Smokey Eyes

by orphan_account

Summary:

On a quiet night in Mooney's club, Oswald meets Victor Zsasz.

Or,

The one where Oswald and Victor fuck.

Notes:

Listen. This got really long and really out of hand but just trust it. If you're here for smut, then you've come to the right place.

Set sometime pre-S1 or really early in it, when Oswald still works for Fish, but before she beats the shit out of him.

Anywho, enjoy!

The usually busy Mooney’s Nightclub sits nearly empty tonight, with only a handful of people inside instead of the usual crowds it draws. Auditions to find new entertainment for the club have been going on for the majority of the night, mostly unsuccessfully, and as the hours tick by, Oswald has found himself with nothing to do but to sit at the bar and nurse some liquor.

Fish Mooney is preoccupied with watching all the auditions. She sits at one of the tables in front of the stage, legs crossed, a glass of wine held between her fingers, with that musclehead Butch beside her, who occasionally leans in to offer his own opinion on the dreadful act before them. There’s no need for Oswald at the moment, probably won’t be for the rest of the night either, but he’ll still stick around until he’s actually dismissed in case he misses out on any opportunities to prove his usefulness. 

Until then, however, he will just sit by the bar, drink his wine, and try to block out the horrendous butchering of a comedy act going on by the stage. At least the wine here is good. He knows better than to get drunk here, but on such an uncharacteristically quiet and calm night, he can’t help but allow himself to achieve a little buzz. 

He studies the glass with more attention than it deserves, pinching the glass stem between his fingers and twisting it, watching the way the wine inside it sloshes up the sides and whirls in on itself. Boredom settles itself into his muscles, urging him to seek out any clock so that he can once more countdown the hours until he ought to be able to leave. 

Thankfully for him, a distraction comes in the form of someone new entering the club. Oswald’s gaze snaps over to the door, watching as the bouncer outside pushes it open for a man to slide in. A frown tugs Oswald’s lips as he eyes the figure - he’s vaguely familiar, but not enough for him to actually put a name to his face. Multiple guns are holstered all over his body and he walks with silent, confident steps, passing by everyone and going right to Fish.

Hitman, Oswald thinks, curious. He’s not surprised to see such a person here, but he is somewhat intrigued by how he acts. He slides into a chair by Fish and Butch, lazing in it, eyes on the anxious comedian on the stage. A disturbing smile settles on his features, unwavering. Finally, Oswald watches him lean across the table to talk to Fish. For a moment he debates moving closer to listen in, but thinks better of it. With a sigh, he turns his attention back to his wine.

It doesn’t remain there for long. He listens as a monotone chuckle sounds throughout the room following one of the comedian's terrible jokes, quickly accompanied by harsh clapping. 

“Oh, that was a good one. I like this one, Miss Mooney,” drawls the hitman. Oswald risks another look back, but he can only see the back of their heads from where he sits. That’s probably for the better, he thinks, remembering the way those dark eyes had surveyed the club as he entered it. 

Fish says something back to him, waves one hand in a small, vague gesture, entertaining him. Oswald can’t help but be further intrigued: with the way he behaves and the way he talks to her, so informally, he wonders why Fish is putting up with him. She’s stabbed men for less than this freak’s close proximity to her and his weird commentary. Furthermore, not only is she merely tolerating him, but she seems… not fond, not quite, but something like it. Who exactly is this man?

Lips pursed, Oswald’s gaze lingers for a moment longer, just in time to watch Fish dismiss him. As he stands, chair scraping backwards along the wooden floorboards, Oswald snaps back around, returning his focus to his wine. He got infuriatingly little information from the whole interaction.

He listens as the man takes a few steps away before pausing. “Hey, Miss Mooney,” he says.

“Yes, Victor?”

Victor. His name is Victor. Oswald recognises the name, but only vaguely, not well enough to place it.

“It’s been a long few days, you know how it is. Mind if I see what your bar’s got stocked?”

Oswald almost scoffs. Victor, a cocky, creepy, weird hitman who all but invites himself to stay past business conversations to enjoy the luxuries of Fish’s establishment. Either he has a death wish, Fish likes him more than she lets on, or he’s useful. Very useful. Or dangerous, he supposes. Oswald files that information away for later.

“Hmm?” Fish hums, light and airy. “Oh… sure. Have a drink on the house, Victor, as a thank you for your fine work.”

Victor whistles, clicks his tongue. “So generous, Miss,” he says, then turns and heads towards the bar; towards Oswald.

He pretends not to have been listening to them, to be unbothered. Takes a sip of his wine and stares at the recently cleaned wooden bar in front of him. Ignores the sudden unsteadiness that overtakes the bartender.

Oswald is the only person sat at the bar. All the other stools are empty, and there are plenty of empty booths and tables nearby as well. Nonetheless, this Victor comes up and pulls out the stool right beside Oswald, sits down on it - the motion seems heavy, exaggerated, like a tired man coming home from a long day at work and sitting down for the first time in hours, yet it’s also almost silent, still measured. He’s a hitman, and a good one.

Victor waves the bartender over. He folds his arms on the bar and leans forward. Oswald can see his unwavering smile from the corner of his vision.

“Say, what would you recommend, buddy? I’m feeling something… fruity tonight. But no oranges.” His head shakes side to side, vehement. “Half the time it overpowers everything else. Might as well just drink straight OJ at that point, and that’s not what I want, is it?”

“I, uh…” the bartender fumbles, evidently incredibly uncomfortable. Afraid, even. Oswald swears he sees Victor’s smile stretch a little wider, showing more of his teeth.

Intrigued, and also somewhat annoyed that the man decided to sit right next to him and irritate him by toying with the nervous bartender, Oswald clears his throat. 

“ Sea breeze ,” he says. The man turns on him, eager, raising an eyebrow.

“Huh?”

“ Sea breeze ,” he repeats, nodding his head to the bartender. “It’s one of the cocktails here. It’s summer-y, I guess, but nice.” He pauses, then lets out a little chuckle, raises a hand. “No oranges either.”

The man continues to stare at him for an increasingly uncomfortable amount of time, until Oswald finally lifts his own gaze and meets his eyes. For a moment, he feels frozen.

Just as dark as they were the moment he stepped into the club; a darkness like the ones at the end of a long corridor, the bottom of a deep set of stairs, or at the end of a long road in the late hours of the night. Something heavy, imposing, unnerving. His gaze doesn’t waver, nothing in his eyes or his face changes, yet he rakes his gaze all over Oswald. He can almost feel it. 

Dangerous, he thinks. This man is dangerous . He has the eyes of a murderer and the poise of a predator. 

Oswald’s lips twitch upwards, hooked.

Victor’s face seems to mimic the motion, the tiniest flick of the corners of his lips upwards before he swivels his head back around to the bartender. He clicks his fingers, points one at Oswald. “What he said, then.”

The bartender nods, hurries to spin around and sort the order out as quickly as he can. Oswald sips his wine, doesn’t look back at Victor until the man leans closer to be heard over the sound of the bartender scooping ice into a shaker.

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you ‘round here before,” he comments. “What’s someone like you doing in a club like this?”

Someone like me. Oswald’s teeth grind together just for a moment, before he wills himself to relax. His unassuming appearance and behaviour, of which he purposefully exaggerates most of the time, makes people underestimate him. Think nothing of him. That’s what he wants, of course - to slip under the radar, for people to speak their secrets loudly with him nearby because they think he’s no threat, that he’s nothing. It’s what he wants, because he knows it will be useful when he finally gets the opportunity to be someone, but it’s nonetheless aggravating. 

Victor huffs a little beneath his breath as if amused. Oswald brushes the moment away, exhales. With a smile, he says, “I just work for Miss Mooney.”

“ Ahhh… ” sighs Victor, leaning back on his stool. He looks him up and down once more and then shrugs. “She does seem to like the little ones. Between you and me, I think she has a soft spot for them.” He nudges Oswald with his elbow - Oswald tries not to bristle at the unwelcome touch - and then goes back to leaning on the bar.

“You work for her too,” he states, a little sharply. Victor shrugs.

“I guess so. So long as she’s got the money to back up her jobs for me. Of course, she always does.”

The bartender returns at this moment. He gently places a glass on the bar in front of Victor, who brightens up.

“Plus, she’s so generous!” He adds, waving a hand at the bar. “On the house, pal,” he adds to the bartender, who only hurriedly nods. When Victor doesn’t say anything else, he excuses himself to return to washing already clean glasses with more eagerness than he should have.

Victor picks the glass up, swirls it, brings it to eye level. “I love the colour red,” he muses, watching the drink swirl in its glass, before taking a sip.

Oswald eyes him, watches the way he leans back after his drink and exhales, how his eyes peel open and slide back over to find Oswald’s. He tips the glass in his direction. “Gotta hand it to you, this is nice. ” 

His gaze flicks briefly to the glass between Oswald’s fingers. Smiling, he reaches out to clink both glasses against one another, then raises his own slightly. “Cheers…”

“Oswald,” he returns with a tight-lipped smile. He inclines his glass ever so slightly towards Victor before taking a sip at the same time that Victor downs his, then sets the glass aside. Oswald arches an eyebrow. “I think those are more to be savoured.”

“Liquor connoisseur, huh?” Victor says, mildly amused. “Maybe I’m in a rush to be somewhere.”

“You’re awfully chatty for someone who’s in a rush.”

Victor grins, something that doesn’t reach those dark eyes of his - never reaches them - and then shrugs. “Touché. I guess I’m not. Or maybe I’m just a chatty kind of guy.”

“I’d imagine someone in your line of work would have to be quiet.”

“Oh?” Victor hums, leans forwards. “And what’s my line of work?”

Suppressing the urge to roll his eyes, Oswald looks pointedly at the many guns holstered on his body. “You’re a hitman. Consider it an educated guess.”

Victor drums his fingers along the bartop, chuckling. “Alright, fair enough. You still haven’t told me what you do around here though. Just sit by the bar, drinking wine all day and looking pretty?”

Oswald flounders for a moment, genuinely taken aback by the comment. It’s only made worse by the way Victor just continues to sit there and leer at him, revelling in taking him by surprise or making him uncomfortable. He composes himself quickly, pursing his lips.

“I don’t see why it’s any of your business what I do,” he scoffs.

“So it is just sitting here and looking all pretty,” Victor concludes. His grin stretches for a moment, as if he feels victorious, and then he just shrugs, noncommittal. “Hey, no judgement. Somebody’s gotta do it, I guess. Least it’s not Butch.”

Oswald can’t stop himself from snorting at that, and he’s quick to look away. He tries not to let the concept form as an image in his head, sure he doesn’t need to be haunted by that or reminded of this conversation every time he looks at the man again.

Instead of giving into his weird little jokes, Oswald composes himself, straightens his shoulders and carefully schools his face again. “I do real work for Miss Mooney,” he states. Despite his deflection, Victor still grins, seemingly pleased at the small reaction he managed to worm out of him.

“Now you’re just teasing me, Ozzie,” he says. “What is it, then? You her secret guard dog? Her real right-hand-man or something?”

“Don’t call me that,” Oswald frowns, eyebrows furrowing. Victor mimics the expression.

“What? Her right-hand-man?” he asks. “I mean, I guess some people just don’t like that sort of responsibility, but you hit me as the ambitious sort.”

Oswald can’t help but roll his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

Still playing dumb, Victor shrugs, feigning innocence. “I have no idea what you mean, Ozzie.”

“ That !” Oswald snaps. “Ozzie. Don’t call me that.”

Holding his hands up in surrender, Victor leans back on his stool. “Geez, alright, alright. Got it. No more Ozzie. Got it.” 

There’s still a hint of a smile playing on his face. Oswald huffs, glaring at his wine. He debates asking for a refill for a moment. “Right,” he mutters. 

Victor chuckles, light and airy, and brings his hands back down. One keeps moving though and comes to clap down on Oswald’s mid-thigh. 

“Man, you sure are a hoot, Oswald. Not met someone like you before.”

Very carefully, Oswald does not react. He tries not to let his mind linger too long on the fantasy of smashing his wine glass against the bar and using one of the shards of glass to slice Victor’s fingers off. He takes a sip of wine, then exhales.

“I’m sure you’ve met plenty of people in your sort of work.”

“Eh, met isn’t the word I’d use for it. Surprised, sure. Although, I do make a point of trying to introduce myself to them, but they’re never interested in chatting. A shame, really. You’d be surprised at how boring it can get.”

“I doubt that,” scoffs Oswald. He takes another sip of his wine - he’s running dangerously low on it now and Victor’s hand is still there, casually resting on his thigh. Not quite high enough to make him truly uncomfortable, but not low enough to be casual.

“Again, it’d really surprise you,” he insists, humming. “Lots of people with silly grudges out there, you know. Always kill my ex-wife this, take out my boss that, blah blah blah. People aren’t as interesting as you’d think they are. It’s disappointing, really.”

Oswald presses his lips together. His brow furrows and for a moment he has the urge to screw his eyes shut and pinch the bridge of his nose. Victor’s incessant stream of casual chatter drones on in his skull and he can feel the ever-present weight of his gaze piercing into him, but most of all there’s his fucking hand still on his thigh, heavy, and it muddles his thoughts all up. 

When was the last time someone touched him without intent to hurt or humiliate, other than his mother?

Not that he believes Victor wouldn’t do either of those things - the freak would probably get off on it - but the point is that he hasn’t. At least not yet. 

Perhaps that, accompanied by the wine, is the reason that his tongue loosens momentarily, enough for him to dare to say, “I doubt you’re one of those boring people.”

Victor pauses for a moment, giving his full attention to studying Oswald’s face as if he thinks he might find something there. “Oh?” he urges, but Oswald reigns himself back in and replies with a half-hearted shrug.

He leans in closer, as if he’s finally the one that’s intrigued, that has to put the effort into figuring Oswald out.

Suppressing a smirk, Oswald hums noncommittally. “Are you expecting a compliment? I could just mean that you’re weird.”

Victor laughs. “Not weird enough to turn you away though,” he states. “Interested in me, are you?”

Biting on his tongue as if to disway the flush fighting to stain his cheeks, Oswald cocks his head to the side and says, “you’re the one who sat next to me first.”

“And you started the conversation.”

He waves a hand in front of them, vaguely gesturing at the bar. “I merely gave you a suggestion for a drink.”

Victor hums, skeptical, and leans back for a moment. His fingers flex on Oswald’s thigh, press down a little, as if holding on to stop him from leaning too far away. He studies Oswald, eyes going up and down him, taking in as much as he can see as if searching for clues about him. 

“Well,” he muses, leaning forwards again. “You’ve hardly told me about yourself. Are you just another boring, ordinary person, Ozzie?”

The question is punctuated by Victor’s hand creeping higher on his thigh, so slightly that it’s almost unnoticeable. But Oswald notices it indeed. He doesn’t move to stop him or push him away.

His jaw flexes. Boring, ordinary Oswald. He’s about as ‘ordinary’ as anyone here could be, he supposes, and he has never tried to be anything outstanding, or eye-catching, or attention-grabbing. He much prefers it this way, so he can fly under the radar and build his way up without getting shot down so early. He knows it’s better to keep this façade up.

However, part of him yearns for more; knows he deserves more. Tired of being underestimated, of being mocked. Oswald Cobblepot is not a boring, ordinary, plain man. He’s destined for more and he’s going to get it - but not today. Today, he is just boring old Oswald, who works for Fish Mooney and holds her umbrella. 

But not forever, he reminds himself. He just needs to be patient.

He forces the tension from his shoulders and sighs; offers a tight-lipped smile once more. “I just work for Miss Mooney,” he says, sheepish. “I’m not as interesting as a person like you.”

Victor studies him for a moment before raising his eyebrows and slumping slightly. “Ah, alright, alright… guess I’ll just have to figure you out myself, then. I can do that.”

Oswald arches an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

Victor’s teeth catch the light when he grins; a momentarily blinding flash. One of his shoulders bobs in a shrug. “Maybe. If it turns out you really are just some boring little man. I don’t like being disappointed, or bored.”

“Am I boring you now?” Oswald asks. Victor’s lips purse; brows furrow. His expressions are always exaggerated, as if he learned them from copying a cartoon, or as if he’s incapable of being anything but sarcastic and mildly mocking. Or perhaps his face is as steady and unrelenting as his eyes are, and he has to exaggerate everything for it to be seen.

Eventually, he hums, pitch wavering. “Not quite. Not yet, at least.” He drums his fingers pointedly over Oswald’s thigh. Oswald hasn’t even commented on it, let alone told him to stop touching him.

He doesn’t even really know why not, either. Victor is creepy, weird, and dangerous. And yet Oswald is still intrigued, still hungry to know more about him, irked enough by his teasing that he feels the need to prove that he’s not just some snivelling man like the bartender, or like the stuttering comedian on stage. 

More importantly, however, why is Victor touching him like this in the first place, and why hasn’t he stopped? What is he trying to gain from it? He probably just wanted to make Oswald uncomfortable and intimidated to start off with, but that time has come and gone. No, instead he kept his hand there, and even moved it further up. As if he’s flirting with him.

The idea is hilarious and absurd, and yet Oswald doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shy away from the idea, which is perhaps the worst part of it all. 

Oswald pauses to take a closer look at Victor, but the man remains mostly unreadable. Frustrated, his teeth grind together, his eyes narrow.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice low, hushed. Victor’s face changes ever so slightly, shadowed now by a look of excitement, eager that Oswald may have finally caught on.

“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what kind of a guy you are. Maybe I’m intrigued by you, Ozzie.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You’ve not asked me to move my hand.”

Oswald pauses, faltering at being called out. When he doesn’t say anything, Victor presses on, leaning closer to him, filling up his vision.

“Are you going to or not?”

He supposes this may very well be Victor’s way of asking where Oswald stands right now; whether he’s going to refuse any advancements made or not. And Oswald… is torn.

He shouldn’t. For many reasons, he shouldn’t. He might not have known Victor for long, but he’s learned enough about him to know that hooking up with this man would be a terrible decision. He doesn’t want to get involved with a man like this, and it could very well put him in danger. Besides, it wouldn’t be professional, if they both worked for Fish. 

And yet again, despite all of that, Oswald doesn’t refuse him. 

Victor is a striking man, in looks and behaviour. He doesn’t find him unattractive, even if his personality leaves something to be desired. Plus, he intrigues Oswald, and it’s always hard for him to just drop something or someone once he’s interested - he gets hooked.

And anyway, it has been a while since Oswald ever actually endeavoured to get with someone, romantically or sexually. He’s a hopeless romantic, always envisioning some fairy-tale sort of love story, but he accepts that finding such a thing in the life he lives is not possible. And while he prefers connections and romance, he’s not above silly little flings - he just hasn’t found the time or the right person recently.

But here Victor is, offering something to him. And despite everything about the man, he doesn’t fear the reaction he might get if he were to decline him - hitman though he might be, he just can’t imagine Victor chasing after him, pressuring him, or getting mad, or even disappointed. He would shrug, take his hand back and make some random, casual comment about it, then change the subject, and that would be that.

Though, Oswald finds, he doesn’t want to refuse. 

Despite knowing he probably ought not to, Oswald sighs. He stares at the way Victor’s long fingers follow the curve of his thigh. 

“No,” he mutters. “I’m not going to.”

Victor’s cheshire-like grin returns, a spark of victory and excitement momentarily lighting up those dark eyes of his. He squeezes his thigh ever so slightly, leans a little closer; close enough Oswald can feel the warmth of his breath on his skin, and says, “I knew there was more to you than meets the eye.”

Oswald doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he doesn’t. He just watches those fingers dance on his thigh; glimpses those teeth in his peripheral, until Victor speaks up again.

“Finish the last of your wine, Ozzie. I’m gonna speak to your boss.”

He pats his thigh before standing up and, acting like their conversation or the casual touching hadn’t happened at all, he slinks back over to Fish and Butch. Oswald swallows against the sudden pressure in his throat, but he finds himself doing just as Victor had told him to.

He finishes off the last of his wine in only a couple of sips before he sets the glass down in front of himself, then turns and risks a glance back over his shoulder.

Victor is hunched over by Fish’s chair, chatting quietly to her, before he nods his head back in Oswald’s direction. Immediately, he snaps back around to face the other direction before either of them notice him watching them, and pretends not to feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

What are they talking about? What is Victor telling her? He’s not sure he wants to know. He can only hope that he’s not being embarrassing or telling Fish too much about their plans. But, knowing Fish, she’ll probably be able to figure it out herself. Hopefully, she’ll be merciful enough to not say anything about it next time he sees her.

Finally, after several more tense moments, Victor departs from Fish and returns to Oswald, greeting him by placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Come on, Ozzie,” he says, breath hot on his ear. “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

Oswald swallows. “And Fish is letting me leave with you?”

Victor grins, lifting his hand to poke his jaw. “Yup. You’re free. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

“Maybe I have,” Oswald claims, if only to remind himself that he has some control here, that he isn’t being forced to follow a hitman out under the pretense of something, only to be taken out. He knows that isn’t the situation.

Victor shrugs. “Lame, but sure. Maybe next time.”

Oswald huffs a little, the pressure in his chest easing slightly. “Then I guess we ought to leave before I do change my mind,” he says, and slides off the barstool. 

“That’s the spirit,” Victor cheers. His hand drifts from his jaw to the small of his back, pushing slightly to urge Oswald in front of him and towards the door. Oswald steps outside without looking back. On the street, Victor nudges Oswald once more, urging him to turn left.

“Where are we-“ he begins, but is cut off in his surprise when Victor suddenly wraps a hand around one of Oswald’s wrists and pulls him into the next alleyway they pass. In the blink of an eye, Oswald finds himself with his back pressed against a damp brick wall and with Victor standing over him, only inches away. In the darkness of the alleyway, Oswald can barely make his face out. 

A beat passes between them before Oswald swallows, something nearly audible in the quiet between them, before opening his mouth to question Victor. There’s a brief moment where he wonders if he really has been tricked and that he’s about to be gutted right then and there. Victor erases that doubt by ducking his head and smashing their lips together with such force that Oswald’s head almost hits the wall behind him. 

Composing himself quickly, Oswald reciprocates the action, leaning into Victor. With one hand - Victor seems reluctant to ease his grip on his wrist, keeping it firmly pinned by his side - he grasps onto the lapels of his suit jacket, tries to wrestle some control back from Victor, though that’s hard to do in his current position, backed against a wall, Victor pressing on him, having to lean up to meet him. 

Victor doesn’t make it easy for him either. He dominates the kiss as soon as he initiates it and doesn’t let up, barely giving Oswald an inch, keeping him where he wants him. One hand circles his wrist in a firm grip whilst the other rests by his jaw, fingers stretching out to brush his neck, urging Oswald to tilt his head up, and he uses his body to block Oswald against the wall, ensuring that there is nowhere for him to go. He kisses harshly, as if they only have a minute to themselves, and he kisses as if they’ve known each other for years and done this a hundred times before and that they’re not little more than strangers in a dark alleyway. And who is Oswald to break such an illusion?

He opens his mouth to him, meets him with his tongue and teeth, twists his hand in his jacket and pulls him down to meet him, and is rewarded with a noise of pleasant surprise. Victor leans more of his weight against him, enough to make the hard press of his guns against Oswald uncomfortable, and finally lets go of his wrist so that he can use his hand to brace himself against the wall. His hips shift, then he slips one of his knees between Oswald’s. 

He can feel the way Victor’s lips twist into a grin against his own in the moment before they part. Oswald turns his head away from Victor to suck in a deep breath of air, chest heaving with the motion, while his half-lidded gaze settled somewhere just behind Victor. 

Victor trails a finger along his jaw to the point of his chin, forcing him to meet his gaze again. “Don’t get all shy on me now,” he bemoans. In the dark, Oswald can just make out the jut of his lips in a joking pout. 

“Did you think… that was shy?” Oswald scoffs a little. His eyes narrow, picking up on how the pout turns back into a smile.

“Nah. I’m just impressed that you can keep up.”

Oswald snorts, mouth twisting, a retort forming itself on the tip of his tongue, but Victor doesn’t let him say it; cuts him off by pressing further with his thigh between his legs, just enough to make Oswald tighten his grip on his jacket and close his mouth.

“I could think of a hundred places more classy than an alleyway,” he finally bites out. He might not mind this rushed detour into an alleyway, but he still has standards - and if they’re low enough to fuck his boss’s weird hitman, the very least he can do is make sure it happens indoors.

“Oh? Sorry, I didn’t have time to book us a suite, princess,” says Victor, chuckling, casting his hot breath across Oswald’s face. His hand travels from his chin down, coming to rest on his hip, and he curls one finger through one of his belt loops and uses the grip to tug his hips forwards. 

“I can’t imagine Fish would be all too pleased if one of her guards were to walk out on us right outside her club,” Oswald mutters, willing the hot curl growing in his guts to ease. The last thing he needs is for the bouncer or some bodyguard - or, god forbid, Butch - to come out and catch him and Zsasz out here. While Victor might not care so much and might be able to walk such a thing off, Oswald wouldn’t be able to do the same.

“Mmm, dunno. Maybe we could invite them to join.” Victor’s laugh is deep and almost genuine when he feels how Oswald stiffens at the idea, and he revels in it for a moment before running his hand down the outside of his thigh. “Relax, I’m joking. Plus, Butch isn’t my type.”

For a moment, Oswald thinks he might have to insist on them taking this somewhere else, but after another press of his thigh, Victor detangles himself from Oswald and steps back. Barely giving him a second to compose himself, he makes for the street again, only to pause and look back.

“Well, are you coming or what?”

“Where?” asks Oswald, if only to buy himself another second so that he can smooth the wrinkles out of his jacket and will the flush on his cheeks away. Victor rolls his eyes.

“Somewhere we can be inside,” he drawls. He looks away, scanning up and down the street before nodding his head. 

Oswald follows him out of the alleyway and down the street, relief warming his chest as each step they take carries them further away from Mooney’s club. It doesn’t take Oswald long to realise where they’re headed instead. 

On the corner of the street sits a small motel, its sign red and flashing. Instead of going right in the front door, Victor goes around the side and opens one of the back doors, walking in as if he walks there. Although slightly hesitant, Oswald hurries in after him; Victor’s long strides eat up the ground beneath him and he doesn’t slow down the slightest for Oswald.

“I believe it’s customary to check in first,” he comments, catching up to his side. Victor scoffs, waving a hand in a vague gesture.

“Who has the time for that?” he asks. They turn down a hallway and keep going until they reach the end, in which Victor turns to the last room, takes something out of one of his pockets, and begins to mess with the lock until it clicks and slides open.

Oswald decides not to comment on it. He supposes on the list of things that Victor has probably done, breaking and entering is the least of his worries.

He lingers by the door as Victor stalks throughout the room, looking around. He draws the curtains closed before turning on the bedroom light, then proceeds to check around the wardrobe, the night stands, the cupboards, before seeming satisfied with his search. 

“Break in here often?” Oswald asks, curious. 

“Mmm, it’s useful to have different places you can come back to,” Victor says, shrugging, as he makes his way back to him.

“Like a dirty, run-down motel room?”

“It does the job, doesn’t it?” Victor arches an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me you’re gonna spend the whole night bitching. I’ve not got much patience left.”

Oswald huffs, but nonetheless keeps any further comments to himself. He asked for somewhere inside, and Victor indulged him. He can’t imagine the assassin is known for his endless patience and generosity, so the least he can do, for both of their sakes, is to stop pressing. 

He closes the distance between them, picking up where they had left off in the alleyway but this time managing to wrestle some control over the situation, which gains him a pleased hum from Victor. The man settles his one hand on hip and the other on his waist, using the touch to pull them against one another, chests flush together, whilst Oswald’s hands curl into his jacket like earlier, allowing him to pull Victor down to him.

Victor’s teeth nip at his lips with enough force that he draws a quiet gasp from Oswald, though he’s swift to muffle it even more with his own tongue, slipping it past his lips the moment they part. 

Together they stumble backwards, moving while trying not to part from one another, until Victor’s hips collide with a small desk. With Victor trapped between the desk and himself, Oswald can’t help but feel a small thrill of victory run through him at having the upper hand over him, at reversing their earlier position in the alleyway. 

Breaking apart to catch their breath, Oswald turns his gaze to the lithe body in front of him; rests his hands on Victor’s chest and runs them down to rest on his stomach. Even through his shirt he can feel the firmness of his muscles beneath his hands.

Victor’s head rolls to the side, coming to rest in the crook of his neck. A small laugh slips from his mouth.

“Well, look at you,” he says, running his hand down his side. “This a taste of my own medicine?”

“You seem rather content like this,” Oswald comments. Victor huffs again, breath hot against his skin, and then licks a long stripe up his neck, pinches his earlobe between his teeth, drawing a shudder down Oswald’s spine.

“Maybe I just wanna see what you’ll do,” he muses. “See what you’re made of.”

“And your way of finding out is through sex?”

“I know, not nearly as fun as a gun fight, but I thought I’d shake things up a bit.” 

Victor’s grin grazes his neck before he drags his teeth across the skin of his throat, over his jugular. One of his hands snake up to rest on the back of his head, threading through his hair. For a long moment, Victor just stares at him like that; his neck stretched, head angled up. 

Then that strange grin twists his lips again and he closes the gap between them, pushing off the desk and walking forwards, forcing Oswald to stagger back. Victor doesn’t stop pushing until his knees hit the edge of the bed. The only reason he doesn't fall back onto it is thanks to Victor’s hand grabbing his suit jacket. After slipping it off his shoulders and dropping it on the floor he gives Oswald’s shoulder a light shove, destroying the last of his balance and sending him back onto the mattress.

Propping himself up on the bed, Oswald’s fingers fumble with the buttons of his waistcoat. He must take too long, because Victor climbs up onto the bed, straddling his legs, and takes it off for him. Then, eager, he tugs his shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants so that he can slip his cold hands beneath it and along his bare stomach.

Oswald kicks his shoes off, hears them both fall to the floor, and then reaches one hand up to curl around Victor’s neck, tugging him down. His other hand slips beneath his suit jacket and coaxes it off, though Victor has to help when it catches on his guns holstered across his chest.

Before he can even make a comment about those guns, Victor distracts him by returning his attention to his neck, running his lips and teeth and tongue along it, coupled by his hands constantly roaming along his torso as if trying to cover every inch of it. When Oswald arches his back slightly off the mattress, Victor’s hands slip beneath it, one between his shoulders and the other low, just above his waistband. 

His cold touch sends shivers down Oswald’s spine, but he can’t help but revel in the feeling of hands and lips on his body in an intimate way. How long has it been? For so long it feels as if his life has just been full of work, surrounded by threats and mockery, while he constantly pretends to be someone he’s not just to get by. It’ll be worth it in the long run, but Oswald is tired. He can’t imagine when he’ll get this good a distraction again, so he basks in it while he can.

He tilts his head back, lets Victor work at his neck until he gets too restless and draws him back up to his lips, while Victor pulls one hand back to cup his jaw. He lets Oswald take control of the kiss, though makes attempts at distracting him by grinding his hips down against his.

When they pull back again, Victor takes the moment to begin unbuttoning his shirt. After popping the last button, he pushes the two sides apart, leaving Oswald to take it the rest of the way off, and sits above him, eying his naked torso with a dark look in his eyes. For the life of him, Oswald cannot imagine what he’s thinking.

He takes a moment to eye Victor in return; sitting upon his thighs, completely dressed save for his suit jacket, still armed, watching him with that darkness in his eyes. Beneath him like this, Oswald feels small. Not quite threatened, but almost intimidated. 

“I feel as though I’m at a disadvantage here,” he states, snapping Victor from his thoughts, and then pointedly curls his fingers into his shirt and tugs. 

Victor chuckles, low and deep in his throat, and leans back down. His hands resume his earlier search of his torso with a new eagerness now that he can actually see it, and Oswald finds himself also watching as his long fingers stretch out over his stomach and then curl around his side. One hand slides beneath his back again, pushing, urging him up until his chest touches Victor’s and he’s forced to meet his gaze. Victor watches, eager-eyed, as Oswald shivers when the cool grips of his guns and their leather holsters press against his bare skin.

“Are you complaining again, Ozzie?” he asks, arching his eyebrows. “Because you didn’t really seem to mind.”

Despite the flush on his cheeks, Oswald scowls. “Do you always fuck with your guns still stuck to your chest?” he retorts, giving him a look of his own. 

Victor sighs, dramatic, and lets Oswald lay back on the mattress. “I guess they might get in the way,” he admits. For a brief moment Oswald thinks he might finally take the damn holsters off, but all he does is reach up and pull the guns out, resting them on his own thighs. Oswald’s breath hitches and he watches them carefully; watches how they settle naturally into Victor’s hands, like an extension of himself; how his fingers rest on the triggers. Despite this, there’s no real fear that he feels.

When he looks back up, Victor’s eyes have become, impossibly, even more intense. He taps one gun against Oswald’s hip, watches how he twitches.

“You ever shot a gun before, Ozzie?” he asks. Oswald swallows.

“Is that a threat?” he asks, voice quieter than he intended it to be. Victor smirks, if only for a moment.

“Do you feel threatened?” 

Half-naked and under one of Gotham’s most notorious, sadistic assassins? He should. And he does, a little, but not enough to do anything about it - not enough to stop himself from wanting to press Victor for more.

“Should I?” he asks instead, and Victor laughs at that. 

“You’re real funny, Oz,” he sighs. He checks one gun, then leans over Oswald to place it on the nightstand, goes to do the same with the other and pauses. He sits back on Oswald’s thighs and says, “you never did answer my question.”

Oswald looks back down at the gun, then shakes his head. “Yes. But I’ve never owned one before.”

Victor hums, amused and thoughtful, then takes one of Oswald’s hands and manoeuvres his fingers around the grip, until he’s holding the gun. It feels odd in his hands, cold and unwelcome. He tightens his hold on it.

“Shame,” says Victor. “And really dumb, too. You’re gonna wanna get that changed soon, Oz. Never know when you might need one.” 

Oswald nods distractedly, focused on the weapon in his hand. He twists and turns his wrist, presses down the pads of his fingers on it, runs one over the trigger and feels his chest tighten. He wonders how many people this gun has killed.

When he finally turns his gaze away from it, Victor takes it as his cue to run his hand up his arm, to his hand, and takes the gun back from him, and then sets it beside his other one on the nightstand. Then he sits back and begins to unclasp the holsters, slipping them off and throwing them to the side. Before he can work on unbuttoning his shirt, Oswald sits up and begins to do it for him, hands eager. Idly, Victor runs his fingers along Oswald’s jaw. Just as he undoes the last button, he runs his thumb along his bottom lip and tilts his head. 

Oswald pauses, hands still holding his shirt together, and looks up, raising an eyebrow at him. A beat passes between them and as Oswald goes to question him, Victor tips his head.

“Go on then,” he says, eyes flicking down to his shirt. He taps his thumb against Oswald’s lip as if to urge him along. With a flush on his cheeks, Oswald busies himself with popping the last button out and then finally pushing Victor’s shirt off, letting it join the rest of the clothes on the floor.

The first thing that he notices is that Victor is toned. He has clearly defined abs and arms that are firm beneath Oswald’s hands. He isn’t surprised, given his occupation, but he still can’t help himself from resting his hands on his stomach, spreading them out and feeling him.

The second thing he notices is the scars. There are clusters of them littered around his torso, though primarily on his arms, and they vary from dark and raised to soft pink and faded. Almost all of them are tally marks, he realises, all in groups of five. He must have done them all himself.

His brows furrow together and he runs his thumb along one of them, feeling the bump of uneven skin beneath his touch. “What are these?” he asks. When he looks up, Victor is grinning at him.

“Scars,” he says. Oswald rolls his eyes.

“I got that. What do they mean?”

“What do you think they mean?” he asks. Oswald frowns.

“You did these yourself,” he states. “I don’t get why.”

Humming, Victor sits back a little so that he can look at them himself, an almost fond look on his face. “I count my kills this way,” he explains. “Each mark is a kill.” 

There’s a moment where Oswald just stares at him until the meaning really sinks into him. His eyes widen a fraction before he returns his gaze to the scars dotted around his body, the ones on his shoulders, his arms, his chest.

How many people has he killed?

He knew what Victor did, of course, and it didn’t dissuade him at all. He knew that Victor had a certain reputation as well, that he wasn’t just any other hitman in Gotham. But to actually see it for himself, see the amount of death he’s caused and how he wears it all like a medal - that’s something else.

“Oh,” he breathes, eyes wide. He feels suddenly giddy, suddenly light headed, as if it’s just dawned on him who he’s really with at the moment. He’s killed more people than Oswald can readily count, and yet here he is, with Oswald, kissing him and letting him hold his guns, teasing him.

His guts twist with something hot. Forcing himself to look away from his scars, Oswald throws a hand up, catching it around Victor’s neck, and pulls him down so that he can smash their lips together in a rough, violent kiss.

Victor laughs, chest bouncing against his own, as he fumbles to balance himself above Oswald. He’s eager to meet Oswald’s own roughness, grinning everytime he bites his lips, when their teeth bump against one another; keeps grinning even when Oswald bites hard enough that there’s a sudden small burst of copper on his tongue. He pulls back, breathless and mildly surprised.

“Now… that’s not usually the reaction I get,” Victor comments, swiping a thumb over his lip. It comes back with a smudge of red on it. For a moment, he just stares at it, and then he closes his own lips over it and cleans it with his mouth. Oswald watches, runs his own tongue over his swollen lips, tasting the faint remnants of copper. He feels breathless. Victor laughs at him, eyes raking over his whole body before resting on the obvious tent in his pants. 

“You’re way too hard in bed with a murderer to be sane, you know,” Victor comments idly, sliding his hands up Oswald’s thighs, along his hips, everywhere except the place he wants him to touch.

“Shut up,” Oswald groans, turning his gaze up to the ceiling. 

“Haven’t even touched you yet. It’s kind of impressive.”

“Would you get on with it?” Oswald snaps, glaring down at him, but the sight of him still makes him shudder. 

“Alright, boss,” Victor snorts. “No patience, huh?” 

Despite his teasing, Victor does finally move on, hands undoing his belt and the button on his pants. He stands up, and after so long of Victor straddling him it feels weird to now be alone, but his hands are still there; he leans over him, slips his hands beneath his pants and, as Oswald lifts his hips, he slides his pants down his legs and pulls them off. There’s a thud as something clatters to the floor. Oswald barely processes it, but Victor is curious.

“Oh, what’s this?” he muses, bending down to pick something up. When Oswald catches sight of it, he freezes momentarily.

“My knife,” he states, staring at the little weapon in Victor’s hand. Victor’s gaze sweeps between it and Oswald, his eyebrows raised.

“Planning to use this on me?” he asks. Oswald scoffs, sitting up.

“If I was going to hurt you, I would have done it before you took my knife away. Or when you gave me your gun.”

“Fair.” Victor hums, head bobbing, but his lips turn into a frown as he eyes it. It’s just a small pocket knife, one Oswald always carries on him these days for protection, and something he’s owned for years. There’s nothing particularly special about it, but it’s his. 

Finally, Victor finds the switch on the side and presses it, triggering the blade to spring out. He turns it around, holds it up to try and catch it in the dim light streaming in through the gap in the curtains.

“Nice knife,” he mumbles, distracted. 

“Yes, it is,” Oswald agrees, impatient. “Are you going to spend the rest of the night staring at it?”

Victor’s gaze slips over to him. He’s silent for a long, uncomfortable moment, before he flicks his wrist. “Get further up the bed,” he tells him. His voice is odd; Oswald’s not heard him once slip from either sounding bored or teasing, but now there’s an unmistakable edge to his voice. 

In nothing but his boxers while Victor Zsasz stands at the edge of the bed in the dark room, a knife in his hand, Oswald can only agree with his earlier statement: a sane man probably wouldn’t react in the way Oswald is.

He slides further up the bed, sitting just shy of the pillows, waiting for Victor to do something. He watches as he kicks his shoes off, as he flips the knife in the air and catches it, and then brings it up to his mouth. He holds it between his teeth as he takes his own pants off - Oswald’s hands twitch with the urge to reach out and touch, especially when he sees two more clusters of tally marks on his thighs - and then he takes the knife back in his hand and gets on the bed, crawling up to Oswald. He runs one hand along his bare thigh before pushing it, and when Oswald takes the hint and spreads his legs, Victor sits between them.

One of his hands idly runs up and down Oswald’s thigh, taking the chance to feel the skin newly exposed to him. The other one, the one with the knife, rests by his side, still and unused. Oswald’s gaze keeps flicking to it, just waiting for him to do something with it.

Instead though, Victor just leans over him again, pushing him down into the mattress, and begins to trail his lips along his neck, down to his chest, with purpose. Oswald can tell that there are going to be marks left, and he knows that’s what Victor’s trying to achieve.

With his skilled lips and tongue and the subtle press of their hips together, the warm weight of Victor’s torso against his, Oswald finds it easy to lose himself in the feeling. When Victor does finally move the knife, he doesn’t notice it until he feels the chill of the blade against his shoulder. He startles, but Victor just keeps him pressed down, unable to shake him off. He panics for a moment before he realises that the knife isn’t actually doing anything: it’s just resting there.

“What are you doing?” he asks. Victor hums, taps the knife against him again, and then drags it down his arm. There’s barely any pressure to it, not enough to break his skin or actually hurt him, but just the threat of it there, the biting chill of it, is enough to make his heart beat faster.

“Victor?” he says. The knife twirls on the crook of his elbow; Victor grazes his teeth along his skin, just below his collar bone. Finally, though, Victor opens his eyes and looks up at him.

“You ever used a knife on someone before, Ozzie?” he asks, voice low. Oswald swallows, taken aback by the question. His gaze flicks to the weapon, watching as Victor drags it back up to his shoulder. When he doesn’t reply, Victor offers a small grin. “I have.”

“Can’t say that I’m surprised,” Oswald mutters. 

“Good weapon,” he continues. “Not against a gun of course, but still.” 

“Are you going to stab me with my own knife?” 

Victor flashes a brief grin, eyes cold, and presses the point of the knife into Oswald’s chin, forcing his head up. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” he jokes, but he eases up on the knife, letting Oswald look back down just in time to watch him slide down the bed, dragging the knife down with him; dancing it along his side until he reaches his hip. His other hand stretches down, running along the inside of his thigh, fingertips playing with the hem of his boxers. Oswald’s hips twitch, taunted by how close Victor’s hand is.

“Eager,” he comments, huffing out a laugh. 

“How much longer are you going to keep teasing me?” Oswald hisses, glaring up at the ceiling. He’s ridiculously hard, has been for way too long, and now that Victor’s so close he doubts he has the patience for much more.

Thankfully, Victor seems to take pity on him. He stops teasing Oswald’s thigh, instead moving his hand to palm him through his underwear. 

Oswald can’t help but groan at the touch, hot relief flooding through him, and his hips move into the touch of their own accord, seeking more. The heavy press and rough stroke of Victor’s hand through the fabric of his underwear is nice after so long of nothing, but he needs more. It doesn’t help that Victor’s sitting just out of his reach either, he can’t even return any gesture. 

He props himself up on his elbows and opens his mouth only for Victor to immediately shush him.

“Relax, Oz,” he coos, pulling back. “Take them off. You look like you’re going to cry if you don’t.”

“Shut up,” Oswald hisses, glaring half-heartedly at him, though it’s probably made even weaker by just how quick he is to shed his underwear. As soon as they’re off, he curls one hand around his own cock, stroking himself enough to relieve some of the tension building in his guts. When he opens his eyes and looks up, Victor is still sitting there, content with watching him with an intense gaze.

“Are you just going to watch all night?” Oswald asks, eyebrow arched, hand still moving. Victor’s lips twitch.

“I like to watch,” he states, shrugging one shoulder. Nonetheless, he sits up a little and reaches for him, wrapping his free hand around one of Oswald’s ankles, effortlessly pulling him down the bed to him, and thankfully ignoring Oswald’s undignified yelp. 

He bats Oswald’s hand away from himself, taking it by the wrist and holding it to the mattress above his head. The closed pocket-knife presses against his wrist uncomfortably, though Victor makes no move to let go of it just yet. His other hand slips beneath his lips, lifting them up so that when he shuffles closer, Oswald’s hips rest on his lap, his thighs pressed against his waist. Every time either of them shift slightly, he feels Victor’s clothed erection brush against his own.

Victor trails his hand back around his hip, curls his fingers around his cock and jerks him off with steady, slow strokes, occasionally swiping his thumb up and along his tip. He tucks his head to the side, licks along the shell of his ear, bites the skin beneath it and then grins when Oswald groans, when his hips buck up into his hand. 

“I like you more like this, ‘stead of complaining about everything,” Victor comments. “Would do you good to learn some manners, y’know.”

Oswald opens his mouth, ready to snap at Victor - he should listen to himself, put his own mouth to better use instead of spitting out stupid remarks and taunts - but he must expect it because he gives bites down particularly harshly on his neck and tightens his hand on his cock, turning his retort into a gasp. If it leaves a mark, it’s going to be too high for him to hide with his clothes.

“Victor,” he breathes, squirming beneath him. He wants to say something - probably the insult he had been ready to spit a moment ago - but when the pace of Victor’s hand picks up, the words dissolve on his tongue again. His thighs press against his firm waist, urging Victor to lean closer, pushing him down, smothering him with his own body. 

“Mhmm?” he hums, sounding a mix of amused and smug. He twists his wrist, runs his thumb over his head, runs his tongue over his jugular. Hot pressure builds up within his guts and his hips chase after Victor’s hands with each stroke. A sliver of embarrassment courses through him when he realises that Victor isn’t even naked, and yet Oswald’s thighs are trembling and Victor’s hand keeps working him closer and closer to the edge.

His free hand reaches out, curling around Victor’s bicep, while he twists the other in an attempt to get it out of Victor’s grasp, to no avail, and with Victor pressed against him, he can’t even lift his back off the mattress. There’s no way for him to take the upper hand or regain control of the situation. 

“ Victor, I-“ he hisses between his teeth and digs his nails into his scarred skin; tries to figure out how to convey that he’s not going to last much longer unless Victor eases up. 

“You know, Ozzie,” he muses, cutting him off. “You never answered my question earlier.”

Brows furrowing, a confused noise slips past his lips, quickly followed by a breathless moan. Victor finally lets go of the wrist he’s kept pinned to the bed, much to his relief.

A hot rush of air brushes Oswald’s ear. Voice low, Victor says, “I asked you if you’ve ever used a knife on someone before.”

There’s an audible snap, a familiar sound, and then the sudden press of cold steel against his neck. Oswald’s eyes snap open only to meet Victor’s dark gaze, his face inches from his own. 

“Have you, Ozzie?”

Oswald swallows, feels the way the pressure on the blade increases a fraction for a moment, watches Victor’s dark eyes track the bobbing of his throat. The knife holds steady, unrelenting. Though the threat is there, Oswald knows he isn’t going to kill him. He’s just doing this because he can, because he enjoys it.

“ Shit ,” Oswald breathes, guts twisting. His body jerks and toes curl when Victor’s free hand strokes him again, slow and lazy, and his lips twist ever so slightly.

“You’re twisted,” Victor says, chuckling. “Oh, aren’t you fun, though?”

“Shut-“

“Ah-ah-ah.” Victor shakes his head, presses the knife a little harder. “Don’t be rude now.”

Head already against the mattress, Oswald can’t move away and put any distance between himself and the knife - not that he has to. Victor seems to know the exact amount of pressure he can exert before he risks breaking his skin or drawing blood, and he shies just from it. When Oswald quietens down again, he eases up on it more, rewards him by tightening his hand around his cock just slightly and stroking him again.

Twisted , Oswald thinks bitterly. As if Victor isn’t the one getting off on holding a knife to him - he can still feel his erection pressed against his thigh, hard despite not even being touched yet. 

“Freak,” Oswald hisses, screwing his eyes shut. He places one hand on his chest as if to shove him, but Victor hardly budges. He just quirks an eyebrow, thumbs the head of his cock in a way that never fails to make Oswald shudder and moan, despite the knife still against his neck. Precome dribbles down his cock, coating Victor’s hand and slicking each stroke. 

“Come on, Ozzie,” Victor drawls, dragging the blade along his neck until just the point of it rests against his skin. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“ Victor.” 

The name comes out of his mouth in a rush of air, with none of the venom he intended it to. It sounds, embarrassingly, like a whimper or a plea, and he digs his nails into Victor’s arm, squeezes his thighs around his waist. “If you don’t stop now, I’ll-”

“Don’t stop, huh?” Victor muses, eyebrows raising, lips spreading in amusement. He dances the knife along his jaw, rests it against his cheekbone. Oswald can see the glint of it just below his eye, and the chill that comes from the blade seeps through his hot skin; sends a shudder throughout his whole body. He bites down on his own tongue to stifle the moan that’s coaxed out of his throat; screws his eyes shut and tries to ignore Victor’s infuriating taunting; tries to pull himself back from the edge that Victor is pushing him towards.

“I have,” he snaps, finally giving into his stupid questioning. He’s not sure why Victor even wants to know just how violent Oswald has been, or could be. Considering the position he’s in right now, he probably just gets off on it. 

“What do you - what do you even care?” he hisses. He squirms beneath him again to no avail before falling back onto the mattress with a groan. “God, Victor-”

“Huh.” Victor hums, pleased, and then sits back a little, no longer pressing him right into the mattress. He takes both his hands back, though not before tapping and flicking the knife ever so slightly, just enough that Oswald barely processes the slight sting of his skin breaking beneath the blade. He’s grateful for Victor backing off, leaving him to catch his breath and to attempt to compose himself.

“I was curious,” Victor says, shrugging. “Wanted to know what kind of person you are.”

Oswald scoffs, shaking his head. “Freak,” he mutters. Victor just smiles and taps his hip with his knife, then tosses it aside, further up the bed.

“You just gonna lay there all night, or are you gonna do something?” he asks, as if he hadn’t been bodily pinning Oswald to the mattress. 

Glaring at him, Oswald sits up and lets his gaze slip down his body. Still in his underwear, Oswald can see the outline of his erection straining against the fabric. It’s about time that Oswald regains control of the situation.

He nudges Victor and this time he actually moves; sliding off his legs and off the edge of the bed, standing back up. Oswald follows after him, undeterred by the way Victor has to look down at him, gaze no less hungry and dark as it was when he was looming over him. He slides one hand down Victor’s side, resting it on his hip, fingertips running along the top of his underwear, whilst he ducks his head forwards, ghosting his mouth over his skin, taunting.

He isn’t patient enough to keep teasing him for long, and he wastes little time in sliding his fingers beneath the fabric of his boxers and pulls the clothing down his thighs, lowering himself to his knees as he does so. As Victor steps out of his underwear and kicks it aside, Oswald takes a moment to unabashedly take him all in as if seeing him for the first time. He runs one of his hands up a toned thigh, fingers dancing along old scars - a burn on the outside of his thigh, reaching up to his hip; a bullet wound on his calve; a multitude of cuts around his knee, mildly curious.

Quickly though, he turns his attention to his cock. Despite not having been touched yet, he’s still impressively hard and flushed. After being unable to touch him for so long, Oswald is eager to see just how he can break Victor’s cool exterior, how he can have him trembling and moaning with his hands and his mouth.

He wraps his hand around him, stroking him slowly and drinking in the subtle reactions to his touch; the twitch of his thighs, the hitch in his breath. Hungry for more, Oswald leans in - only to be stopped by a hand on his jaw and a surprisingly firm, “Oswald.”

Startled by Victor’s use of his real name rather than the nickname he’s so fond of, Oswald stops before he can even start and looks up, eyebrows raised. Victor’s face is unreadable as he stares down at him, but then he swipes his thumb along Oswald’s cheek, surprising him with how the motion causes him a sting of pain and discomfort. He pulls his hand back, lips twitching upwards, and then shows his thumb to Oswald. 

It seems that when he had flicked the knife against his cheek, he had actually managed to break his skin and draw blood; just enough for Victor to be able to wipe it away, for it to melt into the crevices of his skin. He’s momentarily surprised that Victor didn’t just leave it there - assuming he probably would have liked the sight of it staining his cheek while he sucked him off - until Victor acts again. He taps Oswald’s lip, says “open” and, dumbly, Oswald does. When Victor rests his thumb inside his mouth, Oswald’s tongue dashes out to press against it. The taste of his own blood is disgusting and heady and yet he doesn’t stop until Victor’s skin is no longer stained with it, and until Victor pulls his hand back himself. 

He smiles, pleased, and pats Oswald’s cheek. “You can keep going now,” he says. With burning cheeks, Oswald musters a weak glare at him, humiliated by Victor’s obvious power play, but he doesn’t linger on it. 

He strokes his hand along his cock, runs his thumb along his head, and then leans forward to lick along the underside of it. When he reaches the tip, he teases it for a moment before taking it into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it. Hollowing out his cheeks and leaning forwards on his knees, Oswald sets a slow, steady rhythm, bobbing his head back and forth, occasionally leaning back to focus his attention on his head. He picks up on the smallest of Victor’s reactions, learns what draws a response out from him and then makes a mental note of it. He relaxes his jaw, takes a steadying breath through his nose, before leaning forwards and taking Victor further into his mouth despite the discomfort it brings him. He doubts he’d be able to take all of him in, but he pushes himself a little further to feel the way Victor’s thigh shudders beneath his hand, while tending to what he can’t fit in his mouth with his closed fist. 

One of Victor’s hands fall down, resting on the back of his head, his fingers carding through his hair. He pushes slightly, keeping Oswald’s head down for a second longer before easing up. Much to Oswald’s surprise, he doesn’t grab hold of his hair or take control of Oswald’s pace, only ever offering slight pressure, allowing Oswald to maintain his own pace. When he presses his tongue up against him, runs it along his head and swallows the taste of pre-cum, Victor’s fingers twist the short strands of his hair and he mutters out a barely audible curse. The sound of it sends shudders down Oswald’s spine, sends a thrill through him, and he opens his eyes to look up at him. He catches the way Victor’s chest shudders with an inhale, watches the way his face melts into something relaxed and content, so different to the smug smirk and dead eyes that he’d worn constantly. Victorious at the break in his facade, Oswald doubles his efforts. 

Victor sighs, runs his hand through his hair again, rolls his hips forwards into his mouth, and then uses the grasp on his hair to tug Oswald back. Mildly surprised, Oswald leans back and looks up, one eyebrow arching, one hand still curled around the base of his cock. Victor had teased him so much that Oswald had been looking forward to returning the favour, and he’s mildly disappointed at being stopped so early. 

“Get up,” he urges, tipping his head towards the bed. With a sigh, Oswald does as told, rising up onto his feet.

“No patience,” utters Oswald, looking up at him with an unimpressed expression. Victor raises a single eyebrow, seeming to mull over his comment before he closes the small distance between them, forcing Oswald to raise his head to look up at him. He reaches forwards, curls a hand around the back of his neck, ducking his head close enough that their lips brush against one anothers, but whenever Oswald leans forwards to close the distance, Victor leans back. It’s infuriating, but before Oswald can reach out and pull him close, Victor moves his hand to his chest and pushes with just enough strength behind it to knock him off-balance, stumbling back against the end of the bed. 

“Get on the bed, Ozzie,” he says, while he walks away from it. Oswald can’t help the frown that worms its way onto his face, his displeasure at his attempt to rile Victor up being interrupted and then to be left alone becoming obvious on his face. Spiteful, he adamantly does not get onto the bed, and instead just folds his arms over his bare chest and pretends that he’s not bothered about standing in the room, alone, naked, and stupidly hard. In what must be the joint bathroom, he hears Victor rummaging around for a minute before emerging once more, holding something in his clasped fist, hidden from sight. 

“Not happy?” Victor asks, looking Oswald up and down. He comes close again, stepping in a way that makes Oswald sure he’s ready to once more box him in against the bed, so Oswald steps to the side. With a small smug tugging his lips, he inclines his head to the bed.

“I want to see you on the bed,” he replies. Victor’s curious expression softens into a grin and he takes a step towards the bed, one of his hands spreading out by his side. Pleased, Oswald closes the distance again and copies Victor’s earlier gesture: placing a hand on his chest and pushing. Despite how he knows already that he can’t move Victor, the hitman moves back with it and sits on the bed, then pulls himself further up it, and then he lounges back, propped up on his elbows, watching Oswald curiously.

Oswald follows him up onto the bed, straddling Victor’s thighs, and a thrill runs down his spine at the position: at seeing Victor laid down beneath him, waiting for his lead. Oswald runs his hands down his toned torso, fingertips skimming over raised scars, curling around his side. Pleased, Oswald ducks his head and this time Victor doesn’t tease him, meeting his lips in a brief kiss that reignites the eagerness between them. Oswald trails his lips away from Victor’s, focusing his attention on his neck. One of his hands drifts low on Victor’s stomach, nails ghosting over his skin, before drifting lower and taking his cock into his hand, stroking him in a steady rhythm. Victor’s hips twitch upwards into his hand and he leans his head to the side, stretching out his neck for Oswald. 

He’s half-tempted to make sure that he leaves a mark, the idea of his presence lingering on Victor’s body, a mark like all of those scars he has, making his cock throb. He wonders how Victor might react to it: if he’d be annoyed or if he’d find it funny, enjoying Oswald’s boldness. He imagines someone else noticing it, and what might go through their head: who they might wonder, would be so bold as to mark Victor Zsasz; and who might be able to get close enough to him to do so in the first place. He can’t help but be emboldened by the fantasy and as his lips press against the crook between his neck and his shoulder, he lets his teeth graze and pinch, lets his lips suck and bruise, until he can feel the way Victor’s chest bounces against his own with a low laugh. 

Ignoring the urge to ask what he finds funny - he doesn’t want to trigger any of Victor’s sly or humiliating comments again - he tilts his head and works on creating another mark, teasing his skin until it bruises; revels in the hitches in Victor’s breaths, the press of his fingers resting on his hip and the twitch of his thighs beneath Oswald’s. His thumb rubs over his head, smearing pre-cum between his fingers, already sticky with his own saliva coating his cock. When Victor rolls his hips up into his hand, his eyelids flutter and a shudder runs through his whole body, his chest pressing against Oswald’s. 

With a pleased smirk on his face, Oswald sits back to admire his handiwork. He watches as Victor lifts his head, his eye opening slowly, clouded with pleasure. Looking at Oswald, he arches an eyebrow at his expression, moves his hands to grasp onto his waist and presses his fingers into his skin. He pulls him forward, forcing Oswald’s hips to grind into his own, then places one of his hands over Oswald’s, stilling it. His own lips twitch upwards at the questioning glance Oswald sends him, and then he leans closer, catches Oswald’s lips in his own. Oswald lets himself melt into the kiss, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting.

He kisses Oswald until he’s breathless, until his chest burns, and then he pulls back just an inch. One of his hands comes up to curl around the side of Oswald’s neck, holding him in place, then he moves his head to the side, cheek against Oswald’s, breath warm against his ear. He stretches his thumb, runs it back and forth across his throat, and traces the shell of his ear with his tongue until Oswald shudders. A low chuckle rumbles from his throat, and as he squeezes Oswald’s waist with one hand he says, “I’m gonna fuck you now, Oz.”

A chill runs through his whole body at the statement, so confident and flippant. He forces his eyes open just as Victor pulls his head back and they lock gazes. A lazy smirk remains settled on Victor’s features and he quirks an eyebrow at Oswald’s lack of a response. Oswald blinks, composes himself.

“Is there any-”

Victor takes his hand off his waist, reaches aside on the bed for what he had brought from the bathroom earlier, and holds up a tube of lubricant. He smiles, winks, and says, “cherry flavoured.”

Oswald snorts, rolling his eyes. “How often do you bring people back here?” he asks, gaze slipping over to the bathroom door. 

“Well, when most people spend time with me it’s usually in a much nastier place than this, and not willingly,” Victor admits. “For some reason, I barely get a good opportunity to bring someone back here with me. But you can’t blame a guy for being prepared.”

A scoff rolls past his lips. “I can’t imagine why,” he mutters, glancing briefly at the multitude of scars marking his body. His hands urge to reach out and touch them again, so he does; reaching out and trailing his fingertips along the diagonal mark of five on his hip. 

“No idea,” Victor agrees, humming, and then tightens his grasp on his neck just enough to make Oswald’s attention snap back to him, rather than remaining on those scars. For a moment they just stare at one another, Victor’s eyes dark and intrigued, pleased and smug, watching his face as he presses down with his thumb just a little more. Oswald twitches, brings one of his own hands up to rest on his wrist, firm but not pushing. Victor grins just enough to show a sliver of his teeth, and then he lets go. He pushes the lubricant into one of Oswald’s hands and nods.

“Well, go ahead then.”

Oswald inhales, unsteady and shallow, and looks down at the tube. He raises an eyebrow. “You want me to…”

“Mhmm.” Victor leans back down onto one of his elbows, humming. “Since you look so content up there. Unless you don’t want any prep, which hey, that’s certainly a choice, but it’s your choice-”

“I think I get it,” Oswald snaps, glaring, just to stop Victor’s rambling, and pops the cap off the tube. He shifts a little on his lap, bites down on his hesitation and the stupid vulnerability he feels sitting in front of Victor while he just watches. Victor held a knife to him, but this is what makes him blush and flounder?

He smears a generous amount of lube over his fingers before setting the tube aside on the mattress, and then he lifts himself up a little onto his knees and reaches behind himself. A shudder seizes his body as brushes one finger against his entrance, teasing it, before slowly pressing in. He lets his head fall forwards as if hoping that his short hair might fall in front of his face and hide him from Victor’s intense gaze. 

Slowly, he’s able to ease one finger inside himself, and he forces his shoulders to relax, forces himself to adjust to the sensation. As soon as the discomfort melts into something more pleasant, Oswald introduces a second finger, working it slowly alongside the first. His chest trembles with each breath he takes, accompanied by the choked little noises that slip past his lips unwillingly. He tilts his hips just a little, presses further in with his fingers only to brush against his prostate. His whole body twitches in response and an undignified moan leaves his lips, but despite the heat that rushes to his cheeks, extremely aware of Victor’s presence watching him, Oswald curls his fingers at the same angle, brushing it again. 

His free hand grasps Victor’s thigh in an attempt to balance himself and his thumb rests atop a long scar. He feels the rough line of skin beneath the pad of his finger and he presses down onto it; feels Victor’s thigh twitch beneath his touch, hears the rhythm of his heavy breathing and without opening his eyes, he can feel the intensity of Victor’s gaze on him. Heat crawls up his spine, makes his body tremble and the breath in his lungs stutter. 

Exhaling unsteadily, he teases himself with a third finger, easing it in alongside the others slowly. The stretch provokes a noise from him, something tumbling from his throat and past his lips, quickly followed by more before he can even attempt to stop them. Caught between the pleasure that comes with each thrust and curl of his fingers and the discomfort as he adjusts to the sensation, Oswald can’t maintain any facade before Victor: horribly vulnerable, coming undone right in front of him. 

Taking a steadying breath, Oswald forces his eyes to open, seeking out Victor. Their eyes lock and they hold one another’s gaze for several moments, the air between them heavy and thick, suffocating, electric. Victor runs one of his hands along his thigh, curls his fingers around his hip and squeezes, pulls him forwards. After easing his fingers back out, Oswald lets Victor pull him down and press their lips together. He barely has a chance to reciprocate the kiss before he feels Victor’s hands grasp his waist, and as he bucks his hips up he pulls Oswald to the side, pushing him onto the mattress, flipping their position so Victor is once more above him, settling between his legs. 

He runs a hand along one of Oswald’s thighs, hooking beneath his knee and urging him closer, while the other hand fumbles to the side on the bed. With anticipation worming through him and making him squirm, Oswald curls his fingers around Victor’s arm, as if holding onto something could help steady him. In a rough voice he asks, “do you - do you have a condom?”

Victor stretches a little further and then pulls back, holding up a small foil wrapper in Oswald’s line of sight. “Not flavoured, I’m sorry to say.”

“Shut up,” Oswald hisses, unable to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. 

Victor flashes a grin at him before sitting up. He tears open the foil, pulls the condom out and tosses the foil aside. He strokes himself with his free hand, just enough to make him sigh and make his eyelids flutter, before he rolls the condom on. He sits there for a moment as if in thought, his gaze slipping up to roam over Oswald’s body in front of him. His lips twitch, the briefest movement, and then he says, “turn over.” 

He sits back to give Oswald the room to move, but reaches over him to pull one of the pillows down, which he slips between the mattress and Oswald’s hips just before he can lay on his stomach, despite how quick Oswald is to move. He stretches himself out on his stomach, hips propped up on the pillow and upper body resting on his forearms, and Victor’s hands come forward to reposition his legs, giving him room to sit between them, and then he rests a hand on the small of his back as if to soothe him, or perhaps to just keep him in place.

He teases a finger around his rim, drinks up the way Oswald shivers beneath him, before pulling his hand away. A moment passes before he feels the blunt head of Victor’s cock press against him, still for a second before Victor begins to press inside. He moves steadily, easing in against the resistance that meets him - Oswald was quick in his preparation, could have done more, but he hadn’t wanted to, instead eager to feel the stretch and burn that accompanies Victor pressing inside of him. It steals the breath from his lungs, makes his back arch makes his toes curl into the blanket beneath him

Victor leans over him, chest pressing against Oswald’s back, balancing himself by resting one arm along the mattress by Oswald’s head, which Oswald takes advantage of by curling his fingers around his bicep. He lowers his head, nose bumping against Oswald’s neck, and then he catches his earlobe between his teeth, pinches it, rolls his tongue along the shell of his ear and back down. Oswald can hear each sigh, each hiss, each hitch in his breath, the little noises that slip past his lips along with the audible groan as he bottoms out, pressing as deep as he can. It burns, and Oswald sucks in a shallow breath between his teeth, digs his fingers into Victor’s arm, and in turn Victor teases his neck and his shoulder with his lips and tongue and teeth until his body begins to relax beneath him, until his hisses turn into quiet, breathless moans. Then Victor pulls hips back, rocks them forwards again almost experimentally, looking for Oswald’s reaction and studying it. When rewarded with a shuddering moan and little tension, he abandons his slow approach to ease them both into it and begins to establish a pace for his thrusts.

He pulls back until it feels as if he might just pull out completely, and then he thrusts back in, snapping his hips forwards against Oswald’s ass, and the motion is hard enough that it jerks Oswald’s body forwards on the mattress, punches little noises out of his chest. He turns his head, presses his forehead against Victor’s arm, screws his eyes shut and tries to muffle his moans as much as he can. It’s hardly effective as only a handful of moments pass like that before Victor shifts, bringing his other hand forwards to run his fingers through his hair. Then he twists them, grabbing the short strands of his hair, and pulls his head back, away from his arm. With his lips hovering by his ear, breath hot on his skin, he says, “ don’t . I wanna hear you.”

As if spurred on by those words, or perhaps due to the way Victor’s fingers tighten, tugging his hair until his neck stretches and his head aches, something between a gasp and a low moan falls past his lips. As Victor pushes himself upright, he maintains his grasp on his hair, pulling Oswald up onto his hands and forcing his back to arch. His nails drag across the blanket beneath him, trying to hold himself up, scrabbling for purchase, which seems impossible, especially when this new position seems to allow Victor’s cock to reach impossibly deeper. When Oswald moans it sounds filthy, obscene, but Victor rewards him with another snap of his hips, a harder tug to his hair and it’s futile to try to stay quiet. Pleasure blends with pain and Oswald quickly finds himself reduced to a mess. 

“ Victor ,” he gasps, one hand going back, blindly searching for him. His fingers graze his side, nails scratching his skin, and then he feels Victor’s finger circling his wrist, grabbing hold of it and pulling his arm back, pinning it against his own back and leaving him caught, helpless, in his grasp. 

Victor doesn’t stop. He maintains his painfully fast pace, hips snapping forwards, grinding into Oswald, unrelenting with the painful grip on his hair, the bruising grasp on his wrist, while Oswald can only try to keep up with him and not be overwhelmed by everything, trembling and panting and helpless. Despite the intensity of it, the roughness is almost bliss: there’s a sense of freedom and security in the way that Victor holds and uses him, how Oswald has to just trust the man with his body, to not take it too far but to also take it far enough that he can lose himself for a night, lose his tension and drop his act for just a while. It feels as if Victor knows just what to do to keep him reeling, teetering on an edge, giving him the thrill that he needs but never pushing him over. Though Oswald is a man that enjoys being in control, it is thrilling to let go of it, to hand it over to someone else, for just a while.

Breathless, he moans his name again, and there are words on the tip of his tongue but he doesn’t know what he wants to say, what he even wants to ask in the first place. Victor tugs his hair once again, tilting his head to the side so that when Oswald forces his eyes open, he can just catch Victor’s gaze on him, locking eyes with him. Finally, the other man lets go of his hair and his wrist, instead placing both his hands on Oswald’s hips and using that grip to pull him back to meet each one of his thrusts. With no hand to pull his head back and hold it there, Oswald is grateful to be able to break eye contact with Victor, his head hanging low between his shoulders, his forehead brushing the mattress. 

Victor’s fingers press into his hips hard enough that he’s surely going to leave bruises, his grip unrelenting, unwavering, pulling him back and then tilting his hips just so, until each thrust drives his cock into Oswald’s prostate. Oswald chokes on a gasp, his fingers curling into the blanket beneath him, clinging onto it as pleasure floods through him like fire. “Victor,” he gasps, voice trembling, “ Victor-”

A hand leaves his hip, coming up to clamp down on the back of his neck, forcing his face down and into the mattress, his arms giving out, moans being swallowed by the bed. Squeezing his fingers slightly around his neck, Victor says, “just shut up and take it, yeah?”

His voice draws ice down his spine, causing his whole body to shudder, his fingers clawing at the blankets for purchase, balling them up in his fists. His back arches beneath Victor’s body and with the hand pinning his neck down, Victor leaning on it just enough to make him uncomfortable, Oswald feels as if he might be able to snap him in half. If he were to just lean a bit heavier on him, or if he just tightened the grip of his fingers, he would so easily be able to actually hurt him. That knowledge only sends a thrill throughout him, and as the heat in his gut grows, Oswald snakes a hand between his body and the mattress, curling it around his cock, bringing him some relief. He’s slick with pre-come, causing a mess over his own hand and staining the bed sheets beneath him, and he knows that he’s not going to last much longer; not with the way that Victor presses against him, how he pins him down and relentlessly pounds into him. 

“Victor,” he says, “I’m close, I-”

The last hand remaining on his hip moves, snaking around him and pushing Oswald’s away from him, fisting his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. He lets his grip on his neck ease, lowering himself back down against Oswald, covering his body with his own and bracing himself up on one elbow, and his hand curls around the front of his neck instead, lifting his head from the mattress. Victor’s breath warms the side of his face and the hand against his throat is uncomfortable, enough pressure to make his breathing more difficult. Oswald curls one hand around Victor’s wrist, holding onto it, digging his fingers into his scarred skin.

“Do it,” he purrs, lips ghosting along the skin below his ear, his tongue dashing out to tease his skin. “Come for me, Oz. Wanna see you come taking my cock like a good little bitch.” 

His lets out a sharp huff, almost laughing at him, but any embarrassment that he feels at the name is quickly overpowered by the pressure building low in his guts that Victor fucks and strokes him ever closer towards. Then the fingers resting against his throat squeeze, cutting off his air and digging into the side of his neck. When he tries to draw in a breath, he can’t get even a sliver of air, Victor’s hand firmly preventing it, and it’s enough to tip Oswald over the edge. He comes, spilling over Victor’s hand and his own stomach and the bedsheets, his mind going blissfully blank as Victor fucks him through his orgasm.

The pressure on his throat eases, allowing him to gasp for air, the burn in his lungs receding. He blinks rapidly, clearing his hazy vision, and as his orgasm recedes and some clarity begins to filter back into his mind, sensitivity begins to flood his body, aggravated by the way that neither Victor’s hand or thrusts slow or ease. 

His whole body twitches when Victor swipes a thumb across the head of his cock, but it only makes him lean into his hips, meeting his next thrust and seeming to drive his cock deeper into him. Unbidden, a small whine slips past Oswald’s lips, his eyes screwing shut and nails digging into Victor’s arm. He says his name, but Victor only hushes him.

“You can take it a little longer; I know you can,” he states, his voice breathy, his chin pressing down against his shoulder as he ducks his head, muffling his own moan. Each thrust only seems to get more sensitive, but Victor’s body keeps him in place when he begins to squirm, and it’s all Oswald can do to hold onto him and take it.

Victor’s rhythm begins to falter, his hand finally letting go of Oswald’s overstimulated cock, grabbing onto his hip instead as he fucks into him, and his other hand tightens around Oswald’s throat again, tighter than it had been before. The pressure on the sides of his neck makes his blood roar in his ears and his head spin, and with Victor’s body pressed against his, the feeling is just shy of suffocating. 

As suddenly as it had started though, it stops; all of it. Victor lets go of his neck, letting him gasp for air, and then he pulls out of Oswald, lifting off his back. One hand centres on his back, keeping him down on the mattress below him, and as Oswald catches his breath, Victor slides his condom off and jerks himself off to completion, coming over Oswald’s back with a low moan, fingers digging into his skin.

For several moments, the two of them stay like that, both catching their breath and composing themselves. Victor slides his hand down Oswald’s side, fingers massaging his skin until he draws a shudder from him, and then he slowly slides off the bed and stands up. At the same time, Oswald sits upright, peeling himself away from the messy bed sheets beneath him with a slight grimace. He’s still mildly reeling from everything that had just happened, his body trembling slightly, cheeks warm with embarrassment that he tries to swallow down, trying not to think too much about - anything, really.

As he looks around the room, he spots Victor in the bathroom, watches him come back into the room with a small packet of wipes. He pauses as his gaze meets Oswald’s and a grin stretches his lips. “You’re a mess,” he states, looking him up and down. Oswald glares at him.

“Shut up,” he grits out, cheeks heating up even more as he looks away, fixing his eyes to a spot on the wall.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now, Oz,” Victor whines, sitting back down on the bed beside him. He begins to open the packet of wipes, but Oswald snatches them from him.

“I can clean myself up,” he snaps, pulling one out and beginning to clean off his stomach and hands. In the corner of his vision, Victor holds his hands up in surrender.

“I was gonna be nice and get your back for you.” He gives a pointed nod to Oswald’s back, where he can feel his come beginning to dry against his skin, but then he shrugs and stands up, heading over to his pile of clothes on the floor. “But it seems that someone is cranky with post-nut clarity.”

Oswald’s jaw clenches, resisting the urge to reach out and strangle Victor. He’d just make some comment about it, and it would make everything worse. It’s already made worse by the fact that he realises he does need Victor to reach his back for him.

“Fine,” he mutters, glaring down at his own lap and holding the wipes out pointedly to him. The hitman lets out a soft laugh, but returns to his side and begins to clean his back with surprisingly gentle motions, taking his time. They fall into silence, and it’s almost enough to make Oswald forget that they’re sat in a motel room, that it’s Victor Zsasz that he just fucked.

The moment doesn’t last long, though. Victor pats his side and stands up, throws the wipes away in the trash, and then he begins to pull his clothes back on. Oswald takes a minute longer to stand up, his legs feeling a little unsteady. By the time that he’s just buttoning his pants up, still shirtless, Victor is fully clothed and refitting his gun holster onto his chest, sliding the weapons back into their place. He pauses by the bed, gaze heavy on Oswald, and then he steps closer, bats Oswald’s hands away and does the button for him. A gloved hand moves up, catching his chin and forcing Oswald’s head up, forcing their eyes to meet again, and then he’s kissing him; not gentle, but not rough. Despite himself, Oswald’s eyes flutter closed and he kisses him back.

When Victor pulls back, he’s grinning. He lets his hand linger on Oswald’s cheek, thumb pressing into the cut he made, making it sting. “Try not to piss anyone off,” he says, then shrugs, “or do: I don’t care, but it’d be a shame if I had to kill you before we could do this again. You’re a real hoot, Ozzie.” He pats his cheek, hard enough to make Oswald twitch, and then he pulls away from him and heads to the door.

“See you ‘round. By the way, there’s a milkshake in the mini-fridge. Help yourself.” He winks, opens the door. “My treat.” And then he steps outside and is gone, closing the door behind him, leaving Oswald half-naked in the motel room, by the bed with filthy sheets.

Oswald glares at the closed door, inhales deeply through his nose, and finishes getting changed. His shirt is going to need ironed again. He goes to leave, but curiosity makes him pause, and he turns to take in the nondescript motel room - a place that Victor seems to own. There’s just enough belongings in here, like the wipes and lube, to suggest that someone might be staying here, along with a couple of out of date snacks in the fridge, right next to a strawberry milkshake.

Oswald snorts at it. He drinks it, but only because his throat is dry and uncomfortable - he doesn’t even like milkshakes. Then, he finds his knife from the bed, cleans the smudge of his own blood from the blade, and tucks it back into his pocket, and then he leaves, eager to pretend as if none of this ever happened, though the lingering bruises, hickeys, and the cut on his cheek linger to remind him of it.