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Deep down, Jim knew they shouldn't be doing this.
Alright, shallower than that - he knew every day as he got up from his lumpy mattress and looked in the mirror (Except you're never in your own bed anymore, are you? You reside somewhere else entirely, a place that your precious laws can't govern) that what he was doing was wrong. He felt it like a constant, dull ache in his stomach that flared up sometimes, caused him more pain than he could always deal with.
He spent his moments alone with his head in his hands and a bottle of god-awful whiskey by his side, wondering how it had all got so twisted and wrong.
His partner Harvey would look at his pale face, pinched with stress, and act damn near half-way sympathetic to him. The pressure of the job got to everybody in the end. Still, Jim felt like what he was caught in counted as "exceptional circumstances". Jim would take the peace offering of black coffee from Harvey and try to act like he was simply a little hungover, like he just needed some time to piece himself back together.
But he was hungover from a different kind of drug, and no amount of black coffees in the world could mend it. He hated and delighted in the thought of his next fix in equal measure. Sometimes he felt like he couldn't face his job - but he had to grit his teeth and take the pain, find that last shred of dignity within himself and soldier on (Ah, here comes the self-pity. You can't deal with the shame, can you? There's no-one to blame anymore, Gordon. This one's on you. You're trapped. Because you obviously don't think with your fucking head anymore, do you?).
It was hard to tell how long it had been going on for. Time was beginning to blur around the edges, like an old photograph (No-one to keep score with when Barbara's gone. You fucked up. It's becoming a bit of habit these days, isn't it?).
Jim knew dimly in the back of his mind that he could reach a breaking point. (It would all be over then. People would see who you really were, and all the downright despicable things you're capable of doing). But with the breaking point nowhere in his line of sight, despite everything he'd been trying to fight against since he first joined Gotham's police department - he carried on.
~*~
It would probably be best to avoid the mirror tomorrow.
He couldn't take his own judgemental eyes.
But for now, Jim let himself enjoy... whatever the hell this was. Whatever they had become to each other.
He groaned wantonly, hips rocking into the mattress as he felt Oswald Cobblepot kiss his way down the detective's back, taking his sweet fucking time. Oswald knew Jim was nervous about what they were going to do, knew the detective felt embarrassed to be laid out on display like this, but the crime boss always had to find a way to tease. They didn't always have time to rendezvous together - but most nights, they would make sure they were each other's to devour. And Oswald may have been a despicable criminal, but Jim had found himself feeling pretty damn despicable too lately, and the way Oswald touched him was fucking magic every single time.
Jim gave a small sigh of frustration. He heard a reply in the form of the ghost of a laugh before his buttocks were being spread apart, gently but with a strange sort of roughness that Jim had grown accustomed to. They'd never done this, but Jim didn't regret indulging such a request when he felt a teasing tongue run across the rim of his clenched hole. It was filthy, the way Oswald enjoyed putting his mouth to use - must've looked pretty filthy too, from an outsider's perspective. Jim stifled another moan at the thought, hips rocking against the mattress again to create more delicious friction.
Oswald struck, like a viper - always so damn unpredictable and yet still so gentle with Jim - and Jim felt that talented tongue enter him, as deep as it would go, as if Oswald somehow enjoyed the taste, the taste of Jim.
Jim was horrified to find tears at the corner of his eyes - he'd never felt like this, so at the mercy of someone else in the bedroom. And the lust - so much, too much to process just then. But then again, everything about him and Oswald was... Intense. He squeezed his eyes shut, thankful that Oswald couldn't see his face for now. Oswald still had a good view of one of the most intimate parts of Jim, and Jim felt both vulnerable and exalted by it.
Oswald panted against Jim's skin as he finally stopped to breathe, digging his fingers into the plush, soft flesh of Jim's backside. Jim's cock twitched at the mixture of pain and pleasure - though he himself was a wreck, Oswald was also not his usual well-dressed, oily, lying self. This was real. And they'd both be marked by the end of he night.
Oswald got back to work with considerable enthusiasm, and Jim gritted his teeth against the unrelenting onslaught of pleasure. He always found it hard to let go, always found it difficult to tip over the edge.
But he felt the vibrations of Oswald's eager moan, felt a tongue, slick and skilful, moving rapidly inside of him. Jim simply didn't feel like himself anymore - he'd let go of Detective James Gordon, if only for a short while.
Oswald gave a ragged breath, roughly kneading and playing with Jim's behind like Jim was the sexiest goddamn thing in this world.
The frantic rubbing against the mattress increased in speed, and Jim lost it - he pushed shamelessly against Oswald's smug, pretty face, desperately wanting more of whatever Oswald had to offer him. Jim felt greedy but also electrified, and Oswald, Oswald was perfect, he, he was-
-Jim finally came with an embarrassingly high, embarrassingly loud whimper, hands gripping the bedsheets like they were his only anchor left to the reality he'd found himself in. Waves of relief flooded though his body as he felt his muscles contract almost violently, his legs trembling from the force of his orgasm. He made a disgusting mess of that disgustingly expensive duvet and Oswald kept on going like it was irrelevant to him.
Jim knew the night wasn't done with yet. So he turned over, still shaking like a leaf, and let Oswald make him see stars again.
~*~
"A-Ahh, Jim!"
"You feel so good, you always feel so good..."
"My beautiful Gordon, my Jim..."
Jim opened his eyes to the aftermath of a ruined room and a thorough fucking.
Oswald was lay curled up on his chest, breathing deeply; still asleep.
Weak rays of sunlight filtered in through the chintzy curtains, and Jim guessed it was still pretty early in the morning. The decoration of the place was garish to say the least, but the furniture seemed lavish and well-crafted. He found that he wouldn't be surprised if Oswald rented out this whole apartment just so they could have their "fun". Frankly, Jim didn't want to know if that was the case. He felt guilty enough already.
The detective could see bruises on his lover's delicate neck, hickeys that Oswald would later have to cover with a pricey, high-collared suit. Jim couldn't help but stare down at them with a certain fondness. He ran his fingers through Oswald's dark hair with a featherlight touch, not wanting to wake his lover up so soon. Oswald always looked so pale and stressed - but then again, that was one of the drawbacks of being a crime boss. Jim knew he must look tired too when they met, but Oswald never commented on it.
Jim knew that even if they had to do this, if some raw animal magnetism had made them unable to stop themselves from sullying both of their reputations, there should be no affection from any of the parties involved. But he couldn't seem to fucking help it. Their trysts would be raw, full of pain but also meaning. They challenged each other and pushed each other's limits. They would always collide and probably never gently meet.
But Oswald... Jim felt responsible for Oswald.
He felt plain, honest affection and it killed him inside but once it had begun, it had never been able to be stopped. Their relationship was complicated and Jim wasn't sure whether they'd ever figure it out.
And with that thought, Jim kissed the top of the crime boss' head with the distinct intention of sleep reclaiming him, laying back and closing his eyes, still sore from how Oswald had taken him.
(How can you sleep knowing that-)
Jim found it in himself to temporarily banish the snide thought from his mind, exhaustion hitting him. This rest was earned. This bed wasn't borrowed, it would always be his and Oswald's for as long as this could go on.
Doubts meant nothing when Oswald was near.