❤️‍🔥

When you return back from a long-needed, far-overdue weekend clouded by the inebriation of a heady weekend with Zina and Greta, you a nursing a headache that you take deliberate pains not to show.

With each step that you further descend into the encroaching vault of Wayne Enterprises, you feel yourself shedding the second skin exposed like a nerve when you are out of work.

And each stride that plunges you further into the labyrinth returns the familiar suit of armor that maintains your composure, rends you cool and calm.

You are no longer the you of civilian life: you are the person who carries the sword for the machinations of a business that expands boundaries of land, breadth of the city—your business is no longer your own to dally in.

And so you have returned to the fold as you make purposeful conclusion of your initial journey into the elevator carriage, standing ramrod-straight as you prepare to rejoin the workforce.

There are matters to be done, and events of the past week that you would best prefer to forget should you be given the chance. You permit yourself sharp exhalation of breath through your nose, given the privacy you maintain in this small enclosure.

From the depths of your messenger bag, your phone rings; with immediacy spared you, you search in the abyssal folds without looking, producing it in the field of your vision so that you may see who has contacted you. Greta—though it lacks the slew of emojis that usually come paired with any missive from her.

Mr. Fox wants to see you in his office. Didn’t seem stressed but you should head over now.

Mr. Fox on the twentieth floor, a few stops before your own. The red LED letters emblazoned in the top corner of the carriage demarcate your journey from eighteenth to nineteenth, and you sigh. No rest for the wicked—or those with impetus to be wicked.

You reach out for the “stop elevator” button and adjust to the lurch that your cab makes with the shift of gravity. The doors hiss open with jettison of quiet air, and you step out into the belly of the beast.

You like Mr. Fox. He’s a straightforward man who understands the merit that a hard worker can provide. His office reflects that; rather than adorned with the pompous demeanor that a prouder man might have, bearings trophies and accolades earned by nepotism or bribery, there is no such thing here. Only a simple yet expensive desk that bears pictures commemorating important memories of him and his family.

You remember the day that he brought the picture gilded in gold of he and his family celebrating Jace’s college graduation and the beaming pride expressed on his face.

But there’s no smile on his face today; and you’ve become an excellent interpreter in many avenues of this job. While there is no outward stress, there is a necessity for something that he needs from you. He’s going to ask you for a favor.

And so you resign yourself to whatever will be demanded, like the good worker bee that you are, though he has yet to articulate it. Even though it is clear in the manner that his hands search across the table to organize something. There is a need to perpetuate something in order out of the unexpected turmoil to his schedule that he is imposing upon you.

“Mr. Fox, I was told that you wanted to see me,” You announce as you close the door behind him, just the way that he likes.

Mr. Fox, per the least, appears apologetic to some degree, though this is quickly smoothed over into managerial quality. Like the best of them, he puts up necessary exterior when the situation is required of him.

“Yes,” He says your name with familiarity behooving him, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to clear your schedule today.”

And this is something that sends swift careening catastrophe through careful mooring of your best-laid plans. Yet, you keep it discreetly under lock and key while internally you wage war upon the cruel avarice of the fates.

“What am I required for, Mr. Fox?” You ask, and the question is articulated in manner that makes it seem like you are not considering homicide. He grimaces, and then lays final nail in your coffin.

“Mr. Wayne and the Emir Al Ghul,” He begins—you feel adrenaline-induced chill roil down the length of your spine, snake down the marrow of your veins at this preamble, “Are going to tour the warehouses by Blackgate Penitentiary to assess the property for the construction we’re planning.”

“Yes, I assumed that they would,” You continue, though there is unspoken question and answer that are yet to be exchanged between the two of you. Why you? Why back into the fire must you go?

To his credit, Mr. Fox keeps maintenance of outward calm as he provides the axe to fall upon your neck.

“I was supposed to leave with them in an hour, but unfortunately there are other fires that I have to put out here.” His eyes search for your understanding which you are wont to provide—he continues. “And, because you’re so well-versed in the situation given the help you provided with the conference earlier—”

The conference. Where you faced down the Emir and walked away a mess of nerves. And now the two of you are expected to confer to secondary location, with most inconvenient third of all time.

Bruce: who shared the intimacy of inebriation with you no more than few days ago, who has remained perilously present in the foreground of your mind with far more real estate than you’d care to admit aloud—

“—And, because you’ve toured Blackgate before, you can help with the Emir,” Mr. Fox continues; at this, you cannot help but allow a momentary quirk of your eyebrow up your forehead at this. He waves a dismissive hand.

“The Emir may be fluent in English, but I’ve spent enough time with translators and dignitaries from different countries to know when some words may be—”—He searches for most reconciliatory way of wording this—“—Lost in translation. And unfortunately, as Faisal is still overseas—”

This summons other topic that has been brimming at the surface. “Is Faisal due back to Gotham soon? I had heard that the international merger went well.”

Mr. Fox gives you a look that indicates that you are skirting your duties, but he provides no verbal reprimand. After all, this is only between the two of you, and he is inconveniencing you.

“We don’t know when Mr. Nejem will be coming back,” Lucius admits with a weariness that truly underscores a degree of the severity that is happening. “There are issues with his documentation for reasons we cannot ascertain.”

You resist the frown that makes urge to cross your face. Surely it couldn’t be—

Mr. Fox again waves this away as well. “He’s being hosted in fine housing we can provide in the meantime. But we don’t know when he’ll return. Which means that you are our next best bet—”

And this means that you have a rendezvous at Blackgate with unwanted, unexpected company.

Blackgate Penitentiary has since been relocated to some other locale that sports greater distance from Arkham Asylum. What this means is that Wayne Enterprises amply benefits from the open acreage. And, the inmates themselves don’t have to worry about any run-ins with the more deplorables from the neighboring estate.

And it means that as you exit from the limousine that has shielded you from the gloomy, overcast atmosphere of the burgeoning sky barring you from glimmer of sunshine—you have excellent purview of the looming estate far in the distance.

Dark, Stygian, besmirching the otherwise beautiful landscape—though the empty warehouses that Blackgate has left behind are no better improvement—Arkham is poised in the far-off distance with encroaching gates that are little more than pretty dressing for the sprawling grounds. You’re usually never this close; most Gothamites know better than to play around with their lives.

But duty calls. It reminds you of its presence with verbal introduction from behind, a low husk of a voice that interrupts your internal dialogue.

“We won’t be going so close,” Bruce says as he emerges from the limo, closing the door behind him with one-handed ease. “We’re only here to tour these specific grounds, after all.”

“And how impressive they are,” Comes arch voice from the other side of the vehicle—as you watch the third person who kept you company in the tight confines of the car. Watching you as you attempted to look busy alongside Bruce in the leather seats.

Desperately trying to ignore the way that his eyes draped along the length of your legs as you finished what menial task you could to better salvage your ruined schedule. And failing altogether as you found yourself drawing the slant of your eyes up to meet him, unable to resist the heat that seemed to pull you on invisible tether to meet him.

Ra’s Al Ghul—he walks with such kingly, regal poise as he rounds the perimeter of the vehicle, his security detail following behind in loping manner.

And his eyes spare momentary glance to the supposed praised grounds that he approaches: after all, why relegate them any attention when he can focus upon you instead? When he can drink in what detail is offered to him in the grandeur of the outside?

You turn from him back to Bruce, who is looking at the blueprints that he should have already committed to memory—but the bruise that is taking slow-rooted healing on the edge of his jaw says otherwise. It would be ill-fitted to give this any attention, especially considering that the two of you are before the Emir: but it is so large, it is so prominent.

“Mr. Wayne,” You comment coolly, producing a bandage—how it evokes memories of that past incident that you know he recalls in the cant of his eyes—“—For the incident with the, ah, water cooler.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes at the excuse that you provide for him to leap upon, a familiar, knowing smile at your conspiratorial gains approaches his face.

“Oh, yes—”—He nods ebulliently, playing along—“—Can’t help being clumsy.”

And then this is where he goes off the carefully-executed script that you’ve laid out for him, holding up the many clipboards and blueprints that you’ve carefully arranged in the spread of his arms.

“Would you mind helping me put it on?” He asks, and there’s something very rigorously earnest in the cant of his voice. As though he’s trying to convince not only you, but the Emir at his learned helplessness.

He doesn’t look at Ra’s Al Ghul—he doesn’t have to. The brilliance of that handsome smile is reserved only for you. The wickedness in his voice as he speaks is for your company.

“My hands are full.” He elaborates, as though this is enough for the unnecessary gauntlet that he has forced you into. You blanche for words in brief moment as you are caught in the throes of his machinations. But you cannot deny your employer in front of his business partner.

“As you wish, Mr. Wayne.” You reply with mechanical accuracy. If your movement is robotic as you close in the distance that he awaits with tilted chin—well, you are grateful that no one comments on it.

As you apply the bandage to his face, you feel the way that his jaw sets in motion against the pads of your fingers, the scald of his skin against yours, the heft of his breathing. You are poignantly overaware of everything in this wretched instant, as you tend to your employer.

“Such good hired help you have, Bruce.” The Emir comments in dry manner, as though he is amused rather than angered at this blatant manipulation. And then, in Arabic, he directs to you: “<Do you not see his overtures to lay claim to you, my dear?>”

You resist the urge to intake sharp breath that will betray the intention of his words. Bruce has his eyes upon you as you smooth out any deviation in the bandage.

“What was that, Emir?” Bruce asks, his voice light and jovial. You think quickly to avoid a faux pas that you are determined to avoid here.

“The Emir only thinks that you should be more careful, Mr. Wayne.” You reply with graceful ease, as though you have not been scrambling to keep this situation from boiling over.

You step away from him, from the press of his body so close to yours and force bracing grimace. Now, you feel courageous enough to look to the Emir who has only held you in the luxury of his stare.

“Now, if we’re ready?” You ask, pressing your hands to the front of you. Bruce takes the torch from you on your behalf.

“Of course. Let’s go ahead and give him the tour.” He says. Then, with this stilted preface, the four of you descend into the exploration of disused land.

You’re familiar with Blackgate: anyone who has grown to maturity in Gotham knows everything about it, learned to rote repetition given the civic history classes you must all take. You recite knowledge that you know as well as the complex schedules and spreadsheets that you can write in your sleep.

Your voice is of stable composition, at a volume that you projects professionalism as the four of you pace the main fortress. Before you all, it yawns wide, built on ancient brick-and-mortar with little adjustments to the outside. It is a relic that holds looming, ominous atmosphere.

“Originally a Civil War Union Fort, the grounds were eventually repurposed in the late eighteenth century to be repurposed for the necessity of housing criminals.” You explain, gesturing to the vestigial organs of the institution where these can best be spotted.

Where the building has been hollowed and refurbished—repurposed turrets, patrol stalls, sharpshooter nests—“—Before it was relocated, it held no small number of criminals that both have circulated through this locale and Arkham.”

The Emir appears neutrally evaluative as the four of you pace the grounds, looking at this ignoble structure.

“Hmmm.” He says, and then there is something sleek in the way that his eyes subject you to visual analysis. “Thanks to the work of the Batman, is it not?”

You are aware of the way that Bruce stiffens in your periphery. The name of the vigilante always inspires some type of reaction in every Gothamite. But you are not allowed to show it.

Your reply is dictated in even meter. “Some of them, yes. The others have been apprehended by the GCPD as well.”

Your retinue continues along but you know that there is question waiting in the wings to be spoken. And so it is, with genteel curiosity; the Emir inquires, “Do you sport high opinion of them?”

You blink at this—you were not expecting an inquisition of civic services. “The GCPD, your grace?”

“No, my dear—”—And there is something enigmatic that makes presence in his stare—“—The Batman.”

Bruce has taken apace away from the two of you. But you watch the broadening of those shoulders as you look from him back to the Emir, who relegates the following inquiry to Arabic.

“<Do you find him impressive?>” He drawls, lithe as he moves, pursuing your reply. “<Do you think him worthy protector of this city?>”

It is not your place to answer this question that he puts you in particularly difficult spot in, especially when it excludes Bruce. You answer the question in English—and only the one that was inquired of you in English.

“I think he’s a complex figure, your grace.” You apply delicately, interlocking your hands together as you pace around the perimeter of the building. You can feel the intensity of Ra’s Al Ghul’s eyes on the nape of your neck.

“I can hardly remember a time when he was not here in the city.” You answer—Bruce clears his throat. It is an inappropriate topic, but the two of you are captured in the amber of humoring these questions.

“Has it been better since his arrival, do you think?” The Emir asks—and you are aware that is stepping into impropriety. This is far beyond any matters that your group has been assembled here for; how best to exit this, you wonder.

“I think that is a difficult question that I am not paid enough to answer, your grace.” You answer with careful deliberation after momentary pause.

His chuckle is immediate, low, serpentine—amusement given by the artful dodge that you have produced his way.

“How very diplomatic of you. Very well—”—Ra’s Al Ghul raises hand in imperious matter, those green eyes ever-searching—“—I will let the matter pass.”

“Thank you, your grace.” You reply, drawing up next to Bruce who has waited for your approach.

You cannot deny that you feel your shoulders relax in some compensatory form, though you miss the way that Bruce catches this in noted observation. Nor the way that the Emir does as well; you are too busy searching for something in your bag.

“Yes—”—Bruce picks up slack, his voice that polished playboy mien—“—Please save the heavy-hitting questions for me, Ra’s.”

“Trust me, Mr. Wayne—”—And the enigmatic quality that sends a thrill of adrenaline through you returns—“—I shall have my own for you as well.”

You think it wise to consider pursuing the continuation of the parroted tour guide, now that the group has reached the end of this building. You gesture to the islet that spreads out in the gloomy distance, wreathed in fog.

“Beyond us is the boundary of the penitentiary,” You hold your hand out, palm-up, “Where the grounds for Arkham Asylum lie.”

You are closer now, treading carefully into breaking the promise that Bruce made to you. Looking at it from this token, closer proximity—you feel a sense of dread return as you look at the mansion.

“Are you familiar with the history of the Asylum, my dear?” The Emir asks. It is clear that this prologue to something else, but you are made to answer, and he to ask. You turn so that the four of you may observe that foreboding shape in the distance.

“There isn’t a single child in Gotham who isn’t educated on the history of it, your grace.” You reply, though you do not add on the personal experiences that have thus shaped your memory of it. It might be considered in too great of poor taste.

“Then you are familiar with the tragedy of its founder,” Ra’s Al Ghul’s voice is closer in that soporific quality, so you turn to see him nearing, “That of Amadeus Arkham?”

“Yes—I am.” You answer: this is another sordid tale that is well-committed to young Gothamite stories, a fable to haunt you in your deepest, fearful dreams. “It was an unfortunate bookend to a complex institution to Gotham.”

This seems most tactful way to explain it. But it appears that your company does not wish for the tactful so much as he does your sincerity.

His voice is dedicated to voicing the entertainment he finds out of this as he speaks in your shared language.

“<You are always so well-kept, even in the face of such barbarity like this charnel house.>” You turn back to him, away from Bruce, at the smirk that he bears.

“<Does it frighten you so?>” There is no denying the mirth he takes in asking this.

“<I am no more afraid of the Asylum itself than I am of these grounds, your grace.>” You answer, which you find best response. And it is the most truthful that you can afford in front of Bruce, who appears to be bearing irritation at the way that you two exclude him from the conversation.

But it is out of your hands. The Emir proceeds further in Arabic.

“<And what of the stories within?>” He presses the matter, and your heart rises the column of your throat as you consider this thought. “<Are you afraid of ghost stories?>”

This is the most honesty that you can provide. “<I am far more afraid of the corporeal instead, your grace.>”

He smiles at this answer, but provides no further follow-up. And the warehouse that you are to tour approaches. Bruce is the one who has the keys—thankfully, you think with relief as he searches his pockets for them.

He unlocks it to the smell of disuse that is not overwhelming, but is present. This was no place of learning or higher vocation: it is a gutted prison that you pace into.

Vaguely, you are aware of the Emir ordering his guard to remain outside and watch the door; but you are too busy taking in the details of this room. Of this empty space that will hypothetically be refurbished into streamlined laboratories, well-manufactured factory lines. Something of purpose after so much time in disrepair.

“It’s not much to look at,” Bruce rubs the back of his neck as the three of you take studious evaluation of the grounds, “But it’ll be better once we get a crew in here to clean it up.”

“This building used to hold the Arkham transfers,” You provide as you look at scrawled graffiti that litters the distant wall opposite you, “So it may be in greater disrepair than the other buildings. But this should be no obstacle given enough time.”

You do not expect to hear the Emir chuckle, but you do. How it echoes in such reverb against the expansive walls.

“Your assistant is so well-educated in the history of your beautiful city.” Ra’s Al Ghul says, though you can practically hear the irony that drips from his statement at this descriptor.

“You should keep careful eye on her,” He continues in such deliberate, level manner, “Lest she be poached by others.”

Another statement that toes the line of insult and compliment, though neither of you are able to advocate against it without dabbling in further conflict. You cannot counter this statement; you look to Bruce and hope that he will handle this with the tact that he can exercise as CEO.

“I try my best, Ra’s.” Bruce replies casually—and so the two of you continue to further admire the detail that this hollowed-out building may offer. It is quiet, and the distant call of loons and mourning doves carry through the arterial space; this is why you flinch a little as Bruce says your name.

You cannot decipher the purpose of that odd smile on his face until he continues— “—Just to follow up with you, I’m available Tuesday and Friday for that dinner we talked about earlier.”

You cannot express the shock that plainly registers through the rigidity of your body, the chill that sinks up your arms and length of your spine.

Something in you rears internally at this macho display, at the insinuation that this creates before his business partner, your superior: but Bruce is expecting a response from you. And, it is clear from sidelong glance to your periphery, that the Emir is as well.

You cannot cringe. You cannot say no. You cannot ignore the audience watching you both. You keep your voice sotto voce, working to avoid the means that heat is gathering tight under the sinew of your face.

“I am available Friday if you are.” You reply, to which Bruce beams.

“I look forward to it,” Bruce says. There is a beep from his phone that prompts him to search his pocket for the source of the notification. And sole witness to this hamfisted attempt is not without his own marked observation to share with you.

“<How desperate he is to stake a claim on unconquered land—>”—Ra’s Al Ghul comments in dry fashion as Bruce unlocks his phone— “<—How very American of your employer.>”

You would laugh if you had the energy to do so. “<That is not necessary, especially when we are conquering lands together, are we not?>”

“<Yes, and how we divide the spoils are up to our leisure.>” Ra’s Al Ghul says, though whatever else he means for you to hear is withheld. You see a look akin to thunderous concern drawn in the line of Bruce’s face, as he reads whatever has so captured his attention on his phone.

“Mr. Wayne?” You ask in cautious tone. Bruce’s eyes dart up to you in determined keel. The intensity is not borne at you, but there is no disguising it.

When he speaks, there is a lack of that propensity towards humor that he usually assumes; something determined and taut is in the implied directive he gives you.

“I’m sorry, I need to handle this.” Bruce says, and you feel your stomach plummet into a deep pit, your body draw still and motionless—“—If you don’t mind me stepping outside.”

You could scream if you had the social capability to do so, as Bruce offers you the most apologetic grimace that he can muster: and then departs in the direction of the door, your only means of escape.

Already he has withdrawn to the privileges that his riches and status afford him, dialing back the number on the phone and waiting to be heard. To be listened to, to be obeyed. You can only watch as he disappears into the distant doorframe.

And then you are left in solitary company with the Emir. You feel as though you must circulate regulatory breath before you can even turn to look at him, though you already know that he approaches like snake in the grass, making approach that is his to make.

“<You know, you are far more beautiful outside here,>” Ra’s Al Ghul purrs, “<Than when you are kept in that gilded eyesore Bruce traps you in.>”

You cannot deny the warmth of sensation that gathers in the depths of your body, in the clotting of your throat—in your hand that sports a tremble that you hide behind the defense of your body. And when you look him in the eye, he has drawn so close in such muted step you must will yourself to smother reaction.

“<It’s a willing entrapment, your grace.>” You reply casually, trying to keep any irregularity out of your voice—you know that he is waiting to see how you will react to this challenge levied your way. “<I enjoy the lifestyle that it affords me.>"

He watches you with such hawkish, studious focus that you can only wonder what he has gleaned from you, that you have not in the duration of your life. His voice carries that polished cadence that you have strongest urge to lose yourself in.

“<Have you not considered that you were meant for life of leisure?>” He asks, and when he nears—you are reminded of the vast difference in height that the two of you bear between each other. How he uses it so well, to dominate in your sights.

“<Of idolatry?>” He is taunting now. You take resuscitative step back, pretending as though you are interested in exploring more of the nuances of this former grotesquery.

“<I am far too ambitious to wish to sacrifice my work ethic for hedonism, your grace.>” You return, unwilling to confirm what you already know—that he is following after you, pursuant in the savanna of this encounter.

“<What fire you show outside of the tower—>”—He comments, drawing sidelong to you; he shows such capability, such alacrity for someone given the distinguishment of his age. You cannot help but wonder where else he may exercise such avenues of prowess—but this is too distracting.

“<—Free to be cherished.>” He holds your eyes. “<To be savored.>”

You make both verbal and physical evasive maneuver, keeping pace that you may allow yourself to be chased after.

“<I am the same as I was in my office, your grace. You see the same me.>”

He does not believe this, and neither do you; but he alone bears ability to express this in derisive laugh.

“<You may disguise it all you wish—but I have seen the real you. bedecked in the comforts outside of this work.>” His voice carries such authority that you cannot help but pause at this, at the intimacies that the two of you have shared. That he wields in usage of conversation so freely.

He leans in with knowing smile, eyes retaining that piercing quality. “<I know what it is that you need.>”

You should not proceed. But your mouth has different prerogative than your good, common sense. “<You will have to enlighten me, your grace.>”

“<I believe,>” Ra’s Al Ghul says, his hand drawing against the edge of your jaw—and how fitting it feels, to be touched by him, that you cannot resist leaning in. And how his shoulders plateau at this.

“<—You are in need of purpose. Of…corrective hand.” He informs you, and there is something that builds in pulsing heat in the junction of your legs at this, at the way that he so casually tells you. How his thumb ghosts up the apple of your cheek as he looks at you with the possessiveness the stalking tiger does of grazing, unsuspecting deer.

“<And if you will not be told—>”—He has such genteel smile, though his words belie nefarious intention that you wish to see the end of—“<—Then perhaps wiser minds may persuade you.>”

You stare up at him, unwilling to concede so easily, though something in you wants to know. Though you are back up against literal and figurative wall.

“<You wish to be my new lord, your grace?>” His hand clenches in greater manner against your face, making dilation of pupil that indicates how greatly he is interested in such prospect.

“<You already say my title so well—”—His thumb makes journey under the slope of your chin, giving him opportunity to tilt your head up to him—“<—I cannot help but wonder what you would say in the heat of my bed.>”

You have nothing that you can possibly respond with, your mind woefully blank, your mouth open and emotionless as you think of everything that you are throwing to the wind with this. Everything that you want, that you know he can satisfy.

“<You are shaking.>” He murmurs. Though he finds some entertainment in this, there is a degree of comfort in the way that he admires the detail of your face.

You must respond now. Or else you will be forever lost. “<I am frightened of what you want from me, your grace.>”

“<Yes, but fear may be softened to acceptance.>” He says—and he is so close, the words he articulates on spoken on the terrain of your mouth. “<To lust.>”

When he kisses you, it is with such ferocity that you expected—but you surprise yourself by responding in kind. His hands are expert in their navigation, sliding down the small of your back and pulling you flush against him so that you might gain access to the musculature of his body. Older he might be, but there is no denying the coil of sheer exertion he bears.

And his tongue as it searches your mouth, as it laves against yours—it is relentless. It is expert in the way that he uses it to taste you, to explore the nuance of your teeth.

He catches your bottom lip in between his teeth and you can’t help but whimper, clenching your fingers against his shoulders where you have held on for dear life. He makes a low growl that only awakens something deeply needful in between your legs.

You are barely aware that you have been pushed up against the wall until the air is expelled from you and you pull back for necessary oxygen. This does little to distract your suitor.

Nor the pursuit of his mouth as he makes way to what exposed real estate of your neck is given and makes cruel bite with his teeth. His hands knead at the swell of your breast, taking what fill of your body he can.

“Oh—”—You moan as lithe fingers unbutton your nicely made collar, pull your shirt askance. His mouth latches on your collarbone and sucks. You feel your eyes close as you collapse against the wall, only held up by the strength of his arms.

You feel weak, as though you are floating, the only thing anchoring you his mouth that works against you, that sucks dire bruise into your skin.

“God—”—you manage to breathe, though this is short-lived as his hand makes grasp around the width of your neck. And the pressure that he applies, the press of his thumb against the divot of your neck, the way that he watches you with such ravenous intent to consume you whole—

The moan, broken, wanton, that escapes you, is unmistakable. As is the smile that he makes as he observes you, before closing the distance once more to claim your mouth.

Still his hand maintains careful pressure, threading the line of pain and pleasure as he keeps you against the lap of his tongue. But you’ve never needed anything more.

You are only given momentary reprieve when he pulls away to catch your earlobe between his teeth. And then for the first time since he has kissed you, he speaks. It is little more than carnivorous growl, all dressings laid bare in the heat of desire.

“<I may be patient, but there are limits to what I may bear.>” He warns you, and you gasp again as his hand clenches tighter around your throat. “<See me tonight in my room.>”

“<Your grace—>” You try to stammer out as Ra’s draws your earlobe into the heat of his mouth. And you are thoroughly distracted by this, until he returns to the forefront of your vision.

“<It is Ra’s.>” He tells you, before pressing lingering kiss against your mouth. It is all that you can do to kiss him back.

When he releases you, returning propriety of your body to yourself, his hands leaving such scorching afterimage on you, he surveys you with a sense of deep satisfaction. He has won this battle—but you think you are not without your own victory, disheveled though you may be.

“<Now put yourself together, my dear,>” Ra’s Al Ghul instructs—and you obey—“— So that Bruce knows none the wiser.>”

Bruce. He could be a million miles away, yet you know he is so close, outside—unaware of the eons that have passed while he was away. Your eyes dart to the far-off door where he has yet to reappear, yet could at any moment. You fluster to make yourself presentable as Ra’s Al Ghul watches.

And when Bruce returns seconds later, none would know the difference. Though you and the Emir exchange heady glance between each other that you know you must parse carefully—and keep distance that you know must be well-maintained.

You do not know what will happen if you find yourself in proximity of his hands again—and you know that you won’t be able to resist.

When you return to your apartment, with all its niceties borne of your hard-earned work, all you can do is approach your bathroom. Admire the marks of a man who wants you as his. Hear words that have bidden you order.

See me tonight in my room. You look back to the distant skyline where the sky grows darker in order to adopt the tapestry of stars that have yet to descend. You could stay here. You could chalk this up to dalliance, see Bruce for that dinner he wishes to see you at.

You look back to the marks of Ra’s Al Ghul’s teeth that lie on the unmarred surface of your body. Disrupted by his claiming touch. A touch that you want to explore more of—and your fingers ghost over stake claimed.

“<Free to be cherished. Free to be savored.>” And a mouth, and a hand, and a body that were eager to demonstrate it to you: to give you preview of what awaited.

You are already dressed, your bag restocked when the phone rings. You walk over in composed fashion, checking the calf-length trench coat that you wear to ensure it disguises your appearance. And you remain unsurprised when your doorman tells you that your chauffeur is ready to pick up.

You knew they would be. Just as you know what you are ready to do. You avoid the arc of your gaze in the mirror, afraid of what you will see, taking care to button your coat up to the neck.

And then you make steady-legged exit, careful to lock the door behind you as you leave to see Ra’s Al Ghul.

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The thing is, for all of the barbs and hatred and vitriol that they’ve expressed between each other both verbally, physically—morally—perhaps—they always meet once a month for cards. Blackjack, specifically.

It’s the one that Matt can determine the braille on the embossed side the easiest, without giving away the game to Frank and Dex.

And for some reason, once you catch wind of it, the next thing on Frank’s mouth is “why don't you come along with us?”

“Who, me?” You ask with a wry grin. “I’m no good at betting games.”

“Don’t have to play—just keep Red company,” Frank jerks with his head over to Matt, who reclines on an armchair with a grimace of being caught out. “‘Specially when me and Dex wipe the floor with ‘im.”

“Gambling is not one of the virtues upheld by Catholics,” Matt mutters back in good-natured defense. You watch Frank chuckle at the gun he’s swabbing loose powder from.

“Yeah, neither’s dressin’ up at night and beating the fuck outta criminals,” Frank grins at you—you can’t help but resist a small smile of your own—“—But I don’t see you talkin’ bout that in your conversations with God.”

“Different strokes,” you suggest back with a chuckle as Frank sends you a knowing wink. You like him the best out of Matt’s alter-ego friends—something so bracing and without airs that he puts on for you.

“So, how’s about it?” Frank asks. “We’re meetin’ up tomorrow. Maybe it’ll get our third to stop runnin’ his mouth for a second.”

You doubt it—and yet here you are, sitting by the edge of the table, watching as the three of them exchange cards. Surprisingly—the fact that a veneer of civility is exchanged between the three of them is astounding to you, given the history.

Frank sits opposite you, working a stogie in the champ of his teeth that issues that acrid smoke in wreathing manner around his frame. He’s the dealer, interestingly enough. But you suppose neither Dex nor Matt would trust each other enough to let the other dole out the cards.

“Didn’t know Matt had a good luck charm,” you hear that husky, unfamiliar voice croon across the distance of the table—and so you turn to your left to look at the demon near-perched on your shoulder.

Watch the languid yet stiff way that he reclines at his straight-backed chair, his eyes watching you carefully. Perceiving everything that you do as you observe the nuances of this peace-time game.

“Gotta have something in his favor,” you send back easily, trying not to obviously bristle under that unnatural stare. There’s something uncanny in that handsome pair of eyes, in that set of that jaw that works rabid grin. He’s sizing you up.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Dex sends back, and finally his eyes drag off of yours to look across the table, to your right. “Wouldn’t wanna go home with his tail between his legs.”

At this, you finally turn to settle your gaze to Matt, who sits in unnaturally cool repose, a jaunty smirk that works over his face as he return ire of gaze in directionless sights.

“Don’t mind him—”—Matt says your name with a slant of possessiveness that even in this smoky room you cannot ignore—“—When we go home, you can tell me your honest opinion of him.”

When we go home—staking territory not quite claimed, cutting lines into the sand between you and Dex. It’s such a startling overture that you can’t help but cock up an eyebrow in game surprise, though you don’t correct him. Though Dex already is making suffused chuckle between his teeth as he lounges back in his seat.

“No need to lie to me, sweetheart,” Dex croons back, in bid to make you return your attention back to him, “I don’t get my feelings hurt too bad.”

“Is that so?” You ask calmly, pressing your cheek into the curve of your palm. “I find that a little hard to believe.”

He displays teeth at this, impressed by your advancing offense. His reply is calm, collected.

“The packaging the words come in make a lot easier to hear,” he sends back, and when his eyes trail hot fire down the length of your body, you have to ignore the tactile goosebumps that are sent up it.

You can feel the way that Matt bristles besides you, take in the sharp albeit subdued intake of air that he makes—and you find yourself stymied without word to defend yourself with.

“Alright, ladies,” Frank cuts in, finally removing the cigar from his mouth with forefinger and thumb, “Let’s go ahead and play real nice now, okay?”

Dex retreats against the plateau of his chair with a smirk; in your periphery, you’re aware of the smile that grows on Matt’s own face, though it appears to be little more than rictus in imitation of the expression.

And you sit on the high-legged stool that you’ve taken grounding in to be witness to this tableau before you.

“I can if you can, Dex,” Matt replies back with same composed litigational intonation you’re used to hearing. You just don't usually hear the inlaid threat that comes carried in this one.

“No problem, Murdock.” Dex says. You catch the way that his eyes dart back over to you in interest, before working to accept the cards that are sent careening in direct arc from the deal of Frank’s hands.

For a second, there’s only a brief moment of contemplation as they take straight-faced observation over their cards. Dex looks at the card that is paired with his ace—Matt stares in unyielding fashion across the plateau of the table, his thumb working over the card that matches his King.

Frank takes a sizzling drag, issuing thick, arterial smoke that further clouds the heady atmosphere of the room.

“What’re we thinkin’, fellas?” Frank asks, once he deems that enough appropriate time has elapsed for them to have decided their strategy.

“Hit me,” Matt says without hesitation—Dex appears a little more reticent before he holds up an index to summon his own. Frank dutifully doles out the gold-backed cards for them to accept, as they consider the merit of their choices or not.

It’s here that Dex speaks. “How about a wager?”

“What kind of wager?” Matt asks with such immediacy that you wonder if it’s been premeditated. Or, if he is just simply expressing outward tension that he’s seemed to carry since the onset of this meeting. You watch as his knuckles jut through the housing of his skin, white-hot and clenched as they hold the cards he has yet to reveal.

“Think you know what I’m bettin’, Matt,” Dex returns back. There’s something hooded in the shadows that fall over Frank’s eyes as he takes reckoning of this. “But because I know you’re nervous about losin’ em, I’ll start small.”

Losing ‘em? What does that mean? You think across the perimeter of the table where a chain reaction seems to begin; how Matt’s shoulders bristle and tick out in barely-restrained ire seething beneath the surface. Frank makes a knowing chuckle at this, exhaling gust of excess into the dissipating air, Dex’s grin grows a little wider at the reactions instigated.

“I win next round,” Dex says in such velvet manner, and he says your name without even looking so that you’re slow to react, slow to realize what part you play in this, “—Takes a seat on my lap for the round.”

“No. Absolutely not,” Matt grinds through his teeth, so averse to the idea that you can’t help but be rendered immobilized by this wager made without even your input. Thankfully, Frank intercedes, holding out a broad hand that wields still-lit cigar, embers fading into the darkness that seems to swallow up the table.

“Easy, girlies,” Frank cuts in, “Think we oughta hear if they wanna piece of whatever dick-swingin’ you’re doin’.”

And at this, three pairs of eyes drag over to you; Matt’s head swivels to you with immediacy, Frank keeps level stare opposite you, Dex’s eyes slink over like glittering snake in the grass. All three waiting to hear your contribution to this discussion of rights to you, now that you’ve been given entry into the game.

You don’t know what you’re thinking, save for the electric heat that is thrumming through your body, through the charter of your veins, in the pulse between your legs. Matt draws still—and you wonder if he has already sensed what you have yet to confess.

“I get to decide if I’m okay with what you want me to do,” You say with stilted, halted thought conjured on spur-of-the-moment, “And in the meantime—I sit on Frank’s lap.”

At this, you see ripple of emotion work through the trio: Matt seems to bear resignation, Dex smug victory that spirits over his face—and Frank hoots aloud at the debacle.

“Don’t mind if I do, honey,” Frank pushes back from the table with a screech upon the linoleum, clapping a hand to the meat of his thigh. “Why dontcha come over and keep ol’ Frankie company from these two idiots?”

“Gladly,” you say, and when you stand, you hope that no one notices the tremble that your leg bears as you find your footing. As you walk over to Frank’s awaiting lap with a hand that lingers past the taper of Matt’s back, something coaxing and reassuring that makes him settle only a little.

“Happy you joined the party, sweetheart,” Frank says as he ticks out his leg for you to seat yourself upon. And do so with ease, feeling yourself conforming to the shape of his toned body, the scalding heat that seems to roil off of him, tasting the motes of cedar and teak that his cologne makes in dizzying olfactory blend.

You, for your part, play along, trying not to openly exude the anxiety that is leaching out of your body as you take comfort in Frank’s body.

“Are they usually this…adversarial?” You ask as Frank makes motion to re-collect the cards. Matt and Dex both do so obediently as they share the heat of exchanged stares. Frank chuckles, and the laugh roils through the the two of you.

“Usually. But they don’t have such high stakes on the line like this.” With one hand, you watch as he takes the 52-pickup and works it in the machinations of his fingers; the other hand takes steadying buoy on the meat of your bicep, rolling a soothing thumb up and down the skin.

You can’t help but melt into the touch, to which you receive a chuckle from Frank that goes to all the accessible parts of your body it can.

“That so?” You ask as he places the deck face down, the crook of his wrist displaying expert flex of fingers and muscle. The cards are dealt out again. Matt accepts. Dex gloats. Both of them bear kings.

“Feelin’ lucky, Matt?” Dex asks as he spares no more than instantaneous glance to his concealed card. Matt keeps impartial expression, neutral as he rolls his thumb over the embossed braille.

“Do you?” Matt asks back, and there’s a type of confidence that he bears in his voice. He does not move.

“Any of you girlies need another card?” Frank asks. You find yourself needing to wrap an arm around his torso as he leans over. Something odd is taking tumultuous flip in the pit of your stomach as they both stare each other down.

“Easy, hon,” Frank grins down at you as you tick your arm round the span of his back, “Might not wanna letcha go, you keep hangin’ on like that.”

“Can’t help it,” You mutter back; again, you’re rewarded with thundering rumble of laugh as he takes another drag of his cigar.

“I don’t need another card,” Dex returns with such smug, slick reassurance that you can’t deny the way that your heart begins to uptick in tempo.

“Neither do I.” Matt says—Dex’s teeth show in baring of canines.

“Alright. Read ‘em and weep, kiddies,” Frank says, his hand bracing as he holds you to him. And both of them reveal their cards—for brief second, you forget rules of the game as you comprehend the numbers, calculate the totals.

Dex bears King and Ten: 20. Matt bears King and ace: 21.

“No fuckin’ way,” Frank chortles. Matt’s real, genuine smile finally breaks dawn on the horizon of his face. And something releases tension in the length of your body. But Dex still continues to grin as his eyes find visual purchase upon you.

“Go find yer man,” Frank directs, clapping you gently on the shoulder to coax you up and off the safe ledge of his leg. There’s something buoyant that makes the tread of your walk light as you round the footage of the table, pausing right before Matt who beams up at you.

“Hi there, stranger.” You greet. “Mind if I sit on your lap?”

“Been waiting for you to say that for a while now,” Matt returns easily as he scoots back. When you ease down upon him, there’s something that feels so oddly fitting about the way that you relax against the plateau of his chest.

His hand settles in careful anchoring against the slope of your waist. And how easily your legs intersect in the spread of his own as you thank your good luck.

In the midst of the cozy atmosphere, Dex accepts the new cards that Frank has metered out to the two of them; Matt has to accept his one-handed as he holds you like prized possession you are.

The careful tempo of his heart thrums through you in careful deliberation, rooting you back into the moment.

“Next wager,” Dex says in easy deliberation, without looking at his second card, “They give a kiss.”

You will yourself to stay calm in the safe harbor of Matt’s arms, keep your heartbeat steady. You can already feel the possessive clutch of fingers that are working over your flesh, kneading you in mooring rhythm.

“Didn’t know you wanted to try it that bad.” You reply back, more self-assured as you take residence in Matt’s arms. As he chuckles something relaxed into the press of your shoulder.

“Whatever’s good enough for him is good enough for me,” Dex sends back without preamble. “And I want a taste.”

“Yeah, well—”—Frank cuts in as Matt’s fingers clutch tighter at the statement. As Dex gives you smug grin that he takes aim with salacious wink at you—“—Gotta win first, Dex.”

“Hit me,” Matt says as he contemplates his cards—you can’t look. There’s something better, you think, in the privilege of not knowing until final moment. Dex again signals for another and appraises the score as Matt does similar.

“Any other takers?” Frank asks, Matt makes a jutting nod of his jaw as he rubs his hand up your forearm, letting you sigh into him.

“Didn’t know you were so good at this,” You murmur to him. “Holding people.”

“Comes with the LSAT prep,” Matt sends back; you can’t help but giggle at this admission. Dex sits across the table, stewing in myriad of indiscernible emotion.

“We ready?” Frank asks, taking silence as consent. “Show ‘em.”

Matt reveals the cards: a Jack, a five, a four. 19. Dex shows his hands: 10 and 10. Twenty.

“Think I want that kiss, sweetheart,” His voice drawls in cool tether that drags across the table. Urging you to come pay your dues.

You sit in the comfort of Matt’s lap for a solid second, still reeling over the shock—and find yourself moving against your own accord. Matt's hand clenches along the surface of your body for as long as able moment is given, until you have made free work of his grasp.

And then you cross the table, making way to those eyes that hunger after you with thirst yet to be slaked.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dex taunts, his legs schooling wide for you. “Been waitin’ for this.”

“Yeah?” You ask as you find yourself sitting down on the firm musculature of his thigh. God, there’s not an ounce of give or fat on him—he’s corded steel in every inch of his body. “How’s that work?”

His arm encourages its way around your back, slinking to get access around your waist, your thigh, sending scald wherever his fingers reach. “Well, I hear Murdock talk about you so long—”

His thumb darts over the full of your bottom lip. “I can’t help but want to see you for myself.”

“Taste me, you mean?” You ask, arching your brow. There’s that flicker of that snake in the grass again, in the span of his eyes.

“Yeah,” He chuckles, “Somethin’ like that.”

When he kisses you, it’s like making contact with marble that breathes flesh and blood. His mouth slots against yours with such intense hunger that you can’t help but try to rise to the challenge, your hands digging into his scalp as his own ruck around your hips.

When his tongue presses against the territory of your mouth, you can’t help but give it back, working to establish the hierarchy of your own against his, tasting blood. Something in your roars for more.

He groans at this, at the adversarial nature of the kiss, at the way that you fight back. His tongue licks slow and leisurely against the landscape of your teeth, leaving after-taste of that iron that loiters on your soft palate.

And when he finally pulls away, there’s something glassy-eyed in the arc of his gaze. Something still hungering, but still momentarily sated as he regards you.

“Just like I thought,” Dex says—and someone snickers from behind.

You’re fairly certain it’s Frank, for you can all but feel the burgeoning hatred that radiates from Matt’s corner, where you can’t bring yourself to look.

“How about we up the stakes, Murdock?” Dex asks, and you finally bring it in yourself to use reserves of courage to look back to Matt, where he sits at full attention.

Where his jaw is set, his brow is knit, his knuckles clenched over span of table as he bears murderous thought all-but-verbally-articulated as he looks at you both.

“Name it,” Matt says, and Dex navigates his hand down the slope of your thigh so that he can track the nuance of your skin with his fingers. You swallow down whatever shiver your body wishes to make on instinct, ignoring the heat that is growing to life in marked pulse at junction of your legs.

“Whoever wins the next one gets to leave a mark on them.” Dex says.

“You can’t hurt them.” Matt warns. Something akin to adrenaline begin to resurface through your body at the notion—but Dex makes quiet noise of amusement. This does little to reassure you, as his hands keep that slow specificity of motion on you.

“Didn't mean knives,” Dex gloats, “I was thinkin’ more of a love bite, if you catch my drift.”

His free hand ghosts over your pulse, the rough pad of his thumb scraping to mark territory yet-claimed. “Right here.”

Matt looks at Dex, at you—and then turns to Frank. “Deal me in.”

“Thought so,” Dex says in such audible fashion that only you at close proximity—and Matt—can hear. Frank’s eyebrows, which have made slow ascent up the real estate of his forehead, finally settle down as he deals out this round.

It’s done in silence that is only demarcated by the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears, and the subtle rasp of Dex’s fingers over your body. They both accept the cards without hesitation.

“Hit me,” Dex says, and Matt requests for similar. Again, you look away, finding something of comfort in the way that Frank levies arch of brow at you—but you shake your head in imperceptible fashion.

“Anyone else?” Frank asks. There’s no request given. “Alright, ladies—for all the money—”

Dex flips first. Ten, five, five. Twenty. Matt reveals his: ten and ten. Twenty.

“Fuckin’ tie,” Frank claps a hand to the table, “All my fuckin’ days—”

“I can share if you can, Murdock,” Dex says, but makes no indication to release you from his tenterhooks. If Matt wants to savor the delight of this draw—he must come to you. To him.

Matt draws up with such silent deliberation that you’ve never witnessed before: taking smart, deliberate strides over to the two of you. Looking down to you as you stare back up to him.

Dex tugs down the loose collar of your shirt with impatient insistence, his breath ghosting over your collarbone, hot and heavy.

“Hi, stranger,” You greet him weakly. Matt’s hand finds your chin as he gives you reconciliatory smile: no ill will borne this way. Only a need to make it right.

“Better dive in,” Dex warns, and then his mouth latches on the sensitive skin with such ferocity that you can’t help but whimper out a breathy moan at the drag of teeth, the lave of a needy tongue.

Matt is soon to follow, leaning down to the pulse that he exposes with the tilt of your head, drawing that vulnerable access of your body into his mouth with intensity that grows the longer he works against you.

And you, sandwiched in between the middle of them, as Dex marks claim on you he is happy to leave, the rugged scuff of his teeth; as Matt grates tongue against your neck to worship sanctity of the column of your throat—as you moan at the attention both of them are determined to win on the terrain of your body.

As you let yourself be lost to sensation, you know one thing: no matter who’s won, you’ve lost.

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You cannot tell me that Eobard is not into facials; bro absolutely just loves the idea of busting a load all over your face just so he can gloat about how cute you look debased like that

Bro loves using his abilities to become your own personal vibrator to the point of overstimulation—he’ll have you coming over and over again with his hands, his mouth to the point of exhaustion; don’t expect to have any reprieve because he’s going to make sure he can wring every ounce of please that he can out of you

Public sex, rough sex, sex against a wall—anything where he can keep a hand against your neck, against your head, where he can display some form of dominance over you: Eobard is doing it. He loves the rush of being able to exact this control over you with every stroke, keep you captive on the length of his cock

He’s also very much into body worship: being able to appreciate every single part of you with such attention and devotion—but then also being able to demand the same of you to him. For much longer, much more intense worship as well though—after all, don’t you love him? Don’t you want to satisfy him?

Loves giving you hickies. Anything to leave a mark on you, to establish that you’re claimed territory. Anything that’ll embarrass you with how overt it is—he’ll do it

Loves having you lick his boots; clean them on your hands and knees, have you ride them with glassy-eyes and clutching to his thigh like it’s the only thing you’ll ever need

Loves having you beg—loves hearing the way you sound when you whimper and plea for release

Big fan of having a collar on you in both private and public—there’s no way he’s disguising it as anything else. Everyone knows that he gave it to you and he’s so clearly gloating in it all.

Big big fan of CNC, loves that rush of cornering you and making you moan and whine as you take him in some clandestine spot, your hands shoved behind your back or with your ass in the air as he fucks you

LOVES a gag on you—nothing gives him a rush like pulling your head back to have you look at him dazed, drool spilling from the corners of your mouth as you work the gag against your tongue

Loves putting a muzzle or a mask on you as well—something just gives him such a rush as he sees you in such state of submission like this

Oh, he loves a good roleplay. Being the helpless person he’s kidnapped, being someone who’s been saved by him and needs to show how grateful they are; anything where he can put you in your place

Very, very good at shibari; enjoys watching you trapped in this elaborate design of his own making and doing what he can to you while you’re in such a helpless state

Has a huge somno kink, cannot resist the rush of fucking you awake and then having you all to himself when you open your eyes to the orgasm that you’re having around his cock