#farrell penguin

[taintandviolent]

Daddy's Friend ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You're the spoiled daughter of a Gotham congressman and it's your 21st birthday. Your father decides to take you to 44 Below as a treat and it's there that you meet the owner, Oz Cobb. You're immediately drawn to him, much to daddy's dismay.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 2.3K | female reader, older man/younger woman, spoiled bratty reader, mentions of affluence, drinking, drunken behavior, forced kissing, cock grabbing, unreciprocated advances, temporarily unrequited lust.

a/n: there will definitely be a part two to this! thank you for reading if you did! banner by @/strangergraphics!

fic under cut! ↓ / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You roll your eyes. Arms crossed. Sinking into the leather seat. The window is dotted with rain, your eyes focus on the droplets rather than the imagery flying by behind it. Your father is beside you, desperately trying to convince you of his plan for the evening.

“I don’t want to hang out with all your stuffy, old politician friends, daddy… I want to dance at the Iceberg Lounge. All my friends are going to be there and they said – ” 

“Baby,” Your father says. “44 Below is the Iceberg Lounge. It’s just the –”

“Yeah, yeah, the special underground club. I get it. I heard you the first time, but it’s my birthday.”

Turns out, the 44 Below is pretty nice. It’s laden with a sort of unspoken exclusivity that makes you feel important, and you like that, but – you’d still rather be upstairs. Your phone dings every few minutes with friends asking where you’re at. You happily complain, telling them that you’re downstairs, nestled between your father and the DA. Thrilling. Abruptly, a new voice enters the boring conversation – one you haven’t heard before. 

“I hope you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

You turn your head. The man that spoke now has himself pressed against your booth, just next to your shoulder. He’s heavy set, and seems to ooze power. Dressed in a nice suit, bow tie and all, he’s looking at your father, schmoozing as all men usually do. You don’t recognize this friend, but then again, when have you ever paid attention to any of daddy’s work friends? 

“Well, well, well… who do we have here?” The man jerks his head towards you, keeping his eyes on your father who is visibly blooming with pride at the fact that his daughter is as beautiful as she is. “Who is this beauty, huh? I didn’t know you was bringin’ company.” The man’s attention flits to you, and he boldly reaches into your lap, carefully gripping your hand, drawing it towards his mouth. 

“I’m Oz.” His voice is gravelly and delicious, and you shift closer towards the edge as your arm is stretched. 

Your father, ever the dream crusher, speaks up, introducing you as his daughter, and informs you that he’s the owner of this club. Oz looks surprised and freezes like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He forces out a hard chuckle and starts to lower his hand, but you hurriedly push it back towards his mouth. 

“It’s my birthday,” you say, proudly. “I think I deserve whatever you were just gonna’ give me.” 

He barks out a laugh, sounding almost incredulous at your brashness. “‘Spose you do, sweetheart. ‘Spose you do.” 

Oz continues then and presses his warm, scarred lips into your dainty little knuckles. His big, brown eyes stare down into yours, watching your reaction. The tiniest of smiles, and your cheeks immediately flushing – or maybe that’s the lighting. He lingers for a second too long trying to figure it out, and your father clears his throat.

“What’re we celebratin’, huh?” Oz asks as he lets go of your hand, genuine curiosity lacing his voice. 

You toss your hair behind your shoulder. “Twenty-first. I ordered my first drink.” You tap the drink with your pointer finger, the martini glass ringing against the sharply manicured nail.

He chuckles. “Oh-hoh. Poppin’ cherries tonight.” 

At that, your eyes snap to him like a rubber band, and you hold his gaze hard. 

“Mm. I’ve drank before… just never legally.” You’re not sure why the confession tumbled off your lips, but Oz smirks crookedly and nods, slowly. 

“I’ll bet you have.” 

Your father, sensing the connection, interjects again. He leans forward into the table and you roll your eyes. “I’m surprised she’s sitting here; she’s sour with me, Oz. Mad as a wet cat.” 

Oz lifts his brows, expecting further explanation.

“She wanted to go upstairs! Her friends are up there, and she’s upset that I’ve dragged her down with my… what did you call them, sweetheart?”

You huff and cross your arms, leaning back against the velvet upholstery. “Stuffy and old.” 

Oz and your father share a laugh together as they ease back into conversation about some mind numbingly boring topic, but Oz’s eyes keep drifting to you; watching you, analyzing you. The hungry way his gaze drifts along your side and down your exposed leg isn’t lost on you. You feel a rush of heat pooling in your core and blossoming on your face, and immediately reach for your martini, hoping to pacify the feeling. Oz sees this too, and shifts his big body. You hum and lazily draw your attention to him, retaining your previously annoyed position. Oz grins, the gold in his teeth catching the light. 

“Well, how’s about I give her a grand tour, huh? She’s in good hands, I promise.”

Your father seems apprehensive initially, but something about Oz eases his mind. You wonder what it is. Daddy looks to you, judging your reaction, which is an overzealous nod and a dangerously pleading gaze. You throw in a little pout of your glossy lips, and you can see him conceding. You’re throwing on the guilt, short of clasping your hands together and begging Pleaaaaase daddy pleaaaase! 

He heaves a sigh, knowing he can’t say no. “Alright. Don’t let her get into trouble.” Your father waggles his finger at Oz, a silent warning.  

The second he agrees, you’re wasting no time and giddily sliding out of the booth, dragging your slinky purse with you. As you stand up, Oz doesn’t necessarily move, but shifts his weight onto his opposite leg. The action brings you unimaginably close to him and you smirk, looking up into his brown eyes. You can smell his cologne, wafting off his large body and into your nose. There’s hints of cigar smoke and his personal notes, which are intoxicating. Within your mouth, you swipe your tongue along your bottom teeth.

“Excuse me,” you hiss sharply, though it’s tinged with an unspoken playfulness. Oz catches it with a wry smile, and takes an uneven step back, giving you a little room to breathe. You’re almost ungrateful. 

He turns his head to face your father once more, before giving him a reassuring wink and adding: “She’ll have fun. I promise.” 

And with that, Oz places a large, flat hand against the small of your back to excuse himself as he limps past you. 

“Follow me, sweetheart.” 

You follow him back through the swanky club, your heels clacking along the polished floors as you easily keep up with his uneven gait. He leads you both to the elevator and jams his knuckle into the button. 

“We’ve been pals for years.” He confesses as you two wait. For a man that appears so cocksure, he seems nervous in your presence. You like that, and chew on your bottom lip.  “I knew he had a daughter, but I didn’t know you was uh…” 

“Was what?” You inquire, keeping your eyes on the elevator. 

The elevator dings and Oz takes the opportunity to not answer, flattening his palm against the threshold, assuring that it doesn’t close on you as you enter. 

You smile and dip inside, pressing your back against the far wall. You rest your hands on the railing, watching wordlessly as Oz joins you. He knuckle presses another button and the doors slide closed. 

“You sure got him wrapped around that pretty little finger, dontcha’?” 

“Ha. Sometimes,” you reply, smirking over at him. “Other times, he doesn’t buy it. But, I’m his only child, so… I usually get what I want.”

Oz nods slowly, brows raised. He knows you get everything you want – he can tell exactly what kind of woman you are. The elevator doors slide open without a sound, revealing the absolutely packed interior of the Iceberg Lounge. The music thrums through your bones as you take it all in; its design is stark and industrial, massively so, and the energy pulsates around you. Suddenly, you lift your hand and wave excitedly, spotting a few of your friends clustered by the bar. Without really thinking about it, you grip Oz’s hand and tug him forward, urging him to follow you. He does, without a single protest, like an obedient dog. This was supposed to be a tour, but he’s not gonna’ go against whatever you wanted to do.

“Bitch, oh my god!” Joey exclaims as he meets you halfway, pulling you into a tight hug before you’ve even made it to the bar. He rocks you back and forth, excitedly. “Happy birthday!” 

“This is Oz,” you say confidently, gesturing behind you. All of your friends bristle, wondering why you’ve brought some older guy with you, completely unsure of the dynamic until you introduce him as the owner. “Daddy said he had to keep watch on me, make sure I don’t get into trouble.”

You lean back against Oz, resting your head against the front of his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Oz? You’re here to make sure that I’m a good girl?”

The closeness catches him off guard, but only internally. You feel the slight movement as he shifts his weight, adjusting to the feeling of your body against his. But, he holds a hand out from behind you, shaking each of their hands respectably.

“You want a drink, doll? How about a drink?” He carefully nudges you forward, forcing you to come up off his shoulder. He shifts in his suit jacket and pushes his way to the bar. Wordlessly, he knocks his knuckles against the polished surface, and one of the girls rushes over, her face obedient and expectant.

“A French seventy-five,” you say. “Please!” 

She immediately gets to work, and you look over at Oz, who is already glued to you. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’, sweetheart. Nothin’.” 

You spend the next few hours dancing with Joey and the girls and Oz stands off to the side, leaning against the bar while keeping a watchful eye on you. He doesn’t intervene once, knowing full well that you wouldn’t let him anyway. Eventually, your feet start to ache, and you bend down, slipping out of the high heels. When you look over at Oz, who is admittedly a little blurry, he nods his head to ask if you’re alright. You nod back, and return to dancing, though still facing him. It makes him proud to see you enjoying yourself in something he operates. He knows you’re having a good time, and he’ll be damned if he’s the one that leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He looks away from you, to his phone which illuminates his scarred face. You see him furrow his brow before pocketing the phone, and looking up to you. So much for avoiding bad tastes. 

Turns out, he actually leaves a really good taste in your mouth. A taste you want more of. After Oz got that text from your father, saying that they were leaving soon… he had to retrieve you from the dancefloor. You were drunk and didn’t protest, in fact, you were a little too happy to see him again. He barely gets you to the elevator before you start in on him, running your hands up along his gut, over his chest where your fingertips toy with his bowtie teasingly.

You’re hanging onto him, grinding your desperately hot, sweaty body against his. He inhales, and you exhale into his half-open mouth. Your tongue darts out, swiping along the inside of his mouth, along his tongue, along his bottom lip. He’s not reciprocating, but that doesn’t seem to deter you. Your hand drops to his groin, where you take a fistful of the bulge that meets you. It’s not hard, but the handful is big enough that you’re practically drooling into his mouth. Oz jerks back, but not before you feel his thick cock twitch in his slacks. You smirk against his mouth. 

“Ey! Sweetheart…!” He runs his hand along his hair, smearing it back. 

Oz licks his lips – licking the lingering taste off of them – and takes your hands from around his neck. Every bone in his body doesn’t want to because you’re so hungry and pushy – and it feels damn good – but he pulls his head away from yours and looks down at you. You’re a picture of debauched drunkenness, lids heavy on your pretty eyes, and your lips swollen from forcefully kissing him.

“Someone went to fuckin’ town on those drinks, huh? Daddy is gonna’ blow his fuckin’ lid if you don’t straighten up.”

“Whoooo…. You?” You murmur into his chin, pressing your lips against the warm, soft skin there. “You’re gonna’ blow your lid, Ozzy? Mmm… you like me that much?” 

“Doll!” He says, hoisting you up into his grip slightly. Underneath his breath, he murmurs. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, this girl…” 

“I heard that, Ozzy…” 

The elevator dings, and the door slither open. Oz has thankfully manoeuvered your body into one that’s a little less incriminating, and more like he’s just supporting a very drunk girl. Gingerly, and avoiding any glances from any other patrons, he guides you back to the table.

Your father’s outline is blurry, but you sloppily roll your eyes, leaning further into Oz. You don’t need to see him to know that he’s bristling like a cat, ready to launch off some boring tangent about behaviour and public image.

The last thing you remember hearing is Oz’s seductively gravelly voice saying, “She had fun, ey? I promised you she would.”

You think about grabbing Oz’s dick again and it’s like he knows, because he’s got both of your wrists in his hand, preventing you from doing anything fun. He waits as your father gets to his feet before passing you off to him. Like a doll. 

Doll… he called me doll…

As your father supports you now, heading towards the elevator, you lift your hand and loll your head back to get one more look at him. 

“G’night… Ozzy….”

[catnelli]

@mojitophobic perfectly captures Oz in their drawings and I'm happy to see he compels others🫰

[gilverrwrites]

Somethin' Sweeter

2022!Penguin/Reader, 1K words Request: LOVE the ozzie fics! Can you write something fluffy & smutty where it's their anniversary and reader prepared his favorite meal for dinner, wearing a cute sexy dress, and after dinner a special dessert 😏 Rating: 18+ I certainly can, honestly cannot get enough of this man, I don't think i'll ever turn down an Ozzie request.

CWs: Sugar baby dynamic vibes, vaginal fingering, oral (fem receiving), petnames: doll, princess, darlin'. F!Reader.

In case nobody has told you recently: I am proud of you.

He’s been grinning at you like the early bird who got the worm all evening, but as he bit into his entrée his demeanour shifted. You perched on the edge of your seat, watching every micro-movement of his face as you await the verdict.  

Preparing for tonight had been gruelling. Tracking down all the right ingredients, multiple practice attempts, conveying to Oz’s people that he was not to be disturbed, not to mention the priming that went into looking good for him. You know he would have loved whatever you’d made, would have fawned over you however you looked, but you wanted tonight to be perfect, and it was all worth it for the blissed-out look on his face right now. 

He takes a second bite, and you can’t stand the anticipation. “Well, what do you think?”

“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. 

“You’re not wrong, Darlin’. But I can’t help thinking this whole get-up would look better on the floor.” It’s a cheesy line that would make you cringe if it came from the mouth of anyone else. Instead, you’re filled with enthusiasm, excited for the night ahead of you. “Now how’s about you head on to bed an’ get ready for seconds while I clean up?” 

[hazyhalloweenz]

dude oz doesnt have his gold teeth in episode 4 before sofia went away... girly what happened after she went away tf did falcone do to my wife :[

[crazyeeeeeee]

[bbrojenreed]

I had an amazing Riddlebird 2022 story idea while watching The Penguin and I can't not share the idea. (TW: m/m NSFW mentioned at the end and violence. Duh.)

Edward gets really upset when he finds out Oz was working so close with Victor. Obviously nothing was happening there, but Ed's crazy and doesn't believe him, so he gets insanely jealous despite the fact that Victor is dead.

But he's not jealous because of sex or romance, but because he doesn't want to be replaced as Oswald's partner. HE is The Penguin's number one, no one else, and he'll kill anyone to keep his place there.

Oswald knew Edward would feel this way about Vic from the start. Oz knew he would kill Victor once he was freed from Arkham Asylum, once he found out about what all went down while he was locked up.

And The Riddler was going to be broken out soon because now that Oz has real power, the kind of power to free him, there's no way he's going to waste another minute. He needs Ed's incredible intelligence and his particular kind of ruthlessness back beside him as soon as possible.

Not to mention he missed him, though he won't let anyone know it.

But, before breaking Ed out, he has to kill Victor.

Not because he doesn't care for him or thinks he needs to cut off any potential liabilities, but because if he doesn't do it himself, Edward will, and it'd be a lot more painful.

Because the truth was Victor was dead the minute he got too close.

As much as Oz cares for the kid, as valuable of a friend as he is, he can't risk losing The Riddler's loyalties. Not now, not with the Bat on his trail.

Of course, Edward still finds out about Victor after he's freed, and he has an emotional episode about it. He screams hatefully, beautifully, at Oz. He threatens and sobs, but luckily, when Oswald spares him some sweet words, makes him promises, and proves that he killed Victor FOR him. That's all it takes to win the little mad genius over again.

Then they're kissing crudely, and the possessive sex is messy. Riddler threatens him while Oz is balls deep inside him, and that scares the Penguin as much as it turns him on because, yeah, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that Ed would skewer him.

(idk. I just have a strange fascination with this ship and I think this story would be neat. I wanna write it but I don't have time. Maybe one day.)

[yeyinde]

Oswald "Oz" Cobblepot | The Penguin

If you step outta line even once, I'll gut you like a goddamn fish

[fizzyscoffin]

Sunday it's coming and we gonna have a new cap,I'm so excited! So... Here's more fizz x Oz

Fizz really admires, and has this deep need to take care and spoil Oz,

I think over time she started connecting the dots and feel empathy for Oz, his life and how he's been underestimated by others. her crush just intensified.

[acapelladitty]

What do you think of the movie versions of the Penguin (such as Danny DeVito and Colin Farrell, for example)?

I think both are fantastic and play into the world which they exist in a really interesting way. DeVito Penguin is so fucking wretched and he wields his manipulations while also possessing a very off-putting sexual energy. He's cartoonish and feral and it's lots of fun.

Farrell Penguin is so different. He's much more grounded to reality and plays the role of a man who knows that he's destined for greater things really well. In his interactions with others it's clear that he knows how to play the game AND play it well and I think he's gonna be fun to watch in his TV show.

[taintandviolent]

Regular ; Oz Cobb x Reader

summary: You live in Gotham City and are a waitress at a little hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant. Oz is a regular and you've developed quite the crush on him.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 6.4K | older man/younger woman, semi-established history, making out, cockwarming, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, fingering (female receiving, dirty talk, smut with a teensy bit of plot (but not really).

a/n: to the 99.9999% of my followers... I'm so sorry but I am begging you guys to hear me out about him!!!! I thoroughly expect this to flop, but I needed to write it for my own sanity. absolutely massive thank you to @redravenblogs for beta-reading! banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

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.”

[catnelli]

I wish I could see what his hands could do

[gilverrwrites]

Did you watch the new penguin trailer? I love that we got to see his mother. Can you write something where the reader meets her for the first time?

me watching the trailer

but actually I'm so hyped for it. I don't care that theres a million Penguin adaptaions I love all of them. I'm down for the pemise, legit I'm excited for Sofia, the action looks interesting. The gritty realism asthestic looks so pleasing. It reminds me of UK shameless but like, darker obvi.

In the like 5 seconds of momma Penguin screen time we got I already love her. I'm getting the vibe she would never, ever approve of any of Penguins partners tbh. Shes one of those boy moms. Nobody will ever be good enough. They're always trying to take him away from her, is that what you want Oz? You gonna choose some tail over your own motha? I raised you and this is how you treat me, I deserve bettaah.

But I guess we'll have to wait to find out. Tbh I probably wont write anything on her until the show has come out to be sure.

[dannypinot]

Colin Farrell for The Penguin 82nd Golden Globes, Best Actor in a Series, Limited Series, Anthology Series, or Motion Picture Made for Television

[crazyeeeeeee]

It's a drink shop. I mean, I may not be able to buy him a good wine, but I can buy him a beverage if he wants

[animusrox]

The Penguin (2024) S01E08 "A Great Or Little Thing"

[alpacinosgf]