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Anatomy of a Weapon

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If someone had told Jim a month ago that his gun would become the target of multiple kidnappings, he would have laughed it off. A detective without his weapon was as good as a corpse in this wretched city. Gotham was the land of the unlawful, a burning onion soup of criminals in which a single string of tenacious cops insisted on drowning like so much molten cheese.

And Jim wasn’t stupid (or rather, he’d been naïve, but Gotham had made sure to cure him of that particular weakness). He knew his job, knew the risks in and out of it, and his gun was the only lover he insisted on having at his side night after night, cool and reliable on the cotton of his worn bedsheets. He’d stopped counting the number of times a ready access to his gun had been the only thing standing between him and, because too many people wanted his head nowadays, attached or not to his body.

He’d also stopped counting because his fucking service weapon kept disappearing.

And the mystery was driving him just a little madder every day.

There was no discernable pattern to the disappearances. Sometimes it happened at night, when he slept, but his throat was always intact in the morning, and nothing else was disturbed in his apartment as far as he could tell. On other occasions, he turned around to catch a file Harvey was throwing at him and bang, no more gun to aim at the latest lunatics in town.

Harvey found the whole thing both incredibly worrying and hilarious, much to Jim’s chagrin. Sure, Jim knew how to fight barehanded, but odds just weren’t in his favor in a city where villains built bombs like it was a national competition. He needed something to keep the criminals at bay, because a little distance went a long way in ensuring his continued survival, he’d discovered. And guns were just so easy to come by in Gotham.

It all boiled down to this sound advice: buying another gun. He really should. Had considered it many, many times. (Zsasz had offered, for fuck’s sake). He really, definitely should.

But.

The incredible truth was that no matter the moment at which his gun vanished out of its current hiding place (be it his bed, the car seat or his own pant pocket), it never went MIA when Jim actually needed it. Whenever he had to shoot at someone, there was a gun at his belt, and rounds in it. Sometimes, more ammo than there had been the last time he’d checked, but one didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth… or a fully loaded gun in the Narrows.

Still, Harvey kept making fun of him.

Still, the mystery gnawed at him.

And Jim knew just who might have an answer.

*

It turned out that Oswald could indeed provide that very sought-after answer.

But certainly not in any way Jim could have expected.

Holy. Shit.

Jim had barged in like he always did, disregarding Gabe’s warnings. His gun had gone missing an hour ago, which put him at a disadvantage, but Oswald’s club had always been a safe haven of sorts, if only because its owner, for all his attempts at manipulating Jim, always made sure the detective stayed alive. That was no small feat in Gotham, even for its Machiavellian kingpin.

Neither was what Oswald was currently doing.

With Jim’s gun.

To his gun.

Jim stood gobsmacked in the doorway of Oswald’s office. All the criminals of the city could have stormed the precint for all he cared; what he’d just discovered was so improbable, so incredible, that he could only drink in every single arousing detail.

Yes, arousing. The initial rush of anger Jim had felt had not lasted, not when Oswald let out those needy sounds, head tilted back, the white line of his body flushed oh so beautifully, an exclamation mark to a statement Jim kept fighting when he felt lonely. Hunger punched Jim in the gut with the strength of a freight train, a familiar dilemma considering how often Jim had spied desire lurking in the depth of the mobster’s eyes and recognized the reflection of his own suppressed aspirations. He hadn’t said anything then, though, and he couldn’t say anything now either.

Oswald still hadn’t stopped moving. He’d always been so much weaker than Jim (his body so pliant whenever Jim backed him up against a wall and squeezed), but as he rocked his hips back and forth with purpose, fucking himself on Jim’s fucking service weapon, he appeared so much stronger.

Perhaps it was the white-knuckled grip on the gun that did it, cocking it just so, that single finger on the trigger, ready to shoot…

Or the fact that Jim knew his own weapon intimately, and could tell exactly how many inches Oswald had shoved up his ass.

Or, it was the whole tableau, two weapons linked, biology wed to technology, the city’s kingpin sheathing the most recognizable extension of its most famous detective, using it, him.

When Oswald’s attention veered towards him, Jim realized he’d broken the spell of immobility. Desire had conquered every single corner of his being and he was helpless to pretend indifference, even if logic dictated he did. Logic wasn’t worth shit in Gotham.

“James-” the mobster rasped, but Jim had no intention of punishing Oswald.

Not in this way anyway.

“Don’t stop on my account,” he crooned in his ear, covering Oswald’s hand on the handle and pushing, sheathing his own gun in more warmth, more forbidden intimacy. The heat at his fingertips was a maddening invitation. His cock filled further, straining against the zipper of his pants. His lips brushed the shell of Oswald’s ear, the next words laced with hunger. “You’ve denied me long enough.”

With his free hand, he pulled at Oswald’s dark hair and yanked his head back. The mobster looked up at him with lust-blown eyes, lips parted on a mewl of agony. Precum leaked from his tip, and Jim’s own cock throbbed in response. The mobster went on impaling himself on Jim’s gun, but he wasn’t in control anymore; he’d offered that much to the weapon’s rightful owner.

He looked so vulnerable now, and yet so very strong in his obvious desire to grant Jim the grande finale they both deserved.

“D-Denied you y-your weapon, J-James?”

Jim groaned as he pressed his face into Oswald’s exposed neck. Inhaled. Moaned, shaking with need.

“Don’t play coy with me, Oswald.”

“I d-don’t-”

“You always play with me,” Jim growled, and then bit down at the juncture of Oswald’s neck and shoulder.

Oswald howled, a wild sound that went straight to Jim’s groin. Still fucking the mobster with his gun, he pushed his own pants down just enough to pull his own erection free and began rubbing himself against Oswald’s naked hip. The mobster’s skin felt hot and velvety, and Jim really, really wanted to know just how much sweeter he was inside.

“Give it to me,” Oswald pleaded, his bad leg spasming under him. “Fuck me, James.”

So Jim did: he pulled his gun back slowly, relishing the way Oswald was practically gagging for it, discarded it without looking and then at last, at long last, guided his throbbing cock into that welcoming hole already gapping from his gun.

Fucking hell.

His mind spun as he gave that first thrust, sheathing himself fully inside tight satin. What was wrong with Oswald? What was wrong with himself? He didn’t know and didn’t care; he couldn’t quite think past the heady sensation of Oswald’s wrapped so perfectly around his length. He shut his eyes closed and leaned further into the mobster, draping his own body around Oswald’s smaller one like a blanket. His hands found Oswald’s on the rich wood of his desk, pinned them there while his lips pinned him lower, unforgivingly.

“I’ll give it to you all right,” he ground out as he pulled back just enough to slam right back in, hard.

Oswald began to whimper as Jim set to drill his cock in his hole. How much lube had the mobster used, to make way for all that hard metal, sharp edges that were meant to kill? Did he picture Jim’s lingering touch on the handle as he gripped it in turn and speared himself on the barrel? How many fingers did he use for prep before his ass could take in the thick muzzle aimed at it? Was all of this a circumvoluted plot to lure Jim here, to get Oswald what he wanted but never asked for, never so directly, or was he simply unable to help himself? All those questions just added new layers of lust to Jim’s increasing arousal.

The fact that Oswald kept meeting his thrusts as best as he could in spite of being bent over his desk like a common whore was another layer, thick and formidable. His balls tightened another notch.

“Oh, James- So g-good- Please-”

“Please what?” Jim snarled, half out of his mind with pleasure. He wasn’t even aware of what he was saying anymore. “You’ve been a very bad boy, stealing my weapon from me-”

“Oh please,” Oswald gasped, and this time, the word sounded more chiding than pleading. “This is j-just steel, James-”

Jim held on Oswald’s hips now, nails digging into alabaster skin, marking, claiming. “This is my only-”

“I am your only weapon, James!” Oswald cried out.

The words flipped a switch in Jim’s brain he didn’t even know he had, and between one frantic heartbeat and the next, he emptied his load in Oswald’s deliciously fluttering ass, grunting the mobster’s name like a prayer. A few seconds later, and it was Oswald’s turn to climax. Jim mouthed hungrily at Oswald’s sweaty nape as the mobster shot thick ropes of cum all over his pristine desk, a wanton James! punched out of his chest.

They stayed like that for a while, afterwards. Until Jim regained enough brain cells to realize that he’d just fucked Oswald like an animal, turned on beyond measure by the sight of this impossible man using a GCPD gun as a fuck toy.

And also, that Oswald’s little gasps of pleasure had become whimpers of pain.

“Your leg,” Jim rasped.

His anger from earlier was returning, but it could wait. There was always some anger in the air when Oswald was concerned (probably when Jim was concerned, too, from Oswald’s perspective). Fucking him hadn’t changed that.

Except that it’d changed something… and Oswald’s words only highlighted that change.

I am your weapon.

Oswald broke the silence.

“I shall find a new one,” he said with a strangely shy expression, for someone who’d just getting fucked by Jim after fucking himself on the man’s weapon.

Jim huffed, pushing back the offered gun toward Oswald’s chest. “Nah, keep it. ’s just a gun, after all.”

Oswald’s whole face lit up. Relief washed over Jim as it became obvious that what they’d just done hadn’t shot their relationship to hell. The way Oswald smiled at him… He never smiled quite like this for others.

And Jim, well… He only ever gave leeway to one criminal in this city.

 “I only aim to please,” the mobster said, and yanked Jim by the tie to slam their mouths together.