pierce

He was from the realty division, probably the furthest from your own work, and yet he was one of the first people to introduce himself to you.  The whole conversation had seemed just a touch flirty, but you couldn’t tell if that was actually his intention or if he was just charming (or if you just had wishful thinking).

“Always nice to see a new face around,” he’d said to get your attention, making you spin around in your chair and look up at him.  He wore a friendly smile, running his fingers through his hair which you thought might be considered dirty blonde in certain lighting; it’s not that you were checking him out, necessarily, it’s just that you had acquired an eye for color in your years working with fine art.

“Oh— hey, yeah, I’m the newbie,” you awkwardly replied, not sure how to respond to that.  Always nice to see a nice face around seemed too forward.

“Are you new in town?” he asked.  “‘Cause I could show you around if you need—”

“No, actually— I’ve lived in Manhattan for about five years now,” you explained, “Christie’s is in Rockefeller center, just a few miles away…”

He pushed his lips together and nodded, like he took it as a rejection, and you felt a little guilty.  

“But you’re really sweet to offer!” you blurted out.  “I mean, if there’s any good spots for lunch around here, I’m all ears.”

He nodded quickly, but crossed his arms and changed the subject instead.  “So, Christie’s?  What did you do there?”

“Same thing I’m gonna do here— sell art,” you smiled.  “Hopefully.”

“I’m sure you’ll be great,” he encouraged.

It didn’t really mean anything, coming from a stranger, but somehow it still made you feel better; you thought about it the rest of the day, actually.

From then on, you’d become pretty curious about him.  You asked around, but most people in your department didn’t know much: he was a realtor, after all, so any details past that would require talking to another realtor.  The problem with that plan was that you figured if you asked somebody who worked closely with him for any gossip, it would end up getting back to him— and he’d probably be all cocky about it, from what little you could tell about his personality.

All you’d really put together was that his name was Harris, he was divorced relatively recently, and that he had quite a talent for architecture and interior design.  Everything else you knew about him had been easy to put together: friendly, yet smooth; sexy voice; well-dressed, if more casual than some people in the office.

And everything else you wanted to know, you went to an after-work happy hour to find out.

You were getting worried that he would notice you glancing at him every, I don’t know, ten or so seconds; only once or twice did he meet your gaze, and whenever he did, he would look back at whoever he was talking to with a little knowing smirk.  Bastard— he was taunting you, daring you to come over and talk to him— wasn’t he?

But you refused to give in so easily: you focused on chatting with other members of the art sales department, laughing too hard at their stories and jokes in the hopes that, for once, Harris would look at you first.  If he did, you were too absorbed in conversation most of the time to notice.

Like all work events, though, people trickled out to head home steadily throughout the night.  Probably half of them were gone within an hour; by eight, barely ten people were left.  Rarely, the conversation would merge into one big group, and you would catch Harris’ eyes drifting over you when you added something, but usually people were within their little sub-conversations and you never quite seemed to cross paths with Harris.

Until, finally, he relented— only when you ended up sitting off to the side of one of the tables the secretary had booked; the person you’d been talking to left, and everyone else was wrapped up in what they were discussing, and you found yourself nursing your beer and staring off into space for a little while.  Actually, you didn’t even notice him coming up to you until he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down in it with a sigh.

“How’s Samuel treating you?” he asked, and you gave him a confused look before he motioned to the glass in your hand of, as you’d apparently forgotten, Samuel Adams.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, shaking your head, “he’s alright— inoffensive.  A work thing seems like the wrong place for hard liquor.”

“Is that a diss on my whiskey?” he frowned, swirling the dark liquid in his crystal glass.

“Do they have good whiskey here?” you wondered.

“No,” he snorted.  “I was trying to be sophisticated, but it’s swill.  Serves me right, huh?”

“I guess,” you shrugged, “I can’t blame you for trying.  Everybody here’s pretty uppity.”

“I hope no one’s made you feel out of place or anything,” he offered, putting his hands out slightly in a gesture of concern.  “We wouldn’t want to discriminate against you just for being a poor vagabond from Christie’s.”

You laughed again, harder, and rolled your eyes.  “Oh, really?  I’m some kind of charity case?”

“Yeah, 20 Rock?  That’s basically the inner city,” he joked.  “Hey, did you ever go skating on that big rink?”

“No,” you admitted, “it feels like a waste that I didn’t— I saw people out there every winter.”

“You could still go,” he noticed.

“It would be even weirder now that I don’t work there,” you shrugged, “and besides, it’s just ice skating— expensive ice skating.  I can fall on my ass whenever I want for free.”

He smiled and nodded in agreement.  “I should probably do more ‘New York’ things, you know.  I’ve been here— gosh, over ten years?  I don’t actually do any of the stuff I’m supposed to, except some of the museums.”

“The museums are really excellent,” you agreed.

“Of course, you’re the art nerd,” he remembered.  “Sorry— expert.”

You scoffed.  “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Do you own a lot yourself?” he wondered.  “Do you get a good price on stuff, or do you have to save all the best ones for clients?”

“I don’t have a ton, but I have plenty of pieces I’m proud of, yeah,” you answered, “but I focus on new and upcoming artists, I don’t have any masterworks.  Every once in a while I would buy something from an artist we chose not to sign, out of pity.”

Harris laughed, and you let yourself use the moment that his eyes were closed to take a closer look at him.  He really was attractive in the most specific way, and his flirty attitude didn’t help either— but you had no idea how flirty he could really be until the conversation continued.  

“Do you own anything?” you asked.  “You must, with your eye for design.  Unless you’re one of those people who gets those massive, mostly-blank interpretive paintings just to fill a wall.”

“You mean like in hotels?  God, no,” he grimaced.  “I have a few pieces, yes  Actually, I’ve got this one painting at my place that I’ve been meaning to have someone take a look at,” he said after he finished a thoughtful sip of his whiskey.

“For what purpose?” you wondered, though you could already tell he was asking you for a favor.  What kind of favor, though, was still up to interpretation.

He gave you a look of faux confusion.  “It’s a painting— you can’t do much else with it once it’s hung.”  You laughed, and he looked a little proud of himself before giving a real answer.  “I’m sure it’s worth something, but I don’t know how much.”

“Shouldn’t you have gotten your valuation from Sotheby’s upon purchase?” you asked with a smirk.  “We’re always telling people about how great that is.”

“Well,” he started with a mischievous look, leaning in closer to you with his elbows on the table, “don’t tell— but I didn’t get it at Sotheby’s,” he admitted in a whisper, making you laugh and raise your eyebrows.

“Oh!  Naughty naughty,” you scolded playfully, noticing right away the way his eyes darted down to your lips for a moment.  “Where’d you get it, then?”

“If you can believe it— Christie’s,” he laughed, and your eyes got even wider.  

“Fuck off!” you yelped, probably a little too loud.  “No way— I didn’t see you around or anything!”

He shrugged.  “Maybe you did, and just forgot.”

Your heart already raced before you even said it, but you couldn’t stop yourself.  “I would’ve remembered you,” you replied, lowering your voice; you saw his expression change, if subtly, and you bit your lip for just a moment before you caught yourself.

Just when you wondered if he would come any closer, he straightened himself up with a little groan and sigh.  “Actually,” he began, “it was my ex that bought it.  I ended up keeping it in the divorce, not that I specifically wanted it— I think, for her, it was too many memories… or something like that.”

You nodded, not totally sure what to say.  Thankfully, he spoke again before you.

“Say what you will about her, she has good taste,” he chuckled a bit.  “It’s a nice piece, but all the paperwork is long gone.”

“Well, if you bring it to the office and get it insured with us, I can guarantee the best estimate and a formal appraisal,” you explained, “but if you don’t mind just a ballpark…”

“I don’t need specifics,” he agreed, “I mostly just want to know if I’m sitting on something really special and don’t even know it.”

Mostly I just want an excuse for you to come to my place, is what you heard him say— not that it bothered you.  “Well… I’m free tonight,” you told him, trying not to look up at him expectantly, but you couldn’t help it; you were too anxious for his response.  Thankfully, you got a small smirk and a knowing glance.

“No time like the present, eh?”

~

Both of you pretended this was still something it had stopped being before you even left the bar, even if there was a sort of undertone to everything.  Even the coworkers who realized you were leaving together seemed to pick up on something, and you hoped silently that they wouldn’t make too many assumptions.

Even you had to resist the urge to make assumptions.  You weren’t sure what was going to happen, if anything— nor did you have a clue if he was going to consider anything that might or might not happen a path to dating or just hooking up or… something else?  If there are even other options…

After all, the cab ride was only small talk, nothing too forward; maybe the offer of a glass of wine when you got to his house was a little flirty, or maybe it was just polite, you couldn’t be sure.  You accepted the offer regardless, taking a glance around his house while he shuffled off to the kitchen (after hanging up your coat for you).

“It’s a gorgeous place,” you noticed, “and, of course, you’ve decorated it beautifully.”

“Oh, thanks,” he returned, voice raised slightly so you could hear him in the living room.  “Brownstones are so hard to get, you know— but it’s easier when you’re already in real estate.”

“Is this it?” you wondered, approaching a painting he had hung up on one of the walls— something modern, you couldn’t make out the signature, but it looked trendy and interpretive (if not quite as generic as those hotel paintings you’d mocked back at that bar).

“What?  Oh, that one,” he realized as he emerged with a glass of wine in each hand.  “No, my friend actually painted that, it was a gift.”

“Oh!  It’s fun,” you smiled, “you can tell your friend he’s talented.”

“I do,” he agreed as he handed you your glass, “but he doesn’t believe me.  Every six months he swears he’s quitting painting altogether— I can usually convince him to get back into it, but it can take a while.”

“Artists have to face a lot of negativity and rejection,” you hummed.  “I don’t envy them.  Most of the good ones won’t even be appreciated until they’re dead.”

On that morbid note, you paused to take a sip of the wine, which was overall pleasant but nothing too revolutionary.  There were wine experts at Sotheby’s who could probably say more than that, but you were obviously not one of them.  “Don’t tell Anton that,” Harris joked, “he would take it much too literally.”

“Dramatic artistic type, huh?” you assumed, seeing him tilt his head in reluctant agreement.  “I’m familiar— they can be fun, but exhausting, too.  And self-destructive.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he noticed, “let me guess: dumbass ex-boyfriend?”

“More than one, but yes,” you smiled snarkily.

“The painting I wanted to show you is in the dining room,” he finally informed you, gesturing for you to walk with him down the short hallway.

At first glance, you just noticed how well the color scheme of the painting blended with the decor of the dining room— there was a pale green, teal-ish accent to the whole place, but where the chairs and table were modern and minimalist, the painting was of a classic, Romantic style— Impressionistic, even.  You recognized first that it was beautiful, before even worrying about the potential value.

Approaching it, you let yourself get closer than most casual viewers do— looking for any damage or aging— as Harris waited behind you.

“It’s in great condition,” you noticed, “it’s not very old, is it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he agreed.  “Have you heard of the artist?”

“Ilyayev,” you read the signature.  “Yes, it rings a bell.  He’s not usually so subdued.”

“This is subdued?” he realized.  “I always thought it was a little loud.”

“It fits well in the room, though,” you decided, trailing off slightly as you tilted your head to examine it.  “And this is an original?”

“To my understanding.”

You nodded, using your free hand to hold a fist under your chin, as if that would help you discern anything.

“So?  What’s it worth?” he asked, but when you turned around to face him, he was standing a little closer than you realized— not too close, but… close.

“Well, that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it?” you noticed.  “Your kid could do a finger painting, and it could be priceless; a half-finished sketch is worthless until someone can prove it’s a Rembrandt.  So— what’s it worth to you?”

He pondered that as he finished his glass and set it down on the table, taking a step towards you.  “A lot less than it used to be,” he decided.

“If you’re desperate, I can probably get you five or ten for it— maybe a touch more if I’m willing to call some old contacts at Christie’s and pull your original valuation.”

“I’m not desperate,” he replied, something a little too suave about his tone.

A moment passed, in which something in you— potentially the red wine— told you to stop pretending this was a normal stop by someone’s house to roughly estimate the value of their painting: if the way he’d looked at you when he said what he just said was anything to go by, he was on the verge of acknowledging what this really was.

And if he was going to, then so would you.  You set your glass down on the table.

“You ever heard the saying, don’t shit where you eat?” you asked, making him laugh a little and tilt his head in a sort of relenting expression.

“Yes, I think I’ve heard that before,” he replied.

“I try to live by that,” you explained— and even though his reaction indicated that he knew what it meant, he played dumb with a raise of one brow.

“What do you think it means?” he pressed, speaking softly and slowly.  “In this context.”

You took a moment to respond, mostly because you realized he was moving closer to you, his glass set down next to yours on his way.  “Well, I think it means that… if you keep things separate…” you began, lowering your voice as he stepped up to you, “then you can avoid—”

“Contracting e. coli?” he finished for you, making you smile and glance to the side— mostly because, if you didn’t, you’d have to either stare straight forward at his chest, or look up to meet his gaze. 

“I was going to say complications,” you finished instead.

“Right,” he nodded slowly in agreement.  “And you like to keep things simple, don’t you?”

“When I can,” you agreed, but your breath caught a little when his hand rested gently on your hip, fingers tracing gentle and lazy shapes through the fabric of your dress.

Then, finally, you dared to look up at him through your lashes; his gaze was low and watching where his hand was touching you, but it darted up to your own eyes— then your lips.  Fuck.  You weren’t strong enough to think clearly, even if you knew you should reach up and gently push him back; tell him that you were flattered, but that this wasn’t a good idea.

“Well, I think this is pretty simple,” he decided.  

“Oh?” you pressed, smirking slightly.

“Yeah,” he breathed.  “I find you… very attractive,” he said simply, making you swallow a bit, “and I’d really like to take you out sometime.”

You raised an eyebrow.  “Is that all?”

He smiled a little, shaking his head.  “I was trying to be polite.”

But his hand pressed flat against you and snaked around to your lower back, keeping you close; what was the point of mincing his words if he was going to be so forward with his movements?

“But no, that’s not all I want from you,” he added— his eyes were a little darker and you felt paralyzed by them, though you also didn’t really mind it.

You’d been wondering if you could get him to say it; but he did you one better, his free hand cradling the back of your head so he could kiss you.  It wasn’t too hasty or rushed, but hardly a peck either; only a moment after he’d pressed his lips to yours, you felt his tongue gently guide your mouth to open for him.

He leaned over you even more, pressed against you even more, forced your head to tilt back even more— and you hummed against him, reaching up and wrapping your arms around his neck.

It was mostly pretty relaxed at first— no rush to go further, just a chance to enjoy this moment— and you felt like it had been far too long since somebody kissed you like this.  (Or at all, but that was another issue.)  But something definitely changed, if subtly, when you reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

You didn’t mean anything by it, specifically, you just kinda thought he had nice hair from the start and you finally had an appropriate time to get away with it; he responded with a low groan and a tighter grip on your waist.  It all got a little more intense after that— your head tilted more and he reached down to get a handful of your ass through the dress which, yes, was a bit unclassy but you were not complaining.  In fact, you just gasped against him and rocked your hips forward against his thigh.

And then, just to be a little shit, he bit your lip: not, you know, too hard or anything, but it startled you.  You tugged on his hair, mostly out of instinct, and then all pretense and patience was out the window.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your lips, and you whimpered as his hand slid up your back, tracing the zipper of your dress— he wasn’t really about to take it off now, right?  Not that you would stop him.

“I want you,” you blurted out, not really even capable of filtering the pathway from your brain to your mouth anymore, and you just felt him nod as he started to guide you backward.

See, the whole push you against the wall idea was great in theory— it really was hot, like something out of a steamy movie scene— but it was just a little too hard.  You were fine with it, actually, but as soon as your back collided with the wall while he pressed himself against you, that damn painting broke off its hook and clattered to the ground.

You both turned to look at it, startled by the loud noise, and watched as it balanced on its side for just a moment before falling face down onto the dining room floor.  Apparently you had some instincts that could override the one that had been running the show just now: you tried to go for it, your inner art preservation expert couldn’t stand to see something flat on the ground like that— you needed to at least check that the frame wasn’t damaged—

But as you reached for it, he smiled and gently guided you back towards him.  “It’s fine,” he promised.

“But—”

“It’s fine,” he said again, a little darker, pinning you back by your shoulders— gently, but the message was clear.  You looked at him shyly, feeling slightly more self-conscious about all this than you had just a moment ago.  It was different without that haziness in your brain; but god, it was almost better when he kissed you again, neither of you quite as drunk on the moment.  You had to admit to yourself, again, how badly you wanted this even knowing it was misguided at best.

And then his lips moved to your neck, making you whine a little and grab onto his shoulders.  “F-fuck,” you gasped, feeling his lips and teeth tease all along your pulse.

“You’re sensitive here,” he noticed with a small laugh.  “Are you trying to rub yourself on my thigh?”

You hadn’t even noticed— but yes, your hips were rocking forward in search of some friction all of their own accord.  And the gentle condescension of his voice only made you more desperate, honestly.

Irritated by how composed he seemed to be while you were totally losing your mind, you impulsively reached forward and rubbed your hand over his pants— and it wasn’t too hard, no pun intended, to find what you were looking for.

You smirked to yourself when his own hips jerked towards you just a bit, a small sigh falling from his lips; not quite so cocky now, hm?

But you weren’t doing much better, not when you felt how thick he was, not when you could see the outline of him in the slacks.  “Fuckin’ big,” you mumbled without really questioning it, hardly even noticing you said it out loud, and he grinned with a breathless laugh.

“You think so?” he encouraged, not exactly pulling off the humble act.

“Yeah, fuck,” you sighed, instantly getting to work on his belt.

“Shit, okay,” he laughed, “I guess we’re really gonna— oh, fuck.”

You’d managed to open his fly enough to reach inside and wrap your fingers around him, feeling him get harder in your grip.  

He purred and kissed you again, hungry but slow.  You couldn’t really stroke him at this angle, but you ran your fingertips along the shape of him and smiled when you felt him shiver.  “C’mon, not here,” he decided as he pulled back slightly.  “Let’s go to the bedroom.” 

Taking your hand out of his trousers, you let him guide you there.  As he stepped into the room with you just behind, he flipped on a lamp in the corner that lit the room with a dim golden glow— the curtains were drawn so only a few slivers of reflected city lights could peek in.  You were thankful for the darkness, actually, as you would’ve found this a bit awkward in harsh, direct lighting.  The room had a sensualness to it that matched him perfectly; you kicked off your flats quickly as you stepped in.

He sat on the corner of the bed, taking your hand and gently pulling you towards him, looking at you with a kind but expectant smile.  “C’mere,” he mumbled under his breath, reaching up to trace your silhouette lightly.  He had a delicateness and carefulness to everything he did, but you weren’t feeling quite so patient.

You quickly went to your knees in front of him, thankful for the plush carpet as you started to tug his pants down.

He laughed a little.  “You really wanna—?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly, licking your lips as his cock bounced free and curved up to his stomach.  You weren’t sure why but you just needed to do this to him— you already decided it, didn’t feel like being polite and, you know, asking.  Thankfully, the way he ran his hands over his hair was obviously encouraging, it seemed like he was more than happy to let you go ahead.

As soon as you had the chance to get your hands around it again, your mouth was around the head, and he groaned lowly above you.  “Fuck,” he breathed, and you hummed as you swirled your tongue around him.

Maybe it was hasty, but you started to bob your head and move your hand along with it, finding the pace that made his hand tighten to a fist in your hair and doing your best to stay steady there.  The size of him was a bit of a challenge, you couldn’t go that far down yet and your jaw was already a little sore from being open so wide, but that didn’t faze you in the slightest.  If anything it just gave you a challenge to work towards, patiently taking just a little more with each stroke, tasting whatever your tongue could reach in the meantime.

When you gagged as the tip brushed against your throat, he purred a bit; it was obvious his ego got a boost from that, which was a little concerning since he was already plenty cocky enough.

Maybe you were trying to humble him a bit by stopping, pulling your mouth off and moving your hand out of the way so you could give him one long lick: starting all the way at one of his tightened balls and going up to the very tip, tickling the opening there for a second.  He shuddered, his cock flexing up as if trying to get back into your mouth, and then he started to laugh breathlessly.

“Fuck, you’re…” he began, then shook his head.  “I’m really glad you came over tonight.”

You laughed a little, too, because that seemed like a weird thing to say at a time like this— but, you also agreed with him.

The hand on your head moved back and brushed over the back of your neck as he found the zipper of your dress; he leaned over you to lower it slowly, opening it all the way to the bottom.  “Stand up,” he requested softly, and as you did, his hands grabbed the hem and pulled it to the floor, letting the garment circle your feet.  He hummed a bit as he admired you in your bra and underwear— you would’ve picked nicer ones if you’d known this was happening tonight, but if you’d known this was happening tonight, you would’ve missed out on all this sexy spontaneous energy.  At least your panties had a bit of lace around the hips and were free of old period stains… that was a win in your book.

Regardless of if they weren’t your fanciest, Harrison seemed perfectly happy with the sight of you like this.  His hands rubbed your thighs gently, and he leaned forward to plant a few soft kisses to your hip and lower stomach.  He looked up at you, and his expression was inherently pleading and pathetic from this angle, but it was obvious that he was still totally in control.

“Fuck,” he whispered yet again, his breath tickling your skin, “so pretty.”

He carefully pulled the panties down, and never broke his eyes away from you as he did it; you felt slightly nervous from being so exposed like that, but his reverent sigh kept you from feeling insecure.

“God, you’re perfect,” he decided.

“N-no, definitely not,” you chuckled awkwardly, stepping out of the underwear and adding them to the pile with your dress.

“You are,” he insisted, “come here.”

He guided you to straddle his lap, still looking up at you but from much closer now.  For some reason you were expecting him to say something else, so it was a bit of a shock— in a good way— when he guided your hips and lowered you down onto his cock.  You gasped from the suddenness and the stretch, then whimpered as his lips found your neck.

“Oh my god,” he breathed before he’d even finished filling you, “you’re so fucking wet…”

When you were completely seated on his thighs, a shiver ran up your back: it was deep, a little deeper than you bargained for, and you had to take a shaky breath to try to adjust to it.  One hand stayed at your side but another moved down to pet your thigh soothingly— he must’ve been able to tell you were struggling a little.

“Take your time,” he encouraged sweetly, “I’ve got you.”

Both of you exhaled deeply when you lifted yourself up slightly just to drop down again; he pulled you down to bury himself as deep in you as he could go, and a quiet yelp jumped from your throat.

He wasn’t holding you tight enough to keep you from moving, but he kept a strong grip on you as you started to carefully set your pace.  You whimpered when the motion made your clit rub against him.  “Feels good?” he asked, sweet with a hint of smugness.

“Yeah,” you breathed, dropping your head onto his shoulder.  “Fuck, yeah, feels good…”

He started to unbutton his shirt, and you tried to help him, but your shaky fingers weren’t going to do much; you could at least help him get the undershirt off, which you pulled almost too eagerly off his head before kissing him again.

He hummed proudly as you rocked your hips a bit further— not faster, yet.  The stretch was still making your toes curl, he could probably see that when you broke the kiss.  But the slight sting only served to increase the pleasure, and the pleasure helped your body relax to take him more easily.  Soon, you felt that energy building within you, that ache for something more: you rocked your hips faster, chasing after your mounting pleasure.

You moaned louder, tangling some fingers into his hair.  

“Fuck,” he mumbled against your skin, lips brushing against your clavicle and hands running up your back encouragingly.  “Fuck, that’s so good— baby—”

You whimpered and held tighter to his shoulders, gasping into the crook of his neck, increasing the speed of your motions yet again.  Those hands on your back started to work on your bra’s clasp— you had barely noticed you were still wearing it, clearly you’d been sidetracked— and helped you slip it off your shoulders.  Of course you expected him to grab your chest after that, maybe carefully pinch a nipple between his finger and thumb, but the way he instantly latched his lips onto you caught you off guard in the best way.  “Oh!” you gasped, tossing your head back suddenly.  “Oh, fuck, Harris—”

He hummed proudly, his tongue flicking your bud inside the wet warmth of his mouth.  He broke away and kissed a path to the other: once, he bit you lightly, and you tensed up inside.

His grin was just diabolical then, and one of his hands gave your ass a smack to make you moan and flex again.  But then he got back to work, spoiling your other breast with licks and kisses and playful brushes of his teeth.  Your grip on his hair tightened, and you began to bounce more eagerly on his lap than ever.  

The friction of your clit against his skin was good, but it wasn’t quite enough— maybe he read your mind or something, because he looked up at you as he slipped one hand between your bodies and held his hand against your lower stomach.  He just pressed down at first, gently, but enough to feel his cock moving within you.  Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, he lowered his thumb down to your clit and gave it some attention too.

“Ah, god,” you groaned deeply, shivering as his thumb drew circles on the bud.  He kept watching you intently, studying your face which surely revealed how wrecked you were already.  It didn’t take much of that to push you right to the edge— he didn’t have to be fast or hard about it, just consistent, to make you fall apart.  “I-I’m close,” you admitted with a gasp.

“Wanna see it,” he purred.  “Wanna see you come.  C’mon, baby, show me.”

You clenched your teeth together hard, summoning the physical strength to move as fast as you needed to, desperate to come for your own sake but happy to appease him as well.  His eyes on you were so overwhelming, his hand on you was too, but you loved it; it all came to him so naturally, like he already knew your body as well as his own.  It made you feel a little predictable, a little… silly, for lack of a better word.  Weirdly enough, you kinda liked that too.

As you finally reached your climax, all the energy in your body seeming to tighten up and center at one point, you worried your moans were loud enough to be heard in the adjoining houses.  But he was happier than ever, smiling widely at you as you were overcome with ecstatic sensations.

You wanted to stay in it forever, and it really felt like that as long as you kept moving it could just keep going and going and going… but sadly, the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak.  Your legs quivered and your hips faltered, and you were forced to slow to a stop as soreness and exhaustion caught up with you.  Damn, I need to get back in the gym, you thought to yourself for a second, before you blinked and found him still staring proudly at you. Or maybe I can just keep doing this for my workouts…

“You sound so pretty when you come,” he praised.  “Can you do it again?”

“Y-yeah, probably, but not… not like this,” you sighed, “too tired.”

“S’okay, honey,” he assured sweetly, holding you close and turning to quickly drop you on the bed.  You giggled a little as he hovered over you, but when he moved again, it all felt so different: he hit different places inside you, especially when he held your legs and pressed them forward to all but fold you in half.  

Your eyes rolled back when he gave his first thrust into you like that.  “Fuck,” you growled, hardly believing how your own voice sounded at that moment.  He chuckled proudly and did it again, really savoring the feeling and rolling his hips teasingly.

Turns out, your thigh and hip muscles might’ve been done for the night, your inner muscles were as happy as ever to flex and pulse with every drag of his cock against them.  “Fuckin’ tight,” he praised roughly.  “God, you feel so good.”

You whimpered a little, gripping the sheets under you.  He turned his face to kiss along your calf, beside your knee, basically anywhere on your leg he could reach— and you weren’t sure you’d ever felt so worshipped.  You whined properly then, and his fingers gripped tighter onto your thighs; him holding and positioning the body just how he wanted was so erotic and dominating, yet he used his power not to satisfy himself but to give you exactly what he knew you needed.  Clearly he was the generous type…

Truth be told, you weren’t a good judge of how much time passed during all that: the pleasure seemed endless, and you constantly lost yourself in the feeling until he shifted himself above you and sharply brought you back to reality with a punch of his hips.  “Oh, that’s it,” he praised, before even you had realized you were getting closer again.  “That’s it, baby, I can feel it—”

“Oh god,” you whined, fluttering your eyes shut.  “Yes!”

He growled through his teeth, moving your legs out of the way so he could press himself against you; you felt surrounded by him, filled by him…completely helpless to him, and it was wonderful.

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, holding on as tight as you could as he pounded into you.  “I’m coming!” you shouted, and it came out all whiny and wimpy but you couldn’t do anything about that now: pleasure was crashing over you so hard you struggled to even breathe.  You definitely stopped breathing, for at least a few seconds, and your vision had little dots that flashed and twirled around like glitter or something.

Only when you let out the air you were holding did reality seem to catch up with you.  You felt yourself go a bit limp, you suddenly became aware again of the bed under you and the man above you and the pins and needles in your fingers and toes.  “So good,” he praised in your ringing ears, his pace having slowed down a bit to not overwhelm you, “you’re so good for me, huh?”

“Me? You’re good,” you returned with a thin laugh.  “You’re so— fuck, that was incredible.”

“Yeah?  Looked incredible,” he agreed, “felt incredible.  Feelin’ your little pussy squeeze me like that…”

You shivered at the lovely filthiness of his words.  

“Fuck, should I pull out?” he groaned roughly.  You shook your head quickly.  “Inside?”

You nodded, and you felt a small laugh fan against your neck.

“Really?  God, that’s so hot…”

As he trailed off, his thrusts became faster and more aggressive, forcing your back to arch up off the bed even when your body was totally spent.  He chanted curses with every breath, mumbled something about how good you felt— and then he shuddered and let out the loveliest shaky groan you could imagine.  

His grip on your thighs loosened, and you felt a new heat and wetness between your legs compared to before.  Slowly, he started to catch his breath, and you felt like the two of you were in the same half-dream together, soaking in the same afterglow.

When both of you were a bit more conscious, he sat up a bit; as sexy as getting filled with come, or filling with someone with come, can be… the after part can be a little unsexy.  But then again, maybe that’s true of all sex.

“Hold on, I, uh— I have some… tissues…” he mumbled with a rough voice, reaching over you to his nightstand and pulling some Kleenex from a box.

“Convenient,” you noticed, and you hadn’t meant it as an accusation, but he smiled with a hint of nervousness. 

“They’re, uh, not normally for this,” he assured as he brought the handful of tissues back with him, sitting up more instead of leaning over you.  “I really don’t do this kind of thing very often—”

“O-oh, I wasn’t—” you interrupted.  “I mean, it’s fine if you do.  Wait, do you mean you don’t have hook-ups often?  Or you don’t, uh, have to clean up creampies often?”

He laughed, dropping his head above you like he couldn’t believe you, but he seemed endeared by it anyway.  “Uh, neither,” he explained.  “So, this is a hook-up then?”

Now that you were on the other end of the personal questions, you felt a bit more awkward about it.  “Um, well…” you trailed off.

“‘Cause I was kinda hoping I could take you out to dinner sometime.”

“Right, yeah— I mean, you can,” you agreed.

“Maybe I should ask you again after I’ve cleaned you up a bit,” he noticed.  “You’ll be more impartial.”

“Sure,” you agreed with a little chuckle, and he leaned back to get a better look at where your bodies were still joined, as if assessing the damage.  

“Let’s see if I can…” he trailed off, mostly talking to himself as he tried to find the best angle to get the tissues under you before he pulled out and inevitably let the mess flow out of you.

“It’s kinda like Indiana Jones,” you blurted out, and he gave you a quizzical look.  “You know, like, with the golden idol and the sand bag… you gotta get the dick out and then catch everything with the tissues…”

After a short silence, he laughed and shook his head a bit.  “Indiana Jones,” he repeated.  “You’re a trip.  I love it.”

He seemed to get more serious again for a second as he did it— pulling back and quickly using the tissues to gently wipe up the trail of come that leaked from your opening— but then he started to laugh softly again.  

“I don’t think I’ll ever get that image out of my head,” he announced.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t be,” he soothed.  “I mean, I guess being compared to Indiana Jones in bed is pretty much always a good thing.”

You laughed a little, too, and his eyes widened as he pressed the tissues up to you again; apparently your laugh had pushed a little more out.

“Okay, I think that’s as good as that’s gonna get for now,” he decided as he laid down beside you on the bed, turned onto his side to look at you with a smile.  He laid his hand on your waist, stroking your flushed skin with his thumb.  “You are… really incredible.”

You wanted to refute the compliment, but you knew he wouldn’t let you; “Thanks,” you mumbled nervously.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“Do you even need to ask?” you scoffed.  “I haven’t come that hard in… I don’t even know.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he smirked.  “Can I get you some water?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you agreed with a nod, and he sat up to slip off the bed— not too fast, you noticed, indicating he was feeling some of that tiredness you were.

Finding his boxers discarded near the bed, he slipped them back on and crossed the room, smiling at you one more time before disappearing out of the doorway.

You took the moment alone to process all that had just happened, as best you could at least.  You sort of knew what you were getting yourself into by coming over to Harris’ place, but you couldn’t have predicted this: how forward and aggressive yet sensual he was, how amazing he would make you feel.  And then that it wouldn’t just be one night but, apparently, something he wanted to continue… you were smiling to yourself, without even realizing.  Of course you shouldn’t be hooking up with— or dating— or whatever— somebody from your work… but aren’t all the most fun decisions also the riskiest ones?

When he came back with a bottle of Evian, your eyes widened.  “Woah, woah, I thought you were just gonna use the tap,” you chuckled, “this is too much.”

“Oh, it’s the least you deserve,” he grinned, sitting next to you on the bed and handing it to you as you sat up a bit.

“So is the quality of the water proportionally to the quality of the sex?” you asked before taking your first sip.

“Totally,” he joked.  “Dasani for the truly mediocre encounters.”

You snorted before drinking more from the bottle and setting it aside on the nightstand.  “Sorry about your painting, by the way,” you mumbled.  “It’s… probably worth less now that it fell on its face.”

He was all alone on the couch, rhythmically rubbing his palms on his khakis, emanating quiet anxiety as he held onto the red plastic cup for dear life; the perfect target.

It started a few weeks ago, a running joke you and your friends had. When you were at parties and getting a little too toasty, you liked to find the most awkward-looking guy and dare each other to go flirt with him and see how he reacted. It wasn't intended to be mean-spirited, necessarily... but that doesn't mean it didn't end up that way sometimes. Especially when one of you would give a guy your number just to block him the next morning.

A few shots in, your friends dared you to talk to him. You actually knew him, sort of-- he was in your chem lab last semester, knew all the answers but never shared them with you. That should make it easy to get him to talk to you; honestly, you had no idea why he would even come to a party like this, he looked terribly out of place and painfully aware of it.

You walked up to where he was sitting, finally getting his attention when you were standing right in front of him. "Hey," you greeted with your best friendly smile; he looked up at you, just as confused by your talking to him as everyone else who wasn't in on the joke. "Edward, right?"

"Uh-- yeah," he nodded.

"You were in my chemistry lab last--" you began to explain.

"I remember you," he interjected before you could finish, and you tried not to smirk openly. Of course he did, he probably jerked off in his dorm after class on days you wore shorts and tank tops-- with the dorky glasses and awkward stare, he had the look for it.

You plopped down next to him, a little too close, and leaned in. "You're a math major, right?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

"Um, accounting," he corrected.

"What's the difference?"

"W-well, math is a lot more... broad," he tried to explain. "Accounting is actually very specific."

"So could you like, do my taxes?" you asked.

His face didn't move much, and yet the way he was looking at you seemed to change all of a sudden. You straightened your back, wanting to look away from his gaze but suddenly feeling eerily beckoned by it. "I know your type," he breathed. "You think because you're a pretty girl, you can get whatever you want from me."

You began to stammer out your denial, but he continued.

"A girl like you would never talk to me," he sneered, "not really. Your friends dared you to. Because you thought it would be funny, right? To do what, make fun of me? Try to get me to fool around with you just so you can get me hard and leave me hanging? You're pretty, you know that, but I can see all the ugly you have inside. You're fucking disgusting. And I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole."

He got up and brushed past you briskly, leaving you sitting on the couch with a stunned look on your face. You glanced over at your friends, and they were laughing just how you wanted them to-- except they were laughing at you. Of course that's all they wanted, to feel better than someone; and they didn't mind throwing you under the bus, they got their kicks either way. You should've known better than to think their cruelty wouldn't turn towards you one day.

You also should've known better than to go to Edward's dorm a few nights later.

"I-I just was thinking about what you said at the party," you explained after he opened the door and gave you a disarming look with narrowed eyes. "I... couldn't stop thinking about it, actually. You were right... you were right about everything. Except, uh, the part about how a girl like me would only talk to a guy like you on a dare. Because nobody dared me to come here-- and actually, I sort of thought you were cute before--"

"No you didn't," he refused.

"No, please, Edward-- hear me out," you pleaded. "I just wanted you to know that I'm not as awful as you think I am. I... had some shitty friends, yeah, but I'm not that shallow."

"Why do you care what I think of you?" he asked.

You couldn't really come up with an answer for that, and he sighed.

"Fine," he shrugged, "if you want to show me you're not who I thought you were... then show me."

You raised an eyebrow slightly as you looked at him. "How... how do you mean?"

"I think you know how," he offered in reply. "You can come inside and do what you do best: spread your whore legs."

The words, especially spoken with so little emotion, made your heart race until you could hear it in your ears. You felt humiliated, again-- and that was what you really craved that made you come back here, as much as you hated to admit it to yourself. You felt hated by him, but also understood; he hated you the way you hated yourself. You needed that.

"I'll fuck you like I hate you, because I do," he promised, "you'll come from it like a desperate slut, because you are. You'll scream my name and everyone on this floor will see you walking out of here in a few hours with bruises on your neck from getting choked and a nasty limp, and they'll know they were all wrong about you. That you're not the vain self-obsessed popular girl and you're actually just a pathetic, needy bitch."

He leaned forward out of the doorway, examining you with a little smile.

"Doesn't that sound nice?" he purred. You felt a tear jump down your cheek and you moved your hand up quickly to wipe it away. "Your eyes aren't the only thing getting wet," he posited in a low tone. "Isn't this why you came here? What else do you have to prove?"

He softened slightly, leaning back and stepping aside.

"Just come inside, baby," he offered gently. "I won't make you do anything more than that. And I won't hurt you too bad as long as you can follow instructions. It's that easy."

You looked down the hall, seeing how easy it would be to just walk away. He couldn't do anything to you if he left, all the power he had over you was metaphysical... but fuck, it was still so strong.

“I think she’s waking up, finally…” 

The voice was distant, deep and unfamiliar, like you were hearing it echo from inside a cave.  Even before you could understand anything that was happening, you felt as if something was horribly wrong.  You fought to open your eyes but could only blink for a second before they shut again, you were so sleepy…

“Come on,” the voice encouraged, closer to you now— you felt a weight on your back, and the voice was right behind you.  “Wakey wakey, everyone’s waiting…”

A few light smacks to your cheek pulled you mostly into consciousness, and you managed to open your eyes.  It was dark, so you still couldn’t see too much, until a bright rectangle of white light lit up suddenly and nearly blinded you; you squinted your eyes shut and tried to move your head away, but when you reached to cover your eyes with your hand, you felt resistance on your wrist.  You tugged again, harder, and whined when it caused your restraint to tighten painfully.  Just barely managing to get a peak while your arm blocked the overpowering light, you saw that your hand was tied with a torn strip of your bedsheet— you moved your other arm, you wiggled your legs, and realized they were bound as well.  And as you cried out instinctively with fear, you noticed that your mouth was gagged with another strip of fabric.

You were gagged and bound, face-down, to your own bed— by your own sheets— to the posts at each corner.  And as you started to panic, fighting against the ties even though it only seemed to make it worse, you heard a low laugh from behind you.

“Aw, so scared,” it cooed deeply, making you shudder.  You tried to turn your head back but you couldn’t twist your neck far enough— instead, all you could see was the gloved hand that reached in front of your face, brushing your hair out of the way.  There was that blinding light again, leaving an purple, splotchy impression on the inside of your eyelids, like a bruise.  “We're live— say hello to all my followers, Madam Prosecutor…”

The gloved hand pointed at the light, and then waved— and you just barely saw the blinking red light, next to the white rectangle which was already morphing into the camera flashes from your memories.

“Madam Prosecutor, your statement on the Riddler trial!” a reporter demanded as he shoved a microphone in your face.  “Is the State still hoping for the death penalty?”

Another fought his way past your security to throw another question at you: “The Riddler’s lawyers say he’s mentally unfit to stand trial, what do you have to say?”

“Do you have a message for Riddler sympathizers in Gotham today?”

“Did you know Commissioner Savage?  Is the Riddler case personal for you?”

“Is there a chance the Riddler is going to walk free?”

You turned suddenly, facing the barrage of cameras, microphones, people with notepads and voice recorders.  With a hand on your security detail’s shoulder, you moved him aside so you could address the media— hopefully for the last time.  

“Edward Nashton is a violent criminal, perfectly aware of what he’s done and why he did it,” you stated firmly.  “He is unstable and psychotic, but capable of understanding right from wrong— and capable of committing unimaginable wrongs which he has already demonstrated in his acts of terror against Gotham and its people.  Today, the State is fighting for this man to face life in prison without the possibility of parole, and we believe our case is unbeatable because our evidence is undeniable: every person in this city witnessed and suffered through what this individual unleashed on thousands of innocent civilians.  Anything but a full conviction on all charges would be a massive miscarriage of justice and an offense to every victim of his hateful rampage.  I will give no further comment until the full trial has concluded, thank you.”

They shouted at your back but you ignored them as you continued up the steps and entered the courthouse.  You tried not to react to the commotion inside, but it was impossible not to notice that security was no less than quadrupled compared to a normal case: cops everywhere, some with dogs, most with assault rifles strapped over their chests.  After every door was a walk-through metal detector, and you saw some of your most respected colleagues getting pat-downs while their entire silhouette was traced with metal detection wands and their palms were swabbed for residue.  

“Sorry, ma’am,” an officer got your attention as he pointed to your purse, “no bags allowed inside.”

“No bags, at all?” you frowned.  “I’m the prosecutor, I’m here with the State—”

“No one can bring anything in,” he insisted, “you can leave it all in your car or I can throw it out for you.”

You sighed as you tried to imagine going back out there and braving the crowds of reporters, fighting your way through the protesters and cops in riot gear, hearing slurs and jeers shouted at you from citizens in replica masks…

“Throw it out,” you decided, handing over the bag to the officer who walked away and tossed it into a massive trash bin.  That handbag itself was worth a couple hundred dollars, not to even mention the contents inside, but it was still a lesser sacrifice in the end.

A three-and-a-half-week trial somehow went by in a blur.  You didn’t remember the details anymore, just the parts you had to experience every day: that quiet, meek figure in the jumpsuit and chains, the muffled sound of protests just outside, the tearful testimonies, the clinical descriptions and high definition photographs of the violent murders of men you knew.  

Every day you went through the crowds and through the security checkpoints, you sat behind your table and ignored the way your hands would shake as you organized your papers, you stood when they said ‘All rise!’ and you spoke when they asked you to.  The longer it went on, the more you caught yourself glancing at the defendant across the hall, wondering if he could know that you hadn’t been sleeping since the first time you saw him, simultaneously longing and dreading that he might look back at you.

You remembered judgment day.  There was a post online that someone sent you, a screenshot of an anonymous user of the same forum website Nashton had used during his killing spree— they themselves were facing a class-action lawsuit, you heard, and they were winning.  “The news said today is the day of final judgment in the Riddler case,” the post read, “but the day of final judgment already came when he nearly drowned Gotham and exposed our corrupt city officials! #JusticeforRiddler #Riddlerdidnothingwrong”

Those words stuck with you, just as much as the words that concluded the worst month of your life.

“All rise for the Honorable Arthur Hawley!”

The judge entered the court for the last time, and everyone sat when he did.  You saw the exhaustion in his eyes, too, as he lifted a paper to read his concluding statements.  “Having heard the arguments of the defense and prosecution,” he began, “I have reached a final verdict in the trial of Edward Nashton.  Before the verdicts are read I will remind everyone present that any outburst, interruption, or otherwise distracting and disruptive behavior will lead to immediate removal from the courtroom.  All thirty-four charges have been declared as follows:

For the murder of Donald Mitchell, Junior, the Court finds the defendant guilty.

For the murder of Peter Savage, the Court finds the defendant guilty.

For the murder of Gil Coulson, the Court finds the defendant guilty.

For the murder of Carmine Falcone, the Court finds the defendant guilty.

On the count of domestic acts of terrorism, the Court finds the defendant not guilty.”

Your throat caught but you tried your best not to react.  For the first time in this entire, hellish trial— for the first time in his life— Edward Nashton looked at you.  You felt his stare from behind the unassuming glasses, but you didn’t look back.  He must have known that without that conviction, he could be sent to Arkham rather than federal, maximum-security prison like you’d been hoping.  Arkham wasn’t an easy way out, it was still a ruthless place that probably needed a federal investigation of its own, but he was going to stay in Gotham— he was going to continue to feed off of the very people he attacked.  It made you sick.

Judge Hawley read the remaining twenty-nine charges: conspiracy to commit murder, obviously; kidnapping, false imprisonment, and some explosive materials charges for what he did to Gil; destruction of state property for blowing up the seawall; several counts of battery and assault with a deadly weapon as is typical for anyone being charged with murders; and a bunch of auxiliary charges for falsifying some forms, having a fake ID, stealing vans for his bombs, and technically committing fraud here and there as one tends to do while orchestrating a masterplan to destroy an entire city.

For all but two, he was found guilty.  They were irrelevant now, though: he was going to get forty-five to life in Arkham, and you were going to fight like hell to keep him from ever having a chance at parole.  He’d keep appealing, you’d keep showing up, and this was never really going to end.  A gavel bang, the bustle of everyone mumbling to each other, and just like that it was over— for everyone else.

Two guards held Edward at either side, though he cooperated as they guided him back to where he would be returned to jail until sentencing brought him out again; in fact, he’d been cooperative throughout all of this.  Somehow, that made you hate him more.  It made you feel like this is something he expected, even wanted.

They walked him along, and just before they got him through the door, he turned and looked right at you.  You were looking back this time.

Your eyes met.  You tilted your head back slightly, inhaling deeply; he smiled at you.  The door shut, and he was gone.

“You remember me now, don’t you?” Edward hummed.

You moaned through the gag, hoping he’d remove it so you could respond.  

“I’ll take this gag out if you promise you’re going to be good,” he offered, and you nodded fervently.  Gloved fingers slipped between the torn fabric and your cheek, pulling the strip out of your mouth— it hung around your neck loosely, and you gasped from the slight relief.

“I never forgot you,” you whispered to him.

You hadn’t seen him, physically, for two years— his final sentencing appeal, where you once again managed to keep him in Arkham until at least 2087.  Well, here you were, in 2025 with Edward Nashton sitting on you in your bed, so that didn’t go exactly as planned.

But the truth was, you'd seen him so many times since then, in your dreams.  Truthfully, you'd been out of your depth prosecuting him.  A young and relatively inexperienced prosecutor being assigned such a massive trial was all but unheard of, but no other Gotham prosecutor could do it— they were all under their own investigations for accepting bribes from Carmine Falcone.  The judge offered to bring in a federal prosecutor, but in spite of your best judgment, you wanted someone who was there to witness his crimes to bring him to justice.  You took your jobs because you wanted to stand up for the people of Gotham, and that's what you were going to do.

But you'd only convicted a few murderers before, and they were all low-level thugs or abusive husbands.  Easy, quick trials with juries itching to convict.  This was the trial of the century and you were the last line of defense between a terrorist and freedom.  Maybe if it weren't for your pride, you would've let a federal prosecutor take the case and he would've been convicted of terrorism and he wouldn't have stayed in Gotham— let alone in the criminally insane facility most notorious for its breakout problem.  

Memories of the trial didn't come back alone: you remembered now how this happened, walking back from your office only to be pulled into the shadows by someone you never got a look at before the needle in your neck dosed you with something that kept you out cold until now.  It was hard to say how long it had been, but you were still in your button down blouse and pencil skirt… even your heels were still on, which felt wrong while you were laying in bed.

Of course, that was far from the only thing that felt wrong.  It was just the easiest one to think about, because everything else was far too terrifying to process.

"I never forgot you, either," Edward replied coldly.  "I've been planning this for so long."

You knew exactly how long, actually.  Since the moment he looked at you in that courtroom over three years ago, when the judge found him not guilty of terrorism charges.  He knew then that he had a chance to get to you, and do whatever he was about to do now.

You felt the point of a knife trail down your back through your shirt, and you had a pretty good idea of what it was that he was about to do.

"Your defense wanted to convince the world that you were stupid, or crazy," you defended yourself, hoping to bargain with him, "they wanted you not guilty by reason of insanity.  You're not crazy— you're definitely not stupid.  I respected you enough to see that."

"Respect?" he repeated.  "People like you never respect people like me.  We're lucky if you pity us.  And I think it's time we got what we're owed."

You didn't quite understand what that was supposed to mean, so you moved to a more practical approach.  "They'll put you in federal this time," you warned him.

"Only if they can find me," he giggled proudly.

"You're streaming yourself live," you noticed, "from inside the apartment of a state prosecutor!  SWAT is gonna be here in minutes!"

He laughed again, deeper this time, and leaned down to whisper in your ear.  "Did you think that just because you're in your bed, that we're in your apartment?"

You couldn't move your head around enough to see anything, it was just endless darkness past the bedposts, but when you realized that you didn't know where you were, you felt sick when you came to the obvious conclusion that no one else knew where you were either.

"Yes, I imagine SWAT is already at your door now," he continued.  "They're looking for you, they're clearing the halls, but they don't know I had a moving company take your bed while you were at work, and they brought it here.  I had to lead them there so they'd find the message I left, but they're not going to find you.  Because you're here."

"Where am I?" you asked hoarsely.

"I have a riddle for you," he replied suddenly.  "What's in the middle of nowhere?"

You sniffled, fighting back your tears.  "This place," you assumed.

"Well, yes," he shrugged, "but the answer was actually 'H'.  Get it?"

"You're just making this worse for yourself," you insisted, "breaking out is bad enough, but killing a state prosecutor will get you—"

"Kill you?" he interrupted.  "No, no no no, that would be such a waste…"

You wrinkled your brows together, feeling the knife moved lower, over the curve of your ass and down to your thigh, where it started to gently curl up the bottom of your skirt.

"You're the only clean prosecutor left in Gotham," he explained, "you don't need to die.  You just need to learn your lesson."

You felt the zipper at your waist start to open, and you tensed up.  "N-no, wait," you pleaded instinctively.

"Shh, you're just making this worse for yourself," he turned your words back around onto you.  "You put me away in that terrible place, you knew how bad it was there and you told them forty years wasn't enough.  This won't be nearly as bad for you as that was for me, but hopefully it'll give you an idea."

With your skirt unzipped, he was able to shimmy it down your thighs and reveal the garters holding your stockings up, and more embarrassingly the lace panties they were attached to.  Your face heated up as he laughed softly.

"Were you on your way to meet someone tonight?  Or are you just trying to spoil me?" he purred, hooking a gloved finger around the garter just to snap it against your skin and make you jump.  "What a little slut you are…"

"I-I'm not," you insisted.

"Don't deny it," he ordered, "you can't hide anything from me now."

He held your shirt taut and slowly dragged the knife through the fabric, slashing it open down the back while you tried to stay perfectly still so he wouldn't nick you.

A deep hum echoed behind you as the scraps of your shirt were pushed to either side, and quickly the knife cut through the back of your bra as well.  He ran his gloves fingers down your back until you shivered, before slicing your sleeves and bra straps open too so he could simply pull the ruined clothes out from under you.

"Oh, the comments aren't happy," he announced suddenly.  "They wanna see your tits, I guess.  Hm.  That might be tricky."

"What?" you mumbled in confusion.

"I've got the comments section on my phone, see?" he explained as he held his phone in front of your face.  The first thing you saw was a monitor feed of what the camera was steaming now, and you were disturbed to see yourself tied up and pinned down by the masked figure.  Just below that was an eye symbol with the number 1,447 next to it.  Are that many people really watching this?

And then you saw the live comments feed, though you wished you hadn't.

Show us her tits!!!!!

he should carve a question mark on her lol

YES!! FUCK THAT BITCH! 

You can tell she wants it lmao whores like that always do

“They’ve been waiting for this for a while, too,” he said, the grin apparent in his voice.  “They know when you hurt one of us, you hurt all of us— and they know that when I put you in your place, they all get a little of that power, too.”

“You’re crazy,” you breathed.

“There it is,” he chuckled, “come on, tell us how you really feel.  No more lies.”

“You’re fucking crazy!” you shouted, starting to choke on a sob.  “Get the fuck off of me!”

“Sorry everyone,” he addressed the camera, setting his phone aside, “you’ll have to wait to get a better view.  Right now, I’m just gonna give her what she needs.”

You heard him unzipping his pants, and you started to squirm more desperately.  “Fuck you,” you spat, “get off me— you fucking freak!”

He only laughed, and you felt one hand on your back… the other must have been holding his cock, guiding it to press against your entrance.  You gasped as you felt it, fighting to close your legs but uselessly struggling against the ties on your ankles.  Your rage shifted to fear again, and with nothing else left to do, you pleaded for mercy.

"Please don't," you begged, "please, please—"

"Shut up!" he yelled, pulling the gag around your neck back up into your mouth and tying it tighter. "God, you're all the fucking same.  You act like whores and call it empowerment, but when you get treated like a whore it's all crocodile tears and screams of 'oppression'.  You think this is oppression?  Being a pretty, rich little trust fund girl?  Bullshit.  This is just the consequences of your actions!"

With a shove of his hips forward, he speared you on his cock.  You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of reacting, but it only took a few sudden and ruthless thrusts to make you choke out your anguished, wavering moan.  Your toes curled and your hands tightened into fists at the pain; the sound of his heavy breathing made you shiver, and made your stomach sick.

"God, you're tight," he hissed.  "I used to fuck my fist in my awful little cell and think about doing this to you, it feels better than I imagined…"

He grunted loudly every time he met the end of you, only egged on by your sobs.  He was wasting no time at all tearing you apart; you just hoped that his lack of restraint and rushed pace meant that this wouldn't last too much longer.  Already his moans were getting louder and his gloved hands were grabbing your arms tightly.

There wasn’t anything else to do but cry now, burying your face in the pillow and hoping it would all be over soon.  Of course, he couldn’t let you hide that easily, not when he had an enraptured audience encouraging him and demanding to see you broken and defeated.  Edward grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, turning you to look into the light.  Lip quivering and tears streaming down your face, you blinked quickly as you stared forward and tried not to imagine how many people were watching you be degraded like this.  

“What are you crying for?” he wondered.  “I bet you get fucked like this all the time.  This is how you like it, right?  Getting fucked from behind, face down, like a whore?  Getting used?”

There was no use denying it, he would never believe you— there was no use responding at all, even if all you could do was shake your head with this gag in your mouth.  

“You probably let guys do this to you all the time,” he grunted, one hand tugging on your hair harder while the other held your hips still.  “You’re just crying because you never thought a guy like me would fuck a girl like you.  Right?  You think you’re too good for me?  Because I’m a freak?”

Shutting your eyes, you heard the sounds of his heavy clothes rubbing against your skin, the bed rocking beneath you and hitting the wall— you even heard your own moans, and could hardly believe they were coming from your mouth.  They didn’t sound as pained as you thought they would… you were trying so hard not to think about how he felt inside you, but it was becoming difficult to ignore.

“Admit you wanted this,” he groaned, pulling the gag out of your mouth again so you could obey him.  “Say it.”

He smacked you hard on the ass, but when that wasn’t enough, he slapped your face instead.  “I wanted this,” you gasped, “I wanted you to do this, Edward.”

“You still call me that,” he chuckled, “always so proper.  You know that’s not who I really am… you wanted to be fucked by the Riddler— didn’t you, Madam Prosecutor?”

Before you could answer, he pulled out suddenly— you weren’t sure what to think, though you were never so delusional to think this was the end of his plans for you.  The knife from before suddenly sawed through the restraints keeping your hands tied, and then your feet next.  You would’ve considered trying to fight, but knowing he had a knife and still coping with the remaining sting of pain inside you, you simply rubbed your aching wrists and tried to curl up in the bed; that wasn’t what he wanted for you, though, and he growled as he roughly flipped you onto your back and pinned you down.

You got your first good look at him, but you turned your face away as that eerie mask hovered above your face.  “Look at me,” he demanded.  “Look!”

The knife pressed to your cheek and turned your head towards him again; tears ran down your temples, and you blinked up at him as the blade moved down to your neck.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered, and you shook your head, whining when he pushed the knife harder against your skin— not enough to cut you, still, but enough to make you terrified to even breathe or swallow.  “There’s no fucking point in fighting it now.  Or are you just trying to act like you don’t like it?  They can all see you—” he reminded you as he pointed with the knife to the camera, “they all heard you moaning like a whore for me.  Spread your goddamn legs, bitch.”

Shamefully, you let your thighs part for him— he could’ve easily overpowered you and forced them to open, but you knew he wanted to make you an active participant.  Helplessness would leave you with plausible deniability.  Forced cooperation would make everyone watching wonder if you really did want this… even you were already questioning that.

He held himself up above you with one hand, setting the knife aside to guide his cock to your hole again.  “If only they could all feel how wet you are,” he purred, sliding inside with a groan as you winced.  Somehow, it still hurt almost as much as the first time he was inside you.  “Shit, I can feel you clenching on me, too— oh fuck, you really like this,” he noticed, and though you couldn’t see it past the mask, you could hear him smile.  “I bet you’re gonna come, fuck, is this all you needed?  You just wanted to see this face again?”

“I’d rather see your real face,” you whispered.  For once, that seemed to surprise him.  He was smart enough to figure out that you just wanted whoever was watching this livestream to be sure this was Edward Nashton— not a copycat with a costume.  You would’ve been the first to hear about a breakout at Arkham, so they must not have even known he was out yet by the time you were taken… you wanted them to be sure.  You couldn’t stop him now, but you could build your case.

“This is my real face,” he replied.

“Please,” you breathed, and when he reached up to take his glasses off, you were surprised he was relenting to you.  Was it the first hint of mercy?  Or just humoring you since you had no control anyways?

Setting his glasses aside, he pulled the mask off of his head and there he was, almost exactly how you remembered him from years ago— maybe a little slimmer, like he might’ve lost some weight in Arkham from improper nutrition, but otherwise the same.  Same soft face with dark, empty eyes, same hair with just a bit more overgrown shagginess to it, same blank smile as he examined you.  “Is that better?” he asked, not quite genuine but not as taunting as you expected.

Of course, there was a price to pay.  Only a second later, he grabbed your jaw and wrenched your mouth again, spitting onto your tongue— you tried to cry out but he covered your mouth, forcing you to swallow it even as you struggled under him again.

“Dumb fucking slut,” he laughed.  “Come on, don’t act like this isn’t exactly what you wanted.  You’re so goddamn disgusting.”

As he started fucking you faster, you nearly screamed from behind his hand.  He was going deeper inside you from this angle, so deep you saw stars each time his hips slammed against you.  

He used his teeth to take off the glove on his free hand, bringing it down to grope your chest skin-to-skin.  A moan fell from his lips as he felt you up, and you hated the whine you heard yourself make when he pinched your nipples.  More muffled cries of pain came out when he smacked your tits around— were there going to be bruises on them tomorrow?  You couldn’t even think about tomorrow, you just needed to survive the next five minutes… you just needed to stop the feeling building up inside you, but you weren’t sure that you could.

When your eyes fluttered open, they were rolling back— and your walls were started to pulse, even though you’d been trying to keep it down.

"I wish you all could feel this," he breathlessly informed his audience, "she's squeezing me, I can feel her cunt squeezing me.  She's about to come."

You fought harder, reaching up to push his shoulders back, but even weakened after years in confinement he was stronger than you; you whimpered helplessly.

“You’re about to come for me, huh?” he directed his attention to you this time.  “Just feels too good, you can’t help yourself?  This is how it feels to be fucked by someone who knows how filthy you really are, Madam Prosecutor.  Someone who knows that it doesn’t matter that you’re rich, or educated, or ‘important.’  Someone who knows this is all you’re good for.”

He took his hand off of your mouth just in time for you to let out the most pathetic noise of your life— a loud, desperate sob of pleasure, giving away the power of the wave of ecstasy crashing over you.  It wasn’t right at all that you were coming from this, that it was this man inside you and on top of you making your body give in to him.  You hadn’t come this hard in years, maybe ever… all this resistance just seemed to make it stronger, and now you had no recourse at all, you couldn’t stop yourself from gasping out his name or your back from arching and your hands from tightening into fists.

“Fuck,” he breathed, smiling— he even started to laugh breathlessly, “fuck, I can feel it— feels so good, oh my god…”

Just when the sensitivity became too much and you needed a break, he began thrusting even faster and harder.  “S-stop,” you whined, “Ed—”

“Just shut up,” he rolled his eyes, wrapping his hand around your neck until you fell into forced silence.  The aftershocks of your orgasm, and the overstimulation of his continued assault, were both heightened by the lack of air— it made your head all dizzy and your vision start to go blank as your channel flexed uncontrollably around him.  You were tightening up so hard that it hurt even more to have him inside you, and as your shut your eyes to give in to the darkness, he let go and you choked out a sound that was like all your moans had stored up in your throat and were spilling out all at once.

“No, I can’t,” you stammered out, but it was basically unintelligible at this point— even if he could understand you, he didn’t care.

"Where should I come?" he breathed.

"Pull out," you instructed.

"I wasn't talking to you," he sneered, and you saw him looking over at the phone he’d set down beside you.  “Oh, they were pretty evenly-split before, but now they all want me to come inside—”

“No,” you choked, “please—”

“I think you do, too,” he posited, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

“I’m not— I’m not on anything,” you warned, “please don’t—”

“Shh, shh,” he soothed, “that doesn’t matter, just hold still…”

It was a meaningless instruction considering he was holding you down, keeping you from moving even more than the bone-deep exhaustion you felt.

Succumbing to the numbness spreading through your mind and body, you let each thrust rock your limp form until finally, he slowed to a stop with a deep groan.  You could feel his cock flexing inside you, a familiar— yet all too foreign— warmth starting to fill you so deep it made your stomach sick.

“Fuck,” he sighed, relaxing slightly.  You swallowed thickly, that awful sound of his heavy breathing echoing around the room again; when you looked up at him, he looked quite different from anything you recognized— flushed with a thin layer of sweat making his sandy-blonde hair stick to his brow.  Some of that tension he carried was gone, and yet there was more energy, more intensity, to his presence than normal.  This was truly the Riddler without his mask, in a way that Edward Nashton somehow wasn’t.  There was so much more behind that mask than just a quiet, deranged man, and you saw now how much imprisonment in Arkham had changed him.

You remembered explaining in court how the Riddler persona was a way for a down-trodden, unstable man to pretend that his power fantasy was ideological in nature— and, with his small but loyal cult of followers, frame undeniably antisocial behavior as social, community-building work.  Now you were seeing it up close, you were feeling it inside you: he wanted to regain the control you took from him, and he filmed it so he could continue to inflate his ego and communicate his power as literally as possible.

The difference was, he didn’t need the persona anymore.  You never called him ‘the Riddler’ in trial or in interviews, no matter how often the reporters said it like it was his name.  Edward Nashton was a real person, an American citizen with a god-given right to a fair trial; the Riddler was a character, an anti-hero just as broken as the city that once latched onto him, before he tried to destroy it.

The person you were looking at was a convergence of both.  He didn’t need the mask anymore— and you didn’t just mean the leather one discarded on the floor.

You winced as he pulled out of you, grimacing as the sting was followed by the horrible feeling of his warm, sticky come oozing out of you.  You distantly heard him whisper something about how long he’d been waiting to do this to you, but your ears were ringing and you weren’t really focusing anyways.

“Was that good for you, too?” he asked jokingly, although you couldn’t tell if the joke was that you obviously hated it, or that you obviously loved it. 

Regardless, you said nothing.  You just breathed heavily and stared into space, waiting for him to take his camera and go.  He stayed still, looking down at your spent body, and his cock sticking out proudly from his pants, coated in your and his come.

"I'm still hard," he noticed.  "And you still have a hole I haven't used."

You gasped, beginning to try to crawl away as he grabbed you— even as tired as you were, you managed to put up the slightest hint of a fight.  It was futile, obviously but you tried.  He grabbed your ankles and dragged you down, climbing on top of you with a terrifying glimmer in his eye.  His gaze jumped over to his phone for a moment, and he picked it up.

"Oh, my followers are pretty adamant," he chuckled, showing you the live comments flooding in.

Fuck her in the ass! 

make her scream

YES do it riddler!!  I want this bitch to pay

He set it aside again and smiled at you. "You know I never want to let down my fans," he winked.

“Don’t,” you pleaded, “I can’t— you’ve already done enough, I learned my lesson.  Please, just go.”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he ordered, ignoring your begging entirely.

“No, I can’t,” you insisted again, beginning to cry weakly, “I really can’t, please…”

“If you’re not going to be good, I might have to put that gag back in,” he warned.  

“I’ll do anything, just please, not that!” you whined, trying to rush out a few more desperate pleas as he sighed and pulled up the gag to go around your mouth again.  You kept crying, wordlessly now, and he reached to his belt— your eyes followed his hands to see him grabbing the roll of duct tape.

“I’ve got something to keep that in place this time,” he smiled, pulling off a piece and securing it to your mouth even as you tried to turn away.  “Do you need some for your wrists, too, or are you going to behave?  Oh, better safe than sorry…”

He wrapped a longer piece behind your wrists as you sobbed quietly— well, it would’ve been loud, if it weren’t for the tape.  He rolled you onto your stomach and traced his bare fingers down your back with a purr.

"Please, please," you whispered, "I want it so much—"

"I know," he grunted, holding your hips tighter and thrusting faster into you. "I know, me too, I'm going to give it all to you— I'm going to give you a baby."

You whined happily, pangs of pleasure hitting inside you every time he said that; you hadn't been married very long— hardly a month, in fact— and already you couldn't imagine anything but being heavy and full with his child, giving him everything he ever wanted.

He thrust particularly hard into you, and you whimpered for a second, instinctively grabbing his wrist. "Shh," he soothed, "I know— it's too deep, but it needs to all be inside you, my angel... I need to fill you as deep as I can go."

Well, for a man like Pierre, as deep as he could go threatened to break you inside, but you didn't care about that much anymore. This position made it easier to take him— laying on your side, relaxed and soothed as he took you gently from behind— but he still reached the end of you with ease and made your whole body feel like his toy. Not that you particularly minded that feeling...

You yelped again as he hit harder into you, and he reached up to your chest to pull you closer and hold you tight as he moved faster, with more purpose. He was close, you could feel it, and you were so desperate for his seed that you did your best to clench up your inner muscles in the hopes he could feel it.

"Oh, angel," he groaned into your neck, "I know you want it so badly, just a moment longer... just a little more and I'll make certain you're with child."

"Please," you gasped, "I want your baby— our baby, right now, Pierre— please, please..."

You kept saying it, in time with each of his thrusts, until finally he groaned and you felt him begin to spill inside you; you hummed happily at the warm, full feeling, wiggling your toes before they went numb. You'd been at it for a while, each time took him longer than the last when you'd been trying several times a day for over a week. He worried sometimes about hurting you by doing this so much, especially when his needs got the better of him and he could get quite rough, but you loved it all the same. Bringing him pleasure was worth any pain, and even so he made you feel so incredible that you could only dream it was the same for him. At times it could be hasty and hungry, yes, but it was usually like this: beautiful, and sweet, and gentle even while being so... powerful.

He held you tightly, and as the peak of ecstasy faded he finally noticed the heat of the covers and kicked them away; he sighed, suddenly trying to peel your nightgown off even though you'd be cold with only a layer of cooling sweat to protect you from the draft in the room. "Did I really not even undress you this time?" he noticed, laughing thinly. "I didn't mean to get ahead of myself."

"I think it's too late for it now," you softly resisted, but you couldn't help but smile as he pulled the fabric down and kissed your shoulder, exposing more and more of you to his enraptured gaze.

"It's never too late to look at my beautiful wife," he assured, smiling as he stripped you to nothing and drank in the sight of you shamelessly. Feeling almost self-conscious, you reached up to cover your chest, and he cooed quietly as he stopped you with a gentle hand. "No, there's no need for that," he whispered, "I only want to look at you— and what a joy you are to look at, angel. You'll only be more beautiful pregnant."

You smiled as he leaned down and kissed you, slow and relaxed as you both came down from the high and melted into the mattress. "I can't wait," you whispered against his lips, grabbing one of his hands and guiding it to your belly. "I could be already," you noticed, "I won't know for sure for a few more weeks..."

He had floated the idea of bondage to you fairly early on in the relationship, as you had both been very open about your sexual interests, no matter how taboo they could come across. Your thighs would squeeze anytime he would show you examples of various types, especially the art of shibari. The moment you whispered into his ear that you wanted him to do that to you, he practically threw you onto the bed– rope in tow.

You were truly restrained: the gorgeous zigzag pattern Jay had done to your chest looped around to restrain your arms at the back, and your thighs had been tied to your ankles– there was no maneuvering possible.

“How does it feel, love?” He traces his fingers over the various knots he had done.

“Weird… but comforting,” you test the rope, seeing how much you can actually move– it wasn’t a lot.

Jay grins, his excitement evident as his tracing makes its way down to your mound, “So damn pretty.”

You shiver as he spreads you open, the cool air hitting your arousal. His index finger enters you slowly, just to collect your wetness from inside. You moan gently, legs spreading wider, inviting him in further. Jay pulls his finger out to taste, humming all the while. He shuffles down the bed until he is face to face with your warmth. As his tongue flattens against you, a whimper escapes your throat– you so desperately want to rake your fingers through his hair, like you always do.

Instead, he’s able to take his time with you, savoring the tastes and each quiver of your thighs. His hands grip the rope around your legs, tugging to have it dig even further into your flesh– the balance of pain and pleasure from his actions is almost too much.

Jay begins to suck at your clit gently, humming into you– the slight vibrations increased by the inability to properly grind against his mouth. As soon as you fall into the rhythm of it, he moves away from your arousal– leaning back on his ankles to unzip his pants.

You meet his gaze as he leans on top of you, his hardness already leaking from the tip just seeing you like this– like a present for him to unwrap if he so chooses.

“Beg for it.”

Those three simple words have your brain flooding with endorphins almost instantly, “Please, Jay… I need you– badly.”

He rolls his eyes with a smile on his face, “Come on, we both know you can do better than that.”

You try to lean up to kiss him, but his hand pushes you back down to the duvet, “God, please, Jay. I need… I need your cock, please.”

He hums, taking the time to roughly fondle your tied-up breasts as he ‘thinks,’ “Your wish is my command, love.”

Placing a kiss on your forehead, he moves back to kneel at your entrance, length in his hand. Jay guides it inside, slowly– but as impatient as you are, your hips still try to meet him in the middle. His rough hands quickly grip where your thighs are tied up, holding you back from moving.

“Be still and good for me, or I’m not fucking you.”

You nod, and he fully sits himself inside of you. You expect him to thrust in and out of his own accord, but instead, he uses the rope to maneuver your hips and legs in such a way that you have no choice but to fuck yourself on him, in a way– like a toy. Your moans grow as he uses you like this, and so do his.

“God, you’re a good little fucktoy, aren’t you, baby?” He groans, moving on his hands to rub at your clit. “Just letting me use you like this…”

“Yes, fuck– Jay!”

You whine especially loud when he pinches your clit, the pain searing hot.

“Toys don’t fucking talk.”

His movements increase in speed as he now begins to thrust properly into you, gripping your hips for purchase. Jay chases his own pleasure but still rubs your clit as you cannot– he wasn’t entirely selfish. You can tell how much he loves this from the way his hair sticks to his forehead, and how his mouth is slightly agape– causing his moans to be loud and clear.

“Gonna come inside,” you mewl as you feel your own release coming on as well. “God, (Y/N), you’re so damn tight!”

You thrash against the restraints, your tender skin only becoming more so. He thrusts inside of you hard, and deep, and you hear that familiar cracked whine emanate from his throat– he came. Jay doesn’t stop using you, however, and overstimulates himself just to make you orgasm.

“Come for me, please, baby…”

His perfect rhythm circling your clit has that knot inside of you unfurl at rapid speed, especially knowing how desperate he is for you to come. You release with a cry, your body unable to do exactly what it wants in order to come like it usually does– but this simply adds a whole new layer of pleasure to the ordeal.

The two of you catch your breath, heaving and sweating against each other as he exits your body with a sigh.

genuine wonder how I manage to finish anything