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You're my escape from this messed-up place

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It started as a joke, a game, a little something to look forward to because it passes time, and hell knows he had a lot of that on his hands. Shut up in his cell, he's not allowed contact and more's the pity. People are fun, they're interesting, they're so concerned with their tiny little lives they fail to see the grander design, and this is where he digs in, finds their fault lines and dusts them off, exposing them to inspection and teasing teasing teasing until something breaks open with a bang.

She was boring by comparison, cracked so easily, her desire to prove herself so common it made him yawn. Yet he had to play; she was his ticket out of Arkham, so play he did. Once he got over himself, he managed to see the humor in it. Psychiatrist turned plaything. Oh, the irony. The whole purpose of these visits, she said, was for her to help him and yet he was the one helping her escape the boredom of her life. It made him smile just to think about it, lying on his cot, waiting out the minutes until he could twist her around his pinky again.

There's another way for you to help me, he'd said one time, asking for an itty bitty favor, and the way she'd clung to his lips amused him greatly. Here was an audience who really appreciated what he had to offer. Too bad he'd have to kill her.

He'd fantasized often about the how: how he'd strangle her with the sleeves of his straitjacket; or, if he was particularly aroused, how he'd rip off her clothes and take her on their interview table; how he'd let her choke on his dick because she'd been begging him with her eyes to have it ever since she first walked in; how he'd slice her pretty neck from ear to ear while he was still inside her, how her blood would ooze down her breasts, still wet and warm, how she'd cough and splutter and cling to him in her final moments. Her mouth would be a bright, arterial shade of red when he'd kiss her one last time. He had many such fantasies, each more gruesome and tender than the next. He prefered those with a personal touch, as of that of his hands around her throat, slowly squeezing the life out of her, to those in which he held a gun to her head or pushed her out a window. They made his cock twitch all the same.

It's what he thinks about during their mind-numbing sessions in which she tries to understand him, maybe cure him even, in which she believes he's honest and open and already improving, in which she thinks the glint in his eyes is meant for her and not for her destruction. She was so... pure. Even when she agreed to smuggle weapons into the facility, she did so with an innocence that baffled him, that turned him on. She was both observing herself making grave mistakes in the name of love and closing her eyes to the same fact.

He wanted her.

He grew hard at the merest whiff of her perfume and their little chatter sessions drove him mad with how pleasant and collegial they were. The sparks between them were so tangible they nearly blinded him and yet he never uttered an uncouth word in her presence, gentleman that he was. He could have asked her to ride his cock and she'd have done it, gladly, willingly, without hesitation, would have thanked him for it later even, but this was not their relationship. It was a mental construct he'd ensnared her in, bound her to him, and changing any variable would make it collapse in on itself and dispel the illusion of romance he'd so painstakingly created. It would be an act of desecration against his art.

And yet he wanted her – broken.

He hated every second spent waiting for her to break the cycle of his boredom, hated how he'd burn the whole world just for a taste of those lips and yet never call in that prize, hated... her.

She'd sunk her hooks into him and it was time to excise them. Excise her. He needed to hurt her and bad, if he ever wanted to quell the rage inside of him. And besides, he'd be doing her a favor, remodeling her upstairs via electro shock, removing a few layers of that tedious psychiatrist shtick she had going on, and uncovering the corruptible thing she really was underneath. That is, if she survived. No one would suspect she'd helped him escape if he'd coerced her and repaid her with a lot of pain. And even if they did, well, she wouldn't be able to remember much with the headache he left her as souvenir.

Yet despite all his efforts, she didn't break. Here he cut her from his life, and she came back. He was livid – and not a little flattered. On the one hand, his impression hadn't been lasting enough for her to get the memo and stay away; on the other, he'd impressed her enough to want more, to chase him down and confront him about it. He fell in love with that fierce side of her, with his heart beating in his throat, with the sound she made when going down, after he'd disarmed her. Oh, the gall she possessed. He didn't know whether to kiss her or stick a knife in her chest. Preferably both.

He opted for an acidic bath, a special place of nostalgia, of fear and of power, where everything had come together for him once. He'd grant her that resting place beside his old life, where no one would think to look for her.

He'd promised her power from surrender, a sweet promise of death and good riddance, as if this was anything new to her. All this time she had surrendered she'd gained power over him. He knew then he couldn't let go after all, couldn't let her die just yet, not like this. He'd choose a different death for her, one befitting his lady love. He laughed at himself for having become such a sap.

They'd consummated their chemical wedding right next to the place of her rebirth, covered in bleached clothes and corrosive goo. It was her who took the initiative and broke the spell of his making. He'd expected to lose interest in her right then, yet he found himself inflamed, unable to drink his fill of her.

Just like him, she found a sense humor at the bottom of the vat. After their happy bubbly bathtime, she uncovered her potential to become fun, much to his delight and Batman's added headache. No heist was too small for her, no operation too big, she was there for all of them. She had a special fondness for all his toys and liked to try out some of them on useless foot soldiers – their own and everyone else's.

Apart from the mallet she liked to play skull-croquet with, her most prized possession had become the gun he'd had engraved for her. On more than one occasion he'd feel it beneath his chin, when he showed her off to the crime bosses of Gotham. She ain't a trophy to be displayed, she'd say, and he couldn't decide whether to smack her for her disrespect or to fuck her against the nearest wall.

Forgive Daddy, he's just so proud of his little monster, he'd say and snap at her ear, all the while thinking up ways to punish her later on. There ain't much he can do to her that she doesn't enjoy. Even physical abuse, while making her angry, also makes her soaking wet, and he just loves it when she retaliates.

Unfortunately, she's found a way to get back at him without hurting his person, and she likes to demonstrate this with a poor stranger in the backroom of his club. He'll never know what lies she tells for them to follow – he won't mind, or, this turns him on – but follow they do, some more eagerly than others. And those that don't never make it far either.

More than once he catches her gagging or impaling herself on someone else's prick, skirts hiked high to give him a perfect view of a cockhead penetrating her. His vision goes white, but his prick is responding, and his breathing becomes deep and audible, because he wants to watch her have this, wants to watch her enjoy herself, even if the anger swirls inside him that it's not him she's having fun with right now. It's punishment for the times he chased after Batman and left her to fend for herself, he's sure of this. The worst thing he can do is ignore her, but that's just giving her the invitation to fool around with someone else.

I got bored, she'd say, you're always so busy with your dealings you ain't got time for me. So I found someone to play with while I wait for you.

And she'd moan his name and arch for him, and a part of him is appeased that she's doing this for his benefit, too. But only a tiny part. He shoots the prick before he has a chance to blow his load into his girl.

But puddin', she'd protest, I wasn't done yet.

He was.

Sometimes, when he's not in the mood for her games, he'd walk out on her and her newest plaything, only to find her sulking with him later. Sometimes, he walks in to find her sulking with her plaything that would have a knife sticking from its ribcage. She herself disposes of those who don't satisfy her and says she's only doing the world a favor. Once, she'd tied up a particularly nasty piece of work, cut off its junk and let it bleed out while he had to demonstrate how to please a lady. Talk about a wasted lesson.

Conversely, when they do please her, she wants to keep them. Like a pet, or, in their case, a sex slave. But no one lives to tell the tale. Whether they want his girl, whether they don't want her, whether they lie to his face about wanting her or not. Nobody touches what's his and gets away with it. Nobody disrespects his woman. Nobody lies to him. It's as easy as that.

A few ones lucky enough to catch his eye too get to experience double the fun. Her eyes light up every time he steps to them and fingers both their chins. He'd take pleasure in directing them to kiss, to masturbate, to fuck, and she'd be eager to follow his instructions, to display herself for his pleasure, hoping he'd participate even more directly. She nearly eats his face when he stoops to kiss her, and her blowjobs are messy with her need to cram him down her throat, but he appreciates her enthusiasm, welcomes it even. Her boytoy just stares at them and its eyes bug even wider when he grins down at it and reaches out to finger its chin again. Her eyes never leave him. She lets his prick slip from her mouth as she watches him lean close to her plaything, breathing against its face; she squeals when his tongue traces its lips, then pushes past them; she groans when he rights himself again and pushes his prick into this reluctant mouth.

He awards the cute ones a painless death, no matter the ridiculous cost of refurbishing the upholstery, and blows their heads off before he changes his mind.

Sometimes, he turns the tables on her and has his way with her plaything while she gets to watch. She moans as much if not more than this kid when he goes down on it, mirroring the moves she'd have broken out given the chance. It's as much fun breaking apart this kid, getting it to admit just how much it's enjoying this, as it is watching her pleasure herself. He observes her fingers disappearing in her pussy and sucks harder.

She never loves him more than when he shares her, or maybe when he desires her most because she's not his alone. She throws her head back with a loud cry as he fucks her with a dying goon's dick still inside her, rocks back against him and kneads her tits with his hands. His greedy little monster. He'd let her have anything, he thinks and angles into her sharper, because he means it. She's got him wrapped around her pinky.

As far as games go, he can see the fun in this one for her. The power over life and death, over his anger, his lust. He would play matchmaker on occasion when a guy is particularly careless with the way he talks about her, and he needs an acceptable reason to do him in. He drinks in the dawning horror on his victim's expression like expensive wine. They know this to be a game they cannot win, no matter the option they choose. A part of him loves her for coming up with this gag. Another part hates that he wants her for himself too much to have come up with it on his own.

But he has other gags he plays on Gotham. Too bad they have a madman dressed up as a bat flying around to ruin the punchlines. Even when he is the punchline. It aggravates him to the point of snuffing his subordinates when his plans go south. Especially when his plans involved a meager gun drop followed by an evening out with his girl.

After a night of narrowly escaping the Bat once again, they usually celebrate together. Depending on his mood, he'd either let her choose the rules, or he'd thrust the strap-on at her and ask her to smack him around a bit. The latter option casts a petulant shadow on her face, yet she becomes grand and imposing for him, throws him into walls and wrestles him to the ground, slaps, backhands, and punches him until his mouth fills his own blood. He'd crush her to him then, lips and chest and booty, and rub himself against the hard length poking his stomach. He'd flip them over, stroke himself harshly, and sink down on the black dildo she's wearing. His moans would sound strangely high-pitched until he noticed they were coming out of her mouth.

Tonight is no such night, however. He woke up on the bank of Founder's Island, coughing out his lungs, his lady love nowhere in sight. He drags himself back to his hideout, drenched and hypothermic, expecting to find her safe and sound and worried for him, but she's nowhere to be seen. He calls Frost with a backup phone because he lost his on the bottom of Gotham Bay, and demands answers. The man said he'd been looking for him all night. After cleaning up in the club, he'd got the update that she'd been processed in the GCPD.

So the Bat had wasted no time in taking her in. And he hadn't been around to stop it. Would he need to find another birdie to break, to remind him what it's like to lose someone? He decimates the interior of his hideout and shoots it up, it shouldn't look so undisturbed when she's not there. Once he's suitably expressed himself, he smooths his hair back and mobilizes his army. By the time they waltz into the GCPD guns blazing, she's vanished without a paper trail. He kicks over a few desks and file cabinets, trashes a few computer screens, and paints a warning on the walls with the blood of those hostages too brave to know when to shut up. When the Bat returns, he leaves his men there and retreats.

He retreats far and has his men search for her. So close. He'd been so close again. If only he'd have been faster. If only he'd have reined in his temper sooner to come for her. She would be here with him now and they would be able to laugh about the whole episode.

But she is not, and he is... he's losing it. Oh, it's not the first time they'd been broken up. His pumpkin pie had been incarcerated many times before and he without her, too. It didn't seem to matter then. He could be patient, knowing where she was, working on a plan to get her out. Either he'd bust her out or she'd figure out a way to escape before he could. Eventually, they'd always find each other again. And she'd have pretty surprises for him, too.

Like them?, she'd ask when his fingers traced the raw dark lines on her thighs that manifested her longing for him. I was thinking of you when I made these. Kept me sane, waiting.

You haven't been sane in a long while, darling. He'd spell out his longing for her too, with his tongue inside her, lapping her up until she can no longer muster up the energy to squirm.

Aren't I a lucky girl? Can't think of anything more boring than sanity. Well, sanity and infomercials, anyway.

Ah, but waiting. Waiting is always at its most unbearable when there is nothing to do. Waiting is when his insides corrode. He wants her back, he needs her back, he'll raze all of Gotham to the ground if he can't have her. He'll raze the whole world if he must.

He's damaged goods without her. She keeps him together, keeps him sharp and focused, gives him a purpose. Without her, he loses his humor. Being a crimelord in Gotham is in itself pretty bleak if there's no one by your side to witness your ascent; all the power in the world could not replace her. He just wants to go back to the days when he could deck her out in diamonds and cash and the blood of his enemies without a care in the world.

He rummages through her old clothes. Her scent is the only thing that soothes the sizzling colors in his brain, the need to lash out and paint the town red. From the bottom of her trunk, he unburies the tiny jumpers he bought for her after she'd broken the news to him. She'd been with twins, little Harleys and Jokers to carry on their legacy, she'd told him on a night of lovemaking in candlelight. He had to control himself to not extinguish every one of these candles on her skin for this insolence. He had given her everything he had to give, and this is how she repays him? By saddling him with children? What did she want next – a white picket fence and a house in the suburbs?

He'd squeezed her throat a little, just enough for her eyes to roll back and for his murderous intent to be appeased, then he took her out to celebrate, or so he said. It would give him the needed window of opportunity to make arrangements to get rid of these contemptible little parasites growing inside of her. Just thinking about it made him want to grab a coat hanger and do the honors himself. But she was still his little minx and even if she'd been naughty, he didn't want to hurt her too bad. He was fond of her, after all.

He'd had pills mixed into her food, because if anything, he couldn't let her suspect he had anything to do with her miscarriage. But even after a few sickening weeks of her clinging to him, all glowing and rosy, talking about the life he envisioned for them, nothing happened. His underlings knew to tread cautiously around him, or he'd cut off a foot or two, so they'd have a reason to make a racket. They moved more quietly than the Bat during those drawn-out weeks of waiting for her to come running to him, tears streaming, apologizing under sobs for losing their babies, their future. He could have loved her again then, but she just had to remain stubborn and healthy and sound.

When he could no longer listen and no longer wait, he got an appointment with his underground surgeon. He'd see them immediately, bumped up as a special favor. The only thing he had to do was knock her out and carry her there, and survive her fury once she woke up. But on his way to the "clinic," with her unconscious body cradled in his arms, her words finally seemed to sink in. Their own little murder family. It could become a project, molding a tiny human being to his image from day one. How much fun it would be to watch his offspring wreak havoc in Gotham or any of the other playgrounds of the world. The lessons he could teach. Why hadn't he thought of that before? She was giving him a gift.

Despite his change of heart, domestic bliss was not meant for them. It came as it had to come: she lost their little demons during a raid of some sort or other. It's only slowly coming back to him now, blurry, black and white, and underexposed. All he remembers is rubble and flames and Batman taking her away again, him too broken to struggle against the SWAT team dragging him off in the opposite direction. Her loss felt so familiar.

He'd buried the episode deep, because she'd not been the same after, locked up for a year in a mental institution that was not Arkham while he'd been unable to reach his contacts from out of Blackgate to get her back. That was before he'd clipped the little robin's wings. You take what's mine, I take what's yours. Simple enemy equation.

He shuts the trunk but keeps the swaddling clothes and her old jester costume by his side. It's not the same as her warm body, supple and welcoming, but it's a reminder of what he's lost. A goal of what he's got to recover. He'd walk through hell and back for her, as he's done on numerous occasions, and he'd burn everyone who stood in his path.