...or do your appetites swing in another direction?
Head of household/"1950s" household kink is basically what it sounds like, and is an offshoot of BDSM-proper. Read more about it here, here, or here. For convenience sake, let's make everything gender neutral. If that's you're thing, anyway! Feel free to play up gender roles if that's what makes your biscuits brown.
Comment with your character and your preferred role.
Reply to others.
Remember, this is all for fun, don't take it too seriously, no actual social or political beliefs are represented here since it's all kink, etc.
(Would you care for a cross dressing housewife? He will keep your house tidy, your laundry clean, have dinner waiting for you when you come home, and even wear lace beneath his house dresses.)
[Tag this chap for some good ol' 1950s-style misogyny! Will either be the egotistical, domineering "husband" or the bitchy, not-super-submissive "wife."]
It's honestly nothing new. A day in the life of Alfred Pennyworth. Get up before the sun's up to start preparing for the Master of the House's return. It's muscle memory to start the coffee. Hand ground, from ethically sourced but rediculously expensive beans. There's breakfast to consider. Timing is everything. It's hard to anticipate when Master Sionis will return from his business. The man works very late nights.
Alfred is nothing of not very good at anticipating. For anything. Which is why there is also a first aid kit and other essentials along with freshly laundered comfortable clothes.
It the distant back of his skull he knows he's done this for other men. But he can't for the life of him remember who. It doesn't matter. He's comfortable here. It feels right to be here, taking care of things.
He's lucky. Mr Sionis had taken a risk on him after all. Who would want someone with his past? Who would would be so kind as to let him stay when what Bane did to his back decades ago had stripped him of his more deadly tendencies. (Well, Alfred likes to make people think that.) Roman is...kind to him, and doesn't that just say everything about his life that Sionis is considered kind.
So like a good housewife butler, Alfred readies. He'll not have his man come home without perfection greeting him.
Roman returns, as he often does, loudly. Stomping his Louboutin dress shoes all the way up to his penthouse, sighing in that I-just-have-to-get-something-off-my-chest way, shouldering in the front door while pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head.
"Alfred, I need coffee," he says, before he even smells it brewing. Has his hand out and ready for a cup, wearing his tacky gold-palmed gloves, as usual.
He knows that sound. He's learned to tell entire moods by the sound of a single sigh. That's what happens when you spend two thirds of your life taking care of.... It goes fuzzy and blank and Mr Sionis is right there.
No time to think about the blanks. The Master is home and it's his duty, his pleasure, to make sure he's taken care of. He's glad that he's anticipated.
"Right here, sir." It's in one of the good cups. It's always in one of the good cups. Nothing but the best for his Roman, who works so hard. "The way you like it." He remembers preferences. How many sugar, what sort of cream, if any. It's second nature, as is limping behind Roman, careful hands reaching to help with coats. "Hard night, sir? Let me just pull out a chair and you can have yourself a good sit down. I've started breakfast. Thought you might like a nice light omelette," It's a mystery how Alfred has spent this long in Gotham and still sounds fresh out of the London gutters where.... someone??? Had found him.
Why, that was Richard Sionis, obviously, who found Alfred, and brought him back to Gotham to become the family butler. Of course, when dear old dad cut Roman off, Alfred just loved his ward so much that he went with him, scorning the uptight elder Sionis like he rightfully deserved.
It only takes a fraction of his mental energy to smoothe over those temporary misfiring connections in Alfred's brain, help him to "remember" the "real details." Good thing the old limey bastard's so susceptible to mind control, otherwise Roman might have to put actual effort into this, and he just does not have the willpower for that right now.
He sips his coffee, nose wrinkled until he has to concede that there's nothing he can complain about. It's fresh, hot (but not TOO hot), and loaded up with his favorite French vanilla cream, plus just a hint of honey. He passes the cup -- one of the good cups, and spotless, at that -- from one hand to the other as he shrugs out of his overcoat and suit jacket.
"Hard night," he scoffs, then repeats himself with a laugh. "Hard month, more like it."
Making a beeline for the dining table, he continues to rant, more to hear himself talk than for Alfred to hear. But having someone to direct his bitching at makes it all the more satisfying.
"The Penitente Cartel is 're-negotiating their rate,'" said in a suitably patronizing tone with air-quotes to match, "the bastards, think they can get a better deal because those Steel Cobra bitches are undercutting me, so I had to go pay some visits to the higher-ups, waste half my night driving up and down half the fucking city... Then the meeting with the Ibanesku prick, haven't kissed that much ass since college. And Zsasz is still in fucking Blüdhaven--!"
He ends by kicking over Zsasz's usual chair, sitting vacant at one end of the long table. Drops into his own chair with a huff, tossing his sunglasses with a flick of the wrist to skitter across the table, mostly to see whether Alfred will manage to catch them before they can topple to the floor.
Of course. And while he owes everything to the father, his life, his world, it's right here. Roman is his everything. He'd do anything for the man. Hell, there's even that huge scar through his body that indicates that he has likely died for him. Died and somehow came back because his Roman needed him.
He takes the coat and jacket with ease. Hangs it up neatly as he listens. Alfred always listens. Ranting, swearing, whatever Roman says, he's attentive. There's a part of himself that nearly offers to help more. Zsasz isn't the only man here that knows how to use a knife. He isn't the only crack shot. But his back has taken him out of the game more or less and his place is here, at home.
His place is making certain Roman is cared for and adored.
He tries not to be too jealous of Zsasz. It's unbecoming.
Strange how even with his back, he's got those old reflexes. The catch is quick and they go into a case even quicker. But then he's remembering the old injury, wincing slightly and limping his way around to lightly slide behind Roman to give his shoulders an expert rub.
"I could send a message to Mr Zsasz if you wish, sir. Tell him you wish him to hurry things up. But I know you have it well in hand. You'll put everything back to right, just like you always do." The amount of faith he seems to have is astounding.
Roman takes a moment to catch his breath and sip his coffee, just enjoying the praise and the press of Alfred's hands. He does give nice massages, that's for sure. Zsasz means well when he tries, but he has big, blunt hands, better for gripping the handle of a knife than for delicate work like this. Alfred is clearly more practiced.
Lashes fluttering, he sets his cup down, exhaling in one long sigh.
"I know, I know," he says. Leans back in his seat, eyes closed, letting Alfred take care of him. "No, don't call him... I'll be fine. Just gonna have to tell him he missed a few chances at some more tally marks while he was away."
His mental hit list got a lot longer last night, that's for damn sure.
His hands move in those firmly practiced motions. He works that tension and is rewarded with that sigh. It's a good sign and being like this gives him the chance to give Roman a better once over. Make sure nothing it bleeding. He's always so distressed when he has to patch his boy up.
"Of course. I'll leave it be. No point in pushing too hard. Still, you know I think you do too much. You work so hard." Says the man that likely sleeps only a few hours at a time. Always near the phone, just in case his Roman needs him.
"I know I say this a lot, but if there's ever anything I can do to lift some of that weight, let me know. I might not be any use out there no more." Those reflexes he's shown beg to differ, "But from home, there's still a lot. You just need to say the word. I'm here for you." And by God, this is the support Bruce got all day every day until...well, he hadn't. The Bat is probably a mess.
Roman does work so hard, boozing and schmoozing, running a club with all of his OWN money, being a gorgeous and intelligent kingpin. His life is so difficult. A lot different than his early days, when it was just his father's money he was spending (and his father's business he was ruining).
It's a good thing he has Alfred here to remind him how wonderful he is. And to do all the, you know, gross womanly work, like cooking and cleaning.
"Just focus all your attention on keeping the place spotless," he says. "If I had to come home and even look at a dish, or a- an overflowing trash can, god forbid..." He shudders. Good thing he has Alfred now, to take care of that unsightly mess.
He's very good at it. Reminding Roman of just how much he does. How hard he works. He sees nothing but the lengths thisan goes to to provide, for himself and his "family".
His hands slide away, but only after a soft pet to make certain he's not left any wrinkles. "Of course sir. You'll never have to worry about that." No. Alfred is meticulous. You could eat off the floors. Not that that would ever happen.
"Right away. The way you like it." It's nothing to put an apron on. He thinks he looks dashing in it and it protects the nice cloths that Roman provides him. It's as easy as breathing to take his place at the stove. Knife skills that would make Zsasz take note used for perfectly diced fresh ingredients. Always fresh. Roman will never have anything but fresh and organic.
He even hums a little, the image of the perfect little wife, if the wife happened to be short and British and a man.
"Roman." When he's like this, content and cooking, he dares to use first names. It's not Sir and it's so warmly fond. He holds the name like it's his most prescious treasure. "If you like, I'll draw you a bath after. And your sheets were changed if you need a lie down after." With flawless hospital edges. He does so spoil his boy.
Roman slumps back in his seat, waiting there with his elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. Taps his foot, because even though Alfred's moving fast, he's still hungry now.
He does like to hear his name, though. Better than his father's surname, not quite as good as "Black Mask," but it's still nice when it's coming from Alfred. He could almost get lost in a fantasy that it's always been like this, that he's always had such a caring father-adjacent figure around. Not just his disinterested parents who spoiled him with everything except genuine affection.
Ugh, gross, what was that? It really has been a long, shitty night.
"A bath sounds great right about now," he grumbles, stinking like the Gotham harbor and cigarette smoke. Not even decent cigar smoke, but regular, off-brand cigarettes. Ewww.
"Oi. Elbows off the table." There's no bite to it. It's all fondness. He knows he'll never win of he really scolded Roman. He distinctly remembers being fired once by him because of it. He remembers viserally how sick it made him, how much it hurt, to be away from his boy. He never wants to feel that again.
It's with that same fondness that he'll finally bring the plate over, loaded with gormet worthy omelette and fresh cut fruits. His own plate is significantly smaller. Roman gets the lion's share, he earned it and Alfred needs to keep his figure. He can't work out like he used to and he refuses to embarrass his boy by looking a lazy slob. He needs to keep neat and trim for his lad.
But he'll still sit and eat with him. Alfred always does. He doesn't eat unless Roman is eating. Family meals like it should be. He imagines some lonely world where his boy eats whatever he left to warm up in some dank little cave. It breaks his heart.
"Then it'll be done. I'll clean up the dishes while you soak. Have your favorite robe ready too. And the paper." And a million small things that didn't truly belong to Roman.
It's a little bit of an odd thing to take note of, but Zsasz finds himself drawn to the dark red color of the bow wrapped around the soft white box on the dining room table. He's never been particularly enticed to anything of specific quality or taste, but there's something about red on stark white that delights his inner self along with his much more extroverted sadist. That being said, he's grateful for the clerks at the department stores offering to wrap the boxes in said nice bows. Otherwise, he'd have to find ribbon.
Giving presents, nice ones that is, actual things bought and paid for with money, aren't exactly in his repertoire. Course, he'd probably have been shit at this too, considering he had to ask Li for advice on what an actual husband would get his wife for their anniversary.
That's still an odd fucking thing to say. Anniversary and marriage. There's a paper somewhere in the Gotham County Clerk department with his and Roman's signature on it filed away in the "S" folder with every other married couple in Gotham. They'd been married about a year now, started being so back when Roman had been kicked out of Richard's house and had no money to his name and Zsasz did. Roman said something about getting hitched for health purposes, so Richard couldn't "pull the plug if something happens to me and I'm a damn vegetable." Course, he happily made sure they had some joint bank account to dip into Zsasz's family trust fund a week after it became official. However, didn't want to give up his last name. Zsasz considered, for shit's sake, becoming Victor Sionis, but that sure as hell didn't sound as intimidating as Victor Zsasz.
But they got married and started an empire in the basement of a crumbling building even Richard was too smart to renovate. Now they, well, "Roman" had the best club in Gotham outside the Iceberg Lounge. Zsasz has a gold band on his finger, a piece of paper, and a bastard of a wife everyone thinks is making him play mommy behind closed doors. He doesn't really mind, not to the extent Roman does at who everyone assumes wears the pants in the relationship, but there's only so many nagging wife jokes a man can stand to take.
Which is partially why he went to all the trouble to get all this shit in the first place. The boys aren't the only ones who don't seem to know who's in what proper role. What better way to remind Roman than on their one year anniversary.
Not like he ever took that much notice of it in the first place. What, is he supposed to get all sentimental over a marriage of convenience? Show some sorta weakness in front of his boys, when he's already had to kick people to death for snickering about it before (in his Versace shoes!!)? Absolutely not. He's got an empire to run.
So when he comes in, in his usual flurry of sound and movement, he doesn't notice the box at first, because he isn't expecting anything.
"God, fuck that, am I right? That piece of shit Sullivan thinks he's God's gift to mankind. Please. And I wouldn't be caught dead in that unfitted, off-brand, thrift-store-looking-- What's this?"
He pauses in the middle of tossing his coat over the back of a chair, the blood red color of the bow catching his eye.
He doesn't sit up from where he's sitting on the enormous crushed velvet couch Roman spends half the day lounging on. Arm tucked behind his head, the other idly pulling at the threads on his half-ruined shirt. Stares at the rigid and stiff line of Roman's spine, before drifting up to the exposed skin of this throat. After a long moment, let's his eyes flick down to the boxes of white and red on the table.
Roman wrinkles his nose in confusion, but Zsasz is usually quiet and not very verbose, so it's not like that's out of the ordinary. He looks back to the presents, picking one up, giving it a shake. Tilting it around to look for any sort of tag, or identifying clues, or anything.
It's only by the grace of whatever higher power that Roman picks up the least fragile box to give a shake. Didn't think that having to put "FRAGILE" on the boxes was necessary, but Roman has a habit of being so ridiculously unpredictable.
"If you want to break everything in there, there's an easier way to do it." He pushes himself up from the couch. "No, I know when your birthday is."
He walks over, stopping when he's close to Roman to pluck the box from his hands. Setting it back down on the table, he points to the smallest one. "You can open that one first. What did Sullivan do."
Roman frowns when the gift is taken from him, pulling his now-empty hand back to curl his fingers into a loose fist, gloves squeaking with the movement. Looks only mildly offended, mostly because he's very interested in whatever's in the boxes. Zsasz knows how much he loves presents.
"What does he always do? Makes me bend over backward just to negotiate a fucking trade deal," he says, no shortage of complaints even now, as he picks up the gift Zsasz pointed to. "Asking me all this bullshit about statistics and projected income, who do I fucking look like? The kind of nerd who sits behind a desk plucking away at spreadsheets all day? Eww."
As he talks, he tugs at the ribbon, unraveling it from around the box. Impatient and tense after a long night running his club, he just wants to figure out what new thing he's gotten that he can covet up here in his penthouse.
Zsasz watches him. Studies the lines of his face, the frown on his perfect mouth as he listens to Roman's complaints. He doesn't bother watching Roman unwrap it, he knows what's inside already, the point is to see Roman's reaction. His palms are strangely wet now, heart thumping in his chest. He pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue to keep himself from moving and miss any of Roman's microexpressions.
"Do you want me to talk to him." Zsasz's throat is dry. Can't stop thinking about what's in the boxes. Roman seeing what's in the boxes.
Once the lid is removed from the first box, the dark-wine color stands out against the transparent, white paper. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper is about five thousand dollars worth of luxury lingerie. Li said the brand was her favorite and it fits nicely. Zsasz hadn't exactly where to start in the store, but the clerk, when she was certain Zsasz was not there to slit her throat, had been very attentive. There are a pair of matching silk stockings, sheer with bands of lace flowers along the top. Likewise, there is a garter belt, with frilly accents that fan out in a soft, skirt-like way with two bands that attach to the lace tops of the stockings. A pair of matching bralette with a fabric collar attached to the shoulder straps matches the sheer thong. Beneath it is a transparent, thigh-high long, robe, with long sleeves with a number of other feminine accents.
Every piece is decorated with Swaroski crystals. Zsasz thought it was strange. Now he might give Li a goddamn raise.
"No, Victor, I can deal with that prick on my own," he says, lifting the lid, tissue paper rustling as he pulls it apart. "If I need him to piss his pants sometime, I'll call y-- ou...?"
He pauses when he sees sheer fabric and sparkling crystals, all the night's annoyances temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. Setting the box down on the table, he starts to lift each piece out, brow creased as he looks it all over.
What gets him most is the sparkle. God, he loves it when things glitter in the light, when every little movement makes him shine. And he'd certainly shine in this. There's just one problem, he thinks, as he lays it all out, looking at the feminine shape, the curves of flowers and lace.
"This is for me?" Is this some kind of joke? What's going through Victor's mind right now, giving him women's clothing? Even if he is, admittedly, salivating over the look of it, desperate to take his gloves off and feel it underneath his bare hands...
That's it. Zsasz can hear the rumble in his throat, has to strangle it down to keep it from escaping too soon. Roman is always so fucking delicate and emotional. Can't make any sudden moves nothing too intense, can't scare him off before he gets what he wants tonight. Well, alright, he's getting what he wants anyway, but he'd much rather have Roman participate than shove him around.
"All you have to do is call," he says absentmindedly, about whoever it was Roman was talking about. Much too busy watching the way Roman carefully touches one of the items, eyes drawn to the dazzling shine of the crystals.
Then comes the expected resistance. Zsasz moves a little closer to Roman, reaching down, brushing his fingers over the leather of his glove to touch the fabric. "Well, it's not for me."
The tags are still on each piece of cloth, and even those aggravatingly luxurious. Soft and almost leather-like with each listed price in gold-accented lettering. Just so Roman knows.
"Did you know," Zsasz draws his hand back. "It's our anniversary today. I thought I'd do somethin'."
Anniversary? Roman looks at Zsasz, confused, then back down at the lingerie set. Gently moves a tag between his fingers, eyes alight at the ink on paper proudly announcing it cost $1,225.99. And that's just one piece.
He licks his lips.
"You've been keeping track?" he asks. His own ring is still on his finger, underneath his gloves, a gold band covered in diamonds. Naturally. But he never paid attention to it as much other than some medical insurance and tax breaks until now.
Every day of every month of every passing hour that cumulated into this moment of one entire year, yes he has.
"I have a good memory," he says instead. Simple, nonaggressive. Though he would, has, killed many men and women he thought had gotten far closer to Roman than he would have liked. Marriage or not. He doesn't like people touching his things either.
Swallows thickly. Roman is, by law, one of his things. He'll never tire of being able to say that.
"There's more, course when you're done fingering the lace." Zsasz prods at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Wants more, wants to get on with it. "Open the one you were tossing around last."
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bakerstreet2020-02-08 11:26 am
Abel Nightroad | Trinity Blood | OTA
Stiles Stilinski | Teen Wolf | m/m
Roman Sionis | DCEU | M/M
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It's honestly nothing new. A day in the life of Alfred Pennyworth. Get up before the sun's up to start preparing for the Master of the House's return. It's muscle memory to start the coffee. Hand ground, from ethically sourced but rediculously expensive beans. There's breakfast to consider. Timing is everything. It's hard to anticipate when Master Sionis will return from his business. The man works very late nights.
Alfred is nothing of not very good at anticipating. For anything. Which is why there is also a first aid kit and other essentials along with freshly laundered comfortable clothes.
It the distant back of his skull he knows he's done this for other men. But he can't for the life of him remember who. It doesn't matter. He's comfortable here. It feels right to be here, taking care of things.
He's lucky. Mr Sionis had taken a risk on him after all. Who would want someone with his past? Who would would be so kind as to let him stay when what Bane did to his back decades ago had stripped him of his more deadly tendencies. (Well, Alfred likes to make people think that.) Roman is...kind to him, and doesn't that just say everything about his life that Sionis is considered kind.
So like a good
housewifebutler, Alfred readies. He'll not have his man come home without perfection greeting him.no subject
"Alfred, I need coffee," he says, before he even smells it brewing. Has his hand out and ready for a cup, wearing his tacky gold-palmed gloves, as usual.
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No time to think about the blanks. The Master is home and it's his duty, his pleasure, to make sure he's taken care of. He's glad that he's anticipated.
"Right here, sir." It's in one of the good cups. It's always in one of the good cups. Nothing but the best for his Roman, who works so hard. "The way you like it." He remembers preferences. How many sugar, what sort of cream, if any. It's second nature, as is limping behind Roman, careful hands reaching to help with coats. "Hard night, sir? Let me just pull out a chair and you can have yourself a good sit down. I've started breakfast. Thought you might like a nice light omelette," It's a mystery how Alfred has spent this long in Gotham and still sounds fresh out of the London gutters where.... someone??? Had found him.
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It only takes a fraction of his mental energy to smoothe over those temporary misfiring connections in Alfred's brain, help him to "remember" the "real details." Good thing the old limey bastard's so susceptible to mind control, otherwise Roman might have to put actual effort into this, and he just does not have the willpower for that right now.
He sips his coffee, nose wrinkled until he has to concede that there's nothing he can complain about. It's fresh, hot (but not TOO hot), and loaded up with his favorite French vanilla cream, plus just a hint of honey. He passes the cup -- one of the good cups, and spotless, at that -- from one hand to the other as he shrugs out of his overcoat and suit jacket.
"Hard night," he scoffs, then repeats himself with a laugh. "Hard month, more like it."
Making a beeline for the dining table, he continues to rant, more to hear himself talk than for Alfred to hear. But having someone to direct his bitching at makes it all the more satisfying.
"The Penitente Cartel is 're-negotiating their rate,'" said in a suitably patronizing tone with air-quotes to match, "the bastards, think they can get a better deal because those Steel Cobra bitches are undercutting me, so I had to go pay some visits to the higher-ups, waste half my night driving up and down half the fucking city... Then the meeting with the Ibanesku prick, haven't kissed that much ass since college. And Zsasz is still in fucking Blüdhaven--!"
He ends by kicking over Zsasz's usual chair, sitting vacant at one end of the long table. Drops into his own chair with a huff, tossing his sunglasses with a flick of the wrist to skitter across the table, mostly to see whether Alfred will manage to catch them before they can topple to the floor.
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He takes the coat and jacket with ease. Hangs it up neatly as he listens. Alfred always listens. Ranting, swearing, whatever Roman says, he's attentive. There's a part of himself that nearly offers to help more. Zsasz isn't the only man here that knows how to use a knife. He isn't the only crack shot. But his back has taken him out of the game more or less and his place is here, at home.
His place is making certain Roman is cared for and adored.
He tries not to be too jealous of Zsasz. It's unbecoming.
Strange how even with his back, he's got those old reflexes. The catch is quick and they go into a case even quicker. But then he's remembering the old injury, wincing slightly and limping his way around to lightly slide behind Roman to give his shoulders an expert rub.
"I could send a message to Mr Zsasz if you wish, sir. Tell him you wish him to hurry things up. But I know you have it well in hand. You'll put everything back to right, just like you always do." The amount of faith he seems to have is astounding.
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Lashes fluttering, he sets his cup down, exhaling in one long sigh.
"I know, I know," he says. Leans back in his seat, eyes closed, letting Alfred take care of him. "No, don't call him... I'll be fine. Just gonna have to tell him he missed a few chances at some more tally marks while he was away."
His mental hit list got a lot longer last night, that's for damn sure.
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"Of course. I'll leave it be. No point in pushing too hard. Still, you know I think you do too much. You work so hard." Says the man that likely sleeps only a few hours at a time. Always near the phone, just in case his Roman needs him.
"I know I say this a lot, but if there's ever anything I can do to lift some of that weight, let me know. I might not be any use out there no more." Those reflexes he's shown beg to differ, "But from home, there's still a lot. You just need to say the word. I'm here for you." And by God, this is the support Bruce got all day every day until...well, he hadn't. The Bat is probably a mess.
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It's a good thing he has Alfred here to remind him how wonderful he is. And to do all the, you know, gross womanly work, like cooking and cleaning.
"Just focus all your attention on keeping the place spotless," he says. "If I had to come home and even look at a dish, or a- an overflowing trash can, god forbid..." He shudders. Good thing he has Alfred now, to take care of that unsightly mess.
"By the way, how about that omelet?"
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His hands slide away, but only after a soft pet to make certain he's not left any wrinkles. "Of course sir. You'll never have to worry about that." No. Alfred is meticulous. You could eat off the floors. Not that that would ever happen.
"Right away. The way you like it." It's nothing to put an apron on. He thinks he looks dashing in it and it protects the nice cloths that Roman provides him. It's as easy as breathing to take his place at the stove. Knife skills that would make Zsasz take note used for perfectly diced fresh ingredients. Always fresh. Roman will never have anything but fresh and organic.
He even hums a little, the image of the perfect little wife, if the wife happened to be short and British and a man.
"Roman." When he's like this, content and cooking, he dares to use first names. It's not Sir and it's so warmly fond. He holds the name like it's his most prescious treasure. "If you like, I'll draw you a bath after. And your sheets were changed if you need a lie down after." With flawless hospital edges. He does so spoil his boy.
im loving how pampered this manchild is
He does like to hear his name, though. Better than his father's surname, not quite as good as "Black Mask," but it's still nice when it's coming from Alfred. He could almost get lost in a fantasy that it's always been like this, that he's always had such a caring father-adjacent figure around. Not just his disinterested parents who spoiled him with everything except genuine affection.
Ugh, gross, what was that? It really has been a long, shitty night.
"A bath sounds great right about now," he grumbles, stinking like the Gotham harbor and cigarette smoke. Not even decent cigar smoke, but regular, off-brand cigarettes. Ewww.
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It's with that same fondness that he'll finally bring the plate over, loaded with gormet worthy omelette and fresh cut fruits. His own plate is significantly smaller. Roman gets the lion's share, he earned it and Alfred needs to keep his figure. He can't work out like he used to and he refuses to embarrass his boy by looking a lazy slob. He needs to keep neat and trim for his lad.
But he'll still sit and eat with him. Alfred always does. He doesn't eat unless Roman is eating. Family meals like it should be. He imagines some lonely world where his boy eats whatever he left to warm up in some dank little cave. It breaks his heart.
"Then it'll be done. I'll clean up the dishes while you soak. Have your favorite robe ready too. And the paper." And a million small things that didn't truly belong to Roman.
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It's a little bit of an odd thing to take note of, but Zsasz finds himself drawn to the dark red color of the bow wrapped around the soft white box on the dining room table. He's never been particularly enticed to anything of specific quality or taste, but there's something about red on stark white that delights his inner self along with his much more extroverted sadist. That being said, he's grateful for the clerks at the department stores offering to wrap the boxes in said nice bows. Otherwise, he'd have to find ribbon.
Giving presents, nice ones that is, actual things bought and paid for with money, aren't exactly in his repertoire. Course, he'd probably have been shit at this too, considering he had to ask Li for advice on what an actual husband would get his wife for their anniversary.
That's still an odd fucking thing to say. Anniversary and marriage. There's a paper somewhere in the Gotham County Clerk department with his and Roman's signature on it filed away in the "S" folder with every other married couple in Gotham. They'd been married about a year now, started being so back when Roman had been kicked out of Richard's house and had no money to his name and Zsasz did. Roman said something about getting hitched for health purposes, so Richard couldn't "pull the plug if something happens to me and I'm a damn vegetable." Course, he happily made sure they had some joint bank account to dip into Zsasz's family trust fund a week after it became official. However, didn't want to give up his last name. Zsasz considered, for shit's sake, becoming Victor Sionis, but that sure as hell didn't sound as intimidating as Victor Zsasz.
But they got married and started an empire in the basement of a crumbling building even Richard was too smart to renovate. Now they, well, "Roman" had the best club in Gotham outside the Iceberg Lounge. Zsasz has a gold band on his finger, a piece of paper, and a bastard of a wife everyone thinks is making him play mommy behind closed doors. He doesn't really mind, not to the extent Roman does at who everyone assumes wears the pants in the relationship, but there's only so many nagging wife jokes a man can stand to take.
Which is partially why he went to all the trouble to get all this shit in the first place. The boys aren't the only ones who don't seem to know who's in what proper role. What better way to remind Roman than on their one year anniversary.
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Not like he ever took that much notice of it in the first place. What, is he supposed to get all sentimental over a marriage of convenience? Show some sorta weakness in front of his boys, when he's already had to kick people to death for snickering about it before (in his Versace shoes!!)? Absolutely not. He's got an empire to run.
So when he comes in, in his usual flurry of sound and movement, he doesn't notice the box at first, because he isn't expecting anything.
"God, fuck that, am I right? That piece of shit Sullivan thinks he's God's gift to mankind. Please. And I wouldn't be caught dead in that unfitted, off-brand, thrift-store-looking-- What's this?"
He pauses in the middle of tossing his coat over the back of a chair, the blood red color of the bow catching his eye.
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He doesn't sit up from where he's sitting on the enormous crushed velvet couch Roman spends half the day lounging on. Arm tucked behind his head, the other idly pulling at the threads on his half-ruined shirt. Stares at the rigid and stiff line of Roman's spine, before drifting up to the exposed skin of this throat. After a long moment, let's his eyes flick down to the boxes of white and red on the table.
Shrugs his shoulders. "What's it look like."
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"It's not my birthday," he says. "Is it?"
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"If you want to break everything in there, there's an easier way to do it." He pushes himself up from the couch. "No, I know when your birthday is."
He walks over, stopping when he's close to Roman to pluck the box from his hands. Setting it back down on the table, he points to the smallest one. "You can open that one first. What did Sullivan do."
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"What does he always do? Makes me bend over backward just to negotiate a fucking trade deal," he says, no shortage of complaints even now, as he picks up the gift Zsasz pointed to. "Asking me all this bullshit about statistics and projected income, who do I fucking look like? The kind of nerd who sits behind a desk plucking away at spreadsheets all day? Eww."
As he talks, he tugs at the ribbon, unraveling it from around the box. Impatient and tense after a long night running his club, he just wants to figure out what new thing he's gotten that he can covet up here in his penthouse.
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"Do you want me to talk to him." Zsasz's throat is dry. Can't stop thinking about what's in the boxes. Roman seeing what's in the boxes.
Once the lid is removed from the first box, the dark-wine color stands out against the transparent, white paper. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper is about five thousand dollars worth of luxury lingerie. Li said the brand was her favorite and it fits nicely. Zsasz hadn't exactly where to start in the store, but the clerk, when she was certain Zsasz was not there to slit her throat, had been very attentive. There are a pair of matching silk stockings, sheer with bands of lace flowers along the top. Likewise, there is a garter belt, with frilly accents that fan out in a soft, skirt-like way with two bands that attach to the lace tops of the stockings. A pair of matching bralette with a fabric collar attached to the shoulder straps matches the sheer thong. Beneath it is a transparent, thigh-high long, robe, with long sleeves with a number of other feminine accents.
Every piece is decorated with Swaroski crystals. Zsasz thought it was strange. Now he might give Li a goddamn raise.
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He pauses when he sees sheer fabric and sparkling crystals, all the night's annoyances temporarily pushed to the back of his mind. Setting the box down on the table, he starts to lift each piece out, brow creased as he looks it all over.
What gets him most is the sparkle. God, he loves it when things glitter in the light, when every little movement makes him shine. And he'd certainly shine in this. There's just one problem, he thinks, as he lays it all out, looking at the feminine shape, the curves of flowers and lace.
"This is for me?" Is this some kind of joke? What's going through Victor's mind right now, giving him women's clothing? Even if he is, admittedly, salivating over the look of it, desperate to take his gloves off and feel it underneath his bare hands...
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"All you have to do is call," he says absentmindedly, about whoever it was Roman was talking about. Much too busy watching the way Roman carefully touches one of the items, eyes drawn to the dazzling shine of the crystals.
Then comes the expected resistance. Zsasz moves a little closer to Roman, reaching down, brushing his fingers over the leather of his glove to touch the fabric. "Well, it's not for me."
The tags are still on each piece of cloth, and even those aggravatingly luxurious. Soft and almost leather-like with each listed price in gold-accented lettering. Just so Roman knows.
"Did you know," Zsasz draws his hand back. "It's our anniversary today. I thought I'd do somethin'."
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He licks his lips.
"You've been keeping track?" he asks. His own ring is still on his finger, underneath his gloves, a gold band covered in diamonds. Naturally. But he never paid attention to it as much other than some medical insurance and tax breaks until now.
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"I have a good memory," he says instead. Simple, nonaggressive. Though he would, has, killed many men and women he thought had gotten far closer to Roman than he would have liked. Marriage or not. He doesn't like people touching his things either.
Swallows thickly. Roman is, by law, one of his things. He'll never tire of being able to say that.
"There's more, course when you're done fingering the lace." Zsasz prods at the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Wants more, wants to get on with it. "Open the one you were tossing around last."
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