The office was bathed in Gotham’s pale evening light, towering windows framing the city below. Oswald Cobb sat behind his massive mahogany desk, the tailored black suit sharp against the soft drape of velvet, crisp white shirt beneath, suspenders glinting, cane resting within reach.

His lips curved into a faint, self-satisfied smirk as his gaze drifted to the shelves: wedding photos of you and him, baby snapshots of Ozric, Osmar, and Ozlo, and more recent milestones — graduations, birthdays, the passage of time captured in frames. Pride softened his calculating eyes, but only for a heartbeat before the focus shifted to the present.

You leaned lightly against his shoulder, a quiet anchor in the room, until Oswald’s gloved hand slid around your waist, pulling you firmly into his lap. “Better here, love,” he murmured, smirk tugging at his lips. “Fetch me my cigar,” he added, voice low and commanding. You obeyed, retrieving it and lighting it just as he liked, the glow and thin spiral of smoke illuminating his sharp features as you returned to your perch.

Across from them, his three sons sat, fully grown and unmistakably Cobb's. Ozric, eldest, tall, stern, and strikingly handsome, exuded authority in every measured movement, eyes calculating, posture flawless, every gesture precise. Osmar, the middle son, carried effortless charm and a handsome, teasing smile, leaning back with playful confidence, eyes flicking between father and brothers. Ozlo, youngest, mischievous and unruly, fidgeted with a pen, grin wide, a spark of chaos in every motion, yet undeniably attractive in his devil-may-care way.

Oswald’s cane tapped lightly against the floor, punctuating his words. “Sit up straight,” he commanded, voice smooth but edged with steel. “Tonight, we discuss business — the Iceberg Lounge, our rivals, the city that thinks it can challenge us.”

Ozric leaned forward, posture perfect. “I’ve reviewed operations. The rivals near the Narrows are disorganized — weak points everywhere.”

Osmar smirked, leaning forward. “And their security? Not flawless. A little charm, subtle persuasion… maybe a gentle nudge in the right direction.”

Ozlo tossed his pen lightly, eyes alight. “I say we shake things up. Chaos works in our favor.”

Oswald allowed himself a faint chuckle, inhaling from his cigar. Smoke curled lazily around him. “Chaos without precision is foolish. Strategy is everything,”

he said, brushing your thigh lightly, possessively, as his eyes flicked to the sons. “Ozric, your strength is discipline. Leadership comes naturally. Osmar, charm has its place, but never let it overtake logic. Ozlo… unpredictability must be tempered with sense, yes?”

He leaned down slightly, lips near your ear. “See? They test themselves, but you, sweetheart… you always know your place.” Your chest warmed at the possessive press of his hand, the quiet thrill of being caught in the orbit of Gotham’s most dangerous man.

When Osmar shot a teasing glance your way, Oswald’s eyes flicked sharply, a smirk tugging his lips. “Careful, charm doesn’t always win hearts,”

he murmured, brushing your hair back softly, deliberately. Ozlo grinned, trying to push boundaries, and Oswald tapped the desk lightly, cane making a soft clack. “Chaos is tolerated… but never allowed to upset order.” His eyes softened just briefly on you before returning to the sons.

“Now,” he continued, voice low and deliberate, “remember, family isn’t just blood or business. It’s power, it’s loyalty, it’s… old school.” He pressed his hand to yours again, squeezing lightly, possessively. “And you, love, are at the center of it all.”

Ozric’s controlled strength, Osmar’s charming defiance, Ozlo’s mischievous energy, and the quiet, commanding presence of their father who ruled them all, equally feared and adored.

The city outside may have trembled at the mention of Oswald Cobblepot, but inside the office, surrounded by family and legacy, he was simply a man — powerful, meticulous, terrifying — and quietly, possessively, yours.