STRONGER & SMARTER THAN EVER !

[umbrellaclad]

‘ — everyone here calls me 𝓟𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍 .

penguin / oswald kapelput of gotham / the dcu. affiliated with @gothamstreetshq . previously @/emperorisms .

‎ — penned by oz [ he / him | 20+ ] . indie blog @umbrellicide .

[umbrellaclad]

i don’t buy that oswald would use the anglicized version of his last name, particularly not after his mother’s death. it makes perfect sense for him to adopt the english way of saying his name during childhood, as he was already a funny looking kid — inky black hair, an atypical nose, lanky — he would’ve wanted to dial the attention to his existence down just a bit more.

but i just . . . after his mother’s passing, i feel that oswald would cling to anything of hers he still could. thus shedding the anglicization and re-adopting the german spelling and pronunciation of his name kapelput.

[mobqueenfishmooney]

@umbrellaclad

Things were shifting. Or preparing to at least. Fish had lived in Gotham's underbelly all her life, and she knew what every little tremor in the wind meant. Instinct like that separated the killers from the victims, the winners from the losers. Fish had that instinct, and she knew it was time to make her move. To start things in motion, by going to pay a visit to a very old friend.

His club was... quaint. A little gauche, in her opinion. Fish, with two of her best and biggest behind her, strode inside. The crowd parted at the mere sight of her, falling silent and staring. But Fish kept her eyes forward. Fixated on him. "Oswald," she called out, the smirk on her lips so sharp it could draw blood. "My little penguin. I love what you've done with the place." She leaned forward, drumming her nails along the bartop. "Aren't you going to offer me a drink? Show some decorum. I taught you better than this."

[umbrellaclad]

he hadn’t noticed his hand’s betrayal, hadn’t felt the glass slip from his fingers before the disharmonious shattering of glass in a silent bar had snapped him from his shock. in an instant oswald’s air of grandiosity had crumbled, cracks in his porcelain veneer of power giving way & revealing the remnants of subordination beneath. he can’t help but hold his mouth agape, icy eyes wide — there would be solace in the knowledge that his shock is not his to bear alone, but the silence enveloping the iceberg lounge only serves to fuel his unrest. “ fish, ” he utters to himself, barely a whisper. several blinks & he attempts to shake the . . . fear? stupor?

oswald rolls his shoulders, eyes falling to the floor as he briefly clenches his jaw, grinding teeth the final callback. a straightened spine and a forced smile and he lets his eyes focus on fish, a short breath pushing itself from his chest. “ fish, ” he repeats, louder this time: a greeting. “ what an . . . entirely unexpected surprise! ” an awkward chuckle, then. it seems the remainder of the iceberg lounge’s patrons have yet to catch onto the memo that we are pretending everything is normal. there is a stuntedness to the very air. penguin slowly turns to the bartender, standing still like an awkwardly sculpted statue. “ well? ” he barks, “ drinks! our finest. our guest deserves nothing less. ”

scrambling, the bartender obeys, and slowly the patron chatter and live band revives itself, though somewhat hushed. this display of power by his word makes holding himself taller less of a chore - his fire is relit, though smaller than it had been. drinks in hand, oswald approaches the mother of his reign, glass crunching underfoot. his smile betrays the impertinence of his tone as he extends one of the glasses. “ as interesting as it is to see you . . . what are you doing here? ”

[umbrellaclad]

an entirely useless headcanon, but one that is currently making me giggle: oswald cannot handle eating sour foods. a single wedge of straight-up lemon would be enough to hospitalize the man.

that being said, he uses that to his advantage with things such as sickness, something learned from his childhood & his mother’s semi-holistic approach to medicine. does it nearly kill him every time? yes. does it work? maybe.

[babsqueen]

Babs just smiled at him sweetly, taking another sip of her drink. She was sure there were plenty of people in Gotham who just shivered in their boots at the idea of the Penguin’s fury, but she wasn’t one of them. When he started throwing one of his tantrums, he reminded her of those videos of hissing, angry little kittens you saw on the Internet. It just wasn’t that intimidating, no matter how much he wanted to be. Oh, sure -- he wasn’t just a pissy little kitten, he could be a spider, too. Spinning webs and laying plans, until he sprang his trap. But Babs was pretty good at squirming out of close quarters, and besides, she was pretty sure Oswald liked her about as much as he liked any woman who wasn’t his mother. 

“Mhm,” she said, drawing a finger around the rim of her glass and smiling at him again. “You know how much your friendship means to me, Ozzy.” She put her head over her heart as though to illustrate the point. She widened her eyes ever so slightly, as if to say that she was politely shocked that he was raising his voice to her. “Oh, that?” she said. She waved her hand, brushing away Oswald’s anger like it was a cloud of troublesome gnats. “I think butcher is a little dramatic, but…” She laughed softly, grinning at him. “Can’t really expect anything less from you, huh?”

Babs stood up and stepped behind her desk, unlocking a drawer. “Look,” she said. “Maybe your guy wasn’t the paragon of business that you think he was, okay? Before you come barging in her like a toddler who spilled his juicebox, you might wanna consider I did you a favor.”

[umbrellaclad]

though several of the previous statements had only served to fuel the flickering embers of rage within his chest, the last (though still impertinent) manages to dull what would have turned to raging fire. the concept that something, however agitating, manages to serve a higher purpose in that winding web of his sparks relief. you’ve been thinking about it all wrong: away with the idea of sabotage . . .  enter murder as sacrifice. a smile finally breaks through that tight jaw & clenched teeth, a huff —adjacent to a sigh— pushes itself from his nose as rigid shoulders relax & his head tilts to the side. “ of course, ” a shaking of his head ensues, the image of self reprimand. “ how silly of me, doubting you. the concept of friendship is stretched thin nowadays, you understand. ” 

his words are betrayed by his eyes, focused intently on that reaching hand. the click of a lock hadn’t passed him as his mind had formed several colourful sentences in responce to wrath labelled as a childlike temper-tantrum.  barbara was a wild thing, as likely to pull a weapon as she was to give corroboration for her itchy trigger finger. while the hope that something concrete will be produced to back up the claim of a favour is alive, oswald is well aware of the gun pressed against his hipbone, sheathed in it’s holster. “ i sincerely hope what you say is true. what was it, that tipped you off about his insubordination? ”  

a nagging thought: rats sniff out rats. he banishes it from his mind, lest his smile fade and give way to the flaring of nostrils & spasm of his upper lip. “ having someone to look out for you is an invaluable thing — though, admittedly, something i’d do well to be better at myself . . . power, and all, ” 

“ knowing where your wires crossed would be very helpful. ” 

[jamesgcrdon]

@umbrellaclad

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Jim took a sip of his drink as he glanced over at Oswald, his expression neutral. Oswald was always offering Jim olive branches; it just remained to be seen if it would actually mean peace -- a pax penguina as it were -- or if it would prove to be a mass of splinters, drawing blood. He set the scotch glass down at the table and laid his hands flat on the surface. “What do you get out of this?” he said. “Just tell me now, Oswald. There’s always something in it for you, somewhere down the line. Even if it won’t materialize right away, I know you.” He looked at him again. “You’re planning two or three moves ahead of everybody else.” Especially if he could use other people as pawns.

[umbrellaclad]

“ your lack of faith in me is both saddening, and wounding. ”  oswald presses his lips together in a thin line, bringing a hand up to rest against his chest — the image of pained offence, like a shot straight to the heart. still, he cannot deny that with every arrangement comes something for him. it’s simply the way he operates: something in return a given, if his efforts are to be exerted. 

a smile breaks out, shoulders raising to ears as he gives in.  “ alright. i can’t lie to you, jim! — after all, what good is a partner if dishonest? ”   partner — as though they were such a thing.  their exchange of favours could barely be considered a partnership; well . . . to anyone else but oswald.   “ this will ensure loyalty to me down the line.  your bringing down of this . . . ”   to use their name would give them power.   “ nuisance . . . will spark an unrest. we all know the power held in vigilante power. the public, though faithful in official power, will sway to unrest. ”   he chuckles, though he doesn’t find it funny.   “ the drama of it all!  anyhow — those who scatter look to a source of leadership. that will be me. ”  

he fiddles with his hands as they rest upon the table, nervous for the rejection that is likely to come. but he has a point, does he not?  order is better than disorder, power in his hands is better than anarchy.   “ have faith in me, jim. i am a leader, and you’ve seen it. yes, i may also dabble in gotham’s corrupt — but i lead them, too.  we both know that. ”  

[umbrellaclad]

a solo ! this is set before, during, and after the ending scene in 3x7 . under a read-more because its so very long .

to say every nerve ending in his body wasn’t still vibrating from the events of the evening would be a lie - hands shake as they white-knuckle grip his cane, teeth threaten to chatter lest oswald keep his jaw tight. though this wasn’t the first time he’d stared down the barrel of a gun, it never seemed to get much easier - a hypocrisy, almost laughable, as he has been the wielder of the weapon more times than he can count. he can still feel his heart beating at it’s bone cage: trying to force itself through ribs, up into his throat. he can still feel the dread of bringing the wine glass to his lips, knowing that whatever the contents, it would surely do him harm.

there was relief in getting home, knowing that despite his shakiness, he was safe. safe, and in the company of the only person he truly cared to share space with. god, the retelling of his evening can barely be contained as he marched through hallways, leaning just a bit harder on his walking stick for support. stress, as well as stormy weather, made his mangled ankle ache. ed would understand, surely - he, too, had recently danced with death, avoiding it narrowly. it was fate, was it not? the pairs insistence to survive? fate that they are both still standing, and together? he starts speaking before he sees him, knowing he’ll be there. they need each other, and whether or not edward is aware of it, he loves him just as well. platonic, perhaps, but he does, surely.

“ well, ed - you would not believe the ni— ” oh. lips to lips, hands to form. it’s her. she, who had stolen him with a glance, she, who he’d thought he’d rid of. as awful a thing, the blatant show & tell of dear edward’s faults, oswald doesn’t regret it. he was certain it would work, to stave her off, make her scarce. but there is little time to think of the pettiness of one’s jealousy — and could it not be almost heroic? an attempt to save a life, to get what one wants? none of that was his intent, but oswald will force himself, just briefly, to believe that narrative.

oswald, good evening. this is isabella.

“ we . . . have met! ” the chuckle that leaves him is forced, and almost painful. there is an all-consuming emptiness coming from the pit of his stomach: a twisting, churning feeling that makes breathing feel impossible, and a heartbeat unheard of. “ would you . . . excuse me- i . . am . . very tired. ” his voice shrinks the further the sentence goes. the smile on his lips is physically painful, those dimples like knife-points pressed into his cheeks. he turns, faster than necessary, and goes to take his exit.

there isn’t even a goodbye or goodnight from edward as he leaves, the sound of hands on fabric and lips to lips the only parting noise as oswald makes his way towards his bedroom. his throat feels tight and yet empty, like something large and hollow has been planted in his esophagus, making it hard to breathe and even harder to swallow. the lack of any acknowledgment hurts more, he feels, than that bullet would have entering his skull - edward was meant to be his friend, the one there for him. he was meant to listen! anything for you, he’d said— where is anything now?! rage intertwines it’s fingers with despair, oswald’s eyes burn with the blinking back of tears.

the privacy of his bedroom gives little solace but a chance to breathe. his throat loosens and a shuddering breath escapes, hitched by gasping sob that leaves his lungs burning. throwing his cane to the floor, fingers grasp at the tie around his neck, angrily and desperately tugging at the delicate fabric until it gives way & is thrown to a far corner of the room. he can’t fight the tears any longer, anger pulling them from his eyes as he rips at the buttons of his suit. he wants it off, wants to just be — he wants to shed his skin and vanish. this feeling, it’s so foreign. jealousy is not a stranger to oswald: he was jealous of mooney and her power, jealous of all who had what he didn’t. money, friendship, influence. he had all that, now, and love . . . oh, but the love of the people doesn’t come close to what he needs. a personal love, someone to dote on. he’d assumed he’d shed that need with the death of his mother, with edward, in his apartment. love is weakness, right? the notion had freed him, once, had turned a flightless bird into one that soared. but having it once more made him chase it, and god, he has never felt weaker. it’s a kink in his armour, a crack in his varnish. it hurts, impossibly so.

that pain makes him angry, and as he continues to throw his clothing about his room, he lets his throat release a sound like the final growl of a dying hound, it tapers into a mere squeak, is preceded by a sharp gasp of an inhale. his good leg kicks at the mahogany of his bedframe . . . that, too, makes him cry out in pained rage. this was all absolute . . . absolute bullshit! the humiliation in front of the founders, the blatant ignoring of his power, and furthermore, his feelings. this is embarrassing, which is equally infuriating. hands grasp at his hair — he’d like to tug this feeling right out of his mind - the love, the jealousy, the anger, the embarrassment. blurry eyes focus on the half-full glass of water on his nightstand, he looks at it as though he’s trying to set it on fire with gaze alone. that is the next victim of his rage, and as he quickly makes his way over to the glass, not an instant is spared before he plucks it from mahogany and throws it at the opposing wall. it shatters with a sound louder than he’d hoped for, and the realization that his tantrum outburst very well may be heard is enough to make him halt.

this little blip can be solved. if there is anything oswald is certain of, it’s that he gets what he wants. he refuses to let this be a weakness to him - after all, those grasping at straws eventually grab ahold of something. it’s salvageable, fixable . . . it is, it just is. and the people, they love him still, surely. though he’d wilted briefly under the sound of a gunshot, he’d stayed unwilling to comply until the barrel was at his head. he still has strength, and power, and influence. surely he does, surely. sitting on the edge of his mattress at last, a deep breath is taken in through his nose. eyes squeeze shut & his jaw clenches, teeth grinding. hands ball into fists as he counts himself into calm . . . something he hadn’t done since early childhood, under his mother’s wing. shifting onto his bed, he lies in fetal position above the covers. the storm has passed, but his chest still feels empty. he closes his eyes, but doesn’t sleep.

[umbrellaclad]

oh, this simply wasn’t possible. wide eyes stare upon a familiar face, a heart beating impossibly within his chest. oswald cobblepot was a man of belief in the supernatural - a man willing to label peripheral flashes of paleness & light as ghosts coming to finish what death had interrupted. but this . . . this was no ghost. pallid skin was full of life, lips pink & eyes sparkling. the resurrected’s chest rises & falls with the breath of animation: living, being, back.

he can’t tell whether to hold himself tall, attempting to keep hold of the facade that he has any power over this situation . . . or to give in to his bodies natural inclination to stumble backwards in fear. shock keeping him at a standstill, he merely lingers; a flightless bird once more. arms are pinned to his sides, lest he raise his hands to wipe the image of @stepfordisabella from his eyes. this isn’t possible. this isn’t happening. this isn’t real.

finally, something gives way & oswald straightens his spine. though the action is made to create an image of fortification, the way his mouth opens & closes as he chokes on words voids that entirely. you’re not real, he’d like to say. begone, apparition, there is nothing for you here. but there is, isn’t there? a hard swallow, the tilting up of his nose. try again: you’re not r—- oh, but oswald . . . this is gotham.

“ you’re back. ”

[babsqueen]

@emperorisms -- prompt from here

“There’s no need to huff and puff. I’ll let you come in.” Babs flashed Oswald a sweet smile as she stepped back to let him into her office, before using her palm to swing the door shut. She bumped her hip against the knob to make sure it clicked, then turned to Oswald. “Now what’s up, Pengy?” she said, folding her arms over her chest. “You seem agitated.” She made her way over to her desk and perched on the corner. “What’s the matter? Did they discontinue your favorite hairspray? Did your cravat guy crap out on you?” A grin touched her lips as she delicately swung her foot back and forth, raising an eyebrow. “What? Tell me.”

[umbrellaclad]

barbara’s demeanour was often a welcome relief from the seriousness of mundane life — deals to be made, people to kill punish, deals to be made; but not today.  he chooses to ignore the entirely incorrect (and borderline offensive) comparison to herself as the unfortunate little pig on the victim’s end of the wolf’s breath; the comparison of himself to the wolf just might be forgiven. still, a long breath enters his nose: a sigh in advance, not quite yet heaving lungs & outwardly expressing exasperation. 

“ i am agitated, ”  he replies, voice sharp. though he rolls his eyes at the guesses at his unrest, he can’t help but utter: “ the availability of my hair products is none of your concern. ” 

he watches carefully as that nonchalant demeanour persists, the swinging of a leg, the nearly lazy raise of a glass to lips. he can’t tell if that burning anger in his chest is jealousy or exhaustion.  regardless, a friend is a friend ; it would be unfair to judge based on common mannerisms. think about it, oswald — who likes a weasel?   “ in terms of friendship, allyship - i hold you very dearly, you’re aware of this, yes? ” he begins, the pressing together of his lips interrupting his  attempt at a smile. “ but you have caused me a great deal of trouble. that man, last week —  the one you had your butcher of a business partner kill, was incredibly important to business, ” he’s trying to very hard not to  rise his voice, and yet—

“ you may as well have cut my arm off, barbara! it would’ve been worth approximately the same as that clown had to offer! ”

[riddlesman]

"Oswald." He repeated playfully back. Despite all of the hardships and the fighting, Edward found that he missed Oswald's company when he wasn't around. He was his first real friend. He thought he had friends before the Penguin but he hadn't. At least, none that actually accepted him the way Oswald had. It took a while to warm up to him but once he did, they were like two peas in a pod. Completely and utterly inseparable. Not that he'd tell him that. It felt weak to admit the true unbridled, extent of their friendship.

He mentioned that he just wanted to see him and Edward beamed back to his friend. Charmed by his words. Sweet phrases like those seemed to be reserved for Oswald's lips, and Oswald's lips only. Edward Nygma wasn't exactly the most popular man in this city. He was tough to understand and tougher to relate to. Most people couldn't stand the riddles or the fun facts. They couldn't stand him and that was something Ed was used to. Something he'd simply grown up with and came to understand as his reality.

Perhaps that was why the Riddler was so fond of him. Because Oswald and Isabella were two of the only people in the world that treated him with the respect and love that he deserved. He wrapped his arms around him. Having to lean quite a bit and pulling his friend close. "I wanted to see you too. I should have stopped by! I was just so busy with the Riddle Factory. It doesn't host itself, you know." He mused.

"You think!?" The Riddler said, excited by the praise. "Oh, yes... that. You caught me during clean up. It can get bloody on stage. You should know it wasn't technically homicide this time. It was merely assault. You should come to one of my shows some time, you'd love it."

[umbrellaclad]

to hear his name was a blessed thing — completely and entirely his; nothing more, nothing less. oh, how difficult things had become; he can almost taste the poison of his own words & the others on his lips, like a kiss from something lost, but not entirely missed. still, he tries his best to keep the unbridled excitement of things anew from his voice, though his throat tightens in a way that makes it oh, so difficult. 

“ i know all too well the unfortunate truth that operations won’t run themselves, ”   penguin chuckles, a shrug ready on his shoulders.   “ how busy we’ve become, surrounded by imbeciles. but alas — we are in the company of morons no longer. ”   to say that oswald didn’t feel ever so slightly outshined by edward’s intelligence would be false. though penguin knows he is far smarter than most (trickery, deception & outfoxing foes a true talent of his), he can’t help but wilt slightly under the shadow of gotham’s— no— the world’s smartest individual. it’s a silly thing, that feeling of inadequacy; and even sillier still when he ponders that perhaps edward doesn’t see what he does. regardless of the mind’s silly tricks, however, it isn’t enough to stray away from that mind of cogs, wires, and puzzles. not by a long-shot. 

“ set a date, and i’d sooner die than miss it, ”   it’s meant to be taken as a joke, the lightheartedness of it all slipping so easily from lips. that dimpling of the corners of his lips in smile, however, suggests no lie. a relishing, then, in the functioning of it all — those who do not cut it perish.   how intelligent a way to dispose of the unuseful, how smart a way to gauge how useful one may be.  it’s a test of intelligence few hope to aspire to, and it’s gorgeous.   if only things within the mob were so cut and dry; a solider is a soldier, no matter how stupid.   “ this is truly remarkable, edward. i mean it. ”