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Oswald shoulders open his office door, holding a drink in one hand, and a cigar in the other. He pauses, staring down at the two people on the floor, one of them very much dead, and one of them, very much alive.
“Hi.” Riddler says, straddling the corpse. “I didn’t know you were here tonight.”
“I work here.” Oswald says, kicking the door shut behind him. “What are you doing?”
“Business.” Riddler says, and pulls a knife out of his jacket pocket. “Don’t mind me.”
Oswald shakes his head, setting his drink down on the table. The man underneath Oswald is familiar, some politician that was sucking Falcone’s dick on the down low. He’s had his head bashed in, and when Oswald looks around, he finds a trophy on the floor, covered in blood.
“You couldn’t have killed him anywhere else?” Oswald asks, taking a long drag of his cigar. He'd liked that trophy.
“It was easier than getting him to a secondary location.” Riddler says.
He wriggles on top of the body, and Oswald stops and looks at him. There’s something familiar about the way Riddler’s moving, the shift of his hips. Oswald’s seen it before, on grainy webcam footage when Oswald’s away for work, and Riddler’s trying to entice him back.
“Are you getting off on this sweetheart?” Oswald says, tilting his head to one side.
Riddler pauses, and then shakes his head quickly, like a kid caught with their hand in the candy jar. Oswald smirks, stubs out his cigar in the ash tray. He sits down on his office chair, and if he spreads his legs a little, it’s just to get comfy.
“Carry on.” Oswald says, picking up his drink and taking a sip. “I’m not stopping you.”
Riddler pulls the man up by the hair, turning him this way and that in the light. He looks at Oswald, and Oswald looks back at him. The knife glints in Riddler’s other hand, and Oswald doesn’t flinch when Riddler begins to scalp him.
They’re both not speaking, not breathing. The only sound is the sharp knife slicing against soft flesh, and the faint music from the club downstairs. Oswald should be getting ready, should be phoning clients, should be working out club rotas. Instead he’s watching the desecration of a dead body, and getting off on it.
Riddler holds the scalp up, as if presenting it to Oswald, blood dripping down his wrists. He’s beautiful, and messy, chest rising up and down as he waits for Oswald’s approval. He’s hard in his cargo trousers, and Oswald spreads his legs a little wider, pats his upper thigh.
“Come here.” Oswald says hoarsely.
Riddler clambers off the body unsteadily, walks across the carpet on his knees. He drops the scalp on the carpet, pulls up his mask with bloody fingers, leaving streaks of red across his cheeks. When he gets to Oswald, he tilts his head up towards him, blinking.
“God you’re a freak.” Oswald tells him. It sounds like high praise, and Riddler moans, grinding his thighs together, and Oswald laughs. “Look at the sight of you.”
“Am I pretty?” Riddler asks, breathily.
“Yeah.” Oswald says. “Yeah, you fucking are.”
Riddler surges upwards, collides their mouths together in a bloody kiss. Oswald pulls him onto his lap, and Riddler grinds himself down onto Oswald’s thigh, making little gasping noises that send shockwaves to Oswald’s cock.
“You should kill people in my office more often.” Oswald says.
“I can do that.” Riddler says, a little desperate. “I can kill more people.”
Oswald shakes his head, because that isn’t what he meant, but he’s in no mood to explain semantics. Instead he grabs the back of Riddler’s jacket, pulls him closer, until he can’t work out where he ends and Riddler begins.
“F-fuck.” Riddler stutters, and buries his face in Oswald’s neck.
“You close sweetheart?” Oswald asks, and Riddler bites him in response. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
In the club below, the music is getting louder. Oswald forgets how to speak, focusing on the steady rock and grind of Riddler’s body on top of him. Riddler has managed to get one hand inside Oswald’s shirt, his palm cold against Oswald’s chest. He’s panting into Riddler’s ear, stupid things that he’ll regret in the morning, things about how fucking perfect he feels.
Riddler bites down on Oswald’s neck when he comes, hard enough to draw blood. The shock of pain is enough to send Oswald over the edge, and he comes messily in his suit trousers, holding Riddler so tight that he knows he’s hurting him.
Oswald grunts, raises one hand to his neck and feels the imprint of teeth marks. “Christ.”
Riddler doesn’t move from Oswald’s lap. His mouth is stained with blood, and his eyes are searching Oswald’s face like he’s looking for something.
Oswald raises one eyebrow. “Don’t you have a body to-“
Riddler kisses him hard, wet and iron. Oswald kisses him back, rough and messy, silently asking him if he wants this, if he really wants all of this. Riddler’s hand is still inside his shirt, somewhere over his heart.
Someone knocks on the office door. Oswald and Riddler try and entangle themselves from each other, like teenagers caught necking, Riddler ending up sprawled on the floor, Oswald trying to sort out the situation in his trousers.
“Mr Cobblepot? There’s a Bruce Wayne downstairs to see you.”
Riddler perks up at that. “Bruce is here?”
“You’re not killing Bruce Wayne on company property.” Oswald tells him, then clears his throat. “Be out in a second.”.
He adjusts his suit jacket, steps over the body on the floor. There’s blood all over the carpet, and when he looks behind him, Riddler is busying himself with duct tape and scissors. Oswald doesn’t want to ask
“You’re...” Oswald starts, but doesn’t know how to finish. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”
Riddler pulls his mask back down over his face, looks over at him. “Me? Never.”
Oswald shakes his head, leaves the Riddler to his work.