand in your way.

[cherienymphe]

Birds of Prey

Carmine Falcone x Reader

Warnings: DUB-CON, age gap (reader is around Sofia and Alberto's age), power imbalance, implied stalking, mentions of organized crime

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | ➥ divider by @whimsicalrogers

summary: Carmine Falcone doesn't believe there's anything in Gotham he can't have—and you like to pretend that doesn't include you.

⭑

“The boss wants to see you.”

A familiar deep voice reached your ears, coming face to face with one of the many bouncers at the club when you looked over your shoulder. Your jaw took a break as you stopped chewing, your minty breath reaching your nose as you exhaled and frowned. It wasn’t too long ago that you’d just talked to Oz, and similar words left your mouth, confusion filling you on what he could possibly need to talk about.

“Not Oz,” was all Kenzie said, and you pressed your lips together.

Oh.

“...oh.”

You hadn’t even realized that the dark haired man—your actual boss—was here tonight, and you swallowed, inadvertently swallowing your gum. You ignored the way your heart stuttered, and you folded the tips you’d previously been counting before sliding them into your boot. The way Kenzie lingered told you that he was meant to be escorting you, and with a small sigh, you forced yourself to your feet. 

You clearly wouldn’t have the time you wanted to yourself to mentally prepare to talk to Carmine Falcone tonight. 

It wasn’t that you disliked the man—no more than you disliked any of the other corrupted men in this city. In fact, you’d say that he was pretty okay in your eyes, but he was just so intimidating. You supposed it was natural, after all. He was rich and powerful and practically owned the city, and being in close proximity to someone like that—without the flashing lights and loud unintelligible music—made you all too aware of not only just your shortcomings but also the huge imbalance that filled the room whenever it was just the two of you.

Kenzie made no move to step out of the elevator with you when it opened, and the heels of your shoes clicked against the floor when you stepped into the loft. The elevator doors closing sounded so loud to your ears for some reason, and aside from the low hum of music playing in the space, the only sound that could be heard was your heels. 

At least until you heard the snap of billiard balls hitting each other.

Your heart jumped at the confirmation that he was in here, and despite your reservations, you picked up the pace, determined to get this over with. You’d been in his loft a handful of times, most especially when you first started working at the 44 Below and he wanted to know how well you were adjusting. It was always coincidentally when you’d just finished a shift, boots full of the money you’d gotten from eager customers with their hands out for Drops. You suspected that Mr. Falcone hadn’t quite trusted you just yet then, recalling the way he sometimes counted your loot thrice.

Now, however, only a few years later, things were different…

“How were things tonight?”

It wasn’t an unusual way to be greeted, Mr. Falcone concerned with the money and business before all else. He hadn’t even looked up from his game as he spoke to you, those dark shades of his no doubt hiding a very intense gaze.

“Things were good,” you told him, bending down to reach into your left boot. “I only really had trouble from maybe two guys, but-.”

“Who?”

The sudden question threw you off, and you looked up from your knelt position to see that he was standing straight now, game forgotten as he held the pool stick in hand. Your eyes were briefly distracted by the glint of the gold ring on his pinky, and you forced yourself to remember that he wanted a response.

“I didn’t… They weren’t regulars,” you said, standing. “I think they came with someone else, and we just had a brief back and forth about the price.”

You were quick in handing the money to him, and you watched him count it. He didn’t really make a habit of asking you about your shifts anymore, so you didn’t think this was all he wanted. In fact, you were sure of that, and that made you nervous. Carmine Falcone wasn’t the kind of guy to concern himself with the likes of you just because. If it wasn’t about business then it was about pleasure, and you had never talked to the man about anything that wasn’t business.

The silence between you stretched and despite the fact that there were so many things you needed to do tonight before it got too late, you didn’t dare rush him. Not only was the man the reason you even had a job, but he just wasn’t the kind of man you rushed. You waited on him, and you watched him nod as he took his time in counting the last few bills from what you’d been able to sell.

“Not bad,” he praised in that low voice of his, and you sent him a small tight lipped smile.

You wondered if he could see how nervous you were and decided to put you out of your misery.

“I talked to Oz earlier,” he began, getting straight into it, pocketing the money. “He said that he gave you some extra money for rent.”

Of all the things that this could be about, that was at the very bottom of the list for you and truthfully…it shouldn’t have been. You shakily exhaled, feeling his eyes on you through those shades, and you briefly looked away. You didn’t even know how you became a topic of conversation between them, and some part of you wanted to curse Oz for putting you into this position. 

You knew exactly why Mr. Falcone was bringing this up with you.

“It’s not what you think,” you hurried to say, shrugging and waving your hand. “I asked him about any extra shifts and because there aren’t any, he offered me cash instead.”

The tall man slowly started to make his way around the pool table, and you were quick to get your next words out.

“It’s just a loan. I’m paying him back…”

“With what money?”

You snapped your lips together, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I didn’t say I was paying him back tomorrow,” you eventually mumbled.

“I think Oz would prefer it if you paid him back never.”

Your eyes found the floor at that, hating the truth in his words and especially hating the predicament you found yourself in. You wondered if the other man knew what he was doing when he told Mr. Falcone about what he’d done, and while you liked to think that Oz was just some blundering idiot, sometimes he seemed a lot more calculated than people gave him credit for.

“Oz knows that it’s not like that, and…besides, if he did then I would just give the money back.”

The dark-haired man before you didn’t respond to that at first. Instead, all that met you was a small change in expression, and you watched the way the corner of his mouth lifted. It was the closest thing to a smile you’d ever see on his face when he wasn’t talking to his daughter. He turned away from you, and you kept your eyes on him as he made his way to his bar.

“...and then how would you pay your rent?” he wondered. “This is still the same landlord, I presume.”

He presumed correctly, and you were reminded of a similar conversation months ago. The only sound that could be heard was alcohol flowing from one glass container to another. When he approached you with a clear glass of brown liquor, you hesitantly took it, feeling pressured to do so even if only to be polite. You could feel him eyeing you, and you slowly took a small sip.

“Seems to me like Oz made you an offer you couldn’t refuse…”

“Mr. Falcone-.”

“...but you refused me just fine.”

“It’s…different,” was your only reply, and you looked up at him as he took a sip of his own drink.

“How so?” he asked in that way that reminded you a lot like a dad would ask their child.

“You’re my boss,” you said—a little loudly—and you couldn’t stop your incredulous chuckle.

“So is Oz.”

You rolled your eyes at that, briefly forgetting who you were talking to.

“Sure, yeah, but you’re my actual boss,” you elaborated. “Nothing against Oz, at all, but everyone knows he doesn’t really run anything. Nothing other than what you let him think he’s in charge of.”

He only took another sip, his gaze never leaving you, and you got the feeling that he wanted to see how far you’d go to explain why you’d take money from Oz and not from him.

“Oz can’t do anything without your okay, and that includes anything pertaining to my job. He’s not actually in charge of me,” you quietly finished. “You are, and…I can’t take money from you.”

You got the feeling that you were offending him—the same feeling you got months ago when your landlord decided to hike up the rent for no reason for the umpteenth time—and you didn’t know how to feel about that. Surely he could understand why taking money from Oz was wholly different from taking money from him. Needing something to distract yourself with, you took another sip, appreciating the slight burn in your throat.

“Different or not, I don’t want you taking any more money from Oz.”

Despite the fact that you had no plans of doing that, the finality in his tone made you bristle. You didn’t appreciate how he was choosing to prove you right, knowing that if you didn’t do as he said and he found out, your job could come into question. You could only nod, hating that this place was the safest place in Gotham to make the kind of money you were making with your credentials.

The older man moved closer to you, his free hand lifting to touch your chin, and you swallowed when he tilted your head up ever so slightly. His fingers on your skin made you shudder, and you wished that you were the naive girl you used to be. You wished that you didn’t know why being so close to him gave you goosebumps. You wished that you didn’t know why he was offended you wouldn't take his help. You wished that you didn’t know what this whole thing with Oz was really about.

“Is that understood?”

He wanted a verbal answer, and you softly exhaled.

“Yes, Mr. Falcone.”

“Look, doll,” Oz’s accent was thick as he followed you around the room. “I know you still got that good for nothing landlord, and you ain’t making any more now than you were a month ago.”

The club had long shut down for the night, but when you were one of the girls who had to stick around and clean up, it could take ages. You grabbed a half empty glass full of something that you were too scared to try and identify as the man beside you limped along with your even strides. There were no flashing lights and no loud music, so you had no choice but to engage in conversation with the man who’d done you a huge favor.

“I already told you, it was a loan,” you said to him, setting a tray of dirty glasses aside. “How am I supposed to ever pay you back if you keep bailing me out of trouble?”

You faced him now as you wondered this, and by the brief look that passed over Oz’s features, you knew that Mr. Falcone was correct in his assessment of the heavyset man. You’d known it then, and you swallowed down a sigh, feeling like you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. You were going to pay Oz back, that was the truth. Not just because you hated owing anyone anything and you wanted to, but also because you needed to. 

Just like your boss, Oz wanted something from you too, and he definitely felt more owed to it if he could hold a few measly hundred dollars over your head.

The gold in his mouth winked at you as he sent you what was meant to be a comforting grin. It only struck you as lecherous, and Oz shrugged.

“That’s not something we gotta worry about, right now. You can’t exactly show up for work if you’re out on the street, now can ya?”

You fixed Oz with an even stare, and the way his features dropped told you that he realized he wasn’t getting through to you. Even if you wanted to give into your desperation and take any more of his money, you couldn’t. Mr. Falcone had left no room for confusion, and you were more afraid of him than you ever would be of Oz. Oz just wasn’t a serious guy at all—which made you feel even shittier about accepting his money—and everything about your boss was very serious.

The way he moved, the way he talked, and the way he simply looked at people. He navigated his relationships with people with an asuredness that he couldn’t be touched, and he was so confident in it because it was true. The man was practically untouchable, and it was why he was a man you never wanted to get on the bad side of.

Even over something as simple as borrowing money from Oswald Cobb.

“I’m sorry, Oz,” you shrugged. “It’s really sweet of you—so sweet—but I just can’t.”

You brushed past him before he had a chance to respond, noticing the way his expression had already begun to sour. Oz walked around like he had something to prove, and it being so obvious only made it worse. You didn’t want to hear what he could’ve possibly come up with about why you wouldn’t take his money. You didn’t even know what you would say if he continued to press you about it. After all, it’s not like you could tell him the truth.

You didn’t see the conversation going over well if you told him that Mr. Falcone didn’t want you accepting any more money from him because your boss felt slighted that you wouldn’t allow him to metaphorically pee on you. It was such a crass and vulgar way to put it, but it was the truth. Oz you could take money from and turn down any further advances without the fear of losing your job.

Mr. Falcone…not so much.

Taking his money would cross a line you couldn’t uncross. There would be no paying him back and certainly no giving it back. Taking your boss’ money would come with strings you just wouldn’t be able to cut, and it was already bad enough that you were on his radar, the powerful man no doubt keenly aware of you and everyone you cared about.

It was late when you finally walked out of The Iceberg Lounge, your thin coat tight around you as you stepped into the biting air. There was hardly a soul on the street, let alone a taxi, and as the seconds ticked on, it was starting to hit you that you were going to have to walk. The dangers of Gotham at night weren’t even your biggest concern—it was the cold.

Just when you convinced yourself that the walk would warm you up, a nice sleek car pulled up beside you. It was black and nothing like you’d ever ridden in before. It wasn’t a limo, that much you could tell, and as it slowed to a stop in front of you, your mind distractedly settled on a Lincoln. You were just thinking that it seemed like the kind of car someone would be driven around in when the back window was rolled down.

A light drizzle started as you came face to face with Mr. Falcone.

Your lips parted in surprise before you pressed them together again, jaw clenching as you realized the predicament you found yourself in. If turning down Mr. Falcone’s money offended him, then you had no doubt that turning down a ride would be an even worse offense. You knew the path this conversation was going to take before he even opened his mouth, and you resigned yourself to it.

“Y/N.”

His deep voice greeted you over the light rain, and you responded with a soft smile. 

“Mr. Falcone. I didn’t even know you were up there tonight,” you said, keeping your voice light. “I was just about to head home.”

Even in the privacy of his car, he still had those shades on, and for some reason the sight of them on his face struck you as more eerie now than normal. Maybe it was because with hardly any light around, you couldn’t even see the faint shadow of his eyes. You were just staring into darkness, and the sight almost made you miss his next words.

“Why don’t you get in. I’ll drop you off,” his words came out like a suggestion, but you knew they were anything but.

With only a second of hesitation, you gave him a soft ‘okay’ before rounding the car.

The inside smelled like him—manly and clean with a hint of wood. You apologized for wetting his seats as you strapped yourself in, but he held his hand up before you could finish, signaling to you that it was nothing. You felt awkward sitting in his backseat with him, the heater warming you up more than your coat ever could. As if he could read your mind, the head of the Falcone family spoke.

“Were you going to walk home in that?”

It almost took you too long to realize that he was talking about your coat, and you fingered the thin material, a sheepish smile on your face.

“It wouldn’t have been that far of a walk,” you shrugged.

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

Even when you eventually looked away, you could still feel his eyes on you, and you didn’t expect his next words.

“Why are you so afraid of me?”

A beat of silence.

“I’m not.”

Another lie.

“I don’t like liars, you know that,” he called you out.

Swallowing, you looked out of the window, but that didn’t last long, hating the sight of his reflection behind you. The silence between you stretched, and the longer it went on, the more obvious it became that he wanted an actual honest answer to his question. Your shoulders heaved with a deep breath, and your gaze fell to your lap.

You swiped your tongue between your lips.

“I feel like you want something from me that I’m not exactly willing to give,” you slowly told him.

You were all too aware that there was a third person privy to this conversation, but you wondered how much the driver was paid by the Falcones to basically see and hear nothing because Mr. Falcone acted like he wasn’t even there, so you forced yourself to do the same. All that met your words was silence, and when you glanced at him, the other man wasn’t looking at you but instead staring straight ahead.

You started to think you’d said the wrong thing by acknowledging the elephant in the room whenever you were with him.

“...and what exactly is it that you think Oz wants from you?”

You leaned back in your seat at that, pressing your lips together and resisting the urge to fire back at him that you weren’t an idiot. Oz wasn’t exactly subtle, but you could handle Oz. You didn’t want to give Mr. Falcone the satisfaction of knowing that his power and connections and place in Gotham scared you more than any measly feelings.

So he wanted to fuck you. Big deal.

That wasn’t exactly new or daunting or shocking. Working at the 44 Below, you encountered plenty of men who did, but none as powerful as him. That was the part that scared you, being wanted by a man like Carmine Falcone. Oz was nothing, just another man on the street with a gun and some money who thought he was bigger than what he was. Mr. Falcone on the other hand…

You’d heard things—whispers of women around him disappearing and dying. He was the head of an organized crime family, so you couldn’t say you’d be surprised if he was even worse than you imagined. It was why you couldn’t blur this line between you, no matter how much he was trying to. He was your boss, you worked at his club, and that was all it could be. You were suddenly extremely aware of the fact that you were sitting in his car as he gave you a ride home out of the rain, and you looked out of the window.

You would have to find a better job and soon.

When his driver slowed to a stop outside of your apartment—the source of your current dilemma—you were quick to reach for the door handle…and Mr. Falcone was quick to reach for you. He’d only ever touched you a handful of times, and like always, his hand was gentle on your arm, but it felt so heavy to you through the thin material of your coat. You nervously watched him reach inside of it with his other hand, and your heart dropped at the wad of cash he pulled out.

You were shaking your head before he even spoke.

“Give this to Oz,” he told you, no room for argument in his tone. “I know everything that goes on in my club.”

You could feel his eyes on your face as he said that, and your earlier conversation with 

Oz came to mind.

“...and I don’t want you owing him anything.”

You thought to yourself that you shared the same sentiment, but owing Oz was better than owing a man like Carmine Falcone You didn’t say that though, accepting that you were going to be offending him for a third time tonight, and you didn’t want to make it worse. Ignoring his words and the money, you opened the door and was immediately greeted by drops of rain.

“I can handle Oz.”

That was all you said to him before closing the door behind you, hurrying around the car and into your apartment building, only relaxing when you were bathed in darkness.

You resisted the urge to fiddle with your fingers as you met his even stare with one of your own. You knew this conversation wasn’t going to be the lightest once you finally told him, but no amount of mental preparation was enough, it seemed. Mr. Falcone always had a stern look on his face, even when he wasn’t seemingly upset, but it was clear in this moment that he wasn’t happy with the turn of events.

At all.

“This clearly isn’t a ‘two weeks notice’ kind of establishment, but…it seemed like the proper thing to do,” you finally added. “The restaurant doesn’t pay what I make here, that’s for sure, but it’s decent money.”

There was a lot left unsaid, and you certainly weren’t going to voice it, but that apparently didn’t matter.

“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that you won’t have to deal with me anymore.”

He had no problems saying what you wouldn’t, and you actually winced at his words, looking away as he took a sip of his drink. His loft was quiet, and you finally sighed—softly—as you briefly closed your eyes.

“I never meant to offend you. I swear,” you said, looking at him again. “I’m just…not that kind of girl, and you seem very…determined to make a liar out of me.”

His mustache twitched, a crooked smile on his lips, and you were right to be nervous as you watched him stand. You started to stand too when he held a hand out, and despite your confusion, you remained seated. Your positions weren’t lost on you as he moved closer to you, towering over you and looking down his nose at you where you sat. He still had his drink in hand, and when he lifted his free hand, you expected the feel of his fingers on your chin.

He only pointed at you instead.

“You will need my help.”

He said it with so much conviction that part of you couldn’t help but to believe his words, and you blinked.

“You will,” he reiterated, and you oddly felt like a child being scolded by a parent in this moment. “You will need money and assistance because this city doesn’t reward the good and doesn’t believe in being fair.”

You struggled to swallow at that, knowing without a doubt that if nothing else he said was true, that definitely was.

“...and what will you do? Run to Oz with your tail between your legs?”

You shuddered at the thought, and you knew he noticed by his slight chuckle.

“Sacrifice your dignity to become the kind of woman you claim you’re not but for strangers instead? Hmm?”

Your throat felt tight as every word from him felt like a slap.

“Would it really be worth it just to pat yourself on the back for not taking my help?”

You didn’t have anything to say to that, blinking back tears as he shook his finger at you before dropping his arm entirely. He took another swig of his drink, and you watched him turn away from you with a shake of his head.

“You remind me a lot of my son, you know that?”

You had only crossed paths with the young man in question a handful of times, and you weren't impressed, so this comparison only made you feel worse.

“Just like Alberto,” Mr. Falcone dragged out. “So hard headed and stubborn and always needs to do things the hard way just to prove a point.”

You finally stood on shaky legs, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. You hated to admit that his words were already getting to you, a lot of truth in them that you refused to face. 

“Thank you, Mr. Falcone for the opportunity you gave me here,” was all you said. “I know it may not seem like it, but I really am grateful.”

When he didn’t respond, you made your way to the elevator, your heels echoing off the walls. You had just stepped inside when he spoke again, face to face with him just as you pushed the button to go back down to the ground floor.

“The devil you know is always better.”

That simple statement made your heart drop, and you didn’t respond, refusing to give him the satisfaction. When the doors shut though, your face crumbled, and the longer they stewed in your mind, the less his words felt like speculation and more like a curse. He wasn’t wrong, and you hated it.

This city swallowed people like you up. Gotham cackled and spat in the face of anyone who tried to do things the ‘right’ way here, and you wondered if you were really about to be next on its long list of victims all because you didn’t want to get tangled up with the likes of Carmine Falcone. Maybe he was right. Maybe you would end up right in his grasp where he wanted you…

…but you owed it to yourself to try.

It took a second restaurant gig just to keep your head above the water. The corruption in Gotham didn’t just extend to the cops and drug lords, but even all the way down to the lowly landlords too. You knew the day was coming when your rent would be hiked up again with no explanation nor rhyme or reason as to why, but with your two jobs, it wasn't anything you couldn’t handle. Sure, you didn’t ever have any money left over for things like food and other necessities most times, but you had a place to lay your head at night.

…and most of all, you didn’t have to stare into the eyes of Carmine Falcone and pretend like you didn’t know he was just waiting for you to offer him something so many other women probably had.

You had no doubt that he’d played this game before. After all, the man wasn’t just rich and powerful, but handsome too, and the kind of women who worked at the 44 Below—hell even just the Iceberg Lounge—tended to have no qualms about entering an arrangement with a powerful good looking man to keep a nice sum of money in their pockets. You wondered if that was part of the hang up with you—that you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

You supposed he was right when he called you stubborn, although you could’ve gone without the comparisons to Alberto. Everything he prophesied came true, and it was only some months later when you found yourself standing outside on a corner with some girls you were familiar with.

“The first one is always a little nerve wracking,” she told you, a comforting smile on her glossy lips.

“Speak for yourself,” another one interjected. “They all make my skin crawl.”

They chuckled together, and you nervously joined in.

You were no virgin—far from it—but you’d never offered the pleasure of your company for money before. You figured it couldn’t be all that different from any other one night stand. It was sex, and that pretty much worked the same no matter who it was with, only tonight you'd be getting paid for it. You weren’t in danger of being put out on the street—yet—but you were at a point where you were working just to pay bills…and it had started to get to you.

You needed some extra money in your pocket.

A low feminine whistle pulled you from your thoughts, and you followed your friend’s gaze.

“This is your lucky first pick, I can tell. Look at that car,” she praised pointing at the dark vehicle.

You didn’t join in on their excitement when you finally studied said car—a familiar car. Your heart sank to your stomach as a congratulatory pat was given to your arm, and despite how much you told yourself it was only a coincidence—he wasn’t the only rich man to be driven around in a car like that—something deep in your gut told you otherwise. You blinked as it slowed down, and your friends’ voices had faded some as they backed away to give you privacy.

You weren’t surprised when the back window rolled down.

Just sick to your stomach.

“Mr. Falcone,” you eventually greeted, never one to be rude to him despite everything.

He didn’t respond, just staring at you through those dark sunglasses, face as taut as ever.

“I can get one of the other-.”

“Get in.”

You bristled at the interruption, halfway turning to gesture to one of the other few women on the corner.

“I’m serious. Any of them would be happy to-.”

“I don’t like repeating myself, you know that.”

You swallowed the rest of what you were going to say, and your arm fell. You stared at him, and he stared at you, and the longer the seconds dragged on, the more you wanted to just…cry. Did he stake out notorious corners regularly? Had he just been waiting for the night you showed up on one of them? If you dared to walk away right now, you wondered what he would do. Follow you? Drag you into the car?

You’d never seen Mr. Falcone so much as raise his voice, but to be a successful head of an organized crime family, you knew it required a level of brutality you’d just never been privy to. You thought about those rumors and whispers you heard of the women around him, and you didn’t know which option was worse, right now—getting in that car or walking away from it.

As you distractedly watched one of your friends walk off with some John, you realized that your former boss’ presence was going to affect any attempts to service any man—any other man—tonight, and you angrily huffed.

No more words were exchanged as you stomped around the vehicle, the silence loud from the moment you slid into the backseat. The wheels were turning before you even clicked your seatbelt in place, and you refused to look at the dark-haired man next to you. Your gaze remained on the window, even when it became apparent you weren’t heading towards the Shoreline Lofts.

It didn’t take you long after that to realize just where you were heading, and despite how much your nerves spiked, you bit your tongue.

The Falcone family mansion was just as stunning and impressive as you’d heard it to be. You’d never had the pleasure of laying eyes on it, and for a brief moment, you’d forgotten the corner your former boss had backed you into. Your lips were parted at the sight of it, slow to get out and almost stumbling over your feet as you never took your eyes off of it. You think you would’ve been content to stand outside and stare at it all night.

Your companion for the night, on the other hand, had other ideas…

You did end up stumbling when he took your arm, and your heart was fast beneath your chest as he walked you to the imposing building. An added layer of fear and apprehension surrounded you, tonight unlike all the other times you were alone with the older man. You knew that some way or another he was going to get what he’d been after, and you didn’t quite know how consensual your part in all of this was going to be.

After all, you didn’t want to sleep with him, not even for money.

…but it was clear more than ever that Carmine Falcone wouldn't rest until he was taking care of you, and you were taking care of him.

Just like he wanted.

“Tell me something…”

His deep voice broke the silence the moment he let you go, and you felt wholly uncomfortable in the bedroom that was the size of your entire apartment. You hadn’t even thought to admire the impressive artwork on the walls and grand staircase as you made your way up it, only concerned with how the rest of your life was about to start.

“Is sleeping with some strange man off the streets really more appealing than sleeping with me?”

It seemed like you’d offended Mr. Falcone enough to last a lifetime, and so you decided to be honest as he poured you both drinks.

“You terrify me to my core…so yes.”

You didn’t miss the way he paused at that before continuing on.

“Those men on the streets of Gotham?” you shrugged. “They’re just men. Men who aren’t nearly as big and bad as they think they are, men who I can handle just fine…”

You only stared at the drink being offered to you when he stopped to stand before you.

“...but you run this city, and everyone in it, and I want nothing to do with a man like that.”

When you didn’t take the drink, he only set it off to the side on a nearby side table like your refusal meant nothing to him. He took his time in sipping his own drink, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from drifting towards the bed. Hours ago, you had no idea how this night could possibly end, but in this moment, you were never more sure of anything in your life.

Your eyes followed his movements as he set down his empty glass, the sound of it hitting the wood making you flinch. Like everything he did, he took his time in moving closer to you, always moving like he had all the time in the world. Your chest was heaving ever so slightly, and you lifted your gaze to look at his face just in time to watch him reach up and remove those dark shades. You didn’t recall ever having stared directly into his eyes before, and oddly enough, you found the sunglasses that always covered his eyes to be less intimidating. 

You weren’t surprised to feel his fingers on your chin, and you blinked at the familiar feel.

“How much were you going to charge?”

You answered him, knowing what he was referring to.

“$300 for an hour.”

You didn’t miss the haughty smirk that graced his lips, and you continued before he could speak.

“I needed extra money and they aren’t all Carmine Falcone,” you told him, a bit of an edge in your voice.

It didn’t get by him, and you felt his fingers tighten on your chin.

“...and that was really preferable to accepting my help.”

It came out like a statement, and so you didn’t respond because no response was needed. When his thumb touched your bottom lip, your heart skipped a beat. The older man’s intense gaze was on you, and a huge part of you wanted him to put you out of your misery. The two of you had been playing this cat and mouse game for months—really years—and you comforted yourself in thinking that the first step was the hardest part.

“Let me take care of you.”

From anyone else’s lips, that would’ve sounded like begging, but when Carmine said it, it sounded like an order. It sounded like he was telling you to let him do what he wanted because he was going to do it anyway. You voiced your thoughts.

“Do I have a choice?” you wondered into the quiet room.

The only response to your question was the scent of his cologne filling your nose and his lips on yours. You felt overwhelmed by his mere presence, realizing that this was the point of no return. Carmine Falcone had you exactly where he wanted you, and you were the last place you ever wanted to be. You felt almost silly for attempting to put this off for so long, reluctant to admit that you were always going to end up here from the moment he’d decided it.

The only shot you had was leaving Gotham entirely.

The dress you wore tonight was meant to come off and on easily, and it did just that with a few movements of his hand, the fabric falling at your feet. For the first time in years, you were nervous because as many men as you’d slept with, none of them were like him. Your movements were shaky, and you were both relieved and intimidated once you quickly realized that he liked to be in charge.

The sheets on the bed were softer than any you’d ever had the pleasure of laying on, and they only served to remind you what kind of life you were about to be drawn into. Whether or not it was worth it wasn’t even something you’d been able to consider, having little agency in this arrangement. Carmine Falcone took what he wanted and did what he wanted, and you didn’t want to believe that you were naive for thinking you could be the exception.

Your fingers trembled as you undressed him, and he didn't take his eyes off of you the entire time. You were sure some other type of power play was at work here, and you clenched your jaw as you undid his belt. You could feel his hand touching your hair, fingers finding their way to your neck and grazing the skin there.

It seemed that he was content to save the feigned romance of it all for later, wanting to put himself out of his misery for an entirely different reason than you wanted to put yourself out of yours.

You couldn’t stop the surprised gasp that left you when he pushed himself into you, hips connecting with yours before you had a chance to process what happened. Your nails pressed into his skin, and the way he shuddered beneath your touch told you that he liked that. It felt difficult to wrap your head around your predicament—pinned beneath your former boss and lying in his bed.

Forcing yourself to let go of your apprehension and fear, you found that you could enjoy yourself if you just turned your brain off for a moment. As it was, you couldn’t stop thinking about what this meant and what your life would be like tomorrow and what this would mean for your relationship with Carmine. However, his hand on your neck forced you to think of nothing but him inside of you and his hands on you.

Everywhere he touched flared with heat, and you didn’t even know when you’d wrapped your legs around him. The thin layer of sweat that started to appear on your skin did little to cool you, but your mind strayed further and further from that with every thrust of his hips. Your lashes fluttered as you felt yourself stretch around his cock, your other hand reaching down to twist around the sheets.

The feel of his facial hair brushing along your skin made you shudder beneath him, and your gaze landed on the ceiling, eyes absentmindedly roaming along the walls and wallpaper and every detail that made your little apartment look like something out of a horror movie. You told yourself that there was a silver lining in this, but what did the silver lining mean to you when you never wanted this in the first place?

As his lips met yours again, you could see yourself getting used to this despite your initial refusal. However, it didn’t seem smart to get comfortable around the likes of Carmine, but as he curved his hips into yours again, you wondered if that line of thought was easier said than done. Beneath him, it was easy to forget just what he did and the kind of business he ran and the power he held in this city.

However…

When he pulled away, gaze meeting yours, a stab of fear tore through you.

Carmine Falcone always scared you and probably always would, no amount of money and fancy apartments and cars would change that. You unintentionally arched your chest up into his, back curving as his fingers danced along your spine. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that he liked that he scared you, that your fear made this more fun for him.

His hand trailed over your skin and slid up between your chest before he took your chin in his hand. He kissed you again—a trembling breath leaving your lips—before that same hand slid around your throat. You lost track of how long he plunged his cock into you, and you were already embarrassed to think about someone else cleaning up the mess that was his bed tomorrow.

With a house like this and a family like his, there were no doubts in your mind that someone did their cleaning for them.

Some time throughout the night, you recalled words leaving his lips and yours that sounded a lot like a verbal push and pull. He wanted you to proclaim something you didn’t want to, and your refusal would be met with little nips from his teeth into your skin here and there. He’d call you stubborn, and you would turn your head away. You vaguely recalled asking about the rest of the family, nervously wondering how your presence would be received in the house. 

You didn’t think Carmine had any qualms about being honest about what and who you were. He was the type to do whatever he wanted unapologetically, and you didn’t doubt that it extended to whatever woman he wanted to parade around with whose time and company he was paying for.

“They know you’re mine,” was all he said. “They’ll do as I say.”

That didn’t bring you any comfort.

[eudoraink]

My sona and Oswald!♡♡♡ (Art By me)

CW: Dirty talk. Nothing explicited Though!

I think Oswald is pissed at me....

[taintandviolent]

Regular ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You live in Gotham City and are a waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Oz is a regular and you've developed quite the crush on him.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 6.4K | older man/younger woman, semi-established history, making out, cockwarming, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering (female receiving, dirty talk, smut with a teensy bit of plot (but not really).

a/n: to the 99.9999% of my followers... I'm so sorry but I am begging you guys to hear me out about him!!!! I thoroughly expect this to flop, but I needed to write it for my own sanity. absolutely massive thank you to @redravenblogs for beta-reading! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

[sqreamunson]

me after spending my entire day reading Gotham smuts :