Victor Zsasz x reader (Slow-burn, Jealousy, Possessive, Tension so thick it cuts deeper than his knives)
summary: Iceberg Lounge. Gotham’s elite gather. You’re dressed to kill. So is he.
Your laugh floats over the low thrum of jazz and expensive sin. You’re leaning on the bar, talking to a man you don’t care about — just someone charming enough to pass time with while you wait. But behind you, in the corner, someone very much cares.
Victor Zsasz watches you like a hawk watches a wounded rabbit — interested, focused, deadly calm.
He’s been pretending not to stare. Pretending he doesn’t notice how you’re smiling. How you touched that guy’s sleeve. How you tilted your head back when you laughed.
You know he’s watching. You don’t even have to look.
You feel it — like heat crawling up your spine. That familiar tension that coils every time Victor’s around.
The guy touches your wrist.
“Maybe we get outta here?” he asks, all teeth and ego.
You don’t answer.
Because Zsasz is behind him now.
Silent.
Unsmiling.
And holding a knife between two fingers, tapping it softly against the counter.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The man turns, and freezes.
Zsasz doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are only on you.
“You good, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. That’s new.
You raise a brow. “Peachy.”
Zsasz hums. Slides the knife into his jacket. Leans in. The man is still standing there, caught in the tension like a deer in the road. You swear Victor’s smirk grows because of it.
“See, I was gonna be polite. I really was,” he murmurs. “But I think if this guy touches you again… I might forget I promised not to kill anyone tonight.”
“Victor—” you warn, but he cuts you off.
His voice drops. His hand gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear — with the same fingers that held the blade.
“Don’t make me carve a lesson into him. Please.”
The man practically stumbles away. Doesn’t even say goodbye.
Zsasz doesn’t look at him. Just watches you.
And you say nothing — because part of you loved it. The way he didn’t just get jealous. He got possessive. Not in the “I own you” kind of way. But in the “I’d burn the world for you and whistle while it burns” kind of way.
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” you say, finally.
“Neither is being touched by anyone but me,” he says, without missing a beat.
Your breath catches. His eyes flick down to your lips, then back to your eyes, and his smirk returns.
“You’re not mad at me.”
“No,” you admit. “But you scare me sometimes.”
He steps closer. Chest against yours. Voice a whisper meant only for you.
“Good. That means you know what I’d do for you.”
And the worst part?
You like it.
You like that the most dangerous man in Gotham looks at you like you’re the one worth dying for. Worth protecting. Worth not killing.
No tally marks.
No knives for you.
Just that twisted, soft edge of something he only lets you see.
