Ⅰ. Ⅱ. Ⅲ. Ⅳ. Ⅴ. Ⅵ. Ⅶ. Ⅷ. Ⅸ.

when the ARKHAM KNIGHT puts on the mask he’s like a different person. nothing can hurt him - nothing can even touch him. you’ve long since been in his care, you still haven’t seen his face, not really. he totes you around like a trophy, dragging you to god know’s where while you remain in his custody. you’re not stupid, you see the way he looks at you, how the mask looks at you. studying you, unwavering, unblinking, it sends a shiver down your spine. no one has come to rescue you, and it’s getting more and more pertinent to your well-being that you go easy on him. when you were first brought to him by his men in red camo, you were kicking and screaming until you were drugged into complacency. being here as long as you have, hope dwindling, you catch the knight staring… and you let him.

he and his forces keep moving, you haven’t recognized a pattern, and you wouldn’t know where to go if you could escape. for now, you lie low, you do what you think he wants. you suggest strategies, paint it as more efficient or fiscally responsible, when in reality you’re minimizing civilian inconvenience or—in extreme cases—maiming, casualties. in a twisted sense, you slide into the duty of being at the knight’s side in more categories than just a pet. you like to think he trusts you to a certain extent, or maybe even cares about you in his own way. it’s not such a horrid thought anymore - until it comes time to test it.

“i’m just saying, please, let them go.” your hoarse throat chokes up, clutching onto the thick strap of his forearm while you beg. your knees threaten to give out as his monstrous stride directs towards the civilian hostages. he’s locked the building down, and you’re not sure anyone’s getting out. two of his men note your appeared hostility, even if you can’t claw through his armor, his glorified bodyguards take hold of your wrists and your shoulders, yanking you off of him as he jerks his hand holding his pistol from your reach.

“why should i?” he rounds on you, studying your skewed features through cold and digital eyes. the grating sound of his voice mod hurts your ears, flinching as he barks orders at his men to secure the perimeter.

“they don’t have anything to do with this, we can just move- on—ah!” the death grips of his associates tighten on you and you wince, your knee buckling but they prop you up anyway, cutting off your circulation when they tighten on you. rallied by the pain, you thrash even if it’s futile.

“keep her here. i’ll finish what we started—“ the knight instructs, and as he turns on his heel you call after him.

“wait. wait! please!” you yank, but it just bruises your wrists. “i’ll do—mm—anything! just listen,” your heart drops to your stomach as the two militants begin to drag you further away one resisted step at a time. you panic. “you’ll have me, okay?” you shout over your shoulder.

against the odds, a subversion of your expectations to be cast aside and all the trust you’ve spent building to be thrown in alongside you… the arkham knight turns around.

“drop her.”

you gasp as you’re tossed, landing on your knees and catching yourself from falling forward, gravel digging into your palms. panting, you see two thick boots step into view, the sound of rock scraping rock as its ground under his soles when he lowers in a crouch. cold metal kisses the underside of your chin, tipping your head up until you’re met with his gaze towering over you. the end of his pistol lines up with your throat. you didn’t realize you were glaring until you see your reflection in his face.

“anything?” . . .

back on your knees, and alone in a room with him this time, you swallow your dry mouth. “well, i have been feeling a little… pent-up.” he muses, heavy metal clinking as he raises his gun to the air, elbow propped up on the armrest of this leather sofa chair. you’re unable to look at him, your eyes glued to his belt. planted between his spread knees, you sweat, panic setting in on the reality of just what you’re about to do. “looks like you’re ready to get started.” he’s challenging you. your lashes flutter as your heart rate ravages your ribcage, blood roaring past your ears.

cruelly, he puts the final nail in the coffin, taunting your sacrifice. he sits forward, the elbow transferring to his kneecap as the gun lazily lulls to sit at your temple, and you flinch. you feel its heft against your skull. “you think it’ll make me go easy on them?” your jaw clenches as he tests your resolve with his malicious inquiry. the idea that you begged for this churns your stomach. your silence spurs him on, and you can hear a sick grin behind his mask as he returns to his position, slumping into his seat so you had plenty of room to do what you came here to do. “well,” he scoffs. “couldn’t hurt your chances.” . . .

“that’s right, that’s fuckin’ right.”

you pinch the tears of strain when you shut your eyes, simultaneously trying to concentrate on what you’re doing while avoiding thinking about what texture his cock is against your tongue. the smooth veiny underside grates against the bed of it, and the velvety head hits the back of your throat at a nauseous pace. the hair in his pubes tickle your bottom lip; either he wasn’t expecting something like this or he’s just not the manscaping type. you gag and rear, the instinct to detach n catch your breath too great to resist. a vicious hand clamps the nape of your neck, reading your reluctance.

“take it, bitch.” he reaffirms your place, forcing you to swallow every inch of him as you whimper through your nose. he can’t bottom out, but when he gets close it cuts off your air supply. sadistically, his palm adjusts to cup the back of your head, pushing you down until your cry in surprise mutes. he overpowers you, holding you down, your instincts kicking in to futilely bang your fists against his thigh. as if it’s an act of mercy, he releases you, and you whip your head back to be able to take in oxygen through your open mouth, coughing through the moisture of his pre and your spit. there’s a sting up your nose like some of that salt contaminated the sensitive insides, and you stave away your quivering lower lip.

tom clark has been calling my phone while i’ve been busy on the more batman centric side of things…. i’ll look into it anon. you might be talking to me at the right time

the news of your engagement to BRUCE WAYNE broke the collective minds of every speculative gossip-column tabloid to self-respecting paper and channel in gotham. the local celebrity and billionaire bachelor with plans to tie the knot dominated social cycles, your face was plastered on every media site they could flood you in. questions like: “where did she come from?” and “who is she, really?” surface while no one can seem to get a hold of the happy couple for a statement. paparazzi sneak pictures of you, of the ring, of you two holding hands looking disheveled and fresh from bed in the morning. no one ever thought bruce would settle down, anyone who’s anyone thought they would have more time to snag him, and everybody seems to be focusing primarily on scrutinizing every single thing about you. what you wear, how you do your hair, whether you wear heels or boots, how you act in old interviews, what people know you from, how long you were seen with him prior, anything that people can use to deduce your character, and judge. you practically come under hostile fire for just being seen with bruce out in the open, proudly “boasting” your sparkling diamond which no doubt cost a house or two on founder’s island.

no matter what you do, how pretty you are, your extensive environmentalist and activist background, you simply aren’t good enough for a fiancée of bruce wayne’s. according to the public eye, you should be doing a million things instead of what you are doing: spending an engagement honeymoon with your groom-to-be.

sitting behind you at your side, he plants a kiss on your bare shoulder. “do you like it?” that deep voice rumbles next to your ear as your admire your ring in the light. tangled in the sheets of his luxurious bed, you haven’t been able to pay attention to much else than what’s on your finger. it has nothing to do with its radiance or its price, but what it represents. you gaze upon a future together, a future you didn’t think would be possible with a man like bruce.

“i love it.” you beam, glancing over your shoulder at him. another kiss lingers intimately on your cheek, expanses of tacky skin stick together from sweat and stubborn proximity. “you wanna take a shower?”

he noses at your ear with a hum that sends a shiver down your spine. “after this.” smoothly, he tugs you down to lay on your back and you squeak. he tucks his thigh between yours, your hips idly gravitating towards it out of muscle memory. his palm against your cheek guides your mouth to his, kissing him through your lips stiffened by a delighted smile. your fingers still toy with the ring, circling it around your knuckle in a fidget. it takes a while for the two of you to peel yourselves out of bed. . . .