I was about to set this as anonymous but theres no point now since we've already talked :p anyway if ur not motivated to do this request that's totally fine:)
Just early season Oswald Cobblepot x falcone's son!reader where Oswalds gets his guts rearranged in a small closet/pantry while he's supposed to be working 🤭 I need that little whiny bratty man under me and give him little kisses while he complains about it 🫶
Hi, I was just wondering if you write fanfics for free? If so, is it for writing experience?
Hi! Yeah, I write for free, and yeah, it's for writing experience but I also just love writing fanfic. So sorry it's taken so long to answer, things have been hectic
[Can I request a 12/reader fic where the reader used to be a student at university decades before season 10, but set during season 10 and Bill’s asking about the pictures on 12’s desk and one of them being a picture of the reader, also a past spouse.
(ps - your ask box isn’t working)]
(Thank you so much for the request!)
Framed - The Twelfth Doctor x Reader
The Doctor sat behind the desk in his office, picking through a melody on his guitar. He hated the breaks between lectures; they left too much silence hanging in the air. He couldn’t pin down the exact moment he began to hate being left alone so vehemently, but he had a very good guess.
Your face beamed at him from behind the glass of a simple wooden frame, and melancholy leaked into his playing; that much was inevitable, it seemed to be. He stood from his chair and set his guitar on its stand, striding out the door to pace the campus. Music hurt too much today.
I was about to set this as anonymous but theres no point now since we've already talked :p anyway if ur not motivated to do this request that's totally fine:)
Just early season Oswald Cobblepot x falcone's son!reader where Oswalds gets his guts rearranged in a small closet/pantry while he's supposed to be working 🤭 I need that little whiny bratty man under me and give him little kisses while he complains about it 🫶
Just wondering bc I desperately need more lsoh fanfiction, did you ever do that Seymour x ftm!Reader request I commented on a post like a month ago lmao? All good if not, just wanted to ask yk lol
Wait omg that was a month ago??? I'm so sorry I'm working on it I swear
Your tables are always bussed first. Your side jobs - refilling salt and pepper shakers, changing tablecloths, mopping the floor - are always finished when you get around to them. He keeps his head down now, simply listening (always listening) but specifically keeping a keen ear out for your voice.
Rating: E
Oswald Cobblepot x Fem!Reader
Tags: NSFW, friends to lovers, virginity loss
A/N: A request from @ilovetheriddler !! Pictures in the collage are not mine, they were all found on Pinterest. Takes place during season 1, starting out when he's working as a dish washer in Maroni's restaurant
Taglist: @scarlettmoon98 @if-alina
---
Despite his better judgment, "Paulo" adores you. Sunshine is rare in Gotham but you're his own personal glimpse, making his days spent washing dishes and listening to Maroni's whispers a little less dreary. He'd die if you happened to know.
Every once in a while, in between tables, you catch him studying you from his post at the sink. You greet him with a tiny grin before retreating to the dining room, missing the way he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He always looks like he's biting back a secret, fighting the urge to speak his mind, but with everyone else, the secret looks bitter.
Tonight, business is slow. The managers left nearly an hour ago, leaving the shift leaders to close the place.
With your last table on their way out and your tip shoved deep in your pocket, you allow yourself a tiny break. You slip through the kitchen and out the back door, into the crisp air and ambient noise of the alleyway.
Much to your surprise, the alley isn't empty. Paulo stands with his back against the brick wall, hands trembling as he attempts to light the cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth. The door swings shut and he nearly jumps out of his skin.
"Are you alright?" you ask.
He answers you with a curt nod, but his eyes never leave yours. For once, the guy who has an answer for everything is speechless - it intrigues you.
You take a bold step towards him and gently prise the lighter from his grip. He watches as you carefully guide a flame towards him, shielding it from the wind and letting him light his cigarette in silent bewilderment.
-
He'd never admit it but that's when he fell for you. He fell hard and fast and never quite recovered.
Your tables are always bussed first. Your side jobs - refilling salt and pepper shakers, changing tablecloths, mopping the floor - are always finished when you get around to them. He keeps his head down now, simply listening (always listening) but specifically keeping a keen ear out for your voice.
There are no more stolen glances from the kitchen door but a part of you knows it's because he's afraid you'd catch him. You look anyway.
You know he knows that you look anyway.
-
The walk-in freezer serves as your own private sanctuary when the restaurant is too much. The frigid air calms your nerves (and the steel walls muffle yells of frustration well enough.)
The dining room is packed full of large parties, all cheering and speaking at the top of their lungs and calling you pet names, and all you want to do is get away from it all, just for a moment. You kick a metal shelf and cuss under your breath.
When you step back out into the kitchen, Paulo watches you. For the first time in a while, he watches you with that careful gaze, and when you meet it, he freezes and grabs a plate, dunking it into the water like he's trying to drown it. You chuckle under your breath and drag your fingers through your hair.
A particularly loud cheer sounds from the dining room and you groan, remembering the tables you still had to serve. But your jacket hangs right next to the back door, and you know those parties won't tip well, no matter how much you laugh at their jokes.
With a dejected sigh, you stealthily clock yourself out and put on your jacket, slipping out the door without a word.
The alley is chillier than usual. You hug yourself and rest against the wall, trying to calm yourself down but failing. The brick feels rough against your back, even through your layers, the air bites your cheeks, and the noise that usually soothes you now grates at you like roofing nails on a chalkboard. Your shoulders shake and you hardly even hear the back door open again.
"You're not quitting, are you?"
Paulo's voice snaps you out of your tiny spiral. You shake your head, hardly even questioning why he followed you outside. A familiar voice sounds nice, even when you realize that those are the first words he's ever said directly to you.
"What's going on?" he asks, a little more insistently, "Are you drunk?"
You give a tiny chuckle and shake your head again, perfectly content to let him ask his questions.
There's a moment, however, where the questions stop, and although you don't look at him, you can hear the change in his voice when he speaks again. It's a softer tone you've never heard before - you doubt anyone in the restaurant had ever heard him speak softly.
"Do you want me to walk you home?"
You pause, before answering him with a small nod.
-
In a way, Oswald is glad you won't look him in the eye right now. Because frankly, he's petrified.
He's leaving his job, the job he'd literally killed a man for, to walk someone home. If anyone asked why he did it, he wouldn't have an excuse. (Outside the obvious, outside the blaring, horrendously obvious---)
He blinks quickly and follows you out of the alleyway, scolding himself for getting distracted. Of course he's not walking just anyone home. It's you, the only person in the entire staff who isn't jaded or brusque, and you're walking home, at night, in Gotham City. Besides, he liked to think that his mother raised a gentleman.
The city's background hum has never bothered him before, but now the silence feels deafening. He tries to think of something, anything to say now that he has your attention, but for the first time in his life, he can't think of a single word.
Luckily, you break the silence before he has to, asking, "Does your leg hurt?"
He swallows a lump in his throat and finds himself telling the truth without thinking, "It broke and never healed right."
The look of pity on your face makes him sick to his stomach; he doesn't want to see you pity him. He wants to see you smile, but again he falls silent, lost in his own thoughts. He can't help but remember the icy cold of the river, enveloping him like death's shroud. He regrets not bringing his own jacket.
Before he knows it, you've reached the entrance to your apartment building. He opens his mouth to bid you farewell but you gesture for him to follow you.
The look of confusion on his face must have been loud, because you bit back a chuckle and said, "C'mon, it's freezing out here. At least let me make you a coffee."
For once, he follows his heart instead of his head and steps into the building behind you.
Your apartment is cozy. He feels like an intruder, but you beckon him inside and he obeys, shutting the door behind him.
You're quick to start the coffee machine; the noise is dreadful but you don't seem to mind, flitting around the kitchen like a hummingbird, or a butterfly, anything that seemed too delicate for him to touch.
Soon enough, he's sipping from a warm mug and wondering whether he's overstaying his welcome or not.
-
Your tables no longer call you pet names. Customers don't whistle for you, or snap at you like a dog when you take too long to notice them. The change is subtle, but it makes your shifts all the more bearable. However, it's not long before something far worse happens.
-
Oswald regrets the hit on the restaurant the moment he sees how shaken you are afterwards.
You screamed when the first shot was fired, cowering underneath a table as he tore through the kitchen to grab the money from the counting room. For a moment, he almost considered tugging you into the walk-in with him.
He justifies everything to himself in the end - he needs to prove his worth to Maroni, and now that he's been put in charge of the restaurant, he can satisfy both goals. He can rise in power and make sure that you're never placed in danger again. Just because he can.
He never wants to hear you scream. Never. Never again.
-
Some part of you knew that "Paulo" was never quite telling the whole truth. It was satisfying to know you were right, a small comfort compared to the horror you'd heard from your shelter beneath the tablecloth.
The name Oswald fit him a lot better, you thought. So did his new clothes. It seemed like the hit had allowed him to shed his cocoon, so once you had your affairs in order, you turned in your two weeks notice. You'd much rather visit as a patron than wait on (and clean up after) Maroni's men. Besides, you'd heard the place found a new manager.
Paulo, no, Oswald Cobblepot greeted you at the door, with the widest smile you'd ever seen from him.
-
Gertrud Kapelput raised a gentleman. She would never let him forget it. If he wanted something, he had to court it first. Woo it.
Every day when you come home, a delivery man knocks on your apartment door to bring you fresh flowers from a secret admirer. You knew who they were from.
He knew you knew who they were from.
-
Today was a good day. A long day, sure, but a good one.
You arrived home to find a vase of fresh flowers already outside your door, with the same embossed greeting card tied around the tallest stem. You brought it inside, setting it on the kitchen counter alongside the flowers from yesterday, and began your nightly routine. It was hardly 2pm, sure, but you were already home. You might as well settle in.
Just as you were about to draw a bath, you hear a knock at the door. Your brow furrows and you leave the bathroom, hugging your robe a little tighter around yourself before taking a look through the peephole.
Oswald stands outside your door, dressed to his usual nines and fiddling with his cufflinks. You can't help but smile as you unbolt the lock, watching as the noise makes him perk up like an excited puppy.
The door swings open and you say, "Hi! I wasn't expecting you!"
Surprise flies across his face and he backs away from the door, saying quickly, "I-I'm sorry, I've come at a bad time," smoothing down the lapels of his jacket and avoiding your gaze. You simply open the door a little further and gesture for him to follow you inside.
No one has ever seen you like this, so completely in your own element. It feels vulnerable, in an anxious but exhilarating sort of way. You know that he's cataloguing every moment in his mind, desperate to understand every part of you. Maybe that's why you don't immediately retreat to your bedroom to change. Maybe you're wishing he doesn't want to leave your little sanctuary at all. Maybe he doesn't want to whisk you away to some elaborate display. Maybe he just wants to be here.
When he watches you now, it doesn't feel like he's studying you. You're not under the microscope anymore. He watches like an audience member at the opera, almost reverent, and you feel your heart pounding in your chest, glittering under his spotlight.
The lights are off. You have the curtains drawn and scented candles lit; you hear him breathe deeply. Without thinking, you sink down onto your couch and stretch your legs, groaning softly as you roll your ankles.
His voice softly disturbs the relative silence, like he's trying not to break the spell you've put him under, "Is there anything I can do?"
And you feel bold. You can't help it, not when he asks you so genuinely, not when he's showered you with affection so openly, so honestly. You reply, like a prayer, hardly raising your voice above a whisper because you know if he can't hear you, he'd just read your lips.
"Kiss me?"
You meet his gaze, a silent plea plain as day, and he blinks quickly, not daring to look away, not now.
He smooths down his lapels, fiddling with his cufflinks as he carefully steps around your coffee table, joining you on the couch like he's trying not to spook you away. You nearly expected him to pounce, to leap at the chance to finally take what he knew was always his, but now, he ensures that this first kiss will be absolutely perfect, and your breath stutters in your chest.
He reaches for your cheek, giving you room to pull away from him, even now that you've asked. His palm is warm against your skin and you can't help but lean into it, ever-so-slightly.
You shut your eyes. It feels like trust, and you hear him suck down a breath to steady himself.
The first brush of his mouth against yours feels like a question, and you answer him with a tiny, content sigh, returning the kiss softly. His other hand cradles your jaw before slipping to the back of your head, not holding you there. Simply holding you.
Slowly but surely, you melt into his touch, resting a hand over his sternum and feeling the way his heart hammers in his chest like a hummingbird beating its wings against his ribcage. He lets out the smallest noise - it sounds something like a moan, or maybe a cry - before holding you a little tighter. In return, you close what little distance still remains between you, hooking an arm lazily over his shoulders and drinking in the praise he smothers you with.
By the time you break the kiss to breathe, he chases after you, still wanting more. He settles for pressing his mouth against your jaw, moving a hand to the small of your back.
Even now, he's asking questions. His hands hover but they don't plant themselves, his lips ghost over your pulse but he doesn't latch on, even when he has you in his arms, he asks question after question, desperate for an answer he can understand.
And a penny drops.
Bashfully, you nod your head. His breath catches in his throat and he holds you a little tighter, still hovering. Still not clear enough.
Softly, you say his name, not the one he gave you but the one he uses now. He nuzzles his face into your throat and smothers a sob against your skin, his crooked nose buried in your hair as he resists the urge to crush you against him. Your hands slide to his shoulders, up his neck to cradle his face in your warm palms.
When you try to look him in the eye, he hides. He hides in the nape of your neck, those soft lips ghosting over your pulse like he's trying not to devour you, trying not to ruin this moment by reaching too far.
This time, instead of a penny dropping, it feels like rain.
You swallow the lump in your throat, stroking his neck and burying your fingers in his hair before letting a hand fall to the tie of your robe. The knot comes undone with the tiniest tug but he notices, of course he notices.
At last he reaches for an inch. He presses an open-mouthed kiss against your throat, tasting the last traces of salt on your skin and trying not to lose himself in it.
All of the sudden the room feels slightly too warm and you have to imagine that Oswald, in his layers, has to be sweltering. You reach for the buttons of his jacket and he yields, letting you peel it from his shoulders. He looks softer without it; he looks smaller.
His hands tremble as he drapes it over the arm of your couch. Even now, he wants to keep up appearances, and some tiny part of you wants that to stop. He shouldn't have to perform, not now when you're being so vulnerable, but you of all people know the value in appearances. He wants to offer himself to you, not as some slobbering wolf only in your den to consume what you have to offer, no, he wants to be as lovely as you are. Your heart aches in your chest, but it also pounds with exhilaration.
You stand from the couch, hardly bothering with your robe as you step towards the bedroom. Confusion mixed with hurt flashes across his face before he realizes where you're going, and he leans heavily on his good leg when he stands.
He follows you out of the living room, taking in this special sight like a child seeing a movie on the big screen for the first time. Your bedroom is small; your bed is shoved in one corner, and bookshelves line the walls. Your closet was left open, and the bathroom light is still on.
Oswald stands near the door, only moving to join you once you sit down on the bed and pat the space next to you. You invite him closer with a smile and a tiny shift of your shoulders, revealing more of your collarbones and watching the way it makes his breath stick in his throat. He's almost bashful now, his freckled face burning with a blush you can see even in the dim light, and you can see a question lingering on the tip of his tongue.
This time, you kiss him. He lets out the smallest noise before giving in completely, hands moving to your waist and holding you like he's afraid you'll slip away. Your lips part and you drag your tongue experimentally across his bottom lip. The groan you earn from him sends a shiver up your spine.
An idea flickers across your mind. You can't help but be a little bolder around him; he makes it so easy, reacting to your touch like you're an angel sent down to Earth just for him.
You break the kiss gently and let your mouth trail down to his jaw, cupping the back of his head and dragging your fingers through his hair. In return, his hands move to your ribs, hungrily grasping the shape of you underneath the robe. You pluck the buttons on his waistcoat and he finally understands your request, parting from you for a moment to remove yet another layer from his carefully crafted facade.
You can't help but watch. Even now, with his trembling fingers and hunger evident in his gaze, he moves calculatedly, putting on a tiny show for you. A grin tugs at the corners of your mouth.
He doesn't say a word but his actions bleed an ill-concealed want.
You rest your hands on his shoulders, feeling his frame through the fabric of his shirt. He shivers, drinking in the sight of you, and it seems like he's trying his best not to drown.
When he kisses you again, he lets a hand splay against your bare skin, testing the waters. His skin carries the slightest chill but you welcome it, leaning into him eagerly. The flattery isn't lost on him. Of course it isn't. Nothing is lost on him, not when he's so intently tuned into you and the reactions you gift him with.
You break the kiss to breathe and he presses his mouth to your pulse, grazing your skin with his teeth and groaning when you move closer still. He asks, hands skimming underneath your robe, "Do you want to...?"
He doesn't have to finish the thought. You nod, lying back on your bed and presenting yourself like a piece of fine art to peruse.
Your robe falls open and you resist the urge to tug it closed again. He lets his gaze wander over every inch of exposed flesh, lips parted to let you hear his shuddering breaths. Hunger flashes behind his eyes - it's an expression you know all too well, the one he wears when an opportunity has presented itself to him. Only this time, it's not an opportunity that will sink its teeth into him if he's not careful. He returns your trust with adoration, trailing his hands along your skin like he's trying to memorize every inch of you.
Your heart hammers in your chest, pounding so loud you're sure he can feel it under his fingertips. Your thighs inch apart and he catches the movement with the slightest widening of his eyes.
He maneuvers carefully between your legs, watching your face for any signs of alarm or hesitation or anything that might tell him to stop. His hands trail up your thighs, reading every minute twitch and tremble like a story written just for him. A heavy blush blooms across your skin as he stops just short of where you need him, and you can't help but freeze.
He asks for permission with an uncertain look, and you answer him with a bashful nod. He lets out a breath he must have been holding and lowers himself onto the bed, keeping the weight off of his bad leg and hardly giving you a moment to think before licking an exploratory stripe along your sex.
You let out a tiny noise and he replies with a groan, repeating the motion before hooking his arms around your thighs. He anchors himself and buries his mouth against you.
He sets about chasing your pleasure, eyes fixed on your face, not daring to look away. His gaze is intense but you don't have the heart to break it, not now, not when he's made it his personal mission to unravel you in all the gentlest ways.
Eventually, you can't help but let your head fall back against the bed, eyes screwed shut as he quickly learns what you enjoy.
He falls into a steady rhythm, flicking his clever tongue over you and listening as your noises rise in pitch. You drape an arm over your face, melting into the covers as you feel an oddly familiar spring begin to well up in the pit of your stomach. Your back arches ever-so-slightly off of the bed, and any thoughts that he might stop just before you tip over the peak are shattered as he doubles his efforts.
He slips a finger inside your tight heat, practically whimpering against your folds and sucking your clit in between his lips. He adds another finger and you writhe under him, hovering on the brink of something completely new. A quick glance reveals the way he grinds into the mattress, and that's ultimately what shoves you over the edge.
Your eyes clamp shut and you let out a long cry, your walls fluttering around his fingers as he draws out your pleasure for as long as he can. He sucks at you like you're the only thing keeping him alive; in the throes of your orgasm, you could believe it.
He pulls away only when you start whimpering from overstimulation. He strokes at your thighs, looking up at you with that same questioning glance as his touch gently guides you back down to earth.
His name falls from your lips as you melt into the mattress. He answers you with an open-mouthed kiss pressed against your inner thigh and a whisper, breathing your name like a tiny prayer, like he's evoking an ancient god.
You doubt he's ever prayed before, but if this is his idea of worship, then you wouldn't mind lying pretty atop your altar.
He moves gingerly, trailing kisses up your body until he captures your mouth again. You let out a moan into his lips, your lips parting. You taste yourself on his tongue and it's utterly intoxicating.
He pulls away reluctantly, only to look you in the eye with yet another silent question. You can feel him pressed against your thigh and you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, savoring the pure yearning that bleeds from every bone in his body. It stains his porcelain skin like watercolors and you hardly think as you nod.
He takes in a deep, slow breath as he undoes his pants, avoiding your gaze again as he palms his cock. You watch raptly as he strokes himself steadily, rising up onto his haunches and hissing softly when he puts weight on his bad knee - before you can move, let him lie on his back, he drags the tip over your swollen clit, allowing himself a tiny grin when he hears the noise you bite back.
Your entrance is slick and he slips slightly, finally catching and meeting your expectant gaze. His free hand strokes over your stomach, and you know he's waiting for permission, like he has all night. He asks if he can enter your apartment, he asks if there's anything you want from him, and even after he's made you come once he still asks if he can take this final step.
Your gaze is pleading, betraying nothing but need, and he lets out a groan as he finally begins to press forward.
Even though you're still basking in afterglow, the stretch is still intense. Your eyes roll back in your head and you let out a tiny, choked cry. When he bottoms out, his grip tightens on your thighs, and your name falls from his lips followed closely by a moan.
You feel completely malleable beneath his hands, pinned to your mattress with the sheer force of his adoration. You know he'd release you in an instant if you wanted him to, but you have no intention of ending this so soon. Not when he rocks experimentally and brushes against you just right, wrenching a pleasured sob from the back of your throat.
He drapes himself over you, scattering desperate kisses along your neck as he begins to move, thrusting into you slowly.
You cling to his shoulders, keeping him there with featherlight touches and soft noises that hardly make it past your lips. He can feel them, practically taste them through your neck, and he can't help but thrust a little harder, yearning to hear you properly.
Your legs hook around his waist, holding him there, and he seals his mouth over yours, swallowing the whimpers and cries you gift him with.
His kisses trail to your jaw, underneath your ear, down to the nape of your neck, before he scrapes his teeth over your pulse. Now that he has you, now that you've given yourself to him, he can't help but try and learn every inch of you. He acts like it's his duty to draw as much pleasure from your body as he can, plunging inside you deeper and harder until every one of your breaths is chased by a moan.
When you can finally summon words, you gasp his name. He meets your gaze and finds that seeing you is even better than simply listening to your voice.
He rises to his haunches again, ignoring the ache in his leg as the change in angle makes you keen. How could he care about his blasted knee when you're putting on such a divine show, just for him? He moves a hand to the spot where you're joined and rubs insistent circles over your clit, positively desperate to feel you come undone around his cock.
His thrusts grow slightly sloppy, his rhythm faltering as he feels your walls begin to flutter. His lips part, letting all manner of wanton noises escape him.
Your eyes flutter shut and your hips rock needily against his as you chase pleasure with him, and the friction proves to be just what you needed. Your orgasm hits you like a tsunami, washing over you and leaving your mouth hanging open in a silent cry.
He remembers in a moment of sheer panic that he forgot to use protection, and pulls out of you quickly. You let out a confused whimper at the sudden emptiness, until you see him spilling all over his hand.
You see an apology forming on his lips but you sit up gingerly, offering him a soft smile.
"I was going to take a bath," you say gently, "but... Maybe a shower would be better?"
He returns your smile, almost bashfully, and you decide that it's priceless.
