Me estoy adelantando demasiado respecto a los hechos de mi historia, que estoy planeando para la ship! Pero en resumen, todo esto ocurre despues de los sucesos de la serie.
Anteriormente habia mencionado la posibilidad de hacer una hija de Oswald y Zsasz mediante un experimento de Hugo Strange, el primer diseño de la hija de ambos (en que habia publicado anteriormente) era otra opcion mas realista, pero al final me gusto esta, una hija con ADN de Oswald y Zsasz.
Se llamara Gertrud!! en honor de la madre de Oswald, y tambien dibuje a Martin! Un miembro importante en la familia!
☆ day fourteen: victor zsasz ☆
— gotham victor zsasz x gn!reader with the following prompt: "I didn't mean it. Not like that."
w/c: 1k words
a/n: he's so dramatic but so are you in this so you're like two peas in a pod yay
click here for the original event post.
MASTERLIST
Victor Zsasz was many things, but a liar he was not. He had never been, even as a child, finding it useless to lie to anyone around him. Of course, he may not tell the full truth, but he was honest to a fault. His honesty was pulled out of him by his bubbe, a constant rock in a world so full of blood and gore. She was the constant.
So to be called a liar by the person he cared for most in the middle of the Iceberg Lounge? Mind-shattering. Absolutely perturbing in the worst of ways. His face was an amalgamation of emotion, his typically stoic or amused features finding no proper way to express exactly how he was feeling.
"Liar?" he echoed your accusation, eyes slowly narrowing.
The chatter amongst the regular patrons continued on. No one was paying attention. No one of importance, anyway.
He stepped closer, grabbing onto your wrist. "What the hell do you mean?" he asked, grip tightening ever-so-slightly. "You know I don't lie."
"Do I?" you snapped instantly, jerking your wrist away. "I thought I knew a lot about you, but even now, there are things you bring up that I've got no fucking clue what you even mean. How do I know you're not lying just by saying that?"
His hardened expression faltered. "Wait."
"No. I'm not going to sit here and listen to you bullshit me. It's not the first time and it's certainly not the last. I—"
"—wait," he repeated, grabbing your wrist once more. This time, it wasn't as rough.
He eyed the lounge around you, tugging you toward the exit. He wouldn't have this conversation here.
"No, you don't—"
"—shut the hell up," he said brusquely, attempting to quell his anger as he burst through the front doors, jerking you closer to him.
The two of you walked until you rounded an empty corner and he all but pushed you up against the grimy brickwork, looking down at you with indecipherable air to him.
"First, you do not get to tell me what to do," he said, voice no louder than a growl. "Second. What the hell did I lie to you about?"
You looked away from him, frowning deeply. You did not speak.
"How am I supposed to figure things out if you won't fucking talk?" he grunted, taking your chin between his forefinger and thumb. "Tell me what I lied about."
The feeling of the accusation washed over him, quickly followed by the subtle bite of guilt he only felt when you looked at him like that—a brand of contriteness he only felt with you.
He hated it.
"You said you hated me. Talked a big game in front of the Penguin like I had no business even being in the same room as you."
It was Victor's turn to pause. He blinked owlishly. "What?"
"Do you tell everyone that I'm not good enough for you?"
His dark brown eyes widened imperceptibly, but it was there. Your name left his lips in a whisper, but you shook your head.
"No. I heard enough. I don't want to—"
"—stop it," he interrupted.
"No! Stop doing that. Let me talk—"
"—stop it," he interrupted again. "Stop. I didn't mean it. Not like that."
"Then what the hell did you mean?"
Victor scrunched his nose and let go of your chin, letting his hands drop to his sides. He itched to grab something—you, his knife, a gun. He stayed still, staring you down.
"I..."
Speechless. You had rendered him speechless.
"Victor, just l—"
"—you heard me wrong."
You frowned.
"I didn't say I hated you. I said I used to hate people like you. So... so good," he said, disgruntled that he was even confronting the truth. "I said that I would never be good enough for you, but I guess you have a tendency to only hear what you wanna hear, huh?"
It was your turn to stare at him, blinking owlishly in a way that Victor wished he would never see again. It made his insides crawl with a nervous energy he knew wasn't his own.
...or was it?
You brought things out of him that he didn't even know existed.
"Why... why would you tell him that?"
"Who?"
"Cobblepot."
He groaned softly and rolled his head between his shoulders, a quick pop resounding through the street.
"He was asking too many questions about you. I told him we weren't together because you are too good for me. Shit of luck that did, seeing as I dragged you out while he was watching everyone like a hawk."
You stared. Your heart hammered in your chest. It did not feel like protection—it did not feel like deflection, either.
"So... so you were just being weird to your boss?"
He scoffed. "Sure."
"No, seriously. Who just says shit like that?"
"Jesus Christ, I'm going to wring your neck if you don't stop."
A burst of laughter escaped you as you looked up at him. "I probably would've let you earlier if you tried."
He narrowed his eyes as he watched you, the implication of choking you out hanging precariously on a tightrope stretched thin.
"Watch it."
You slowly grinned, crossing your arms over your chest. The anger you had felt, the sad little pieces of your reality had melted away, leaving behind a genuine interest in what was running through his mind. Now was not the time to ask, but you'd find out eventually.
"Should we go back in then, since neither of us look like we just fought each other?"
Victor thought for a moment before he shook his head. "Nah. We're going home."
"What about—"
"—he can fuck himself for all I care," he said, grabbing your hand instead of your wrist this time. He tugged you forward, guiding you to where he always parked his sleek, black car. "Besides. We've got shit to do. Got to see if you really meant it."
"Meant what?"
"Choking."
Your attempt to hide your laughter failed miserably. "What?!"
Kilroy entered Crane’s office to find it empty except for one person — a man, handcuffed to the chair meant for patients; wearing an Arkham patient uniform. The man was covered in scars, new and old. Blood trickled from some of them — but he either did not notice, or did not mind. He looked almost dissociative; staring quietly at the desk.
@mr-victor-zsasz
*He had come to Arkham to surprise the Doctor for lunch, but the silence as he grew closer to the office wasn’t the usual stillness… there was something empty there…*
*When he slowly pushed the door, of course he was surprised to see the man, but at this point not much visually surprised a man who regularly saw demons and gods in his nightmares and peripheral visions.*
*He examined the bloody sight of the man.*
“H-Hello, sir… I hope I’m not interrupting anything… I was just here to see Dr. Crane.”
*He glanced at the bloody sight dripping down.*
“Hm… I’m quite familiar with the nuisance of having dried blood on your hands… makes it annoying to remember to wipe yourself and choose the right moments to grab important, stainable things, like documents.”
*He chuckled*
“God, my mother always grew so livid when she’d see my blood stains on her blankets and towels.”
