Going Bat Shit Crazy

Hi everyone!! I’m OldHalloweenTape and I’m an artist who writes. (19 y.o) / ADHD / any pronouns Multiple-fandom enjoyer Asks: OPEN

[oldhalloweentape]

☆☽Master list☾☆

The blog of a 19 y.o college student with a aspiration for writing with a side of art, requests : OPEN

(Will add more fandoms/characters to my roster if I’m asked to, within reason ofc)

Next Fandom to be added soon will be : DC

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞Rules!˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞 OVERWATCH MASTERLIST

DISNEY MASTERLIST

DC MASTERLIST

[oldhalloweentape]

HAPPY PRIDE MONTHHHHHHHHH WOOOOOO 🎉🎉🎉🎉

This month I hope to pick up where I left off with my writing, hopefully my writers block doesn’t hinder me no longer, ts sucks istg 🥀

[oldhalloweentape]

hi! sorry for dropping in randomly but i saw you guy mii and wanted to express how delighted i was to see someone actually use my tutorial of how i made my guy mii on tiktok 🥹💚 HE LOOKS SO GOOD !!! you even kept his big block nose and I LOVE HOW YOU DID HIS FRECKLES AAAA AND THE WAY YOU DREW HIS UNIFORM IS SO SMART .... my heart is so joyous .... thank you sm for liking my mii of him enough to follow my tutorial waaah ,,,

AHHHHHHHH Of course!! Dude your tutorial really helped me! I'm so happy you like my rendition! Also thank so much, I actually had some trouble with his uniform so I'm glad I was able to give it justice! My heart is equally as joyous!!! Sorry my ask box is a bit wonky so sorry if you had to wait!

You're like my favorite Guy Gardener artist so this means so so so so much omfg <333333

[twentytomidnight]

I made a mii for Guy he’s so silly dude

[phantoy]

Had a vision of Gideon as Doc Ock, couldn’t help myself

[oldhalloweentape]

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

[oldhalloweentape]

🐍Dr. Victor Gideon (RE9) x Reader (GN)💉

(NSFW Sub Victor Edition!)

(I've been thinking about doing this ever since I saw the man on my screen in an tiktok edit shortly after the release of the game, and with SEVERAL friends of mine adamantly supporting it, we'll see how this goes lol.) Word Count: 874 WARNING: 18+ Below the cut!!

Realistically speaking this would more than likely be the way anything sexual between Victor and you would happen at first he supposes when you first bring up the idea letting you on top, a man his age or his maturity would care what position he is in. In his mind, sex is sex, that and if you want this? Why not? It means less work for him– Win-win. That doesn’t mean he’ll make it easy for you though, far from it, the man is wicked in a cool, calm, and collected since, rarely showing his anger, having a sense of self that makes him feel more in control of situations– Which, to him, is especially important when he is being intimate with the person he’s let himself be a tad more vulnerable with than anyone else. 

He’s a fucking tease and he absolutely revels in it, that’s rather obvious to you– It’s tantalizingly frustrating, that silver tongue of his never wavering one second as he embracing you, when the times comes and it just you and him– The salaciousness is enough to make him drool slightly to himself in anticipation, even in a submissive position the man is practically surrounding you in every direction with not only his larger than life proportions, but his even leveled voice and a controlled articulation of tone that would seem like he isn’t even doing anything sexual in the first place– Not that he isn’t enjoying it, which he voices freely when you whine and pout at his lack of emotion, chuckling lowly at your plight, that is the farthest from the truth, he just likes take it slow… Which, translated, means he wants to make you feel overwhelmed. He is many things; an intense lover is not, surprisingly, one of them. Those two glowing yellow eyes, practically burrowing into you with every shift of your hips against his own, that cheshire-esque grin only growing.

Delving deeper into his words, he says just enough to aggravate but not enough to really pull you away from the experience, nothing outright insulting, though you don’t think it matters in the moment, when you have a rather grotesque mutated man’s dick inside of you, its mere size making movement somewhat of a struggle to take– Something he knows well and uses against you indefinitely, the bastard. Smooth words of praise with an underlying hunger laced in his chuckling that just grows and grows like a tumor as things delve into the downright explicit. It could last hours honestly, it’s like an addictive torture of the senses for you, both of you, for both the obvious and the more nuanced reasons. An obvious size difference for one, warm skin clashing against cold skin, panting from the exertion going into rutting against him to a pace that satisfies you. Then there’s the warm whispers from below, even lying down and not doing much, letting you take the reins, large hands gently encasing your thighs, an encouraging squeeze making you tense slightly before continuing. He still seemed to have an air of put-togetherness, whether it be due to his prior experience of his rather abnormal stamina, it only emboldens the pros of his forced evolution the more it goes on– 

He likes it when you put on a facade of control or at least try to compose yourself to match his own serenity, more fight, makes it all the more satisfying to see them unravel on top of him. The usual bite in your words devolving into ones of pleasure and desperation, the smell of it all, thick in the air, the warmth his cold-blooded body practically strived for making his tongue flick out, wanting to engrave every moment of this, down to the downright sinful groans blessing his ears making him practically preen in pride. Again, he’s a bastard, a menace, and it’s enough to push just about anyone, let alone a frustrated and determined you. After all, at the end of the day, he is just a man– Getting him a bit antsy if you deny him his orgasm, your words of annoyance at him and the furrow of your brow, so of course he’ll humor you, especially when you bounce with a ferocity that takes him aback just enough to turn him on all the more. Only then would his gaze waver and he finds himself wanting to do something about your lack of cooperation, trying to focus on something less stimulating to not give you satisfaction, trying to be teasing little shit as means of spurring this behavior further- Which more than likely works– And if you slap him because of it? Maybe grab his face to make him look you in the eyes once more? Ohohohohooo, loves it. 

Finds himself honestly preferring this far more than when he tops, that doesn’t mean he won’t. The man is an absolute pest when the relationship becomes sexual, a tease, a sadist, a greedy beast. But hey, at least there’s one person who keeps him in check.. Maybe you can figure out a way to get leash on him, get him to beg on his knees for more– Tug and yank at that long grey hair of his, wouldn’t that be fun?

(@helia-nera I distinctly remember telling you my plans for this post a while ago lol, I hope you like this!)

[oldhalloweentape]

🧪Scarecrow (DC) x Reader (GN)🎃

(Test Subject Reader Edition)

(Art is mine! Please, don’t steal, repost, feed to ai (FUCK AI), or distribute my art onto other platforms without my permission!)

(WARNING: Manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, psychological trauma, needle mentions

Ask here! Howdy hey my friends, this one in particular is very special to me, I’ve never really given any of my writing illustrations drawn by myself to go alongside it, I thought it’d interesting to make my own interpretation of the titular man considering anon didnt give me a specific version of the guy so… I hope you guys like this!)

Word Count: 1318

- As one might assume of Dr. Crane, he’s certainly not quick to warm up to anyone, let alone a test subject of his. Though there is a sense of dedication that goes into kidnapping them, or if he’s still a therapist at Arkham, or even if the reader is an unfortunate student of his during his time as a professor. 

- It’s all about timing, memorizing patterns, waiting for the time to strike, all the more smug when his plan works yet again– Trapping yet another unfortunate soul in his gangly grasp, another variable in his tests and experiments. 

- Even with that in mind, he takes the time to know them, at least knows enough to push the right buttons at first, he’s meticulous in that manner, his mouth calm as ever, silky and even, his composure nothing as you’d assume from someone who dresses up like a ghoulish version of a scarecrow.

- I think the way a test subject reader may get his attention more than the other “lab rats” would have to be if they act differently, maybe more compliant, or more defiant, or even the reader reacting abnormally to the fear toxin, regardless the doctor finds himself lingering around the reader longer than usual– The excuses of needing to do for the sake of his research steadily but surely, a flimsy guise with the manner he looks at them with an intensity that could make any reasonable soul shudder– 

- Then again, I think it’s safe to say being under the custody of someone as… Peculiar as Dr. Crane you’re only naturally going to pick up some of that same peculiarity, on top of being poked and prodded, with the inclusion of being tormented with auditory and visual hallucinations– Something I’m sure he has no qualms with spurring on for the sake of improvements in his toxin. 

- He’s never one to raise his voice when it comes to his test subjects, I think that’s the worse part of it all, you never know what he’s thinking, especially with that horrid mask, which I think he’d wear around the reader for a long time before revealing his true visage, usually more in favor of making others vulnerable than the other way around, only naturally of course. 

- Everything he does for the sake of “trust” is almost a ploy to get the reader to become more influenced by his words and actions, so to be someone they find themselves idolizing in some twisted sense that comes with his soft words and fleeting touches here and there that leaves them wanting more, as much as it makes them feel ashamed of themselves.

- Alongside that even tone, there’s a twinge of practiced serenity, previously solely clipped clinical speak it’d shift into something more, I wouldn’t exactly say considerate nor warm, but a sense of understanding, an understanding of the reader, maybe coaxing tales of childhood or traumatic experiences in such a seasoned manner that only a manipulator of his caliber could muster up with with a small grin all the while injecting the reader with a new modified version of his fear toxin.

- It escalates, slowly but surely leaving them out of any possible group experiments of fellow test subjects, isolating them, treating them in a certain manner tailored beautifully to their personality, contrasting with the usual subject. Which usually were either killed by his unethical work in a matter of weeks, or even months if they’re unfortunate enough, or saved by his deeply loathed foe and oddly clothed child lackeys, but when it comes to the reader, it would preferably last far longer than that. 

- And so, he keeps them tucked away, like a cherished doll in its own doll house. Breaking down their psyche bit by bit, enjoying every single second as he does so, makes him feel all the more powerful– Something an egoist such as himself would be practically frothing at the mouth for, it’s pitiful really. For both the reader AND himself, but does he care? No, no not one bit, having a kind “matter of fact” way of rationalizing it to himself when he finds himself wanting to keep the reader close, physical affection both alien and a manner of keeping the reader right where he wants them to be. 

- Anything pertaining to something more romantic is always underlined with something more sinister, always something the reader has to earn with how compliant they can be to his testing or their participation in his dubious work. Action, reward, compliance, affection, so on and so forth. 

- But don’t get him wrong, he always makes sure they’re alive and cared enough to be there for him, a constant in his unpredictable and unstable life– It wouldn’t surprise me if he finds some way to condition the reader into coming back to him when he breaks out, somehow almost always finds them and brings them “back home”. 

- Evidently it becomes obsessive, and it’d be debatable to say whether or not it’s romance or simply something that should have never happened. It’s something he’d honestly openly admit with a clipped coldness when he’s interrogated about the matter, lips sealed tightly when it comes to the questions about the reader's location, with the opinion, or rather the fact that the reader needs to have him as well, in both the romantic and literal sense. 

- If the reader proves to be rather interested or dedicated to the doctor's research, I do see him maybe incorporating them into his work, in a more research-oriented sense– Can’t risk the chance of them being taken away from him by the Batman if it were a more physical oriented work and there’s no shame in collaboration after all! I think the reader is one of the only people he’d trust with his work in all honesty, growing too old to hold any “petty” grudges against it… the irony is painful. The man isn't shy when it comes to teaching either, if they aren't as well versed in science as he is… Something he definitely revels in, feeling all the more superior in this troublesome relationship. 

- They are more familiar with the testing than anyone else, and wouldn’t it simply feel powerful to be the one doing the experimenting? He’s such an instigator when it comes to the reader's more sinister thoughts and urges, wanting them to lose more and more of themselves, to become clay he molds freely.

- Even if it isn’t the most logical thing to do, he simply can’t help himself when it comes to showing off his "magnum opus” and their work, having succeeded in twisting the reader's mind well enough to the degree of being dedicated to his work, to him. 

- He’s somewhat dedicated to them in that sense as well, appreciating how loved and cherished they make him feel at times when he feels subpar in any sense, which only makes his lies all the more sweeter as he encourages them to be the very worst they can be, though it’s only something he implies rather than outright says, always leaving room to convince the reader of one thing or another when it came to the narrative he wanted them to believe after so long of being in his company and his company alone, all the others simply second thought in the grand scheme of things.

- He’s absolutely messed up in the head in that sense I believe, and in some "perfect" world he has the reader feeding at the palm of his hand and letting the other force his gas into their air ways.

- He's always seemingly having a morbid fascination when it comes to what the mind can handle, what he could control, and with enough fear and manipulation he’s delighted to realize just how “broken” he can make them out to be. 

- He wants to be THE god of fear after all, why not have a worshiper?

(I tried to be as character accurate as I could be with my knowledge of various Jonathan Crane's in DC media, the ego, the fascination, and the cruelty. I hope I was able to depict a well enough interpretation of the character, he's always been one of my favorites!)

[oldhalloweentape]

You know, I think I'd love to see something with Scarecrow. He's my fav of the Rogue's Gallery and I'd love to see him being his spooky self. Maybe the GN Reader being his favorite test subject?

OUGH yes!!! I love Scarecrow sm, the whole concept of being so fascinated with fear that he engineers a toxin that stimulates it?? It’s such an interesting concept for sure! And he himself is so… Unique. A dynamic in which he forges a bond with a individual he’d usually just disregard in a professional and sterile manner is certainly a thing to sit on and articulate, I’ll work on this as soon as I can!

Thank you so so so much for this ask Anon!

(Edit: I’m gonna do something special with this one, so, keep your eyes peeled!)

[sickly-dollie]

The Researcher ⚛︎

TW:Angst, implied age gap

A/N: I was gonna make it a 2 parter because I wanted to simmer the dynamic. But it’s a one parter but we do see sweet lil Dr Gideon. I did research, for all the medical talk and a science joke lol also request are open teehee!

Word count: 36747

The fluorescent lights of the Umbrella Corporation labs hummed with a sterile, relentless energy, a sound you were quickly learning to associate with both profound discovery and deep seated dread. It had only been a few months since you’d graduated, your degree in virology a crisp new addition to your resume, and landing a position at Umbrella felt like seizing lightning in a bottle. This was the pinnacle, the place where the brightest minds converged to push the boundaries of science itself. You still walked through the corridors with a slight sense of unreality, your keycard feeling impossibly heavy with the responsibility it granted.

Your latest assignment confirmed it you were being transferred to the T-Virus research division. A thrill, sharp and cold, shot through you. This was the main event. Only the most promising researchers were even considered for the project, and you, fresh from academia, were being invited to the table. You squared your shoulders, smoothing the lapels of your white lab coat as you approached the high security airlock. The hiss of the pneumatics and the heavy click of the magnetic lock sealing behind you was a sound of finality, of crossing a threshold from which there was no return.

Your division head, a woman with a perpetually tired but sharp gaze, gave you a perfunctory smile. "Welcome to the team, Doctor. We're glad to have you." The tour was brisk and efficient, a whirlwind of cryostasis units, centrifuges humming at impossible speeds, and holographic displays of viral structures that shimmered like malevolent jewels. She led you to a sleek, sterile workstation, its surfaces gleaming under the unforgiving lights. "This will be your station. You'll be working directly under Dr. Victor Gideon on the cellular regeneration protocols."

The name sent a ripple of recognition through you. Victor Gideon. You’d seen him around the sprawling complex, a figure of quiet authority who moved with an unnerving stillness. He was older than most of the hotshot researchers, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, with a long, severe face and hair the color of polished steel tied back in a neat tail. He never seemed to rush, yet he was always present where it mattered. His politeness was a wellknown commodity, but it was a cold, distant sort of courtesy, the kind that created more space than it closed.

Ah, the new addition," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried easily over the hum of the equipment. It was calm, as you’d been told, but there was an undercurrent of something else there something vast and patient, like the deep ocean. "Dr. Gideon," you replied, trying to keep your own voice steady as you extended a hand. He took it, his grip firm and cool, his skin immaculate. "A pleasure. I trust your division head has briefed you on the gravity of our work."

"She has, sir. I'm eager to contribute."A flicker of something amusement, perhaps crossed his features. "Eagerness is a valuable fuel, but it is precision that forges results. We are not merely unlocking the secrets of cellular regeneration we are attempting to dictate the very language of life itself. The T-Virus is a demanding tutor." He gestured to the sophisticated equipment surrounding your station. "This is the finest technology Umbrella has to offer. It will respond to your skill, but only if your approach is flawless."

For the next hour, Gideon personally walked you through the protocols. He was a meticulous teacher, explaining the complex sequencing with a clarity that was both illuminating and intimidating. He spoke of the virus not as a disease to be eradicated, but as a tool to be mastered, a force to be harnessed. You found yourself hanging on his every word, your initial nervousness slowly being replaced by a profound sense of intellectual awe.

As he was demonstrating a delicate procedure on a sample, a faint, melodic phrase drifted from the small speakers built into the lab console. It was a piece by Bach, a cello suite you recognized instantly. You must have tensed slightly, because Gideon paused, his head tilting with birdlike curiosity.

"You have an appreciation for classical music?" he asked, his tone shifting subtly from instructional to inquisitive."I do," you admitted, a little surprised. "My mother was a concert pianist. It was the only thing she insisted I learn alongside my studies."

A genuine, if rare, smile touched his lips. It didn't warm his features so much as sharpen them, making him look more predatory. "An excellent foundation. The baroque masters understood complexity and order better than any modern scientist. Bach's counterpoint, for example... the way multiple independent voices weave together to create a perfect, inevitable whole. It is not unlike the mechanisms of a viral genome. Each part has its function, its own logic, and when combined correctly, they create something transcendent."

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time, you felt like you weren't just a new hire, but a potential peer. "We will get along well, Doctor. In this line of work, a mind that appreciates both the beauty of a cello and the elegance of a mutating retrovirus is a rare and valuable asset."

The days that followed settled into a demanding but fascinating rhythm. You arrived early, stayed late, and absorbed everything Gideon was willing to teach. He was a demanding mentor, his standards impossibly high, but his praise, when it came, was more rewarding than any formal commendation. You learned to anticipate his needs, to have the data sequenced and projected before he even asked. You learned the language of his silences, the subtle shift in his posture that signaled frustration, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his gaze that meant he was pleased.

You found yourself lingering after hours, not out of obligation, but because the quiet hum of the lab in the empty building had become a strange sort of sanctuary. It was during one of these late nights that the walls between you began to crumble. You were both hunched over a holographic display, a complex simulation of the T-Virus's protein folding patterns spiraling in the air between you. The simulation had been running for hours, and a persistent anomaly was frustrating your attempts to isolate the regenerative sequence.

"It's behaving like a quantum particle," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "The moment we try to observe its function directly, the entire structure collapses into a different state."

Gideon didn't look up from the display, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Ah, yes. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, as applied to virology. We can know its location or its velocity, but never both at once. Perhaps we should stop trying to observe it and just ask it politely what it's doing."

You blinked, then a small laugh escaped you. It was the first time you'd heard him make anything remotely resembling a joke, and the absurdity of it caught you off guard. The sound seemed to hang in the sterile air, fragile and out of place.

He finally turned his head, his pale eyes fixing on you. The smile that touched his lips this time was different. It was still sharp, still intelligent, but there was a flicker of something warmer, something almost human in it. "I was wrong about you," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

The statement caught you completely off guard. "Wrong about me, sir?"

"I had you pegged as another ambitious academic. Bright, certainly, but... predictable. Textbook. I see now that's not the case." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, a gesture that seemed to make him more open rather than closed off. "Not many people get my humor. It tends to be an acquired taste. Too niche."

You felt a blush creep up your neck, a strange mix of pride and embarrassment warming your cheeks. "I just... I see what you mean. It's like the virus has a personality. A stubborn one."

"Exactly," he affirmed, his smile widening by a fraction. "A stubborn, chaotic personality that refuses to conform to our models. It requires a certain... flexibility of thought to appreciate." He held your gaze for a moment longer than was strictly professional, and in that moment, the vast, imposing authority figure seemed to shrink, replaced by a man who was simply sharing a moment of connection with a likeminded soul. "You have that flexibility, Doctor. Don't ever lose it."

The air between you felt different then, charged with a new and unspoken understanding. The professional barrier of mentor and protégé was still there, but a chink had appeared in its facade. You were no longer just a student; you were a colleague, someone who could see the world and the virus through the same strange, complex lens as he could. And as you turned back to the simulation, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something far more dangerous, and far more compelling, than just research.

The latenight sessions became your shared ritual. The lab, empty and bathed in the cool glow of emergency lighting, transformed from a workplace into a private world that belonged only to the two of you. It was in these quiet hours that the formidable Dr. Gideon shed his armor, piece by piece. He’d speak of his past, not in detail, but in fragments the sterile rigidity of his own education, the frustration of brilliant ideas being stifled by lesser minds, his unwavering belief that the T-Virus was not a weapon, but the key to unlocking humanity’s ultimate potential.

You learned of his fondness for sweets through a casual comment one evening, a lament about the bland, pre packaged pastries in the executive lounge. It was a small, humanizing detail that stuck with you. The next time you planned a late night, you brought a small tin of homemade lemon shortbread cookies, the kind your mother used to bake. You felt a bit silly, a gesture almost quaint in the hightech environment of Umbrella, but you set the tin on a console anyway.

Gideon noticed it immediately. He paused in his explanation of a cellular mitosis anomaly, his gaze fixing on the simple tin. "What is this?" "Oh, just... cookies," you said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I remembered you said you liked sweet things. I baked them."

He was silent for a long moment, just staring at the tin as if it were an alien artifact. Then, with a slowness that was almost reverent, he lifted the lid. The scent of lemon and butter filled the sterile air. He picked one up, examining it with the same analytical intensity he’d apply to a viral sample, before taking a small, deliberate bite. The effect was instantaneous. The hard lines of his face softened, and his eyes closed for a fraction of a second. It was the most genuinely unguarded you had ever seen him.

"These are... exceptional," he said, his voice thick with an unfamiliar sincerity. "Thank you, Doctor." He used your title, but the way he said it felt more like your name.

From that night on, the dynamic between you shifted. The intellectual camaraderie remained, but it was now laced with a deliberate, playful tension. You found yourselves competing over who could brew the better pot of coffee, leaving obscure musical references for the other to decipher. Your conversations began to stray from virology to literature, to art, to the hypothetical futures you were both trying to build. His compliments became more personal, no longer just about your work but about your insight, your perspective, the way your mind worked.

Weeks melted into a comfortable, charged routine. You were leaning over the central console, side-by-side, trying to isolate a specific protein marker. The holographic display cast a blue, ethereal light on your faces. "If we could just stabilize the lysosomal chain," you murmured, pointing to a strand of light, "it would prevent the cellular degradation."

"Agreed," Gideon said, his voice a low rumble beside you. "But the bonding agent is too aggressive. We need to introduce a buffer." He reached for the data-slate on the console at the same moment you did.

Your fingers brushed against his.

It wasn't a dramatic collision, just a fleeting touch of skin on skin. But it was like an electric current surged through the quiet lab. His hand was warm, surprisingly so, and the contact sent a jolt straight up your arm. You both froze.

You pulled your hand back as if burned, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. You risked a glance at him, expecting his usual unreadable calm, but you were met with something entirely new.

For the first time since you'd met him, Victor Gideon was flustered.

A deep, uncharacteristic blush spread across his cheekbones, a faint pink that was shockingly visible against his pale skin. His composure, his impenetrable wall of control, had vanished. He looked away from you, his gaze fixed on a meaningless point on the far wall as he cleared his throat, a rough, awkward sound. He ran a hand through his silver hair, a gesture of agitation you’d never seen him make.

"My apologies," he said, his voice strained and tight. "I... I should have watched where I was reaching."

The sight of him so discomposed, so utterly human in his awkwardness, was more disarming than any calculated charm could have been. The formidable, untouchable scientist was gone, replaced by a man who seemed as startled by the simple touch as you were. And in that moment of shared vulnerability, you knew with absolute certainty that your relationship had crossed a line from which there was no turning back.

The weeks that followed the accidental touch were a dance of deliberate near misses and charged glances. The air in the lab crackled with an unspoken question, a tension that was both exhilarating and exhausting. Your late nights grew later, your conversations more personal, yet he never again crossed the physical threshold. The memory of his flustered reaction became a quiet, private anchor for you, proof that beneath the controlled scientist was a man who could be moved.

You were both running on fumes. A particularly grueling 72hour cycle had just ended, leaving the lab in a state of organized chaos and you both in a state of profound exhaustion. It was a rare, synchronized day off, a quirk of the scheduling system that felt like a small miracle. As you stumbled towards the breakroom in search of the strongest coffee available, your eyes felt like they were lined with sandpaper.

Gideon was right behind you, his usually impeccable posture slightly slumped. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than you'd ever seen them, a testament to the hours he'd poured into the project. You both reached for the coffee pot at the same time, another in a long series of choreographed coincidences. This time, however, you both pulled back with a hesitant awkward chuckle.

"I think we've earned this," you said, your voice raspy with fatigue.

"Immensely," he agreed, his gaze lingering on you. He seemed to wrestle with something internally, his jaw working slightly as he stared into his coffee mug as if seeking guidance from the dark liquid. He took a breath, a deep, steadying inhalation that seemed to cost him considerable effort. "Doctor... (L/N)," he began, correcting himself with a slight stumble. "I was wondering if you are not otherwise occupied this evening... if you would perhaps like to get dinner with me."

The question was delivered with a stiff, formal awkwardness that was utterly endearing. It was the ask of a man who had spent decades devoting every fiber of his being to his work, a man for whom social rituals were a foreign language. He looked almost pained by the effort, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that was both vulnerable and hopeful.

A slow smile spread across your face, chasing away some of the exhaustion. "I'd like that very much, Victor."

A wave of visible relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. Emboldened, you decided to push a little further. "Actually, there's an exhibit on Dutch Golden Age painting that just opened at the city museum. I've been dying to see it, but I haven't been able to find the time." You watched his reaction carefully, adding, "I know it's a bit of a stretch from virology."

To your surprise, his expression lit up with genuine interest. "Not at all. Rembrandt, Vermeer the masters of light and shadow. The way they could render a simple moment with such profound depth is a form of science in itself. The manipulation of pigments and oils to create an illusion of realit it's not so different from what we do, just on a different canvas." He looked at you, his smile now confident and warm. "I would enjoy that immensely."

"Then it's a date," you said, the words feeling natural and right.

The drive into the city was a world away from the sterile corridors of Umbrella. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of the normal world. The museum was quiet, a hushed reverence hanging in the air as you walked through the grand halls.

He was a different person outside the lab. Gone was the mentor, the authority figure. In his place was a man who could discourse for ten minutes on the revolutionary use of chiaroscuro in a Rembrand portrait, his voice low and passionate. He pointed out the subtle details you would have missed the delicate glint of light on a pearl earring, the intricate weave of a lace cuff. He saw the art not just as beauty, but as a complex system of technique and emotion, and sharing that perspective with you felt more intimate than any touch.

Dinner was at a small, quiet Italian restaurant he'd chosen. Over glasses of red wine and plates of pasta, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You talked about everything and nothing you’re favorite books, your childhood dreams, your frustrations with bureaucracy. He, in turn, shared small, carefully chosen pieces of his own life, his loneliness, his singular focus, his quiet awe at the world he was trying to understand. He listened to you with an unwavering intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room.

As the evening drew to a close and he drove you back to your apartment, the comfortable silence between you was filled with a new, deeper understanding. He parked the car, the engine ticking softly in the quiet night. He turned to you, his face illuminated by a nearby streetlamp, his expression soft and open.

"Thank you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice sincere. "I..I had forgotten what it felt like to spend an evening like this. To simply be."

"It was my pleasure, Victor," you replied, your heart swelling with an emotion that was too powerful, too terrifying to name. "I had a wonderful time."

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, a deliberate, tender touch that was worlds away from the accidental brush in the lab. It was a promise. "I hope," he said softly, "this is the first of many."

The next few months were a carefully constructed secret, a life lived in the stolen hours between your professional obligations. Your romance bloomed in the quiet corners of the world outside Umbrella in dimly lit restaurants, on rainy afternoon walks through city parks, and in the hushed reverence of museum halls. Victor was a devoted, if sometimes formal, partner. He remembered details about your conversations with an uncanny precision, surprised you with first-edition books he thought you'd love, and held your hand with a fierce, protective grip, as if afraid the world might try to pull you away.

But within the sterile, watched environment of the lab, you were colleagues once more. The easy intimacy you shared outside vanished behind a wall of professional necessity, replaced by coded glances and the subtle language of shared understanding. It was a frustrating duality, and as your feelings for him deepened into something profound and all-consuming, the strain began to show.

You were in his private office, a space you were now privileged to enter, late one evening. A rare thunderstorm was rattling the windows, the sound a stark contrast to the hum of his computer. He'd been quiet all evening, a thoughtful stillness about him that was different from his usual focus.

He finally turned from his monitor, his pale blue eyes finding yours in the low light. "This duality is becoming untenable," he said, his voice low and serious. "This separation of our lives. The Victor who walks through these halls and the Victor who dines with you they are beginning to feel like two different men, and I find I have no desire to be the former anymore."

Your heart gave a nervous lurch. "Victor, what are you saying?"

He stood and crossed the room to where you sat, taking your hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding. "I am saying that I wish to make this official. Not just to ourselves, but in a way that acknowledges what this is. I want you to be my partner, in every sense of the word."

The words you had longed to hear were spoken, but they were immediately followed by a cold wave of fear. "Victor, no," you whispered, pulling your hands back slightly. "We can't. If anyone at Umbrella found out our careers, everything we've worked for... they'd separate us. They'd reassign one of us, or worse. It's against half a dozen corporate protocols."

He didn't look surprised by your reaction. He simply watched you, his expression calm and analytical, as if he had already run the probabilities. "It is a calculated risk," he stated, his voice even. "I have weighed the variables. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet. The potential consequences are significant, I grant you. But the alternative the alternative is to continue this fractured existence. And I find the emotional cost of that is far greater than any professional risk."

Before you could formulate another protest, he leaned in, closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours, not with the gentle, tentative warmth you were used to, but with a fierce, desperate passion. It was a kiss born of months of restraint, a kiss that tasted of forbidden desire and absolute certainty. It claimed you, silencing your fears with a force that left you breathless and clinging to the lapels of his coat for support.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly ragged, a rare sign of exertion. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment. "My apologies," he murmured, his voice husky and strained. "That was perhaps too forward."

You shook your head, unable to find your voice.

A faint, selfdeprecating smile touched his lips. "It has been a long while," he confessed, his honesty disarming you completely. "A very long while since I have allowed myself to be with someone. I seem to have forgotten my own restraint."

The vulnerability in his admission, the raw, unguarded need he had just shown you, shattered the last of your reservations. The risks were real, but looking at him now, seeing the man who had built walls around his heart for a lifetime letting you in, you knew you couldn't turn back. You reached up and cupped his face, your thumb stroking his cheek.

"Don't apologize," you said softly, your own voice thick with emotion. "Just don't let it be such a long while next time."

The official announcement came via a memo on a crisp Tuesday morning: a mandatory, all-hands-on-deck meeting with the Umbrella executive board to discuss the Raccoon City trials. It was a rare summons, one that pulled even the most dedicated project leads away from their work. Victor, ever the dutiful soldier, straightened his tie and gave you a look of profound regret.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," he murmured, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment too long. "Lock the lab behind me. Don't let anyone in without proper clearance."

"I'll be fine," you assured him, though the idea of being alone in the highsecurity lab without his steady presence was unnerving. "Just focus on your meeting. Try not to tell them they're all idiots."

A rare, genuine grin touched his lips. "I make no promises." With a final, lingering glance, he was gone, the heavy door of the lab hissing shut behind him, leaving you in a silence that felt suddenly vast and empty.

The other researchers, a handful of junior scientists, were engrossed in their own workstations, their focus absolute. The lab hummed with a low, productive energy. You turned back to your console, pulling up the latest sequencing data. You had a new hypothesis to test, a potential vector for slowing the T-Virus's aggressive cellular replication. It was delicate work, requiring the utmost concentration.

You were transferring a concentrated viral sample from the cryo-stasis unit to a petri dish for observation. The procedure was routine, something you had done dozens of times under Victor's watchful eye. But as you maneuvered the cryo vial, a fellow researcher at a nearby station dropped a beaker with a loud clatter. The sudden, sharp noise made you flinch, your hand jerking just as you were uncapping the vial.

Time seemed to slow into a horrifying, crystalline nightmare. A single, microscopic droplet of the shimmering, silver-green liquid, invisible to the naked eye, arced through the air and landed directly on your wrist, just below the cuff of your glove. It was nothing, a speck so small it was instantly absorbed by your skin. But in the sterile, deadly environment of the lab, it was everything.

A cold, paralyzing horror washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart seizing in your chest. You stared at the spot on your wrist as if you could will the contamination away. For a terrifying second, there was nothing. Then, a faint, tingling coldness began to spread from the point of contact, a sickeningly familiar sensation you had only ever read about in pathology reports.

Your career was over. Your life, as you knew it, was over. They would quarantine you, dissect you, and you would become just another cautionary tale in an Umbrella file. But the most soul-crushing thought, the one that sent a wave of nausea through you, was Victor. You had just promised him a future. You had just let him breach every wall he had ever built. And now, you were a walking time bomb, a betrayal of everything you had just sworn to him.

Panic, pure and undiluted, threatened to consume you. But then, his voice echoed in your mind, calm and rational even in the face of chaos. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet...The emotional cost is far greater than any professional risk.

You had to be discreet. You had to be rational. You couldn't let them take you. You couldn't lose him.

Taking a shuddering breath that felt like inhaling glass, you forced your trembling hands to move. You calmly removed your gloves, disposed of them in the biohazard incinerator, and quickly sanitized your hands and workstation, your movements precise and practiced, a mask of normalcy you had to maintain. The other researchers hadn't noticed a thing.

But you could feel it. A strange, alien energy was beginning to thrum just beneath your skin, a low hum of power that was both terrifying and, in a horrifying way, fascinating. You had to work. You had to use the time you had.

Your mind, sharpened by desperation and months of his tutelage, raced through the data. You couldn't stop the infection, not completely. But you could slow it. You remembered a failed experiment of Victor's, a retroviral inhibitor designed to put the T-Virus into a dormant state. It had been deemed too unstable, its side effects unpredictable. It was your only chance.

With a speed and precision born of pure terror, you began synthesizing the compound. Your hands shook, but your focus was absolute. You worked frantically, pulling up Victor's old notes, cross-referencing the molecular structures, making tiny adjustments on the fly. It was a race against your own biology. Finally, you had it: a syringe filled with a murky, unstable-looking liquid. There was no time for proper testing. Without a second's hesitation, you plunged the needle into your arm and injected the entire vial.

The effect was instantaneous. A searing, agonizing pain shot through your veins, as if your very blood was on fire. You doubled over, biting back a scream as the retroviral agent warred with the T-Virus inside you. It felt like you were being torn apart and stitched back together at the same time. After a few moments that stretched into an eternity, the pain subsided, leaving you weak, trembling, and slick with a cold sweat. The alien hum under your skin was still there, but it was quieter now, muffled. You had bought yourself time. You didn't know how much, but it was something.

You had just cleaned away all evidence of your frantic work and slumped back into your chair, your body aching, when the lab door hissed open. Victor strode in, his expression grim and tired. "The meeting was a waste of time," he said, rubbing his temples. "They are fools, all of them. They cannot see the..."

He stopped mid sentence, his eyes fixing on you. The mask of normalcy you had so carefully constructed felt like it was about to crack. You forced a weak smile, hoping the dim lighting would hide the pallor of your skin.

"Rough meeting?" you asked, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.

He crossed the room in three long strides, his gaze narrowing with analytical concern. He saw you then not the competent researcher, not the secret lover but a version of you that was frayed at the edges. "You look unwell," he stated, his voice low and serious. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Just tired," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I was trying to push through that new inhibitor protocol and I think I overdid it. A headache."

His expression softened from concern to something more tender. He reached out, his cool palm coming to rest against your forehead. The simple, caring gesture was like a dagger to your heart. "You're burning up," he said, his brow furrowed. "This isn't just a headache. You need to rest."

"I'm fine," you insisted, pulling back slightly, terrified he would feel the subtle, unnatural thrumming beneath your skin. "Really, Victor. Just a long day."

He studied your face, his piercing blue eyes searching yours for the truth you were desperately hiding. For a heartstopping moment, you thought he saw it. But then, he seemed to accept your explanation, attributing your state to the exhaustion he understood all too well.

"Alright," he conceded, though he didn't look convinced. "But we are done for the day. I'm taking you home. And tomorrow, you will rest. No arguments."

You could only nod, a wave of guilt and relief washing over you. He thought you were just overworked. He didn't know. As he helped you from your chair, his arm a strong, supportive presence around your waist, you leaned into him, a silent, traitorous part of you drawing comfort from the very man you were lying to. You had kept your secret. You had bought your time. But as he led you out of the lab, you felt more alone than ever, a prisoner in your own body, with the clock inside you quietly, relentlessly, ticking away.

The next three years were a fragile, stolen paradise, built on the foundation of a terrible secret. Your love for Victor had become the single, bright point in your life, a sanctuary against the encroaching darkness of the T-Virus dormant within you. He remained your devoted partner, your intellectual equal, the one person in the world who felt like home. He saw your occasional fatigue, the moments when you’d zone out, the low-grade fevers, and he’d simply wrap you in his arms, blaming the stress of your work, never imagining the truth that was slowly rewriting your very cells.

That fragile world shattered when the subpoenas arrived. The official seal of the government tribunal glowed on the data-slate, a stark harbinger of doom. They were calling key Umbrella personnel to testify. Your names were on the list.

Victor read the message, and for the first time since you’d known him, you saw raw, unadulterated fear in his eyes. It wasn't for himself, but for you. The data-slate trembled in his hand before he set it down with a sharp, deliberate click.

"No," he whispered, the word a vow. "They will not get their hands on you. I will not let them take you."

He began to pace, his movements sharp and agitated, a caged animal protecting its most precious treasure. "They don't care about justice. They want scapegoats. They want to parade us before the world, tear our lives apart, and when they're done, they'll throw us in some dark hole and forget about us. I know how these things work. I know what they do to people." He stopped in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he were afraid you might vanish. "I will not let that happen to you. I would burn the world to the ground before I let them lay a finger on you."

His voice cracked with an emotion you had never heard from him, a desperate, protective fury that was both terrifying and deeply moving. "They can't force a spouse to testify against their partner. It's one of the few legal absolutes they respect." He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "I know this is... sudden. But it's the only way. Marry me. Here. Now. Let me protect you. Let me be your shield."

This wasn't about strategy or legacy. This was about you. Seeing the raw terror in his eyes, the visceral need to keep you safe, you knew there was only one answer. You nodded, your own eyes filling with tears. "Yes," you whispered. "Yes, Victor."

A wave of profound relief washed over his features. "Thank you," he breathed, before pulling you into a fierce, desperate embrace. "I love you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "God help me, I love you more than I have ever thought possible. You... you see me. You understand the parts of me I thought were dead. You get my mind, my obsessions, my silences... you get it all in a way no one ever has. I cannot lose that. I cannot lose you."

Two hours later, in a quiet, sterile municipal office, you stood before a magistrate. There was no one else in the world but the two of you. When Victor slipped the simple platinum band onto your finger, his touch was reverent, his eyes locked on yours. The words of the ceremony were a blur, a distant hum. The only thing that was real was the promise in his eyes: I will keep you safe.

As you left the office, his arm was a steel band around your waist, holding you close. "Phase one," he said, his voice regaining its customary calm, though the emotion still lingered beneath the surface. "Now, we disappear. We need a fortress. A place where they can't find us, a place where I can build a world for us."

His target was the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. It had been a premier facility, owned by the Spencer Foundation, but had fallen into disuse after the Foundation's collapse. It was perfect isolated, self sufficient, and equipped with laboratories that were far more advanced than anything the public knew about.

Using the vast, hidden resources he had meticulously accumulated over the years, Victor purchased the entire institution outright. It wasn't just a building; it was a fortress, a sanctuary, a promise.

A month later, you drove through the imposing iron gates of Rhodes Hill. The main building was a grand, Gothic structure of stone and glass, standing silent and solemn against the sky. It was a ghost ship, but to you, it was an ark.

As you stood in the grand, dustchoked lobby, Victor came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. He held you tightly, as if you were the most precious thing in his new kingdom.

"They will never find us here," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble against your ear. "This is our home now. Our sanctuary. I will spend the rest of my life making sure nothing and no one ever hurts you again." He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "You're safe now, my love. I've got you."

The first few months at Rhodes Hill were a whirlwind of purpose. Victor threw himself into his new role with a singular focus, transforming the dusty, forgotten hospital into a fully staffed, state of the art research facility. You worked beside him, channeling your nervous energy into creating a home. The stark, sterile walls were soon covered in rich tapestries, the cold labs warmed by soft lighting, and the grand lobby filled with comfortable furniture. It was a strange, beautiful hybrid of cutting edge science and personal sanctuary, a castle built to keep the world at bay. For a while, it almost felt normal.

The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon. You were in the main library, a room you had personally decorated, trying to catalog a new shipment of medical texts. A wave of dizziness washed over you so suddenly you had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling. A low, familiar hum began to thrum under your skin, a sound only you could hear, growing louder and more insistent. The room swam in and out of focus, the titles on the book blurring into meaningless shapes. Then, the world simply went black.

You woke up to the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor and the sterile, antiseptic smell of a hospital room. But this wasn't just any hospital room. It was one of the private suites at Rhodes Hill, one you had personally overseen the decoration of. Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and your breath hitched. A crystal vase, filled to the brim with your favorite flowers beautiful blue irises and white lilies sat there, their fragrance a stark contrast to the clinical environment. Victor had remembered.

The door opened quietly, and he stepped inside. He had discarded his lab coat, his expression unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes were hollowed out, ravaged by a grief so profound it seemed to have aged him years in a matter of hours. In his hand, he held a datapad, its screen displaying a complex, double-helix structure that was sickeningly familiar.

He saw you were awake, and he simply stood there for a long moment, the silence in the room heavier than any accusation. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, rough whisper, stripped of all its usual composure. "All this time."

Your eyes welled with tears, blurring his form. "Victor, I..."

"Why?" he asked, the single word cracking with a pain that went straight to your heart. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tears began to spill over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "I didn't want you to be worried," you choked out, the excuse sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "I was so scared. I thought... I thought I could fix it. I didn't want to lose you. I couldn't bear for you to look at me the way you're looking at me now."

He crossed the room in a few strides, setting the datapad down on the table with a sharp click. He didn't touch you, but his presence was a tangible force, a storm of anguish and fury. "Lose me?" he repeated, his voice rising with a devastating, heartbroken incredulity. "You thought I would leave you? You thought my love was so conditional, so fragile, that it would break because you were hurt? I swore an oath to protect you, and you were dying right in front of me, and you didn't trust me enough to let me help you!"

He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I have spent months building this fortress, this entire world, to keep you safe. And the entire time, the enemy was already inside the gates. And you let it in, and you didn't even give me the chance to fight it with you."

When he turned back to you, the fury was gone, replaced by a bottomless well of sorrow. He sank into the chair beside your bed, his gaze fixed on the flowers as if he couldn't bear to look at you. "I swore to you I would find a cure," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but resonating with a terrible, unshakeable resolve. "I swear it again. I will tear this world apart, molecule by molecule, if that's what it takes. I will not let you go. Do you understand me? I will not lose you."

The discovery of your infection broke something fundamental in Victor. The careful, controlled scientist was eclipsed by a man consumed by a singular, allencompassing purpose: to save you. In his frantic research, he unearthed a project so deeply buried it was practically myth: Project Elpis. Named for the Greek personification of hope, it was Spencer's most ambitious and horrific initiative—a program dedicated to forced evolution and cellular regeneration, using human subjects as raw material. It was a Pandora's Box of unethical experimentation, and in his desperation, Victor was willing to open it.

Rhodes Hill, once a sanctuary, transformed into a place of quiet horror. The lower levels, once storage, were converted into sterile, windowless laboratories. People began to arrive transients, the homeless, those who wouldn't be missed lured by promises of shelter and work. They became his test subjects, his raw materials for Project Elpis. You were confined to your hospital suite, a gilded cage growing more gilded as your condition worsened, the sounds of muffled screams and the scent of antiseptic sometimes wafting up from the floors below.

Victor became a grim, spectral figure in your life. Every day, without fail, he would visit you. He would arrive with a single, perfect red rose, replacing the one from the day before in the vase by your bed. He would sit with you for hours, reading to you from books on genetics and philosophy, his voice a low, steady drone against the weakness that consumed you. He would tell you of his progress, his words a careful mix of scientific jargon and desperate reassurance, but you could see the truth in his eyes. Each failure etched new lines of sorrow onto his face, each dead end chipped away another piece of his soul.

Your strength faded with the passing weeks. The virus, though slowed by your initial injection, was relentless. Getting out of bed became an impossible feat, your muscles too weak, your bones too heavy. You were a prisoner in your own body, and Victor was your warden, your savior, and your tormentor all in one.

One evening, he came to you not with a rose, but with a grim finality. He looked haggard, his lab coat rumpled, his eyes burning with a feverish, unholy light. He sat on the edge of your bed, his weight a familiar comfort, and took your frail hand in his. His touch was gentle, but you could feel a new, raw power thrumming just beneath his skin.

"I have been experimenting," he began, his voice raspy. "The human body is too fragile. Too slow. My mind is willing, but my flesh is weak. I cannot afford weakness. Not anymore."

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and your breath caught in your throat. In the center of his chest, a brutal, angry scar was carved into his flesh, a jagged starburst of red and black tissue. At its center, something pulsed with a faint, sickening bioluminescence.

"I have implanted myself with a newly modified Nemesis-γ parasite," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing a simple surgical procedure. "It is... a symbiotic fusion. It grants me the strength, the durability, the accelerated healing I need. It allows me to retain my mind, my will, while giving me the body to endure what is necessary. To protect you."

Tears streamed silently down your face. He had done this. He had turned himself into a monster, all for you.

He leaned closer, his pale blue eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and deeply comforting. "I want you to listen to me, my love," he whispered, his grip on your hand tightening. "I do not care who I have to hurt. I do not care how many people have to be sacrificed on this altar. I will tear down every law of God and man to find your cure. You will not leave me. Do you understand?"

You could only manage a weak nod, your heart aching with a love and terror so profound it was indistinguishable.

"You will make this," he vowed, his voice cracking with the weight of his promise. "You will hold on. Because I am coming for you. I am coming to rip this disease out of you, and I will burn this entire world to ashes to do it."

[oldhalloweentape]

This-- This right here? A piece of art, this needs far more love than what it has currently. I have no words to articulate just how incredible this one is.

[oldhalloweentape]

🐧Penguin (2004 The Batman) x Reader (GN)☂️

(Confession Edition)

(Had a little conversation with a mutual on my tiktok pertaining to this particular version of the Penguin, and I figured "Why not start with this one for my DC fics?" And thus, this is the result. Hope you all enjoy this!)

Word Count: 1363

- This sleazy, greasy, prideful ball of spite– Who could possibly resist such an eligible and charming bachelor? No one! No one at all. At least, that’s what he claims, all the bravado he flaunts about like a peacock, a somewhat clever disguise for the ever present insecurity one gets when they are born, well, different than others in a setting in which image is everything– And when someone catches his eye in a manner that doesn’t have any underlying scheme or any glittery jewel to snatch for the ever growing fortune in his three-fingered clutches, it’s new, notably when the reader seems to respect him in a way that seems genuine, considering his ideas, his thoughts, his opinions, etc.

- It’s new in a way that is both terrifying, but incredibly alluring, and I don’t think he’s afraid when it comes to saying as such, though it’s concealed a bit with a sort of vagueness in which he can deny any deeper feelings till the “time is right”-- The man is a smooth flirt in the sense that it can come off as a kind of surface lasciviousness that he can simply deny if seems to not have the effect he wants it to have, he’s slippery like that. Then again, you can only do that for so long till you tire yourself out, with this sentiment being shared with Oswald, who is not necessarily known for his patience by any means.

- All that time spent being a sly thief who steals under the very noses of the people he tries to impress, it really shows during those moments of tension, comes off as manipulation to get something he wants if you know him to a degree, an angle that he doesn’t necessarily intend, his displeasure present when the reader says something about his “tricks” not working when he tries to sweet talk them in a manner in which he believes is convincing–

- Because he means it sincerely, but, all of Gotham knows that Penguin is the kind of person you simply have to be wary of, ally (if the reader is a villain of some sort) or not (if the reader is a hero/citizen of Gotham).

- It’s something he curses to the wind when he’s alone or with his silent nonchalant bodyguards the kabuki twins, his birds squawking noisily to themselves at their master's plight and failed attempts at initiating romance–

- It’s sad really, seeing him trying to find the right words to express his affections in a manner that is as sincere as he believes it to be in a way that will drive the point across and get the reader to fall into his arms in the way he imagines in his day dreams, distracting him when he’s trying to think of some new way of getting some coin.

- He hates to say it or even think about it, but he finds himself yearning, yes yearning, for that mushiness– Their eyes looking at him with a longing, their touch gentle and purposeful– The more time is spent not getting it, it only makes him want it even more. Only amplifying his desperation to have it, and as someone who was incredibly spoiled as a child, it’s an alien feeling to not get what he wants the second he wants it.

- His fixation is made abundantly clear to the people who know him, his fellow villains, and that loathsome Batman specifically, with Alfred saying his two cents on the matter with a quirk of a brow when Bruce tells him about the new object of longing and frustration to the titular crook offhandedly as he works on some new bat gadget.

- There’s only so much a man can take, especially a Cobblepot, I mean, he’s a man of high pedigree! They should be practically begging him for his affection, he doesn’t treat anyone else in this manner- Why are they taking this so lightly? It hikes up to a significant degree when he starts gifting his “songbird” luxurious gifts, sometimes basing his thieving plans to simply get something he believes the reader may like, trying to consider them in a manner that he wouldn’t with anyone else–

- On top of trying to take them to nice places to show off his “importance” in society, throwing money about to show just how important he believes the reader to be– Trying to be as “well behaved” as he can manage, which can only last for so long when he almost always has a certain darkly clothed bat costume wearing freak nipping at his coattails.

- He is certainly not the luckiest man, it’s something that he and his family rather lack due to their flawed ways of thinking and acting, so, one can only imagine the many ways his attempts at wooing the reader go– But the effort is almost always there, and while it may be bizarre in nature, it’s still there, and after a while it’s evident that with the consistency he has gone painful degrees of trying to express this it’s at least something that seems abnormal to the manner in which he usually goes about things.

- He usually is quick to drop something if it isn’t working for him in favor of something else in an effort to get some new shiny thing, but no, no this is something new entirely.

- Even the most densest of people would be able to see that, and it would probably have to be the responsibility of the reader to sit down with him and either fully articulate their rejection or acceptance of his romantic gestures.

- The previous choice being either perceived as the reader acting “hard to get” if they don’t absolutely spell it out or boiling into a rageful renouncement of the reader– He has a habit of expressing himself in the most dramatic way possible as we all know.

- The latter option is met with a brief sense of disbelief till an overwhelming sense of triumph floods that little body of his in waves. That day is forever engrained into his brain as one of his most successful and ego boosting moments of his life, treating the reader like the most valuable thing he has ever gotten ahold of in his possession.

- As his lover, you’re only naturally going to sucked into all factors of his life, which includes the more illegal side, that’s simply an inevitably whether you’re a citizen or hero– With him zealously proclaiming that to love him you have to love ALL of him, which is true, with it being such a big chunk of who he is.

- I think for a romantic relationship to work in the long run the reader either has to be complacent in that matter or fully participate in some way, like helping him evade the clawed clutches of the bat, which is something he wouldn’t take lightly– It’s a sacrifice that he is very thankful for despite what others may think- And god forbid the reader gets incarcerated or sent to the Asylum for it, almost always finding some way of getting them out of there whether or not he’s outside or not. I just think he’d be devoted in that manner.

- Adding onto this, he’s very protective, like a pissed off emperor penguin when someone tries to threaten the life of his mate he’s ferocious, never letting anyone to get their hands on something that is his– Especially when it comes to one of the only people who seems to value him in a manner that is certainly not common considering how conniving he can be.

- He's the type of person to desire a love that is deep and endless, because when he feels, he feels deeply and impulsively, and having someone like that at his side I reckon would make him feel reasonable for once, that what he feels is something that is not only shared but almost celebrated.

- In a nutshell, I think he’d inadvertently mess things up at times but he means everything in a very strong manner, not afraid of coming off as brash, especially when it comes to love.

(My first ever fic pertaining to any DC Character, I hope this is as character accurate as it can be. I pride myself on being able to at least gauge a character and their personality to a decent degree, hope it was a good read <3)

[oldhalloweentape]

REQUESTS FOR DC ASKS!!!!

Ahem-- PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE--

Thx for lookin lolz

[oldhalloweentape]

DC FIC MASTERLIST

Character List!

Heroes

Villains

The Penguin

- The Penguin (2004) x reader |GN| (Confessions)

The Scarecrow

- The Scarecrow (General) x reader |GN| (Test Subject Reader)

[oldhalloweentape]

DC Character List

Post by @oldhalloweentape · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 1  ❤️ 34 · ☆☽Master list☾☆ · The blog of a 19 y.o college student with a aspiration for writing with a side of art, requests : OPEN

Existing fics here! ^

(Note: You can specify certain versions of characters if really want to, for example the 2004 The Batman versions, The Brave & The Bold, etc.)

Yes! Sure Maybe? Brother who??

HEROES

Batman

Superman

Supergirl

Wonderwoman

Green Lantern (Guy Gardener, John Stewart, Hal Jordan, Kyle Raynor, Kilowag)

The Flash

Blue Beetle

Firestorm

Zatana

Plastic Man (Pre/post superpowers)

Aquaman

Green Arrow

Black Canary

Booster Gold

Martian Manhunter

Hawkman

Hawkgirl

Nightwing

Redhood

Red Robin

Mr. Terrific

VILLAINS

Batman's Rogue gallery:

The Penguin

The Riddler

Two-Face

Killer Croc

Poison Ivy

The Joker (Even though I'm a notorious clown lover, I hate most versions of him besides the 2004 ver. Sorry Joker fans!)

Harley Quinn

The Creeper

Scarecrow

Catwoman

Bane

Professor Pyg

Polka Dot Man (YES YES YES YES-)

Ra's al Ghul

Talia al Ghul

Killer Moth

Clayface

Mad Hatter

Man-Bat

Mr. Freeze

Black Mask

Mister Zsasz

Firefly

The Ventriloquist & Scarface

Hush

Cluemaster (I have a particular softness for the 2004 the Batman version, I think he's such a loser lmaoooo)

Calendar Man

Deadshot

Superman's Villains:

Lex Luthor

Bizarro

Lobo

Livewire

Brainiac

Darkseid

Doomsday

Toyman

Mister Mxyzptlk

Black Adam

Flash's Villains:

Reverse Flash

Rag Doll (2004 ver. exclusively, that freak was so interesting)

Captain Boomerang

(tbh, there's so many villains/heroes, so, as to not make this list any longer than it already is, send in an ask of the specific character and maybe I'll know who they are and will write for them accordingly.)

[stealingpotatoes]

happy ides of march i 3D modelled Caesar so i could make him do fortnite dances

[oldhalloweentape]

Don’t usually post my art but I felt like this needed to be posted. This is Spitebite, or Helena Chavez, a DC oc I made that’s a vampiric moth monster.

Happy early Valentine’s Day I guess 💀

[oldhalloweentape]

To add onto this

Here’s the redesign

[oldhalloweentape]

Disney Character List

Post by @oldhalloweentape

💬 0  🔁 1  ❤️ 34 · ~*~~Master list~~*~ · Rules! OVERWATCH MASTERLIST ATLANTIS MASTERLIST

Existing fics here ^

Yes! Sure Maybe?

ATLANTIS

Rourke (Lyle Tiberius Rourke)

Vinny (Vincenzo Santorini)

Helga (Helga Sinclair)

Kida (Kidah Nedakh)

Milo (Milo Thatch)

Mole (Gaetan Molière)

Dr. Sweet (Doctor Joshua Strongbear Sweet)

THE INCREDIBLES

Syndrome (Buddy Pine)

Bomb Voyage

Mirage

Screenslaver (Evelyn Deavor)

Winston Deavor

The Underminer

HOME ON THE RANGE

Alameda Slim

HERCULES

Hades

Megara

Hercules

Phil (Philoctetes)

WRECK IT RALPH

Turbo/King Candy (have a blog specifically for this creature)

Ralph

Sour Bill

Fit-It Felix

Calhoun

[oldhalloweentape]

DISNEY FIC MASTERLIST

Character List

Post by @oldhalloweentape · 2 images

💬 0  🔁 1  ❤️ 34 · ☆☽Master list☾☆ · The blog of a 19 y.o college student with a aspiration for writing with a side of art, requests : OPEN

Atlantis

Vinny Santorini

- Confession |GN|

- Relationship |GN|

- Relationship II |GN|

- Meeting the Parents |GN|

- First Kiss |GN|

- Wedding |GN|

- Kid |GN|

- Honeymoon |GN| + |NSFW|