#farrell penguin

Ah, Tuesday night. 

In Gotham City, every night is a good night for an Italian restaurant. Especially one that’s been in business since 1964 and acquired a hefty lot of aging locals that know the food is good, and a possibly even longer list of trendy, younger foodies that have heard that food is good because of the aging locals. 

There’s also the… criminal side of the patrons. Have a place with delicious food and wine, and Gotham’s elite underground is sure to follow. You’ve seen your fair share of men who look like they’re here to discuss a deal over a good meal, and a number of elected officials with them. You know better than to meddle, though. You just do your job, and hope for a good tip. Usually, you get one. 

Tonight, it’s raining. Heavily. Surprise, surprise. People flock in from the street as an escape from the deluge outside and the restaurant is filling up quickly. Your section is about three quarters of the way full, and you’re busy. You hear the door open again, followed by the momentary rush of the sound of tires on wet pavement outside. You straighten up, throwing your glance in the way of the entrance. 

There he is. A warm smile spreads across your face as you watch him amble in, shaking the rain from his leather coat. Though his appearances aren’t regular, his habits are. He always sits at the same table in your section, towards the back and next to the corner window. Once he figured out it was in an area you attended to, he never sat anywhere else. 

You only know him as Oz, the big sweetheart of a man who comes in and always orders the chicken parmigiana. Says it’s the best in town. After seeing him a few times, and sneakily taking note of his last name, you took it upon yourself to do a little digging and found out that he’s known for running with Falcone’s gang and that he’s also the owner of the elite Iceberg Lounge. You never bring those things up to him in fear of starting a conversation he doesn’t want to finish. It’s really none of your business, anyway. You give him a moment to settle into the booth, but once he does – you’re immediately headed that way. 

“There she is,” he starts with a smile, watching you as you make your way over to the table, pulling your order notebook from your apron pocket. “There’s my girl.” 

A blush hits your cheek – it does every time. From day one, he flirted with you, harmlessly and has continued it ever since. You’re used to patrons being a little flirtatious, but something about the way Oz does it makes your stomach tighten. 

“Buonasera, Oz…” you say, your lips curling into a warm smile. In the year you’ve worked here, you’ve picked up a little Italian, but the appropriate greetings are mandated by management. “How you doin’?” 

“Better now.” 

You smile again and dip your chin to your chest shyly. He’s always so affectionate, so warm. For being a guy who meddles in Gotham’s seedy underbelly, he’s one of the nicest guys you’ve ever met.

“The usual?” 

He nods. “The usual, sweetheart. But gimme’ a side of fettuccine tonight, huh?” 

You scribble the order down, and snap your book shut. “You got it.”

“What time you off tonight, doll?” 

“Same as every night, Oz. In about an hour.”

“They keepin’ you late every night, huh?” 

“Yeah, but a girl’s gotta’ eat.” 

He scoffs, shaking his head and shifts in the booth before looking up at you. “I keep tellin’ ya, I could take care uh ya, baby.”

The running joke, but sometimes you wonder if he’s serious. He always tips you generously, alarmingly so, and it’s always put directly in your hand, as though he doesn’t want anyone else knowing that he takes care of your groceries for the week.

“And I keep sayin’ I couldn’t do that to you.” 

“Ahh–!” He jerks his head to the side, dismissing those words. 

You reach forward to touch his broad shoulder, giving it a little squeeze. “Let me put your order in, honey. I’ll be right back with your wine.” 

With that, you walk proudly off towards the back, swaying your hips. You can feel Oz’s eyes on you as you go and maybe the way you move is intentional, because you know he’s watching. So, what if it was? Can you really blame a girl for liking the attention?

As you round the corner to the kitchen, you clear your throat and call out to the cooks. Angelo is working tonight, and he’s one of the few guys who knows about your little affinity for Oz. As soon as you pin the ticket, Angelo spins the wheel around, looking at the order. He recognizes it, and gives you a knowing smile. 

“Oh, look who’s back, eh?” 

“Quiet,” you hush, looking back towards the table. You can’t see it from this angle, but you know he’s there, sitting, probably on his phone, or tapping his big knuckles on the wood of the table. 

He looks at the sheet again, noticing the addition, and raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend’s hungry tonight.” 

“Angelo, will you quit it? He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“Sugar daddy then, eh?” 

You scoff, giving him the finger before reaching for one of the bottles of wine – Oz’s favorite.

You return to his table with a skip in your step. It’s been about a week since you’ve seen him, and you can’t help the giddiness in your gait. As you bump your plush hip into the corner of the table, Oz grins crookedly at you, his gold teeth glinting in the low lighting of the restaurant. You reach into your apron, pulling out a corkscrew. 

“So, whatcha’ been up to, Oz?” You say, as you twist the prong into the cork. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” 

“Ah, y’know… business as usual.”

He usually gives you an answer like that – something that doesn’t reveal too much about what he does. You wonder if he knows that you’ve looked into him. You suddenly furrow your brow at the cork – it’s being stubborn – and quickly situate the bottle between your legs, squeezing it tight between your thighs. This action isn’t lost on Oz, who watches you with a deeply interested grin, watching how your skirt rides up just slightly at the front, not enough to reveal anything aside from some of your creamy soft thigh flesh. Everything you do is done with such innocence, but there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him, he thinks. After a moment of yanking, the cork finally gives way with a hollow POP and you grip the bottle, bringing it up to the table. You mutter a quiet apology and fill the glass, pulling the bottle back to wipe the edge on your apron.

“Well, it’s good to see you. Always is.” 

Someone calls your name from behind you, and it’s one of the other tables, looking for refills. You offer Oz an apologetic smile, and head in that direction. Sadly, you don’t return until his food is ready.  He’s extra present tonight; your eyes meet every time you look in his direction, giving him a timid smile and going about your tasks, but your heart flutters with an adoration for the older man. You’re attentive too, and go over to his table a million and a half times to ask how the food is, if he needs anything else. 

“Only you, doll.” 

You swat playfully at his shoulder, though the little quip has heat pooling in your core. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about him taking you over the table a handful of times; lustfully imagining what his hips would feel like rutting against your ass as he sunk himself inside of you. You constantly wondered what his cock looked like. He was a big man, and you assumed that rang true for all parts of him – but the hunger to find out was terrible.  

He’s one of the last ones to leave, lingering as long as he can before it’s considered rude. Tonight, something’s different about him, like something is on his mind, something he wants to say. Each time you’re at his table, he looks like he’s about to ask, but never does. Finally, as you return to clear his table, reaching for the empty plates on his table, he downs the rest of his wine and clears his throat. 

“Listen, sweetheart,” he says, pivoting slightly in the booth with some effort. “You uh, you busy after work?” 

“N-no.” Your heart is pounding in your chest. You straighten up, holding the stacked plates with one flattened palm.

“Why don’t you come down to the Iceberg Lounge? Unwind a little.”

“Oh, Oz, I’m not much of a clubbing girl.” 

There’s a glimmer of disappointment in those dark eyes of his, but he sets his jaw, and gets to his feet. This puts him in your proximity, and you can feel the heat rolling off his large body. Your stomach aches to lean into him, press yourself into his gut, and lace your arms around his neck.

“Just think ‘bout it.” He reaches in his pocket. 

The tip he gives you tonight almost makes your knees give way. It feels thicker than usual in your left hand and when your fingers close around the bills, you swallow down the protests. You don’t dare count it, not in front of him or anyone else. You’ve stopped telling him no, or that he doesn’t have to, because it’s almost like it offends him. He always hushes you, and acts like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You tuck it in the pocket of your apron, and swallow hard again. 

He smiles and steps around you. Your eyes are glued to the visual of him leaving, watching him through the windows as he limps down the sidewalk. God, you want him. It’s a lethal hunger, something that claws and rips at your insides. 

Once the restaurant is empty, you and the rest of the crew make quick work of cleaning up and closing up shop. It’s about forty-five minutes later when you’re slipping your arms into the sleeves of your black, wool overcoat and heading through the door. The rain hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You heave a sigh. You’ve got a walk ahead of you, but it’s something you’re used to. 

“Doll!” 

You stop walking, poised just at the end of the sidewalk. You hoist your bag up on your shoulder and pull your jacket right around your neck, squinting into the rain. 

“Oz? That you?” You take a step in that direction, knowing full well it is. Your casual act is embarrassing to you, but you persist, pretending you’re surprised to see him getting out of his car. It’s a nice one, too… a Maserati. Was he… waiting for you?

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “You ain’t walkin’ home in this, are ya?”

“Just to the station,” You defend. 

“Nah. C’mon.” He limps around the front of his car, rain splattering against his leather coat. “Lemme’ give ya’ a ride.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice. What’s the worst thing that could happen? Really. The rain is brutal and you’re cold, a chill settling into your bones. You hurry towards the plum-coloured car, your high heels clacking against the wet pavement as you do. Oz opens and holds the door for you, waiting patiently for you to make your way over. You get in the car gracefully, making sure not to flash him, though, you doubt he’d mind if you did. It’s warm inside, the heat is on, and the leather interior has absorbed some of that heat. You snuggle into the seat, watching in the rearview as Oz makes his way back around the car, and for a moment you’re surrounded by nothing but the sound of rain on the roof and the shlick of the wiper blades as they whisk the droplets off the windshield. The driver’s side door opens, and he tucks himself in. Droplets of rain decorate his shoulders, and he smears his hand over his hair. 

“Where to, sweetheart?” He asks, a familiarity in his voice. He’s used to driving people around, but he’d drive you around the whole city if you asked. 

“The complex on the corner of 7th and Onyx…” you say, almost sheepishly. Sure, it’s not the best part of town, but your little apartment is cozy, overlooking the city. You imagine he’s used to much nicer, and is probably silently judging the location. 

“Oz,” you start, looking at the girth of his fingers as they wrap around the steering wheel. Your mind starts to wander, but you quickly reign it in with a hard blink and an inhalation of breath. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, doll. Anything you want.” 

“Were you waiting for me to get off work?”

 “Gotta’ look out for my favorite girl, y’know?” 

It’s an indirect answer, but an answer all the same. You smile to yourself as he eases his foot into the gas pedal, the car moving forward. His right hand departs from the steering wheel to turn on the radio. Frank Sinatra’s crooning voice fills the inside, and for the rest of the drive, you’re silent, occasionally stealing looks at Oz as he drives. He handles the car beautifully, and you wonder if he handles a woman as well. 

Oz is sweet. You know this. Despite his constant heavy flirting at the restaurant, he’s sweet, charming and at times, awkward. Endearingly so. But you aren’t taking pity on him. Your interest in him is purely selfish, driven by your lust for older, dangerous men. You inhale a deep breath and turn your attention to the road. You’re close to home. A few minutes later, he pulls up next to your building and puts the car in park. 

You reposition yourself to face him, shifting your feet underneath you. He’s watching you, those smoldering, dark eyes following your every move. Carefully, you lean over the center console, enough to close in the distance between you two and press your lips against his warm, scarred cheek. His aftershave wafts into your nose, and you take a deep breath of it, remembering it. You think you hear his breath hitching. 

“That’s for the ride, Oz.” 

“Shit, I oughta’ drive you ‘round more often if that’s what it gets me, huh?” 

You hesitate a moment, looking into his eyes. There’s that look again –  like he wants to ask something. You fill the void with another question. 

“Is our chicken parm really the best, or do you just come for me?” 

Oz’s thick brows flick up on his forehead and he lets out a throaty chuckle. “Sweetheart...” 

“Do you come for me?” 

Now he’s really looking at you, squinting at you. Hearing that question repeated has him twitching in his goddamn slacks. He looks out to the rain, then back to you and you’re still staring at him, waiting for an answer. 

“If you only fuckin’ knew,” he chokes out.

“Well.. what if I wanna’ know?” 

“Doll,” he grins and laughs, almost nervously. It’s loveable and you can’t help but smile, your gaze fixated on his scarred mouth as he speaks. You aren’t staring negatively, quite the contrary. Like everything else unusual about him, you find his scars sexy. 

“You don’t gotta’... y’know, do that.”

You smile again, letting your lids close slightly. He thinks you’re doing this because you’re what? Paying him back for all the tips? Treating him like a charity case? Hysterical. If he only knew.

“Answer my question, Oz. What if I wanna’ know?”

He shifts in his seat. Uncomfortable? You can’t tell. 

“Then uh… I ain’t gonna’ deny you that. Find out.”

You lean back over, and instead of kissing his cheek, you tilt your head and go for his mouth, your soft, plush lips pressing against his. He doesn’t respond… not right away, at least. He’s stunned, but also trying not to devour you like some goddamned hungry animal. Finally, his lips twitch to life, pressing back against yours. 

He ain’t used to this. But, fuck, it feels good. 

As his mouth opens, his large hand comes up to the side of your face, holding you where you’re at. The cool chill of the band of his ring is a stark contrast against the warmth of his digits. His fingertips graze the edge of your hairline, massaging gently. The taste of his tongue in your mouth is intoxicating, the wine lingering on his breath mingles with his own personal notes. You let an open-mouthed moan fall from your throat, into his, and he reciprocates, moving his body slightly towards you. Your tongue slips along his bottom lip, pausing to nibble at it softly. He groans deep, his eyes rolling back in his head. You’re getting him stiff, worked up and all you’re fuckin’ doin’ is kissin’ him.   

This is getting heavy. You feel your own arousal burning between your legs, a fiery, throbbing heartbeat that gets more incessant the longer his tongue is in your mouth, tasting you. Oz is practically taking you in mouthfuls, and your hand crawls over the center console, just far enough that your fingernails scrape against the fabric of his slacks, over his thigh. A desperate attempt to get closer to him without just straddling him in his front seat. 

A deep rumble of thunder and a crack of lightning pulls you two from each other. You lurch away, panting, and look out through the front windshield. The rain comes down harder, and you can hardly make out the outlines of the buildings in front of you. 

“I should… probably go inside before this gets any worse.”

You aren’t sure if you’re talking about the rain or the mutual arousal. Maybe both. He clears his throat in response; he wants to tell you that you’re a cruel woman, leaving him like this, but with the taste of you still on his tongue, he ain’t about to push his luck and get greedy. He unlocks the doors from the panel on his left. You open the door and get out, dragging your bag with you. You lean back inside, looking at him with dreamy, half-lidded eyes. 

“I’ll see you, Oz. Thanks for the ride.” 

But not the kiss? You cringe at your words. There’s that look again – but this time, you know he wants to ask you if you’re coming down to the Lounge later. You know it, and you’ve already made up your mind. 

Instead, he shrugs with both of his shoulders. “Sure, sweetheart. Any time. I mean that.” 

With butterflies in your stomach, you exit the car, and shut the door, careful not to slam it. You hold your purse above your head as you run to the front door and you hear the roar of Oz’s engine as he speeds off. The second you’re inside, you kick off your heels at the door and hurry to the back of the apartment. You flip the lightswitch, illuminating the modest bedroom. You pull the dress from the back of your closet, half expecting a cloud of dust to come with it.  

Thank god it still fits. 

You catch a cab downtown, which is much less luxurious than your previous ride. It drops you off in front, and the line to get in stretches down the length of the building. You knew it was a popular place, but you hadn’t expected this. The rain, nor the fact that it’s a Tuesday evening, deters these patrons – whatever’s inside must really be something. You pull your dress down your thighs, and walk carefully up onto the sidewalk. Deciding to try your luck with the bouncers, you bypass the line, trying not to look at anyone to your right. If you stand in line, you won’t be inside for hours. 

Two men – identical twins – stand in front of the door.

“Can we help you?” One of them asks, sternly. You don’t take offense, they’re only doing their job. 

“Um…” You blurt out your name, adding, “Oz asked me to come.” 

One of the men speaks into a small mic attached to the lapel of his jacket, covering it with his hand. It’s only a moment before one of them opens the door and the music goes from muffled to booming, vibrating your bones. You mutter a quick thanks, and step inside, feeling like you’ve just cheated the system. The visual that meets you truly overwhelms you at first, and you hesitate. 

It’s a staggeringly massive venue, filled with undulating bodies. The building itself is industrial in nature, all steel and flashing red lights. The dance floor stretches as far as your eyes can see, a literal sea of human beings, all grinding against each other, feeling the music in their veins. You stand, stunned at the start of the crowd, unsure of where to go.

After a moment, you lift your gaze and your eyes meet for the hundredth time that night. Oz stands on the second floor, on almost a catwalk above the crowds. He looks like he did at the restaurant, save for the leather jacket which was replaced by a white suit jacket; he’s wearing the same purple shirt and black slacks. Your shoulders relax, knowing that whatever happens next will be something you remember for the rest of your life.

He doesn’t make it a secret of how he’s checking you out, a devilish sneer on his face. He’s only ever seen you in your waitress outfit, which let it be known, is sexy enough on its own, but this plunging number that gives him a peek at your cleavage, and hugs your hips in ways he could only dream of… He deepens his grin and jerks his head to the side, urging you up. You follow his gaze and clock the staircase to your left. You make a beeline for it, holding the chain of your purse in a fist and climb the steel staircase carefully, until you get to the platform that Oz is standing on. 

“Hi!” You shout over the pulsing music. You’re giddy, like a schoolgirl. It’s embarrassing, really. 

“I gotta’ be honest, doll, I didn’t think I’d see you.” he confesses, leaning into your ear. His voice is rough, but enticing. He pulls back, gauging your reaction. You stare at him for a moment, saying nothing, prolonging the moment and torturing him. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and your eyes flick down to watch. Something he does a lot, you notice. 

“What?” you ask, leaning into him. “After what happened in the car?” 

When you pull back to look at him, there’s a bemused smile on your face. Confident. Cocky. Like there was an unspoken contest of who would mention it first and you won. He shrugs lightly, huffing out a laugh. You reach for his cheek, palming it softly. Oz keeps his composure, even though inside, he wants to lean into it and whimper like a dog. He’s glad he doesn’t though. 

“I’m the one who kissed you, remember? It’s not like you did anything to offend me, Oz.” you coo.

“I ‘spose not, huh?” 

You nod, slowly, coyly. 

“The chicken parm,” he says suddenly, shrugging with his hands. “It ain’t bad. But I guess you’ve figured out the real reason why I come there, huh?”  

You laugh brightly, looking over the railing at the throngs of people below you, neon red lights washing over them in time with the music. You smile softly, feeling special. It’s not every day that you get private access to an elite club in Gotham City and get to schmooze with the owner. 

“Come upstairs with me.” Feeling like your attention is drifting from him, Oz takes your hand, guiding you in the direction of yet another flight of stairs. Your eyes trail up the steps; they lead to a loft, glass windows on every side. 

You’re stone cold sober, so you can’t blame the alcohol, but the second you’re in his office, above the crowds, above it all, you’re on him like a bear on honey. Your hands smear over his chest, fingers grazing through the hair that peeks out from his open shirt. He smells like cigars and an expensive cologne that you take lungfuls of. 

“You're an eager girl, aren’t ya?” 

“Yeah, Oz… I am.” You reply breathlessly, kissing a path along his bottom lip and chin. 

“How long have you felt this way, huh?” 

You finally pull back, and lick your lips, watching him intently. You knew he was a talker from the restaurant, always chatting. But right now, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him. “Uhm…” Your chest heaves visibly, and Oz has to fight to keep his eyes on yours. “The first or second time you came into Bellini…” 

“Ah, c’moooon!” he says, incredulously. 

“No, I’m serious!” You laugh a little, moving your head to try and keep Oz’s gaze. He looks off behind you for a moment, and when he returns his attention to you, his expression is serious.

“Chicks like you don’t go after guys like me –”

You bristle and take his face in your hands. “Chicks like me? What do you know about chicks like me, Oz? You think you’ve got it all figured out, huh?” 

He sidesteps that with another question. “What, you like older guys or somethin’?” 

“They’re better…” You say in between tiny kisses. “They know better. They’re more experienced. Guys my age…” You pause to run a finger along his lip. “They don’t know how to take care of women.”

Oz smiles. It’s a dirty, devious smile, and it sends a pulse to your core. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, and he brings his hand up to the curve of your shoulder. “You want me to take care of ya, baby? Is that what you’re sayin’?” 

You nod. A little too enthusiastically, maybe. 

“It’s a busy club, sweetheart.” He says, almost nonchalantly, as though his slacks aren’t tenting in between both of you. 

But… he has a point. You hum quietly. 

“Later, then? Give me a tour of the club and – “ Your voice trails off because Oz looks like he’s just gotten an idea. He smirks, and his hand grips your hip, pulling you close to his gut. “What?” 

“How’s about you sit on it, huh?” 

Your head turns, gaze heavily resting on the room across the way. You assume it’s for the dancers of the club. Whatever it is – it’s right there. You glance at it nervously, and your expression reads strong, apparently, because Oz chuckles next to you, and brings his hand to your jaw, forcing it back in his direction. 

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me. It’s okay. They ain’t gonna’ know a thing.” 

His hand drops from your jaw to your waist, where his thumb swipes circles over your dress. His hand sweeps around to the back, where your skin is exposed, and begins stroking patterns over the skin, igniting tiny fires wherever he touches. You lean forward, pressing your mouth against his again, hungry for his taste again. After a few minutes, Oz pulls away, ending the foreplay. He turns and ambles to the leather sofa angled in front of the window and you follow, taking slow, careful steps. One foot in front of the other. 

Once he’s seated, you lift your dress just enough to grip the delicately stretchy lace of your panties on either side, and carefully pull them down the curve of your ass. Oz is watching, his brown eyes locked on the tantalizing visual in front of him. You discard them on the sofa cushion, not thinking about where they land. Oz watches though, and his large hand snakes out, fisting them and discreetly tucking them into the pocket of his slacks. If you asked, he would’ve told you that he didn’t want anyone fuckin’ seein’ ‘em. The reality was that his perversions were too loud, and he was going to take a token of this dream he was experiencing.  

Oz reaches down, unlatching his slacks, and pulling the zip down just enough to reach in and pull his aching cock free. As you lower yourself, he lines it up, watching intently. You whimper his name, feeling the cockhead nudge your entrance. 

“Easy, sweetheart, easy. That’s it, nice n’ slow.” He licks his lips. 

At first, you nestle yourself down onto his thick cock gradually. The fat, leaking head pops in first, sending a shockwave through your core. Your breath hitches in your throat, and instead of sliding yourself down his shaft slowly, with a huff, you slam your ass down hard. You’re sitting all the way down on Oz’s wide lap, stuffing the rest of him in. He’s thicker than he is long, but god, it’s everything you thought it would be. He vocalizes, surprised at your determination. You still, letting your walls accommodate the girth of the man beneath you. 

“Hoo, baby...” 

The tiniest little movements have him clenching his jaw, hissing through his teeth. And then… with his hand casually holding onto your hip, Oz starts to rut his hips up into you. It’s just enough to rock your body up and down and move his cock inside you. 

He grunts underneath you, his grasp tightening on the satin of your dress. He craves skin, and his hand slides into the space between your dress and your back. You can’t help but let out the tiniest of whimpers at the feeling of being so full – you don’t remember the last time you were stretched like that. Your dress pools, hanging heavy between your legs and concealing your leaking core. 

Abruptly, the collective sound of high heels approaches, and your eyes snap up to the glass windows. A group of girls crowds the room parallel, and the second one of them spots you two, they’re heading your way. Oz stops moving. 

“Alright… quiet, doll.” He slaps your hip a few times. It’s a warning, and one you immediately heed, straightening up, tucking your hips into a more natural sitting position. His cock twitches inside you, and you swallow back the noise that bubbles up your throat. 

“Ozzy,” the girls coo in unison. One of them has a martini in her hand and asks who you are. God, they’re all so beautiful, you think. Insecurity threatens, but the stretching between your legs calms it.

Leaning to the side to meet their gaze, he tells them your name, proudly – the bastard – and you wave, sheepishly, trying not to allude to the fact that Oz’s girthy cock is buried inside you. Maybe they know. Maybe he’s done this before. You swallow hard, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“We was just havin’ a meeting. She’s thinkin’ of workin’ here.” A bold faced lie, but it distracts the women from looking too hard at the scene in front of them. They all titter excitedly, delighted by the prospect of having another friend to play with.  

“Oz takes real good care of us,” one of them chimes in, earnestly. “You’d love it here.” 

You clench around his cock as hard as you can, your internal muscles squeezing him in a vice. You smile as naturally as you can at the girls as Oz continues speaking casually. The man’s poker face must be insane because he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t give away a single thing. 

“Alright, alright. Girls, what am I payin’ ya for, huh? Get down there.” 

In a flurry of nods and apologies, the women disperse, heading back down to the throbbing club below them. The sound of their high heels clicking down the stairs fades away, replaced by the dull, muffled thrumming of the music below. As soon as you two are alone again, Oz bucks his hips up into you hard, almost painfully, pulling a low groan from your throat.

“Tell me how good that feels, sweetheart. Tell me.” The roughness of his voice, the harshness of his accent makes everything sound intense, but the desperation in which he asks that isn’t lost on you. He’s practically begging you to tell him, revealing a deep-rooted hunger for praise. You wet your throat, and lean your head back onto his shoulder, bringing your hand up around to the back of his wide neck; the flesh is warm and damp with sweat.

“It feels so good.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Y-yeah…” You close your eyes, wincing slightly at the way his cock bullies you and stretches you open. “So good, Oz. I’ve thought about this… so many times.”

His hips rut up into you, finding a hungry, incessant rhythm and your slick walls clench around him. The action brings a choking grunt from his mouth, and your ego swells with the control. An idea blossoms. You straighten up; setting your hips and grinding them back and forth on his lap. Beneath you, Oz moans, his grip on you tightening. You feel his large body shudder, and a cocky smile curls its way around your lips. 

“You like that, Oz? You like me fucking you like that?” 

He nods, breathlessly, reaching up to palm the sweat that drips into his brow. 

“Tell me,” you whisper, arching your body against his. 

“I l-like the way you’re fuckin’ me. It feels real fuckin’ good… ” He grumbles, pleased. “Feelin’ that tight pussy uh yours… like heaven, doll.” 

You whine at that, loving the way it sounds coming from his mouth. Your hips gyrate, continuing their ruthless pattern on his cock. His hand strays from your hip and juts between your legs, finding your cunt. His thick fingers slip between your folds, stroking you just enough to drive your orgasm closer to the edge. You whimper, tossing your head back. 

Oz’s gaze drops from your back to your ass, watching as the flesh swells when you push back against him. God damn. It’s a perfect fuckin’ view, and he sucks in a deep breath. Every muscle in his body tightens, even if he ain’t ready for that.  

“Aw, fuck–” he grunts, low. Deep in his stomach, his muscles clench, trying hard to stave off the oncoming orgasm. His eyes open, focusing on the ceiling, the sound of the music, anything except for the way you’re ridin’ him. It ain’t workin’, because he feels his whole body tense up. Fuck. 

His hand goes slack between your legs and you grit your teeth, bringing your brows together in a pained expression. The dual stimulation was nice, but the way his cock massages your walls, stretching them out and filling you in a way that has you gasping is enough to drive you mad. You’re thankful that the music is so loud beneath you, because your desperate mewls and whines are getting higher and higher in pitch. Oz mutters something, something filthy about filling you and you drive your hips back against him. And with that, he loses it. He thrusts his hips up into you a few times, with a frenzied sort of desperation. You feel the heat painting your insides, coating your walls in his ecstasy. Underneath you, Oz’s thrusts have turned languid and lazy. He’s silently justifying the too-quick orgasm with the fact that he had to; anyone could’ve walked in at any time. It had nothing to do with the fact that he’s been like a slobbering dog for you for months. 

Chest heaving, your hips continue rutting back and forth, and Oz shifts underneath you, still panting heavily. It’s tender, but he doesn’t complain. His thrusts continue to slow and you desperately reach between your legs, tapping his hand back to life. “D-don’t stop Oz, please… don’t stop…” 

Behind you, Oz chuckles under his breath and straightens up, having sunk back into the sofa a little too far when he lost it. His thick index finger strokes your clit upwards, and a shiver rips through your body. The coil in your stomach winds tighter as you settle into the oncoming feeling. Still full of him, your slick walls shudder around his cock as the first wave hits. The coil snaps, your thighs clamp shut around his hand, and you look down, sighing loud as he continues flicking between your folds. One of your hands is situated on his thigh, and the other comes to grip his wrist, feeling the cuban link chain beneath your palm.

“That’s it, sweetheart… that’s it…” As you ride it out, bucking your hips against his groin, he coaxes you through your orgasm, both vocally and with the way he massages your clit, the pad of his index finger pressing into it. You can hear the pride in his voice, it’s absolutely dripping with it. “Atta’ girl. Feels fuckin’ good, don’t it?”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out. You furiously nod your head as your legs begin to tremble. He doesn’t stop, and your immediate reaction is to dig your nails into the flesh of his hand, silently begging. 

“You good, doll?” 

“Y-yeah. I’m… wow.” 

Oz removes his hand from between your legs, and strokes the side of your thigh, gently. Tenderly. For a moment, you stay like that, just enjoying all of the post-coital sensations. Eventually, you get to your feet, curious about how the patrons downstairs are faring. Speaking of dripping… You swallow hard, and press your thighs together. 

While still in front of Oz, you straighten yourself out, pulling your dress back down over your hips. Now, you’re suddenly aware of the throbbing beat beneath your feet and make your way over to the window. 

“How about that tour?” You ask, running a nail along the glass that overlooks the dancefloor below you. After a few moments, you feel Oz’s presence behind you, his stomach pressing into the curve of your back. 

“I thought you weren’t a clubbin’ girl…” he murmurs throatily, in between kisses to your neck. You tilt your head, allowing more space for him to smother. 

“Well,” you confess, honesty tinging your voice. “I’m not. But it’s not every day you get invited to the most elite nightclub in Gotham City.” You shrug. “Might as well.”

A rush was not what you wanted to be in when you were getting ready for your date and yet here you were, hurrying around your apartment like mad.

You had just been about to leave at the end of your shift when your manager had wanted to chat about tomorrow’s workload. That bit of overtime had you late for your bus, forcing you to wait for the next one. All the delays left you with just over an hour to get ready but despite the time crunch, you were still determined to go all out for your date.

Yes, it was your birthday but you wanted to look pretty, not just for yourself but for Oz. It made you feel good whenever he was at a loss for words when you got all dolled up. And you wanted to look especially pretty today. You hadn’t seen him much lately, his work had kept him busy lately. So when he had told you last week that your birthday evening was clear for him and that he wanted to take you out for your special day, it became the single thing that got you through the rough work week. You had been spending your lunch breaks thinking up what outfit you’d wear, the simple daydreams had you giddy but also made the week drag on.

But today was finally the day. After much overthinking and indecision, you had settled on a cute black dress with a low revealing back that you’d bought last year and just hadn’t found a time or place to wear it. It wasn’t anything too crazy but you got butterflies just thinking about how Oz’s eyes always travelled over you when you wore anything that revealed more of your skin and how his hands would always find excuses to brush against your knee, your shoulder, your waist. He had a way of making you feel so loved.

You had just finished curling your hair into gentle waves, they weren’t as big as you had dreamt of but they’d do, and were reaching for a pair of hoop earrings when a sharp twist of pain hit you. It came so suddenly that you had to stop what you were doing and clutch at the side of the sink, your breath shaky.

It felt like the type of pain that came with periods but that didn’t make sense. It was too early. Even though it was your birthday for goodness sake, you hurriedly grabbed your phone to double-check today’s date. Yup. You hadn’t been expecting your period for at least a few more days.

“Please be wrong, please be wrong,” you prayed under your breath as you checked. To your dismay, the blood covering your underwear said otherwise. You groaned just as the pain kicked it up a notch. “Why does it always get worse once you’ve seen the blood?” 

You glanced down at your phone again. Shoot. Oz was going to be here soon to pick you up. Between cleaning up this mess and finishing getting ready, you’d really have to get your butt into gear.

You had just changed into a fresh pair of underwear when there was a knock at the door. You looked desperately at your forgotten jewelry lying on the counter and the dress hanging on the back of your bathroom door. Any thought of slipping into the dress was whisked away when there was another knock at the door. Oz wasn’t really known for being patient. “Fudge!” Clutching at your stomach, you hobbled to the door. After a quick peek in the peephole to confirm it was actually Oz waiting behind the door, you unlocked and opened it for him.

“Oz, hi,” you said breathlessly, both from the rush to get to the door and from the sight before you.

Even though he wore them often, seeing him standing there in a suit still made your heart beat just a bit faster. His dark suit jacket was open and revealed suspenders and a white shirt underneath. Honestly, it would have to be quite the present to be able to compete with seeing him in this outfit.

And then womanly pain rudely snapped your attention off of him and it took all that was within you not to whimper.

His face lit up. “Hey, there’s my birthday girl. Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said as he stepped in.

“Thanks, Oz.” You did your best to look casual as you leaned against the wall with your arms wrapped around your middle.

He didn’t seem to notice your discomfort as he leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before stepping back to take a look at you. You inwardly pouted, here you had planned on looking extra good for him but thanks to nature taking its course, you were still in your work clothes. They were still nice, a white wool sweater-dress and leggings but it wasn’t what you had wanted.

Still, Oz looked pleased. He grinned at you until he noticed that you were slowly sinking to the ground. Concern instantly hit his features, his eyebrows crinkling with worry. He crouched down next to you and his hands grabbed onto your arms gently. “Hey, what’s the matter? What’s wrong, are you hurt?”

Now fully on your knees in an attempt to bring the pain down, you craned your neck to look up at him. “It’s my period. It came early.”

He froze. Blinked at you. “And,” he said finally, “that means what exactly?

You widened your eyes at him. Surely he should know by now at his age what periods all entail. “Cramps. Periods come with cramps. Oz, you are a full-grown man, how do you not know that–” You stopped yourself as you noticed Oz’s eyes had a twinkle in them and the corner of his mouth was pulling up into a mischievous smile. You reached out and weakly shoved him. “Ozzzzz, stop playing around, I feel like I’m dying here.”

The grin overtook his face and he let out a chuckle. “Sorry, doll, I’m just messin’ with you. I know all about women and their monthly routines.” He let out another laugh.

You were about to continue the banter but a sharp jolt of pain stopped you. “I hate to say this but I don’t know how I’ll manage to go on our date, let alone even enjoy it.” You winced, both from the physical pain and from the disappointment of letting yourself and Oz down. You looked up at him, a tear threatening and succeeding in rolling down your cheek. “I’m so sorry. I know how hard it was to get this evening off and now I went and ruined it.”

“Hey, hey,” Oz said softly. He reached out and wiped the tear from your cheek with the soft pad of his thumb. “You haven’t ruined anything, we can go out a different time, okay?”

“Kay,” you whispered, though disappointment still seared into your heart like a knife.

You weren’t sure if Oz noticed or not but his eyes crinkled in concern. “Let’s get you somewhere comfier, how bout that?”

Without warning and with surprisingly smooth motions, he placed a hand under your knees and a hand on your back and lifted you off the floor. You instinctively grabbed at his jacket as he stood up to steady yourself, even though he held you so securely in his arms you didn’t feel like he’d let you fall. He headed over to your living room with the confidence of a man who knew where he was going, as if this was his own house, even though he had only been to your apartment a handful of times. His uneven steps caused your head to gently bump into his chest as he walked. You felt your cheeks flush, you had been this close to Oz before but he hadn’t ever held you as he was now. He held you like his prize, his trophy. He felt so warm and safe and this close proximity was pushing away most of the pain your body was experiencing, making it feel like it was all slipping away, long forgotten. You wanted to nuzzle your face into his shirt, he smelled of a deep, thick cologne and you wanted more of it.

All too soon, he was standing in front of your sofa. You felt him bend down and his hands start to fall away as he slowly dropped you down. But you didn’t want this to be over, this warmth and safety to leave you. All rational thoughts abandoned, you quickly put your hands out and clutched onto his suspenders, your legs wrapped around his midsection, like you were a baby koala holding on for dear life.

You felt Oz stop as he realized that he was not holding you anymore but rather you were holding onto him. You were dangling now, your back just brushing against the sofa underneath you. Your fingers tightened their grip.

He stood up straighter. You kept holding on. He let out a laugh, his breath tickling the top of your head. “When did you become this clingy?”

“I’m not that clingy,” you muttered, forcing yourself not to look up at him. You were beginning to feel stupid but it was too late now.

Another laugh. “You’re cute, doll.”

Now you were really blushing. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are, now c’mon, you’d feel a lot better if you’d let go.” He tried again, bending down so low that you felt the cushion brush against your butt. 

Still, you held on. If anything, you grabbed on tighter.

“Oh hun, if I had known you wanted to be carried around like a puppy, I would’ve done this a lot sooner.” You didn’t have to look at him to know he had that mischievous glint in his eyes.

Embarrassment finally kicked in enough for you to surrender. You let go, almost already fully on the sofa. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Oz stand straighter and adjust his suspenders.

“There, isn’t that better?” He reached down and brushed a strand of hair off your face.

You forced a small nod. Yes, it may feel more comfortable but the pain in your stomach was returning now that being in Oz’s arms wasn’t distracting you.

Oz seemed satisfied. He huffed a pleased sound and patted your cheek. “Now, I’ll be back, I’m gonna run out and grab you a treat. Was going to get you one when we were out but hey, now I have two reasons to get you somethin’ special.”

You sat up and finally looked at him. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

He waved a hand at you, a “relax” kind of gesture. “Don’t sound so worried, I’ll be back. Just sit tight, it’ll only take an hour or two. I’ll try to be quick but, eh, you know how busy Gotham night driving can be.”

As if tonight hadn’t been disappointing enough, the one person that could take your mind off the suckiness of it all was going to leave. For the second time tonight, a kind of primal reaction hit you, leaving no room for thought. You lunged off the couch, half falling off of it, and grabbed Oz’s hand just as he turned away. He froze instantly and looked down at you, his eyes widened.

“Please,” you choked out. You hated that you were crying again but darn it all, your hormones were a mess right now. “Please don’t leave, I don’t care about a gift or anything, I just want you to stay.”

Oz took a step closer to the couch and his large hand encircled your small one, his thumb rubbing circles on your skin. Finally, he nodded. “Of course, of course, I’ll stay. You don’t have to cry, sweetheart, especially not on your birthday.” His eyes were full of so much sweet trepidation that it almost made you want to cry more.

You sniffed and wiped your face with the back of your hand. “But I’ll cry if I want to, right?” You gave him a watery smile.

He let out a small exhale of relief, nodded. He smiled back. “Of course, doll, of course.”

You sniffled, your nose already felt a bit clogged. “Okay but I’m done crying now.”

He let out a bark of a laugh. He shook his head. “Good, you had me worried for a second. Cryin’ on your birthday is just a darn shame.” He patted your hand before gently releasing it. “Now, don’t start the waterworks again, I’m just going to hang up my jacket, alright?”

It was your turn to laugh. “Okay but hurry back, I miss you already.”

You watched him shake his head again as he headed back to the front door and the coat rack that stood next to it. With the promise of him staying, you let yourself get settled into the sofa. You curled your legs up, giving space for Oz to sit on the side opposite to you.

You lit up as you heard his footsteps return to the living room. He stooped down to grab the TV remote off the coffee table and then, as you had hoped, sat down on the cushion next to you. He looked over at you and waved the remote. “It’s your birthday, whadda wanna watch?”

Sleepiness had begun to creep into your brain. You shrugged into the pillow. “I don’t know, you pick.”

Oz fake-scowled at you, his twinkling eyes giving himself away, and waggled his finger at you. “That ain’t right, it’s your day, not mine.”

“Hey, I trust you.” You stretched out a foot and playfully nudged his thigh.

“Ho boy, sweetheart, trusting me is an awfully bad decision,” he said, however his attention was already focused on flipping through channels.

“I don’t think so.”

He took a quick glance over at you before returning his gaze to the TV but you could see the smile tugging at his lip.

Oz selected an old Hollywood channel and, this being the first lucky thing about your day, the screen showed the opening scene for Sabrina.

You nustled deeper into the pillow. “Good choice. I love this one.”

He murmured in agreement. After a moment, his hands drifted over to your feet, still outstretched from the teasing, and he guided them onto his lap. Seconds later, he began gently rubbing them, almost in an absent way. Heat climbed your face and you stole a glance to see that he didn’t seem to realize how intimate he was being, his eyes were focused on the screen in front of them.

You forced your gaze back to the screen too, watching as Audrey Hepburn hid in a tree to watch the party. But you were having trouble focusing as his fingers rubbed patterns on your skin. You prayed that he wouldn’t be able to tell how much his touch was messing with your brain. Were your legs too stiff, too relaxed? Too heavy?

A few more minutes into the movie, he broke the silence. “D’ya think he’s right?” “Hm?” You tore yourself away from your overthinking and the movie. “Do I think who’s right?”

“Her father,” Oz said, waving a hand at the screen.

“Right about what? About how Sabrina shouldn’t go after Linus? Why?” You sat up on your elbows, turning your full focus onto him. 

“Well, I dunno, he is a lot older than her,” Oz mumbled.

Did he sound… embarrassed? Realization hit you. Was he thinking about you and him? You couldn’t help but beam at him. “Nah, if I could talk to her, I would tell her to get it girl.”

He looked over at you, startled. After watching you for a moment, as if you’d change your answer, he broke into a grin. “Yeah, that’s what I think too.”

You debated holding back a comment but you just couldn’t help it. “Ozzie, you’re not that old, you know.”

He turned his head over and gave you a look.

You giggled. “Okay, well, not too old for me.” You leaned over and patted his arm. Your age gap was something that didn’t come up that often. It never really bothered you but you felt like it worried him sometimes, more for your sake than his. “I think what we have is special so screw normalcy.”

He opened his mouth as if to say something but then closed it. Finally, he shook his head, laughed under his breath. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“I could say the same.” You squeezed his arm before falling back into the sofa cushion.

That seemed to settle things. He let himself relax, sinking further in the soft couch. You smiled to yourself before turning back to the movie.

As the halfway point of the movie came and went, you started to become a bit restless. The cramp pain dulled, it was now at a much more manageable level, and now the once comfortable position was giving you an ache in your side. You looked over at Oz, he looked so at ease that it made you almost giddy but it also sent an idea into your head.

You tried to play it casual. He had never said he didn’t enjoy cuddling but still, initiating it always made you a little nervous. You slowly began to pull your legs off his lap. His fingers were quick to follow them, a mild fight to keep them where they were. Ignoring his attempts, you swung your legs onto the floor. He didn’t say a word but you didn’t have to look at him to know that he was now watching you closely. The feeling of his eyes on you made you shiver.

Before you could overthink it, you scooched yourself across the sofa, closer to Oz, so close that your thighs touched his. You let yourself fall into him, your head finding rest against his stomach, your ear pressed against him. You felt more than heard his sound of what almost sounded like aprproval, as if this new development pleased him. It sent a wave of butterflies into the pit of your stomach.

You shivered again when he pressed a soft kiss onto the crown of your head. He must’ve sensed it and, knowing how much of an affect he had on you, he greedily wrapped a hand around your waist and pulled you in closer. His hand stayed on your hip, warm and heavy. Encouraged by it, you slipped your arm out from where you had it tucked at your side and wrapped it around his waist. Being this close to him felt so right. It was soothing to hear his heart beat, feel his intakes and outtakes of breath. You nestled your head against his shirt and inhaled, his smell was intoxicating.

“Thank you for making my birthday so good,” you murmured. It felt like the stresses of the day had been melted away by the warmth of his presence. Having him next to you gave you solace and peace. But creeping in the back of your mind, you knew tonight would eventually and inevitably have to end and that thought was like a cold splash, a cruel tear in this happy memory. Trying to stay in the present, you snuggled closer to him. “I missed you so much. I wish today would never end.”

“Sweetheart?” he said, his voice muffled by your hair.

“What?” You shifted, pulling yourself up from your cuddled position and leaning into him even more, your torso now flush against him. Your hands found rest on his chest and you looked up into his eyes. It felt bold to be this close to him but the butterflies that came with it helped push the negative thoughts away.

His eyes were softened, he must’ve heard you slip briefly into nostalgia, and he reached a hand out to cup the side of your face. His touch made you soften and you instantly leaned into his palm. A burst of yearning filled you, despite the fact that he was right in front of you, you missed him. Your eyes fluttered shut, a terrible attempt to stop the single tear you felt sliding down your face.

“Hey, hey, no more of that,” Oz urged gently. He used his thumb to wipe the salty streak away. “I’m here, baby, I’m still here.”

You nodded and though his gaze was full of understanding, it was overwhelming. You pulled your eyes away, stared at the ground as you took in a shaky breath. Your fingers idly played with his shirt buttons. “I know, I just miss you already. And the end of a birthday is always bittersweet, I’m sorry, I just—“

Oz’s hand slipped from your cheek to the nape of your neck and he pulled you close, so close that your foreheads touched. “Look at me.”

The insistent way he said it drew you back to him. This close, his half lidded eyes were so dark, so intense. This close, your breath and his were shared and the same. This close, maybe you could forget tomorrow and just enjoy being here, in this moment, practically laying on top of him. His fingers began tangling themselves in your hair, their presence grounding you further.

“Baby, I promise you,” he said thickly, his eyes roaming your face, “this isn’t the last birthday we spend together, alright? We’ve got loads more to look forward to. That sound good?”

A stillness and a hope bloomed in your chest. Hearing that Oz was picturing spending years with you was heartening. Your nose brushed his as you moved to kiss his rough cheek. You pulled back and gave him a smile.

“That sounds perfect.”

"This some kind of joke?"

"No. I just wanted you to see what you're missing out on, Mister 'Commitment Issues'. Thought it might be nice to give you a taste, since it might be your only chance."

Oswald had to admit, as much as he found the idea of being teased abhorrent, and the idea that you would test his boundaries and preferences even more so, your costume was a perfect tongue-in-cheek reference to your conversation earlier that week.

"So what? Does this make you Mrs Commitment Issues?"

His eyes travelled up your legs, noting the short the hem of the white dress you wore. Not a traditional wedding dress, but if he were ever going to consider marriage this was what he'd have you wear.

"It makes me whatever you want me to be."

You straddled his thighs, seating yourself in the adequate space his body provided, feeling safe with his hands landed at the small of your back. The other skated along your exposed thigh, stopping just short of the frilled hem.

"Now… Is this a proper wedding outfit then? I mean, this skirt's short, but is it long enough to hide a- Oh!" His fingers ventured further, stopping as he reached the lace garter, palming at the over-spill of skin on either side of it as it clung to your thick thigh.

"You are a tease, sweetheart."

You could feel him stiffening below you, wriggling to make it worse for him as he chewed his cheek.

"Tell me, then. Would you be a good little wife for me? Stay at home? Cooking my meals?"

He leaned in to kiss you, surprised when your lips didn't meet his.

"You'll never know, I guess. Besides, you cook my meals. Does that make you my little housewife?"

A madman had destroyed the city, the floods having killed and displaced many, with buildings being torn into ruins, damaged by the intensity of the water that crashed through them. So many staples of the city were gone, the bricks having crumbled under the pressure of the floods, but one still stood, and this one dear to his heart.

As beaten and bruised as it was, Monroe's still stood strong in the East-Side. The interior left a lot to be desired, the grand chandelier finding its new home on the flooded wooden floors, once polished and sleek in their prime, now ruined by decay. Tile withstood such damage, with only a few squares by the bar having been lifted up, the rest laid flat yet showed signs of scrapes and wear. It wasn't entirely hopeless, floors could always be fixed, and the stage had survived its beating from the violent surges of water.

Inside of him was a selfish desire to buy the building, to restore it to his former glory solely for his own satisfaction. It was a notion based entirely on sentiment, as the first time he had heard live music was in Monroe's, and he had fallen in love with it from that night on. A repair and refurbishment of the club would be a labour of love, and without the Iceberg Lounge to occupy anymore, Oswald was more than willing to devote himself to Monroe's once more.

"You bought this?"

"What, you don't like it?"

"Well, it's a little...run down?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed, baby. C'mon, its got its charms."

"Uh huh." It was difficult to be convinced by his odd sense of optimism about the place, but he seemed to be excited, so you played along for the meantime.

Oswald looked around the room, transfixed by the memories that came back to him, so real that he could almost see a younger version of himself sitting in one of the booths, soaking in the live music. A part of him wanted to feel that way again, to fall utterly in love with the soft and sultry melodies of live jazz music, and he wanted you to help him do it.

He turned to you, hands finding your waist as he gently spun you around to look at the stage. "Can't you imagine yourself up there?" His lips brushed against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. "I'll make it perfect for ya, I promise. Lights, a microphone, a great band, I'll get it all for you."

"You've got a killer voice, sweetheart, like a songbird. All you gotta do is sing and I'll handle the rest." He wanted you to sing, to be the star of the show while he pulled the strings behind the scenes to make it perfect.

If Oz was truly so passionate about restoring the club and insistent on your involvement, then who were you to deny him?

You turned around to face him, your hands planted on his chest as you leaned in just close enough to make his breath hitch. "Treat me like a star, Oz, and we've got a deal."

His hand cupped your cheek, thumb drifting down to lightly pull at your bottom lip before he spoke. "I'll give you everything you could ever want." Without another word, he sealed the promise with a kiss, lips pressing against your own as he cradled your face.

But before you could truly be a star, Monroe's would have to undergo a transformation to return to its former glory; Oswald would make sure that happened.

The construction process would take a while, you knew that, but you wanted to see the club develop as the days went on, to watch real change happen as it was slowly restored to a functioning state.

As soon as the chandelier had been removed from the floor, the space seemed far more open and easy to work with, allowing you to visualise what it could look like upon completion.

"I know it ain't done yet, but I wanted you to get a better feel for it." Despite the interior looking more like a construction zone than a put together club, Oz wanted you to be involved in the process of putting the pieces back together.

You hummed in approval, steeping over the dance floor to approach the stage, the marble steps slightly scratched but still intact. "So I'll be..here?" You asked, stopping in the centre of the stage to look down at Oz.

A spark ignited in his eye as you took the stage, mouth tugging into a grin as if he had been waiting for this moment his whole life. "You got it, baby. Right there." Like a man starstruck, Oz stepped closer to the stage until he was within reach, grasping your hand to press a kiss along your knuckles. "You're gonna be perfect." His voice was soft, reverent. How could he not admire you? To him, you were a dream come true.

Your thumb brushed against the back of his hand as you entwined it with your own, pulling him closer with a light tug. "Better not lose my voice then, huh?"

The mere idea made him scoff, a breathy huff emerging from his mouth. "Not a chance, sweetheart." His dream was so close to becoming reality, and he wouldn't let anything get in his way now. Hell, if he could speed up the refurbishment, he would.

Oz took a steady step up onto the stage to join you, unable to stop himself as he marvelled at the work he had made. He had built this with you at his side, your hands together with each tile placed.

A tender feeling tugged at his heartstrings as his eye wandered over the club, still in the midst of its restoration, but nothing could look more beautiful to him. Yet even despite soft sentiments, insecurity still shone through the cracks of a put-together man. It was instinctual, really, a gut reaction after years at the bottom.

"You really believe in this?" As much as he hated to sound desperate, Oz could hardly help but seek for your approval. He needed to have someone in his corner and that someone was you.

You turned to face him head-on, palm cupping his cheek as he awkwardly shifted under the weight of his own vulnerability. For a man like him, the idea of being raw was one he often avoided entirely. "I believe in you, so, yeah, I believe in this. There's something special here."

Special was the only word for it, Monroe's had magic in the air. Destruction had only made its flame flicker, but a fresh coat of paint and a few repairs managed to relight the place with a new lease of life. But it still had a long way to go.

"Don't get all sappy on me when the place isn't even finished yet." You chided, giving his cheek a light tap in reprimand.

Oz responded with a faux hiss of pain, pulling back to rub at his cheek as though you had slapped him. "You ain't so sweet, huh, baby?"

"I'm too nice to you as it is."

"You call that nice?"

"Nice enough." You bit back, though you softened as you pressed your lips against his scarred cheek to soothe the sting he pretended to feel.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest as he nudged his face toward your own, seeking more of the affection you had given him. "Don't be too mean to me, honey, my heart can't take it." Oz muttered, wrapping an arm around your waist to hold you close. "Like it better when you're sweet."

Despite his apparent plea for sweet romance, his hand had slid down to palm the curve of your ass, and you could only laugh as a glinting grin flashed across his face. "As if you're being sweet to me." You grumbled, annoyance entirely insincere as you arched back into his hands, letting him grope you.

Oz raised a brow, "What, you think this ain't sweet? C'mon, how am I meant to show ya how much I love ya?" His form of affection was loud and proud, currently on display for the construction crew to watch.

You gestured to the poor men trying to do their jobs, reaching to gently coax his hand back into your own. "Place isn't open and you're already trying to put on a show." A whisper against his ear, one that sent a slight shiver down his back. He took it as a challenge.

"We own the place, sweetheart, let 'em look." His hand had returned to its place on your ass, giving it a more firm squeeze whilst his lips brushed against the side of your throat. Oz could hear the way your breath caught, stifled by teeth sinking into your bottom lip. Now that was sweet.

As much as you wanted to give in to his warm hands and tender lips, the place needed to get fixed up, and for that to happen, the construction team needed to remain focused.

Reluctantly, you pulled back with a soft pout, though not before your lips pressed against his cheek once more. "How about you keep the shows for the paying customers?" That brought a laugh from his mouth, drawn deep from his chest and released into your ear.

"Alright, alright." Oswald conceded as if he were a naughty schoolboy, drawing his hand away from your ass to rest on your back instead. "But I'll have ya on that stage sometime." He rumbled into your ear, giving it a slight nip to prove his intent true.

The grand re-opening had garnered much more attention than you had ever expected, though why did you ever suspect that it would be a quiet affair? Oswald was anything but quiet. This was a passion project for him, so deeply personal that to give it anything but a large burst of new life would be an insult.

He had friends in high places drawing the spotlight back to the once iconic jazz club, forgotten years after its spark had faded. The club was alive with a new energy, pulsating through the walls as though it had experienced a spiritual revival.

You could hear the buzz beyond the curtain, the vibrating hum of clinking glasses and low chatter that spread with eager excitement. Something about it made your stomach churn. Everything was riding on you.

The reborn image of the club rested on your shoulders and depended on your performance. As if he had heard the doubtful thoughts swirling in your mind, Oswald had appeared behind you with a large grin, planting his big hands on your shoulders.

"Well, if it ain't my star. You ready, sweetheart?" His energy was nearly bursting through that grin, his fingertips lightly digging into your skin as if to contain himself. But he noticed your apprehension, that nagging worry that lived in the back of your mind, now rearing its doubtful head.

Before you could get a word out, Oswald gently hushed you, cupping your chin with his hand to guide your face to your own reflection. "Come on, baby. That's a star right there. You ain't got a thing to worry about, not one thing." His voice was soft, coaxing you to relax into his hands as he cradled you close.

"I just want everything to be perfect." The admission came in a soft huff, as though you had already imagined what could come of your failure. But he was having none of it.

Oswald shook his head, darting around to press a delicate kiss to your cheek. "And it will be. Everything is set up especially for you, this ain't just for me, sweetheart." He had gone to the effort to ensure that the microphone was propped to your height, that the spotlight would hit your body just right, and that the sound was perfect.

You could only nod, he had gone to such great lengths to ensure your success. What good would it be to tear down that effort with nagging self-doubt? "Just be close when I'm done, okay?" His reassurance was the key to your calm, a lifeline that you could rely on even if things went wrong.

"I'll be right there with ya, doll." Oswald murmured, brushing another soft kiss to your temple before he gave your shoulders a squeeze. "But right now, we gotta get you out on that stage." Showtime.

The task of meeting and exceeding expectations weighed heavily upon your shoulders, seen through the stiff steps you took towards the curtain, shoulders tight and jaw locked. But Oz was with you, and that meant more than the opinion of anyone sitting beyond the curtain.

You took inhaled a breath and let the air fill your lungs, as if to coat them with courage for the performance that faced you. A lighter step towards the curtain and it was parting, revealing you to the waiting eyes of the crowd.

The microphone was waiting, as were the patrons, and you steeled yourself to grasp onto the stand, wrapping your fingers around it to anchor yourself to the stage, the spotlight almost blurring your vision of the crowd. How could they be scary if you couldn't see them?

Breath came and went as you listened to the sultry tune begin, and as your voice carried the song through the club, all eyes were on you. The eyes of one man in particular were the most important. You had done it, you had made him proud.

Oswald was at the side of the stage, all of his senses engulfed as he drank every part of you in. His eye caught your own, and he gave a wink as if to say 'I told you so' , you could practically hear him thinking it as he let his eyes flicker over the crowd. They loved you.

Despite your newfound stardom under the spotlight in Monroe's, Oz had always known that you were a star; you were his star. All he had to do was give you a stage and some courage, and he had his very own songbird to share with the world. But you were his songbird first.

“It's great, Doll.” He smacks his lips as he speaks. “It tastes just like my-“

“Just like you’re Nonna’s. I know!” You feel bad for interrupting, excitement getting the better of you. “It’s her recipe.” 

“How did you manage that?” He asks, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief.

“I made a few calls, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you like it.” 

“Of course I like it, I’d like anything you serve me, but this, this is exceptional. You treat me well, don’tcha?” In earnest, you do your best, but Oz really is the caretaker in your relationship. You might cook on special occasions, make sure he doesn't work too hard, but he keeps you well-kept. No bills to worry about, a luxury roof over your head, a wardrobe full of so many clothes and shoes that you’ll never manage to wear all of them, and a soft bed where he reminds you why, of all the men in Gotham, you always come back to him. 

“I do my best.” Plates scraped clean; you begin to clear the table. “I hope you’ve saved room for dessert. We’re having dark chocolate and coffee panna cotta.”

“Oh.” The plates in your hand nearly slip back onto the table, distracted by the disappointment in his tone, but when you turn to him, he’s looking at you with a sly glint in his deep brown eyes. He rests his palm on the back of your exposed thigh, ever so gently caressing your skin as he ghosted upwards, lifting the skirt of your dress in the process. “It’s not that princess, I just had somethin’ sweeter in mind. If you catch what I’m laying down here?”

“Sweeter?” A giggle escapes your lips as you tilt your head at him. Dishes abandoned you stride over to him, placing yourself on his good leg, holding onto his lapels as you pull yourself closer. The way his gold teeth gleam under the dim lights as he smiles at you sends a chill down your spine. “Like what?”

Oz places both his hands on your waist, strong fingers tactfully rolling up your dress once more until he’s able to admire your panties, soft purple satin with lace trim. There's a small wet patch already forming. With anybody else you might be embarrassed by it, but you know Oz loves the effect he has on you, even when he’s not eyeing you up like a prize. 

“This is nice, but how about you hop up on the table and keep your legs spread open for me?” He punctuates his question, by tapping one hand on the dinner table behind you. You don’t need to be asked twice, as you situate yourself, Oz takes two big gulps of his water. “Cleansing the palate.” 

His hand is steady as he hooks your underwear, far steadier than you feel as you watch the casual way in which he exposes your folds.

“Looks deliciosa.” He sniffs as he leans in closer to your wetness, angling his elbows to spread your thighs further, keeping them in place. 

There’s no test taste, no teasing, his mouth covers you in seconds, engulfing you like a man starved. His tongue immediately begins work, tracing circles around your entrance, pushing in ever so slightly, in endless circles. The tip of his nose digs against your clit, every brush sending a wave of heat through your body. 

It shocks you, making you cry out when he suddenly penetrates you with a thick finger and refocuses his tongue on your swelling clit. Your fingers unwittingly spread out into his dark thinning hair, as you fight the urge to ride his face. Oz likes to eat you out his own way, and you know you’ll be rewarded for sitting still. 

“Ooh-, Oz!” 

He hums between your lips, the resulting vibrations make your toes curl. He slips a second finger inside, continuing to suck at your sweet spot, all the combined sensations have you whining and shaking, orgasm fast approaching with every wave of pleasure. You chance a look down, and the sight of him hazy-eyed and buried in your core has you cumming, fists in the tablecloth, legs in the air as hit your climax. 

The room falls silent, excluding your shared rapid breathing; you coming back down from your high, Oz catching his breath. Oz’s presence always had that calming effect on you, regardless of the situation. It doesn’t, however, stop the whine that escapes your lips when you feel his fingers brush against your sensitive slit. He thumbs your panties, situating them back in place. 

“These are nice, did I buy these for you?” He knows he did. 

“You bought the whole outfit.” You sit up straight, smoothing your dress out before gesturing to yourself up and down. “You have excellent taste.” 

He gives you a once over, for what feels like the hundredth time that night, and despite him having had his face immersed between your legs only moments ago; your face warms with a bashful heat.