Hey everyone, we’re back with one of the most popular events, Gobblepot Summer! :D As usual, this will run through the whole month of August, so you have enough time to create and enjoy all the submissions.
This year might be peculiar and not at all what we planned, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have fun! Whether you’re imagining our boys by the seaside, or maybe on a staycation, there’s tons of cool things to explore whether in a story, drawing, playlist or video!
To get those ideas going, we’re giving you summery picture prompts this time, but feel free to use others. ;)
For those of you who post on AO3, we created a collection.
Tag your creations with #GobblepotSummer2020 (you can also tag @gobblepotgazette ), so we can find them and reblog them.
A super special thank you to @theblackarticfox for the banner! :D (look at them holding hands <3)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Jim and Oswald are childhood friends, growing up together. But, as is often with my stories - are they really? It’s only part one, but I hope you enjoy it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary: Jim and Oswald were childhood friends, then drifted apart in high school. They find each other again as adults, and Jim learns that Oswald had an awful time at prom. He vows to do right by him, but doesn't expect to literally travel back in time.
This is my cheesy time travel prom fic for Gobblepot Summer, hope you enjoy! :)
Plot: Three infants have been murdered and their bodies have been found at various places in Gotham City. The public, as well as the mob, want to see a culprit for different reasons. After everything Jim Gordon has been through, one wouldn't think an ordinary case would take its toll on him. But it does.
Read chapter one on Ao3.
Chapter 2:
The night doesn’t bring any relief. Even after sundown, the heat is unbearable thanks to the overheated pavements and the lack of any green in Gotham City. The ceiling fans keep spinning lazy circles above Jim’s head, mocking him whenever an almost imperceptible draft passes by, one that does nothing to cool his sweaty skin.
Jim stares at his papers once more, hoping against better hope that this will be the time the pieces click together and he finally sees something he initially missed. Yet the problem is, his case isn’t even a case. He has nothing but three tiny corpses and too many dead ends.
Now that the case has been made public, he has hundreds, no thousands of witnesses coming forward. Most of them only seek a way to asperse their neighbors: one claims to have seen a distraught woman, one thinks a grey car driving a bit too fast has been spotted suspiciously close to the crime scene, one saw a colleague leaving with a duffle bag big enough to hide a child inside.
With burning eyes, Jim scoots a hand through his hair. It’s a hopeless movement, and it does nothing to chase his exhaustion away.
Sighing, he leans back in his chair. His head lolls to the side as he wonders what else he can possibly do. This case has been rough on him from the get-go. Three little children have been thrown away like mere trash. They had been denied every chance before even uttering their first word. Is that fair? What could they have become if this city had been a bit kinder?
Jim rubs a hand across his face. And it’s more. They should have been loved. It’s as simple as that. Those tiny, fragile, little things should have been given love and care and devotion. Cause that’s human, isn’t it? Seeing such a helpless being and laying all your love on it is what defines a human being. This whole crime, it goes against anything Jim believes in. It’s against all the principles he had been brought up with. If he had been their father, he would have never….
His fingers clench around a strand of hair, pull at it until his skull hurts. This isn’t right. For such a long time, being a father to a child, protecting it, teaching it, had been his greatest wish in life. And another person just strangles their kid to death and lays it to rest between crumpled soda-cans and pizza-boxes? Jim feels sick to the core.
He’s thankful for being alone at the precinct right now, being allowed this moment of weakness. In the middle of the night, he mostly is, though.
It’s the time of the night when even Harvey insists on some sleep in a proper bed. Jim, on the other hand, is mostly fine with his sofa and the shower at the precinct. What should he do in his flat anyway? It’s not like anyone waits there for him, or even cares whether he comes home or not. His office is as good as a place to sleep as his dingy apartment that, to add insult to injury, only serves as a reminder of his failures in life.
Briefly, Jim wonders how he ended up like this. All those years ago, he came to Gotham with a beautiful fiancée by his side and all those grand plans and goals and hopes. He had been dead-set on starting a family, cleansing the city from corruption and crime, being the man his father used to be. He had been planning on buying a house, had already seen himself mowing the lawn, his family watching him from behind the window, a smirk on their faces.
And now all those plans have evaporated into dust and memories of a life that never was. All Jim has got left is a ratty apartment he doesn’t come home to, all the while still believing this is only a makeshift-solution, some temporary measure before he’s inevitably back on track. It’s why he refuses to paint the walls or renovate his kitchen, simply because he still keeps hoping tomorrow will be the day that gives him a reason to finally move out, to come home to a real home again.
He knows it’s futile. And yet he can’t stop himself from clinging to that thought.
Finally stretching his aching limbs, Jim gets up for a well-deserved shower and a restless night curled up on the couch beside his desk. He eyes the half-empty whiskey bottle sitting behind him on a cabinet and wonders if it still contains enough liquor for him to properly pass out. The last thing he wants to do is going out to get more.
He picks up the documents scattered across his desk, straightens them, and just as he’s about to shove them into a folder, he hears that sound. It’s a single, quick tap - followed by a longer one.
Tilting his head, he listens again, waits for that well-known scratching sound which usually accompanies it. He doesn’t have to wait long.
Tap. Drag. Scratch. Tap. Drag. Scratch. And repeat.
Maybe he should be more surprised. He should definitely be scared. And yet, he’s none of those things. Quite the contrary. Maybe that’s a sign for his dwindling instinct of self-preservation. But then this nightly visit is, even though unwelcome, not entirely unexpected.
Jim straightens his shoulders and debates with himself if she should force his unwelcome visitor to move further, to walk up the stairs, even if he knows it’s a hassle for him.
At this time of the night, only monsters come to the precinct. Be it on their own free will or against it. Falling back into his chair, Jim reaches around and uncaps the whiskey-bottle. He fills two glasses generously and waits.
Any minute now, the Penguin will appear at his door, like a demon he never summoned, like the vampire he never invited yet still crawls inside, all the rules about invitations be damned.
He empties his own glass and refills it just as swiftly. Lord, he’s too tired and way too sober for what is about to come. But to be fair, he generally is. Harvey once told him jokingly his blood must mostly consist of alcohol and caffeine by this point. He refrained from correcting him and telling him how this is very much the case.
“Cobblepot,” he growls once the pale face appears in his line of vision. He betrays his hostile tone almost instantly by sliding the glass across the table.
Jim already has a vague idea why the Penguin chose to come here in person, at this ungodly hour, too. Despite, he won’t give him the satisfaction of appearing any more hospitable than usual.
He watches the other man catching his breath, how he pulls a face as he presses a hand against his aching limb for the briefest moment, and then takes the offered seat, already smiling tightly. The movement is graceful, almost, and Jim wonders how painful it must be for the Penguin to sit down in an ordinary chair when his simper contorts into something akin to a grimace every time he has to bend his knee.
His gaze lingers on the other’s leg and then Jim shakes his head. He brought this upon himself, this pain, just like he did. There’s no sympathy needed.
Looking up, Jim motions for him to speak. If they weren’t alone, if it wasn’t the middle of a hot summer night, Jim would put on a more nuanced show, would try to prove his animosity. Like this, with no prying eyes around, he feels slightly more relaxed. Besides, Cobblepot isn’t his biggest problem at the moment. Even if he probably should be.
“Your mayoral portrait is still down in the basement right beside a stack of toilet paper,” he announces once the mobster’s long fingers are wrapped around his glass. “I can assure you, we’ll hang it up where I can’t see it once you’re re-elected,” he drawls as he downs his drink.
Pursing his lips. the Penguin gives Gotham’s Commissioner a long, hard stare. Jim ignores his displeasure. If Cobblepot wants to get rid of him, he already has enough reasons.
At times, Jim wonders what keeps the Penguin from simply removing him. Especially now that he’s running for mayor again, and probably going to win by a landslide once more, the cop always turns his car-keys with some sense of apprehension. One day, of that he’s certain, Oswald will execute his revenge on him. Maybe he’s just waiting for him to ruin his reputation all by himself. As it is, chances are high enough.
The mobster blinks but doesn’t answer right away, simply keeps playing with the handle of a cane that probably serves as a container for a deadly dagger, or poison, or both. Leaning back, Jim waits for his reply. Maybe he should focus more on Oswald and his illegal businesses, dig up some dirt on him, and prevent Gotham from electing a cold-blooded murderer again.
But then Jim isn’t certain anything he knows about the gangster would impair his reputation. Everyone knows who the Penguin is, and everyone chooses to look the other way. Whatever evidence Jim would present, Gotham would simply not care. So the Commissioner decided to focus on a crime he might be able to solve.
When Oswald clenches his jaw before addressing the cop, Jim thinks the mobster wants to maintain his composure at all costs.
“I’m simply here because it’s my duty as a concerned civilian.”
Jim snorts in response. The only thing Oswald is nowadays concerned about is Oswald. But as he has nothing better to do, he’ll listen. Maybe that way, he'll finally be able to sleep.
A new Gobblepot fic cause I need to do something on the weekend.
Summary: Three infants have been murdered and their bodies have been found at various places in Gotham City. The public, as well as the mob, want to see a culprit for different reasons. After everything Jim Gordon has been through, one wouldn't think an ordinary case would take its toll on him. But it does.
Read the first chapter on Ao3 or here:
In the end, it wasn’t one of the Riddler’s elaborate schemes, or one of the Joker’s ludicrous plans. It wasn’t Bruce Wayne and his determination to become a vigilante, or even the Penguin and his golden empire of crime. In the end, it was a usual case, an ordinary crime that did James Gordon in.
Gotham City seems to know only two seasons. Through most of the year, there’s an icy wind sweeping through the city, biting into the grim faces of her inhabitants. Most of her days are dark, giving the impression of an endless night.
But then comes the summer. And for a few weeks, Gotham will be tinged with yellow. But it won’t be a bright summer showing off clear skies painting the city with gentle colors. No, it will be harsh and brutal - like everything in this godforsaken city.
The sun will be beating down, baking pavements and glass-facades until each breath in the overheated air will be painful, until each step will be a battle. And the light! It’s never a bright yellow, but a color reminiscent of piss. It suits this pain-filled place, though.
Jim Gordon curses under his breath as exists his car. When putting his feet on the ground, his soles practically fuse with the ground. A wave of hot air hits his chest, and Jim can instantly feel the sweat covering his chest, causing his shirt to cling uncomfortably to his upper-body. Reaching for his sunglasses, he gestures for Harvey to follow him.
The heavier man pulls a face when being ordered to leave the chilled cocoon of his car. Jim ignores him. Sighing heavily, he nods towards the other officers already crowding the scenery.
Despite the buzz, he feels alone. Out here, Gotham is at her worst. For miles and miles, there’s nothing to see but the grey of the concrete and colorless sand. It’s a place where people disappear in the filthy water never to return again. Jim is certain his colleagues will lay him to rest out here one day in the future - he wouldn’t blame them.
After taking a few more hesitant steps, Jim hears the sand crunching beneath his shoes. If he closed his eyes for a moment, he could easily pretend to be somewhere else. At a proper beach maybe, under a benevolent sky. Instead, he thinks how annoying it will be to get the sand out of his shoes.
“Where exactly are we?” Harvey asks with a slight growl, startling Jim.
Jim tilts his head. He contemplates giving his partner a snarky reply but thinks better of it. So instead of pointing out that he didn’t spend the car-ride blindfolded and handcuffed, he explains, “Common ground.”
Sucking in a shuddering breath, Harvey tilts his head. “That’s bad.”
Jim doesn’t reply, simply grits his teeth. ‘That’s bad’ doesn’t even start to cover how bad this could be.
One of the younger officers picks up on their conversation. Confusion written all over his face, he addresses Harvey. “What do you mean?” he asks.
Huffing out a humorless laugh, the experienced cop indulges the lad. “That’s the land between the turfs.” Pointing across the river, he elaborates, “That’s the Valeska turf.” He turns slightly to the right, “The Siren’s oasis.” Making a full turn, he points vaguely in the direction Jim is standing, “Tetch’s outdoor amusement park for the hopelessly lunatic, right beside the Scarecrow’s House of Horror.”
At last, he circles his partner fully. “The Narrows,” he says then, ignoring the slight pang of pain on Jim’s face deliberately. “None other than the Queen rules this shitty piece of the city.”
Taking a deep breath, he finishes his quick initiation to Gotham’s inofficial districts. “But they all pay their tribute to the Penguin.” Adjusting his sweat-sodden fedora, Bullock spits on the ground. “And this crap place? That’s no one’s ground. If a body is being dropped here , the rogues passed their judgment. Together.”
The young police-man gulps. He stares at Bullock and then back at the riverbank where the coroner is already busy taking samples. “So they…?”
Pushing the lad aside, Jim steps forward. “So if a body ends up here without permission here, that means the mob will interfere,” he states grimly.
Approaching the riverbank, the Commissioner finally takes a good look at the corpse before him. Despite all the horrors Jim had been through before, nothing could have been able to prepare him for the sight before him.
For a long moment, he merely stares, unmoving. He has seen corpses before, has been the cause of untimely deaths more times than he’d like to admit, but this is new.
No, in fact, it isn’t. Jim has been confronted with this kind of death before, has tried his very best to suppress that memory as best as he can, but given the context, this is new .
Looking up, he nods for the coroner to start elaborating. Never before has Jim missed the previous forensic, Edward Nygma, as much as this very second. For once, he wishes for someone to wrap up harsh truths in distracting riddles. Jim would give up his year’s salary and then some, if the forensic would give his mind an opportunity to wander off, to focus on something else than the task at hand.
What he gets, though, are simple facts. “Infant. Male. Probably not more than a couple of days old. Maybe not even that. Probably strangled. No severe trauma,” he rattles on, unfazed by the tiny body lying on the dirty ground. Maybe she hardens you to this point.
A baby. Just a little, innocent baby. Jim can hardly breathe as he stares down at what has been a living being, if only for a few hours. His skin is already peeling off due to the merciless heat, turning black and blue beneath Gotham’s sun. Jim wonders if it was rosy, once. He stares down, unable to look away, takes in the little knobs of fat on its upper arms and legs, and tries to suppress a sob.
Somebody should hold this little thing in their arms. It should still be alive, making happy noises, as one gently pinches those tiny rolls of fat. It should squeal with delight, and only cry if it’s hungry.
At last, Jim has to turn away. This is not right. Nobody should discard a child as if it was trash. Especially not here, at this godforsaken place.
His fingers itch to pick up the small body, to hold it, if only for a moment, the way it deserves. In another life, he would know exactly how to go about it. He and Lee would have awaited their child’s arrival with excitement. Would have picked out a crib, toys, rompers, and books, maybe. They would have laid in bed, Jim’s hand on Lee’s belly, waiting for their kid to move, knowing full-well it’s still shielded from this city, from her .
This reality never happened, though. Will probably never happen to Jim, for he doesn’t deserve such happiness, he knows that. But still. It’s unfair. This infant lies there on the ground, discarded like trash, and it’s everything someone like Jim has ever wished for.
He bends down, almost touches the tiny cheek before remembering he’s still a cop. Swallowing heavily, he disguises the motion by wiping the sweat from his forehead.
A heavy hand lands on his shoulder. “You alright, partner?” Harvey asks quietly enough that nobody else hears them.
Jim’s chest constricts, he has trouble taking a breath, and still, his jaw is set tight. Nobody but Harvey would ever catch on, would note that anything was wrong. Jim is thankful for the warm hand, the solid weight on his shoulder. He’s grounding him in his pain, forcing him back to reality, when all he wants to do is float away and wallow in his grief.
“Of course I am,” he replies, a tad bit too quickly.
Harvey arches an eyebrow at him, but doesn’t reply. This is neither the place nor the time anyway.
“Won’t you finally pack up the evidence?” he snaps when the coroner gives them both a look that is too curious for Harvey’s taste. The coroner squints in disdain, but does what he’s told. After all, Bullock has a natural authority to him, he’s a character only Jim questioned successfully so far, and today, he’s glad for it.
They get back into their car, where it’s cold and sterile and death is but a memory at a riverbank. He blinks as he tries to wrap his head around what he just saw: an entire life, wasted in the sand. Neither of them talks as Harvey drives back to the city, back to the living.
Finally, Harvey glances over at Jim, now and then beating nervously the devil’s tattoo on the steering wheel. “That’s the third,” he whispers.
“I know,” Jim replies. He’s too exhausted to say anything else. Over the course of the last three weeks, they found three dead infants. All scattered around the city. The first two had been siblings according to their DNA-analysis. Jim wouldn’t be surprised if the third one is related to them, too.
“You want me to drop you off at the weasel’s place?” Harvey asks, and Jim flinches.
“What am I supposed to do there?”
The other man shrugs. “We found it on Common Ground.”
Jim hums in agreement. “Doesn’t look like a mob-job, though.”
Tilting his head, Harvey acknowledges the statement. “He could still know something,” he states petulantly and both men know he’s reaching for straws there.
“This case is getting to you,” he adds after a moment. Jim rolls his eyes but can’t find it in him to disagree. “You could at least get a free drink.”
The blonde snorts. “I think I’m outta favors.”
Harvey scratches his chin. “Still. Maybe one of his goons has seen something.” He clears his throat, looks over at Jim. “And it wouldn’t hurt for you to let off some steam. You always seem to be better off after pushing the Penguin around for a while.”
Jim sputters. “That’s not true!” he protests.
Holding up his hand, Harvey interrupts him. “It is. Go there. See what he knows, rough him up, arrest one or two thugs. You’ll feel better.”
Horrified, Jim stares at his partner’s face. “You make it sound like I’m harassing an innocent citizen for nothing. You’re still aware we’re talking about the Penguin?”
Harvey snorts in response. “That’s exactly why I’m suggesting.” He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Not accusing , just to be clear.”
Jim falls silent as he clenches his fists. He’s so damn tired, he doesn’t even want to put up a fight.
“He’ll find out anyway,” he demurs. “And he’ll want answers. You don’t simply drop off a body at the riverbank and expect Cobblepot to keep his hooked nose outta your business.”
“This is a police investigation,” Jim snaps back, unfazed, and Harvey’s jaw drops.
“Even after becoming the Commissioner, you still sound like a petulant rookie on some days.
Leaning back against the seat, Jim closes his eyes. Even before today, he had been exhausted to the point of not being able to sleep properly for weeks. This city just won’t let him.
And now there’s a body on Common Ground.
This city doesn’t seem to rest when it comes to her sinisterness. If Gotham doesn’t want to swallow her entire population whole, she now goes for her most vulnerable inhabitants. Jim wishes he could for once simply search for stolen paintings or chase a burglar. But no, there’s always something bigger, or something more diabolical lurking in the shadows.
Jim’s shoulders slump as he gives in. “Let’s do the paperwork first,” he suggests, cause he’s still the commissioner. “And then we’ll inform the Penguin like the good, little cops we are.”
