The Pancake

You have had enough.

There is only so much you can take.

Ever since you started working for Edward Nigma, your life has changed in ways you never expected. Despite working for one of Gotham's most notorious criminals, your day-to-day existence isn’t as grim as it could be. If anything, it is a strange blend of stability and chaos—mostly held together by your efforts to keep his lair and his life from spiraling further into disarray.

You have become an indispensable part of his routine, ensuring that everything runs smoothly. You clean his living spaces, cook his meals, and run errands that he cannot manage in public—like shopping for groceries and supplies. You wash his clothes, keep track of time for him when he gets lost in his work, and organize his tools and schematics. You even organize his chaotic and, sometimes, disturbing notes, transcribing them, trying to make sense of the madness. And every time you are there, you make sure a fresh cup of black coffee is waiting for him on his workbench, just the way he likes it. Your adaptability and resourcefulness have made you an integral part of his life.

In return, he pays you well. The money is enough to cover your expenses, with a little extra left over to treat yourself every now and then—a rare luxury. Your life, which used to teeter on the edge of danger and desperation, now feels oddly secure despite working for a criminal susceptible to psychosis. You are no longer subjected to the risks and abuse that came with your previous job. The steady income and the sense of purpose you have found in this work have brought you a sense of peace you had not thought possible.

Before you started working for Nigma, you were a dancer—an exotic one. Well, more accurately, you were a stripper. You made just enough to survive, to keep a roof over your head in this unforgiving city. You were good at what you did, but the real money, the kind that could make life easier, was found in the darker, more dangerous aspects of the business—things you politely but firmly declined to engage in.

Those nights were long and exhausting, filled with the leers of strangers and the constant pressure to push boundaries you were not willing to cross. It was a life of constant uncertainty, where you never knew what the next night might bring. The money was never guaranteed, and the threats were always lurking in the shadows. But you stood strong, refusing to compromise your principles.

It was tempting at times, seeing the girls draped in luxury—Van Cleef necklaces glittering at their throats, mink coats warming their slender frames, Louboutins clicking against the acrylic dance floors. They had the sun-kissed tans of women who’d spent their summers on yachts in the Mediterranean, vacations paid for by their generous, if not questionable, clientele. You couldn’t help but want those things too. Who wouldn’t? The allure of a life steeped in opulence, where the harsh edges of the city were softened by the gloss of wealth, was nearly irresistible.

But you just couldn’t do it.

You respected those girls, admired their tenacity and the way they wielded their beauty as both a weapon and a shield. They were skilled, crafty, and knew how to play the game in a way that kept them ahead. Yet, there was a line you just couldn’t cross—a part of yourself you weren’t willing to sell, no matter how tempting the rewards. You had a feeling that if you ever did, there would be no going back. You would be swallowed whole by that life, and whatever plans you had for the future would crumble under its weight.

You always wanted to leave the life of a dancer eventually, to save up enough money to go back to school, become a nurse, start fresh, and build something that was not tied to the world of flashing lights, shitty club music, and desperate men. But it was a slow climb, one that often felt like you were clawing your way out of quicksand, each step forward pulling you further down. The money was not bad, but it was not enough either. And the thought of staying in that life forever, of becoming one of those girls who never found a way out, terrified you more than anything.

So, when Edward Nigma offered you a job, you didn’t hesitate. The promise of better pay, safety, and security was too good to pass up. You didn’t just jump at the opportunity—you sprinted toward it, desperate to leave behind the life you’d been living. Even if the work was menial and technically meant you were aiding and abetting a wanted criminal, it was a way out. And that was all you needed.

But there is more to it than that. It helped that he was easy on the eyes—those icy blue eyes peering out from behind silver, wiry glasses, dark scruffy hair falling into his face, and a five o’clock shadow that added an edge to his otherwise refined appearance. He exuded a charm that was as dangerous as it was intoxicating, drawing you in without effort.

The first time you met, he’d tested you with a riddle, a glint of amusement in his eyes as he watched you puzzle it out. And when you did—albeit with some struggle—he seemed almost impressed. That is when you were hooked. Something about the way his mind worked fascinated you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself completely captivated. You truly believed he was the smartest man you’d ever met, capable of great things—terrible, yes, but great all the same.

And then there was his voice, smooth and rich, like an auditory massage. You loved listening to him talk, especially when he was in one of his rare moods where he’d actually teach you a thing or two. He had a way of making even the most complex concepts seem almost within reach, and though you knew you’d never understand half of what he was saying on your own, you relished those moments.

But there was a darker side to him, one that you couldn’t ignore. For every moment of brilliance, there was a cutting remark, a reminder of your place in his world. He had a habit of degrading you, of calling you an idiot whenever you didn’t grasp an idea quickly enough, or when you made a mistake in your work, or broke a piece of equipment accidentally. It stung, every time, but you learned to brush it off, to let it slide like water off a duck’s back. Because, in his own twisted way, he made you feel lucky to be a part of his life, to be close to someone as extraordinary as him. You believed in his delusions of grandeur.

You often wondered if you were just fooling yourself, if the allure of his intelligence and the security he offered were enough to outweigh the sharp edges of his personality. But every time you thought about leaving, about finding something else, something better, you found yourself hesitating. There was something about Edward Nigma that kept you tethered to him, even when you knew it was not healthy. Maybe it was the way he could make you feel like you were the only person who truly mattered to him, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

Whatever it was, it was enough to keep you there, caught in the web of his brilliance, his cruelty, and his charm.

But now, you are starting to wonder if you made the right choice.

You are standing in front of him, the sharp sting of his words cutting deeper than the mistake you have made. The coffee cup slipped from your hand—just a careless moment, but in this world, small mistakes come with big consequences. It landed on his latest project, the steaming liquid seeping into the delicate circuitry, causing it to short-circuit.

You know you messed up. You are not denying that. But what level of anger is he at? It is beyond what the situation calls for. His rage is a full-blown storm, a violent tempest that’s been brewing for days, and now it’s crashing down on you.

The way he is looking at you, like you are the most incompetent person he has ever met, makes your stomach churn. His voice, usually so smooth, is laced with venom, and each word feels like a slap in the face.

“You can’t fucking do anything right, can you?” he spits, his eyes narrowing with disgust. “It’s a miracle you’ve survived this long. I bet you have to think to breathe. Can you even tell right from left? Do you look both ways before crossing the street? What is two plus two? But I suppose really shouldn’t expect much from an airheaded bimbo like you.”

The words hit you harder than they should. You have dealt with his insults before, but this… this is different. His anger is so disproportionate to what happened that it leaves you reeling, and you cannot help but think that this is not just about the coffee. No, this has been building up, festering over the past few days, and you are the unfortunate target.

It is disorienting, the shift in Edward’s behavior. You thought he said he needed “this,” needed you. What once was a constant, predictable pattern of disdain now feels like an unpredictable storm. Since that night, when his desire and need for you became apparent, he has been a whirlwind of negativity, and it is affecting you deeply. His once familiar barbs have sharpened, cutting through the veneer of his usual disdain. Where before he might have called you a clumsy twit, an idiot, or a pest with a certain detached irritation, now his words feel venomous, tinged with a palpable hatred that goes beyond mere irritation. His attacks aren’t just about broken equipment anymore; they seem to be aimed directly at you, questioning not only your competence but your very worth as a person.

“You’ve been such a disappointment since the moment I hired you,” he snaps again, his voice dripping with an edge that cuts deeper than usual. “I can’t rely on you for anything. But I should have known better than hiring someone like you. Someone with no true skills. Seems your body can only carry you so far, my dear.”

Every harsh word, every degrading comment feels like a reminder of your place in his world—a place you thought you understood, but now seems more precarious than ever. It’s not just about the way he belittles you; it’s the sudden shift from a place of need to one of harsh judgment, and it's causing an internal conflict. He knows how you feel about dancing, why you did it, and why you wanted to leave… He knows you want more from life, to actually prove yourself useful.

Your confusion grows, and you’re left grappling with the disparity between his recent vulnerability and his current aggression. It’s as if the intimacy you shared has sparked a deeper conflict within him, manifesting in a more visceral, personal animosity.

You try to hold your ground, to keep your voice steady, but there’s a quiver in your words that you cannot quite control. “Why - why are you being so nasty right now?”

“Aww, did I hurt your puny little feelings?” He scoffs, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “I thought you would’ve developed thicker skin by now.”

You take a breath, trying to keep your composure, but it is slipping through your fingers like sand. “You’re being worse than usual. I don’t know what crawled up your ass these past few days, but you need to figure your shit out, or I’m walking out that door and not coming back.”

For a moment, there is silence. You see a flicker in his eyes – surprise maybe - but it is gone as quickly as it appeared. His expression hardens, his jaw tightening as he steps closer, his presence looming over you like a storm about to break.

“Oh, please, just leave,” he sneers, the words dripping with contempt. “You’d be doing me a favor. Do you know how much you have interfered with my work? I, ha ha, I am literally paying you to come here and break shit!” His voice is sharp, each word like a dagger to your chest.

But instead of backing down, you feel something inside you snap—a thread pulled too tight for too long, finally giving way.

“I put up with a lot of your bullshit,” you fire back, your voice rising with each word. “But I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talk to me like this anymore. Do you even realize how much I do for you? I listen to you talk and talk and talk—ranting endlessly and dominating every conversation. I clean up your messes, I keep this shithole as clean as possible, I-I soothe your temper tantrums, I tend to your wounds,” you list off each dutiful task, counting your fingers as you go, “I make sure you eat and sleep and do your basic fucking hygiene—things even a child can do!” You throw your hands up. “You would be lost without me.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes as if your words are nothing more than an annoyance. “Me? Lost? I’d say you’ve lost your mind, but you don’t have one.”

The dismissal, the arrogance in his tone, sends a fresh wave of anger coursing through you. You have held your tongue for so long, endured his jabs and his coldness, but now you’re done. You are done biting back your words, done pretending that this verbal abuse is okay.

“You know what?” you snap, taking a step closer, eyes blazing. “You are a fucking man-child, a brat, and I’m tired of taking care of you. I’m not your mother!” Your voice cracking with a straining pitch echoes in the lair.

Edward’s face twists into a scowl, his anger flaring at the accusation. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me! I didn’t even ask you to care.”

“Well, unfortunately, I do! A lot!” The confession bursts out of you before you can stop it, the raw truth of it cutting through the haze of your anger. “But you don’t deserve it. You don’t appreciate me. You don’t deserve me!”

For a moment, you think you see a shift in his expression—another crack in the mask he wears so well. But then his lips curl into a cruel smirk, head tilting to the side as he regards you with pity. “Why would I deserve someone as broken, worthless, and used as you?”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from your lungs. It is not just the insult itself but the way he says it—like he is spitting out something disgusting, something he has wanted to say for a long time but never quite found the words until now. You feel your heart lurch, pain and anger intertwining until you cannot tell where one ends and the other begins. You have spent so much time trying to prove your worth, trying to convince yourself that being with him, working for him, is enough. But now, as his words echo in your ears, you realize that you have been fooling yourself.

For too long, you have been the one holding everything together, the one picking up the pieces after every one of his tantrums, the one keeping him afloat when he was too consumed by his own brilliance to take care of himself. And for what? To be told that you’re nothing. That you’re worthless? And -

Used…

You swallow hard, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it is a losing battle. They blur your vision, turning him into a hazy figure before you.

Then, he kicks you when you are already down, likely just because he can.

“My dear, if it weren’t for me, you’d still be dancing and scamming men for money at Oswald’s like the slut you are!” His words cut through the air, each one sharper and more vicious than the last. He is not done, though—of course he is not. “As a matter of fact, I bet you turned tricks as well. Didn’t you?”

You feel the heat rising in your chest, your breath coming hard and fast through your nose. Anger pulses through your veins, and your vision narrows until all you can see is his sneering face, twisted with malice. You know he is trying to hurt you, trying to push you over the edge, you know he is doing this on purpose, but that does not make it sting any less.

Edward leans down to your height, his blue eyes staring directly into yours – ensuring you know he means it. “No wonder you were so willing to spread your legs for me.”

Pop!

Before you even realize what you are doing, your hand flies up, connecting with his face with a sharp, resounding slap. The sound echoes in the small space, and for a moment, everything stops. Your palm stings, the pain radiating up your arm, but it is nothing compared to the searing fury burning in your chest.

Edward’s head snaps to the side, goggles knocked from their perch on his head, and a shocked silence falls over the room. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stands there, frozen in place, as if he can’t quite process what just happened. After a moment, he looks at you, face unreadable as a hand reaches to touch his already reddened cheek.

Your breathing is ragged, your whole body trembling with the force of your emotions. You have never hit anyone before, never let your anger get the better of you like this, but something about his words—those cruel, vile, personal words—tipped you over the edge.

“You… you don’t get to talk to me like that,” you say, your voice shaking but resolute. “Not after everything I’ve done for you.”

You step forward, fists clenched, your body a coil of fury and frustration. The tension between you is palpable, a live wire sparking with every breath, every heartbeat.

“You know, maybe I am a fucking idiot,” you spit, each word dripping with contempt. “An idiot for subjecting myself to you. For admiring you. For liking you.”

At your wit’s end, your finger jabs into his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. His eyes widen, caught off guard by your sudden ferocity, and you press on, forcing him to retreat with every word, every accusation.

“You aren’t that great, Edward!” The words burst from you, and you see the moment they hit home, the way his face tightens, the way his breath hitches just slightly. “In fact, you are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. And you’re just as much a fucking idiot as I am. You have the emotional intelligence of a fucking rock.”

His back hits the cold, exposed brick wall, and you’re right there, standing inches away from him, glaring up at him with a fury that feels almost foreign in its intensity. You have never felt this before—this burning need to hurt someone, to hurt him, to make him feel the way he makes you feel.

“You are just a pathetic criminal whose parents likely didn’t love enough,” you hiss, your voice low and venomous. “And now you’re out here spewing your toxic trauma and making everyone else’s lives miserable!”

You shove your finger in his face, so close you can see the way his pupils dilate, the way his breath quickens. He’s trapped, cornered by your words and your fury, and there’s a part of you that revels in it—in finally having the upper hand, in finally making him feel small.

“Everyone’s right,” you snap, your voice harsh and unforgiving. “You are fucking crazy.”

Your eyes are locked on his, daring him to say something, anything, to fight back. But he doesn’t. He just stares at you, his expression a storm of emotions—anger, hurt, confusion, all battling for dominance.

And then you see it— his eyes are glassy, moist, making his usually cold, calculating gaze soften, just for a moment. It is a tiny crack in his armor, but it is there, and it makes your chest tighten, a pang of guilt that you quickly shove down. Instead of stopping, instead of giving him the mercy he has never shown you, you twist the knife, pushing harder, because if he’s going to hurt, then you’re damn well going to make sure he feels every bit of it.

“No wonder you are alone,” you whisper, your voice cruel, even to your own ears. “You deserve it.”

Edward gasps, and for a moment, you think you might have broken him. His face contorts, his jaw tightening as he tries to keep his composure, but you can see the cracks forming, can see the way his hands clench into fists at his sides, the way his lips quiver, trembling with the effort of holding himself together. The words hang in the air like a death sentence. His face falls, the sharp angles of his features softening in a way that you’ve never seen before. It’s like watching a tower crumble, stone by stone, the cracks spreading faster than he can patch them up. His eyes, usually so cold and calculating, shimmer with something raw, something that makes your stomach twist with guilt. The pain in his gaze is almost unbearable to witness, a wound you’ve inflicted that runs deeper than you could have ever anticipated.

His chest is rising and falling in a shaky rhythm as he tries to maintain control. But the mask is slipping, and you see it—the way his eyes gloss over with unshed tears, the way his lips press together to stop them from trembling. For a moment, he looks lost, like a little boy trapped in a man’s body, haunted by demons he cannot escape.

It is that flash of vulnerability, that flicker of raw emotion that makes you almost take it back, almost reach out to him. But the words are already out there, and there is no pulling them back. The hurt is done, etched into his very being, and it is as though you have shattered something delicate inside him.

And then, just as quickly, it is gone. He blinks, and you watch as the tears recede, retreating behind the steel walls he has so carefully constructed over the years. His expression hardens, his jaw setting in a line of determination, anger, and something much darker. The icy mask snaps back into place, but it is too late—you have already seen the man beneath it, the one who is wounded and scared, even if he’ll never admit it. He refuses to look at you, his gaze shifting to the side as if the very sight of you is too painful to bear. His body is rigid, coiled tight with tension, and you can practically feel the fury radiating off him in waves.

Edward’s hand shoots out, gripping under your jaw painfully. His fingers dig into your skin with enough force to make you wince, and before you can react, his other hand wraps around your waist, and he jerks you forward, spinning you around in one swift, fluid motion. The world tilts, and you barely have time to register what’s happening before you’re shoved against the cold brick wall, his body pressed against yours, pinning you in place.

“Edward, stop; you’re hurting me!”

But he does not relent. His breath is ragged and uneven through his nose, with his forehead pressed against your temple. The hand on your jaw is firm, unyielding, commanding as his other hand slams beside your head, caging you in.

“No! You don’t get to do this to me,” he hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “Not you.” His hand on your jaw tightens even more, causing you to whimper.

You can feel it in the way his body trembles, the way his muscles are taut and strained. He’s caught in a struggle, his anger and hurt battling against each other. His grip on your jaw is tight and bruising, but it’s the way his other hand presses against the wall beside your head that really tells the story as his palm and fingers curl into a tight fist. It’s as though he is trying to hold himself together, to keep from collapsing under the weight of his own feelings. The raw vulnerability you saw earlier is still there, just beneath the surface, and it’s almost too much to bear.

Brows knitting together, you crane your head away the best you can to regard him with the same intensity that he’s glaring at you with, but his grip is too strong. Your voice is steady but charged with the same fierce emotion. “And you don’t get to treat me like I’m nothing.”

The accusation hangs between you, heavy and laden with the weight of everything unspoken. It is a counterpoint to his rage, a challenge to his assertion that you’ve crossed some invisible line. You’re not backing down, not when you’ve seen how close he is to breaking, how deeply your words have cut.

The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, each inhale and exhale a testament to the turmoil between you. Edward’s gaze flickers, the icy anger momentarily giving way to something softer. He shifts slightly, his grip on your jaw loosening just a fraction as if he is suddenly aware of how much pressure he is applying. The gesture is almost imperceptible, but it is there, a sign of his internal struggle. He is fighting against the urge to push you further, to lash out, to hurt you. It is clear that the hurt you’ve caused him is raw and very real.

“Why do you think you’re something?” His voice is almost a whisper, but it is sharp, slicing through you with the sting of an arrow to the heart. “Why do you think you matter?”

The question is more than just an accusation; it’s a raw, open wound. The pain it inflicts is immediate and visceral, causing your throat to tighten painfully as you choke back the tears that threaten to spill again.

Tentative and trembling, you lift your hand to his face, fingers grazing the bandage on his cheek, the warmth of your touch contrasting sharply with the cold anger you’ve seen in his eyes. Your fingers brush gently against the warm, reddened skin where you struck him, the rough texture of his stubbled face beneath your fingertips. You can feel the tension in his jaw, the way his muscles are still taut.

“Do I not?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper but full of emotion. The question is a plea, an attempt to reach past the anger and find the truth that lies beneath it. “Do you really think that?”

Edward’s icy eyes lock onto yours, intense gaze searching yours as he grits his teeth. The silence stretches between you, filled only by your shallow breaths and the frantic pounding of your hearts.

Without warning, Edward growls, his grip shifting to your neck, fingers wrapping around it with another fierce, unrelenting hold. The change is sudden and jarring, a shift from emotional vulnerability to something far more primal and dangerous. He presses his body against yours with an intensity that makes the breath catch in your throat. His touch is urgent and dominant, squeezing your neck in a way that is firm and threatening but also deeply intimate.

Edward’s breath and face are hot against your cheek as he nuzzles you firmly, your skin slipping and dragging together as your mouth drops open in a choked sigh. You feel lightheaded and dizzy from the occluded blood flow to your brain.

In a single, decisive movement, he crashes his lips against yours. The kiss is anything but tender; it is fierce, demanding, dominating, and filled with an unrestrained need. There is no room for gentleness here. The force of his lips against yours is overwhelming. His other hand is on your waist, pulling you against him with an intensity that borders on unbearable. He presses you harder into the wall, his fingers digging into your neck, the sensation both thrilling and frightening. The edges of your vision are darkening. He deepens the kiss, his tongue shoving between your lips, driven by an almost animalistic need.

The kiss is a wild, chaotic embrace, a desperate attempt to reclaim the intimacy and connection that has been overshadowed by anger and pain. You respond with equal fervor, your hands gripping his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself amidst the storm of emotions. With his hand on your neck, you cannot move much, but your hands are free, and you use this to your advantage. Your touch finds the back of his neck before you dig your nails in, only stopping and holding when you feel and hear him hiss into your mouth. At the same time, you bite his lip hard, breaking the skin, and rake your nails forward carving a path along his neck and down his chest. If he is going to hurt you, then you will hurt him too.

The sound he makes—a low, guttural groan—vibrates against your lips, sending a shiver down your spine. The coppery tang of his blood mingles with your saliva as you drag your tongue along the cut, licking at the wound before you suck his lip into your mouth. You’re pushing him just as much as he’s pushing you, both of you locked in a battle of wills, neither willing to surrender.

But as the kiss deepens, the grip he has on your neck becomes more overwhelming, the pressure against your carotids blurring the edges of your vision, blackness creeping in. You’re teetering on the brink of losing yourself completely, your mind screaming for air even as your body clings to the intense connection you share.

With one hand still pressed against his chest, you reach for his wrist with the other, squeezing it in a silent plea. The world around you starts to fade, your vision narrowing to just the sight of his face, his typically bright, icy eyes now dark and beady as they bore into yours. Your breath comes fast, trachea carefully, intentionally unencumbered by his grip, but it does little to help the lack of blood flow to your fading brain. The shortage of oxygen is making it harder and harder to stay awake, your body struggling against the overwhelming urge to succumb to the darkness creeping in at the edges of your consciousness.

The warning in your touch tells Edward of your fading mind, and after a long, tense moment, he loosens his hold. The world snaps back into focus, the dizziness receding but not completely gone. You both break apart, your chest heaving as you catch your breath, helping the oxygen fill your brain once more, the taste of metal still lingering on your tongue. His eyes search yours, the earlier rage and desperation now mingled with something else—confusion, regret, maybe even fear. His hand, now gentle, lingers on your neck, thumb brushing over the spot where his grip was the tightest as if trying to soothe the pain. There is blood smeared across his mouth, almost like a fucked-up lipstick. Both of your hands slide to rest tenderly on his chest, your palms and fingertips feeling his dirty tank top and coarse hair revealed by the low neckline.

You let a soft smile curl onto your lips, hoping to connect with him after the passion you shared. Your mouth opens to speak. “Edward, I –“

“You’re not as special as you think you are, my dear.” Edward’s words still sting, but it is true that hurt people hurt others.

It feels like a rug has been pulled from under you.

“T-then why are you still holding on to me?” you ask, voice cracking. “If I’m nothing, why can’t you let go of me? … Don’t you need me?”

His eyes narrow as if trying to decipher your challenge.

“I don’t need you,” he growls, though the gentle grip on your neck and the way he presses his body against yours betrays the lie in his words.

Your eyes lock with his, and the intensity of the moment crashes over you both like a wave. There’s no more room for denial, no more space to pretend. The emotions that have been simmering between you—anger, frustration, desire—boil over, and you can see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his fingers dig into your skin.

“You’re lying,” you whisper, your lips quivering. “You need me just as much as I need you. You said you needed this the last time this happened. What changed?”

“I don’t need anyone.” His lips curl into a sneer, but the fire in his eyes betrays him. He leans in close again, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “But I will use you for what I want.”

The words are cruel, cutting deep. He always knows the right things to say to dig the knife a little deeper, twisting every single time. The last thing you want is to be used. You’ve spent years, since you were eighteen, using your body to entertain the greasy masses, not necessarily by choice either. Sure, at some point you came to enjoy the power that came with being an exotic dancer, but it was never what you really wanted. The idea of you only being worth what someone could buy or take from you is just a little too much. And hearing it come from Edward, someone you thought was different, someone who tries to keep his baser instincts under lock and key, someone you had to drag it out of last time, well, hearing it now really fucking hurts.

You know Edward will never verbally admit his feelings; he will deny them to his dying breath, and he will not let you have that power over him. He will never let you hold his heart in your hands. It is a lot easier for Edward to push you away than to let himself be vulnerable. It’s easier for him to tell himself that you’re nothing more than a tool, a means to an end.  You know he is genuine when he says he will use you – that he will admit. He cannot deny that he has desires just like any other man. It would be a blatant lie to deny that after the last time you were intimate, and now this.

But you know better. You’ve seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you aren’t watching, the way his hands linger on your skin just a second longer than necessary when your hands touch. You’ve felt the unspoken words in the quiet moments when the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, raw and unguarded. He may never say it, may never admit that he cares, but the truth is written in every touch, every heated glance.

Even as you know this, it doesn’t make the sting of his denial any less painful. His refusal to acknowledge what’s between you feels like a rejection of the deepest parts of yourself. It is like he is throwing your affection back in your face, denying that it even exists.

The truth hurts. The truth: you are a fool—a fool with a heart that’s latched onto someone who refuses to believe he even has one. You are not special enough to change him.

The tears well up in your eyes, stinging and threatening to fall, and Edward’s eye seems to twitch. You look away. You don’t want him to see you cry, but you can’t help it. You are not like him. You can only lock your emotions away for so long before they bubble out. He doesn’t deserve this power over you. Your vision is blurry now with the hot tears, but before they can spill over, you feel the ground disappear beneath your feet. Edward sweeps you into his arms with a fluid motion, one arm braced under your knees, the other supporting your back. The suddenness of it takes your breath away, and your arms instinctively loop around his neck, clinging to him as if he’s the only solid thing in a world that’s rapidly slipping out of your control.

You look up at him, lips forming a poignant pout, but the words you want to say die in your throat. What more can you say? Every plea, every declaration, every desperate attempt to make him see reason has been met with his relentless denial, his refusal to admit what’s so painfully obvious. There’s nothing left to say, no more words to bridge the chasm between you. And yet, when your eyes meet his, his gaze is relaxed, not soft, but no longer burning with the anger and hate that had fueled him earlier. It’s a mixed signal, as confusing and contradictory as everything else about him.

But you are too tired to analyze it, too weary from the emotional rollercoaster to try to decipher the enigma that is Edward Nigma. You just want to be with him, to feel his presence, to bask in whatever warmth he’s willing to offer, even if it’s fleeting. So, you let him carry you without protest, letting your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath the fabric, skin, and muscle.

He carries you to his bedroom, the one space in this dilapidated hideout that holds even a semblance of comfort. It’s still a mess, a study in his careless, chaotic existence, but you’ve done what you could to make it livable. The sheets are clean only because of you; otherwise, they would have been left to gather dust and grime like everything else in his life.

With a tenderness that seems almost out of place after the harshness of your earlier exchange, Edward lowers you onto the bed, setting you down as gently as if you were made of glass. Your body sinks into the single pillow, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, and he sits down beside you. Your arms are still around his neck, not daring to let go, and he does not pull away either. It is quiet, and the room is dim; only the light is the glow from the main chamber.

Slowly, his hand moves to your face, fingers brushing gently across your cheek. His touch is light, almost reverent, as if he is afraid that you might break under his hands. His earlier words echo in your mind—I will use you for what I want—but there is none of that cold detachment in the way he is touching you now. It’s as if he’s speaking through his actions, letting his hands say what his lips refuse to. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, and when his lips meet yours, it is a kiss that’s so soft, so gentle, it makes your heart ache. There is no urgency, no roughness—just a quiet, lingering intimacy that feels more like an apology than anything else. His mouth moves against yours with slow, deliberate care, as if he is afraid that if he goes too fast, you’ll slip away.

Edward’s other hand slides down to your waist, fingers tracing the curve of your body, even that touch is unhurried, almost hesitant, as if he is savoring every moment. His fingers find the hem of your top, and he dips them under, letting his calloused tips trace over your belly. You sigh and arch towards his touch. Your hands move from his neck to his chest, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles through his tank top. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm, a grounding rhythm in the midst of everything.

His kisses trail down from your lips to your jaw, then to your neck, each one softer than the last, as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of your skin under his lips. You tilt your head to the side, giving him access, and he takes it, his mouth pressing warm, lingering kisses along your throat. The hand that touched your cheek slides to the back of your neck, cradling you close to his mouth. At the same time, his hand under your shirt inches higher, higher until those warm fingertips find your breast bare from the lack of a bra. He caresses your side, letting his thumb glide over your nipple, eliciting a whimper from you. His hands move across your skin, not with the rough, desperate need you expected, but with slow, deliberate care. There is a gentleness in his touch that makes you want to melt into him, to let go of everything, and just lose yourself in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

And there is a silent understanding between you now, a recognition of the emotions that neither of you can fully articulate. The passion is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s tempered by something deeper that neither of you is ready to admit –probably never admit. He kisses you again, soft and slow, his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. It’s as if he’s trying to pour all the unspoken words into this one kiss, trying to show you that despite everything, despite his inability to say it, you matter to him more than he can bear to say.

And in that moment, with his lips and hands moving gently against your skin, you understand. You understand that this is his way of showing you that you are not nothing to him, that you are not just something to be used and discarded. Even if he cannot say it, even if he will never admit it, you know. You can feel it in the way he touches you, in the way he holds you, in the way he kisses you like you are the most precious thing in the world.

Feeling a surge of pleasure ripple through your body, you raise up, palms against his chest, moving slowly to push and redirect him onto his back. He shuffles along the mattress backward until he reaches the pillow. Desperate for the continued connection, your mouth never leaves his as you follow and climb atop him, straddling his waist. Somewhere along this process, he kicks his boots off because you hear them clop to the floor, and you push your sneakers off soon toeing your socks off as well. Both of you are taking your time, movements languid, savoring every little detail between you two.

Sighing into Edward’s warm, moist mouth, you taste his natural flavor with a tinge of coffee. After a moment, you taste the coppery flavor again, the cut you gave him still too new for it to take the stress of your kiss. Your brow furrows, and you cup his cheeks, arching over him and gently lapping at his sore lip. He groans, head relaxing even more against the bed and your mouth following, not letting go. You are acutely aware when his fingers are grazing your hips and waist again, the touch feather light. His fingers find the hem of your shirt, and you can feel the unspoken desire in his touch. The gentleness of it tugs deep within you, a part of you that wants to believe there’s more to his rough edges, that maybe, just maybe, there is something real beneath his guarded exterior.

Eager to feel more of him, to close the distance that still seems to exist between you, you break the kiss and sit up, your legs straddling his hips. The look in Edward’s eyes is a mixture of longing and something else—perhaps surprise, perhaps anticipation—as he watches you take control of the moment. Your fingers grip the bottom of your shirt, and with a quick motion, you pull it over your head, letting it fall carelessly to the side. Your hair tumbles around your face, messy from the movement, but you don’t care. All you can focus on is the way Edward’s eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his breath hitching just slightly.

Your hips roll gently against his, and you feel his arousal pressing against you, hard and insistent through the thick material of his cargo pants. The belts he always wears dig into the sensitive skin of your thighs, but the discomfort is a distant thought, overshadowed by the heat building between you. His eyes never leave yours, that sharp, calculating gaze now softened by the desire that neither of you can deny.

With a gentle yet insistent tug, your hands slide along the fabric of Edward’s open button-up shirt, urging him to remove it. The tension sparks between the two of you as he raises himself up, coming nose to nose with you, your breaths mingling in little pants. His eyes flicker over your face, absorbing every detail, as he slowly slips the green shirt off his shoulders. The soft rustle of fabric as it falls away is the only other sound in the quiet room.

Your hands, greedy and impatient, immediately find the hem of his tank top, fingers skimming up his sides. The warmth of his skin beneath your palms sends a shiver through you as you help him peel the shirt away. As the garment joins the discarded pile on the floor, your fingers dive into the coarse hair on his chest, relishing the feel of his tight, lean muscles beneath. Your thumbs trace along the ridges of his torso, feeling the tension in his body, the subtle strength coiled just beneath the surface.

Edward’s hands are not idle either. As you explore the contours of his chest, he undoes the belts at his waist, each metallic clink of the buckles making your heart race faster. The sound of his fly being undone fills the space between you and his pants loosen around his hips.

Leaning forward, your head dips to his neck, and you press soft, teasing kisses against his skin. Every so often, you suckle gently, savoring the way his body reacts to your touch. The tase of his skin, salty, sweaty is delectable on your tongue. You feel the subtle tilt of his head towards you, his stubbled cheek nuzzling against your own as if seeking more of your touch. His scent, musky and distinctly Edward, fills your senses, grounding you in the moment.

As his hands work to pull down his pants, you instinctively lift your hips, allowing him to shed the material along with his socks. The first barriers between you are removed, and when you settle back onto his pelvis, the sensation of his bare skin against your inner thighs sends a jolt of heat through your body. His erection presses against your warm center, a firm reminder of the desire simmering just beneath the surface. You groan between the kisses you plant on his neck and shoulders as you grind into him. He sucks in a sharp breath beside your ear, and he grips your hips to pull you more down firmly. But the frustrating barrier of your shorts remains, keeping you from fully feeling him, fully connecting.

Edward’s hands slide up your sides again, this time more deliberate, more confident. His fingers brush over the curve of your waist, lingering briefly at the swell of your breasts, before settling on your back. With a tender pull, he draws you down to the bed with him, your bodies aligning perfectly. One of his hands trails up your spine, finding its way into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands with a tenderness that belies the earlier harshness of his words.

He draws your face back to his, and when his lips meet yours again, the kiss is deep, hungry, and searching. His tongue explores your mouth, the taste of him familiar and intoxicating, as if you could drown in it and never care. Your own hand moves between your bodies, sliding down to push your shorts down your thighs, desperate to remove the last barrier keeping you apart. Edward’s free hand immediately comes to assist, his fingers hooking into the waistband to help you shed the fabric. His touch is as eager as yours, matching your urgency with his own.

Breathing heavily through your nostrils, you both refuse to break the kiss, even as you maneuver to discard the last of your clothing. The moment your shorts slip free, you feel the raw heat of his arousal against you, skin to skin, no more barriers. The sensation sends a wave of pleasure coursing through you, and a soft moan escapes your lips, muffled by the kiss. Edward’s hand on your back presses you closer, his need for you evident in every touch, every breathless kiss. His lips move against yours, exploring, devouring, as if trying to communicate all the things he’ll never say. The hand tangled in your hair pulls slightly, angling your head to deepen the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth with an intensity that makes your toes curl.

The room is steeped in a quiet intensity. As you lift your hips, you break the kiss, finding his blue eyes are fixed on you, pupils dilated, and breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. His face is a study in contrasts—sharp angles softened by the flush of arousal, the perpetual sneer on his lips now trembling with a need he’s struggling to contain. Every inch of him is attuned to your movements, the way your body hovers over his, poised and ready. Edward is not a man easily swayed by sentiment, but here, now, there is a crack in his facade—a raw, vulnerable humanity in the way his gaze searches yours, begging for something he’d never dare ask out loud.

Silent, you align his erection with your aching, wet cunt. His body goes taut beneath you, his muscles coiled with anticipation. You tease him first, letting the head of his cock slip along your folds, each movement deliberate and slow. His breath hitches sharply, the sound raspy and desperate, and his hands tighten—one in your hair, the other gripping your hip with a near-painful intensity. It is a quiet plea, a wordless admission of need from a man who refuses to voice such things.

Biting your lip, you reach down to cup his face, your thumb brushing against the stubble that dusts his jawline. The touch is gentle as you guide him to keep his gaze on you. You want him to see you, to feel every inch of the connection you’re about to make. And as your hips start to lower, you ensure he doesn’t look away, doesn’t retreat behind the walls he’s so carefully built.

When you finally sink down on him, Edward gasps—a sound that’s quickly swallowed by the silence of the room. His head falls back against the bed, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as you inch down on him, your warmth enveloping him slowly, deliberately. His hands abandon their hold on your hair, both now gripping your hips with a desperation that mirrors the intensity of his shallow breaths. You can feel him trembling beneath you, the shiver that runs up his body like a current, making his teeth chatter lightly as he struggles to maintain control. You move with agonizing slowness, savoring every inch of him as you take him deeper. His breath hitches again, a sharp intake of air that’s punctuated by a low, throaty groan. The sound vibrates against your lips, sending a thrill through your entire body. Edward’s eyes flutter open, locking onto yours once more, and there’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s on the brink of falling apart but refuses to let go.

Edward’s long-fingered hands grip your hips tighter, urging you down further, and you oblige, sinking fully onto him until there’s nothing left between you. The stretch is delicious, and the connection between your bodies feels electric, every nerve ending alight with the raw, pulsing need that neither of you can deny. Edward’s head tilts back more, his neck exposed, the column of his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, trying to regain his composure.

You watch him, fascinated by the way his body responds to yours, the way his chest rises and falls with each labored breath. His skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat, his muscles taut under your touch. There’s a vulnerability in this moment, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the mask, the one who’s too proud, too stubborn to admit how deeply he needs you.

But here, in the quiet intimacy of this moment, words aren’t necessary. His hands, his touch, his lips—all of it speaks for him. There is no need to push or prod, no need to force anything out of him.

With a gentle hand, you push his messy, dirty hair back from his forehead, tangling in the dark locks as you hover over him. His eyes are half-lidded, a dazed look in them as you touch him, as if he can’t believe you’re real, can’t believe you’re here with him like this. Slowly, you lift your hips completely off him, feeling every inch of his cock slide out of your soaked, throbbing cunt. The sensation leaves him gasping, his body trembling beneath you as he struggles to hold on to the last threads of control. You hesitate, savoring the way he twitches against your folds, his desire evident in the way his breath catches, the way his eyes darken with need. Then, with deliberate intent, you drop your hips again, taking him back inside you in one smooth motion. The sudden, intense sensation draws a guttural groan from deep within his chest, his teeth gritting as he struggles to contain the pleasure surging through him. His hands clutch at your hips, fingers digging into your flesh as if to anchor himself, to keep from losing himself entirely.

You pick up the pace, setting a rhythm that is both sensual and demanding, rolling your body in a way that makes your clit brush against his lower belly, the dark hair at the base of his cock teasing you with each thrust. The friction is perfect, the way his body responds to yours, making your blood sing with each stroke. The slick sound of your arousal pooling between you fills the room, mingling with the breathy moans escaping both of you as you move together.

The rhythm of your hips against his becomes a silent conversation, a give-and-take that leaves you both breathless. The gentle friction, the warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he’s looking at you as if you’re the only thing that matters—all of it tells you what he’s too proud, too afraid to say aloud.

You raise up once more, settling back on your haunches, your thighs burning with the effort as you move languidly, lifting, lowering, rocking, and rolling on his cock. Your hands are planted firmly on his chest, feeling the tense muscle beneath as you brace yourself, riding him with a slow, deliberate rhythm. At this new angle, you feel him deeper, the head of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, makes your vision blur with the intensity of the pleasure coursing through you.

Edward’s body reacts instinctively, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his hands pulling you down harder, grinding you deeper into him. The sensations are overwhelming, his length filling you completely, the pressure building with each slow, steady thrust. His breath is ragged, his chest heaving as he loses himself in the rhythm you’ve set, in the way your body moves against his.

“F-fuck…” he groans. You’re not even sure he meant to speak, but the way his eyes seem to roll back makes you believe he is not thinking anymore.

You keep your pace steady, every movement of your hips designed to draw out his pleasure, to push him closer to the edge. His hands roam over your body, exploring every curve, every inch of skin, as if he’s trying to memorize you, to burn the memory of this moment into his mind. The connection between you is electric, the tension between pleasure and control teetering on a knife’s edge, ready to tip over at any moment.

You can feel him tightening beneath you, his muscles contracting and relaxing, his breath catching as he teeters on the brink. Your own body is winding up, the pleasure coiling low in your belly, ready to snap. But you don’t rush it, savoring the way he looks up at you, the way his eyes are glazed with lust, with something deeper, something he’ll never admit.

As you lean down, your lips brush his in a soft, lingering kiss. The tenderness of it contrasts with the fiery passion that has brought you both to this moment. Your hips roll one last time, the motion slow and deliberate, pushing him to the very edge. His gasp is hot against your mouth, and then it turns into a sharp yelp as his body breaks beneath you. The tension that has been building for so long snaps, sending him spiraling into a powerful release. You feel every shudder, every pulse of his cock as he empties himself deep inside you, the warmth of his cum flooding your core. His blunt fingernails dig into your hips, his grip almost desperate as he clings to you, grounding himself in the overwhelming sensation.

The sensation of him filling you, combined with the intensity of his release, pushes you over the edge. A heartbeat later, the pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under its relentless force. You cry out, fingers tightening on his chest as you whimper and moan.

“E-edward,” you gasp. Your body trembles, every muscle tightening as your climax grips you, causing you to clamp down on his cock even more. Your toes curl tight, spasming, and you throw your head back, chest arching as you ride him, feeling a warm, wet flood of fluids rush between you.

While the intensity of your climax overtakes you, Edward groans and, with a shuddering breath, he raises up again, with you still straddling his lap. His eyes are half-closed and glazed with drunken satisfaction. He shifts, cradling your body with a reverent care that seems almost at odds with his usual demeanor. His hands, which had been gripping your hips with a primal urgency, now move with a gentler, almost worshipful touch. They slide up your back, caressing the curve of your spine before coming to rest on your shoulder blades. His fingers splay out, fingertips tracing the delicate line of the bones, a touch both intimate and comforting. Then he dips you back, your hair teasing the bed behind you.

As you ride him through the aftershocks of your release, he leans forward, pressing soft, lingering kisses between your breasts. His lips are warm and tender against your skin, the contrast between his earlier fervor and this newfound gentleness. Each kiss is a gentle brush, almost like a whisper of apology or acknowledgment of the connection that exists beyond the physical. His softening erection remains inside you, and he remains still. The mingling of your fluids creates a warm, slick sensation between you.

Edward’s breath, ragged and warm, fans across your skin. Each exhale is heavy, a testament to the exertion and satisfaction of your shared moment. His arms encircle you more with a protective ease, pulling you back against his chest with a smooth, almost languid motion. As he draws you down to the bed with him, your lower bodies separate, and you both release moans of pleasure at the sensation of his cum slipping out. The mess is inconsequential in the face of the quiet, profound closeness that follows.

The room, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, feels almost oppressive in its humidity. The distant drip of a leaky pipe and the struggling hum of the broken AC provide a backdrop to the silence that envelops you.

You rest your head against Edward’s shoulder, finding solace in the steady rhythm of his breath. The gentle rise and fall of his chest is a grounding presence. Your fingers tangle in the thick curls of his chest hair, enjoying the tactile sensation of his warmth beneath your touch. The texture of it is comforting, familiar in its softness, and you find a certain peace in the simple act of feeling him close. As you scratch your nails lightly along his heated skin, you hear him let out a contented sigh, his body sinking into the mattress.

“Hey…” He breaks the silence, voice soft and unexpectedly tender.

You sigh, unsure of what’s coming next from his sharp tongue.

“No more coffee near electronics, okay?” he murmurs before kissing the top of your head.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips, the warmth of his kiss and the unexpected gentleness of his voice making your heart flutter. You relax further into his embrace, letting the comfort of his presence envelop you.

“Yes, Sir.”

Nestling deeper into Edward's embrace, your eyes slowly drift closed. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest becomes a lullaby, soothing your frayed nerves and guiding you towards sleep. The warmth between you is a tender reminder of the intense connection you’ve shared, a bittersweet comfort that lingers even as the physical pleasure fades into quietude.

Your mind begins to wander, reflecting on the events of the day. You replay the moments, the heated exchange, and the quiet intimacy that followed. There is a sense of tentative resolution, a comforting knowledge that despite the turbulence, things have settled into a fragile but genuine closeness. Yet, despite this solace, a soft ache tugs at your heart.

You know that now is not the time for deep conversations about feelings or future promises. Edward's defenses are still up, his emotions concealed behind layers of carefully constructed barriers. The question of when, or even if, he will let those emotional walls down is uncertain. The hope for a day when he might open up, when the truth of his feelings might be spoken aloud, is a distant dream.

You cling to that hope, however fragile or improbable it might be.

Edward Nigma hired an assistant to help ease the burden of his more menial tasks.

It has been a year since you started working for him, and despite the odds, you have managed to last longer than most of his previous assistants. He doesn’t understand it, but he can't deny your resilience.

You are clumsy, disorganized, and constantly glued to your phone, barely paying attention to the tasks he sets before you. You have broken equipment that costs more than you are worth, tripped over wires, spilled coffee on one of his precious blueprints, and broke the AC. How you managed that, he still doesn’t know, and frankly, he doesn’t want to know.

You are always apologizing, nervously laughing it off and promising to do better next time. But there is always a next time with you, isn’t there? Another mishap, another mistake, another instance of you proving just how average—no, below average—you are. And yet, for some unfathomable reason, he keeps you around.

Edward tried to rationalize it. Maybe it is because you are cheap labor. Or perhaps it is because you are easily replaceable, though he has not bothered to replace you. He has even considered that maybe, just maybe, you are a distraction—a way for him to pass the time between his grander schemes. But no, that cannot be it. He is the Riddler. He doesn’t need distractions. He thrives on focus, precision, and perfection—everything you are not. He struggles to understand your value, a confusion that haunts him.

There is nothing special about you. Mediocre. Can barely do anything right.

He tells himself this over and over again, as if repeating it will make the thought that’s been nagging at the back of his mind go away. But it doesn’t. Every time you stumble into his lair with that sheepish grin, every time you drop something and scramble to pick it up, his irritation flares, but so does something else. Something he refuses to acknowledge, a tension that he pushes away with all his might.

You break things. You trip all over the place and get hurt more than he does.

He notices these things, more than he cares to admit. How you will clutch your hand to your chest and hiss quietly after burning it on a hot piece of equipment. How you will laugh off a bruise, assuring him it is nothing serious. How you will bite your lip when you are concentrating your puny little brain on trying to bury the pain. It annoys him—no, it infuriates him. You are a liability, a disaster waiting to happen, but he can't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for your constant struggle.

Maybe if you weren’t always on your phone and actually paying attention you wouldn’t get hurt as much.

This is perhaps the most infuriating thing of all. He is a genius, a mastermind, and here you are, scrolling through social media or texting your friends while he is explaining the intricacies of his latest plan. It is as if you don’t even care, like you are completely unaware of the brilliance unfolding before you. He has berated you for it more times than he can count, and yet, the behavior persists. He has tried taking the phone away, but you somehow always manage to get it back. He has even considered destroying it, but something stops him—a lingering thought that maybe he does not want to see that look of disappointment on your face.

Sometimes, Edward feels he would just be better off without you and your messy humanity.

So why does he feel a twinge when you mention possibly going out with some of your friends tonight...?

When you are not there, when you are late or take a day off, he finds himself checking the time more often, glancing at the door, waiting for your inevitable arrival. It is pathetic, really, how accustomed he has become to your presence.

Tonight, it is a simple, offhand remark. You are cleaning up whatever mess you call ‘work’ (really, what do you do?), barely looking at him as you mention that you might go out tonight, meet up with some friends, maybe catch a movie or grab a drink. You say it so casually, as if it is no big deal, as if it is just a normal part of your life.

But to him, it feels like a punch to the solar plexus.

“And you’re telling me this why?” His voice drips with disdain as he narrows his eyes, barely hiding his irritation. His gaze darts to your hands, your hot pink nails an eyesore against the drab tones of his lair. They are so out of place, so… you.

There is also a gleam in your eye as you watch him. He does not like it. Almost as if you know something he does not… He knows everything! You know nothing!

“Just making conversation, Sir.” You shrug, offering him that goofy smile he loathes so much. It is too bright, too warm— stark to the cold, calculated world he lives in. He feels his stomach twist at the sight of it.

Edward hates that smile. It is disarming in a way that makes him uncomfortable.

Why should he care? You are free to do as you please. It is not as if he owns you—no matter how much he likes to pretend otherwise during work hours. But the thought of you out there, with people who aren’t him, who don’t understand you—or worse, who might appreciate you in ways he can’t—gnaws at him.

“Making conversation,” he repeats, the words laced with bitterness as he turns back to his work, his fingers twitching with the urge to tear apart the plans laid before him. “You’re here to assist me, not to waste time with idle chatter.”

You simply nod, unfazed by his tone, and return to your task, flipping through and organizing the pages with that same infuriating smile still lingering on your lips. The silence stretches on, thick with unspoken tension, as you continue to file away the documents.

Edward cannot help but watch you out of the corner of his eye, catching the way your brow furrows in concentration, how you chew on your bottom lip when you think he isn’t looking. There is something about you, something that keeps drawing his attention despite his best efforts to focus on his work. He wants to bite that lip, to split it and make it bleed into your kiss, staining both of your teeth. Yes, maybe if he were to mess up those pretty, pearly whites of yours, then you wouldn’t be so perfect. Maybe he would not want you so badly.

“So, you’re… going out tonight, then?” The question slips out before he can stop it, his voice betraying a hint of curiosity that he immediately regrets. He clenches his jaw, cursing himself for letting his guard down even for a moment.

You glance up at him, seeming a little surprised by the question, but you nod nonetheless. “Yeah, I was thinking about it. Just meeting up with some friends, nothing big. I’m on the fence though.” You tilt your head slightly, your expression softening as you observe him. “Why? Is there something you need me to do instead? I’d be happy to stay.”

His mind races for an excuse, something to keep you here, but he finds himself at a loss. “No,” he snaps. “Just make sure you’re not too tired to function tomorrow.” He can feel the lie burning on his tongue, the real reason festering inside him like a wound.

You nod, accepting his words at face value, and turn your attention back to collect your bag and phone. Your eyes immediately find the screen, causing the light to filter over your face and gleam in your eyes. You smile, seem to type a message back to someone, and he grits his teeth.

He cannot shake the unease settling in his chest, the thought of you out there, beaming and laughing with others, leaving him with an unfamiliar pang of… something. Is it jealousy? Possessiveness? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he can’t control it, can’t rationalize it away as easily as he wants to.

“Be careful,” he mutters under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear, and he isn’t sure why he says it at all.

You glance up from your phone again, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “I will, Sir. Thanks.” You wave at him over your shoulder as you traipse out the door. “Goodnight~!”

He scoffs, turning his back to you as you leave the lair, forcing himself to focus on the blueprints spread out before him.

Once you are gone, it is quiet save for the usual errant clanks and sparks. He sighs, runs a hand through his greasy hair and sets about to patching the armor of one of his riddlerbots.

However, Edward’s mind is elsewhere, drifting to thoughts of you out there, beyond his reach, living a life that doesn’t include him. And he hates it. He hates the way it makes him feel, the way it makes him want to lash out, to pull you back into his world where he can keep an eye on you, where he can pretend that you don’t matter as much as you do.

But he can’t do that.

Instead, he stews in his own frustration, telling himself that tomorrow will be another day, that he will regain control and push these irrational feelings aside. Though, deep down, he knows it isn’t that simple. You have wormed your way into his life, into his mind, and no matter how hard he tries, he cannot shake the feeling that he is craving something he never even realized he wanted.

So, when you traipse back into his hideout mere hours later dressed in sweatpants, a plain tank top, and sneakers, with your hair up in a messy bun, he feels a nervous flutter in his chest that he cannot quite explain. He catches your movement into the main space out of the corner of his eye, and it makes him do a double take. Still holding onto his welder, he pushes his goggles up onto his forehead, narrows his eyes, and then sets the tool down with a clatter.

What are you doing here? And looking like that…?

It is disconcerting, the way you can look so effortlessly attractive, like you did not even try, yet somehow managed to pull it off perfectly. His eyes are drawn to the low ride of your sweatpants, how they sit comfortably on your hips, teasing the slightest glimpse of skin.

Then there is the makeup. The smoky eye, sultry and smudged just right, gives you an edge that stands out even more against the casualness of your outfit. It is a contradiction, one that he finds himself inexplicably drawn to, despite how much he wants to pretend he isn’t. The berry lip gloss, subtle but effective, catches the light, making your lips appear plump and inviting. Every time your gaze shifts and your lips part slightly, his eyes betray him, flicking to the sheen that makes them seem almost… kissable.

Edward curses himself for the thought, the unwelcome tightness in his chest and pants that accompanies it. This isn’t supposed to happen. You are supposed to be just another person in his world, a minor annoyance at best. But the way you look, the way you carry yourself with such casual confidence—it unnerves him. You are not trying to impress anyone, least of all him, yet you do. Effortlessly.

The way you look tonight is like a trap—one he is not prepared to deal with. It is in the little details: the way your bottoms hang languidly from your hips, the way your hair is chaotically perfect, the way the casualness of your appearance somehow makes you even more appealing. It is a disarming kind of beauty, one that sneaks past his defenses and settles uncomfortably in his mind. He is used to control, to structure, but you… you’re chaos, wrapped in a deceptively simple package.

“Why are you here? I thought you'd be out with your friends right now.” His voice is laced with annoyance, but beneath it, there is something else—something he cannot quite name.

Edward watches you hesitate, your gaze lingering on him in a way that makes him uneasy. There is a tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that he tries to ignore. He felt it earlier too, when you first mentioned going out – like you know something he doesn’t. It irritates him more than it should, and he cannot understand why. It is not like he cares what you think or know or do. At least, that is what he tells himself.

“Yeah, well, I was getting ready, and all I could think about was that I wanted to be with you more - helping you out. I wasn’t completely on board to begin with.” You said with a nonchalant shrug. “And you're one of my friends, too, anyway.” You say it so casually.

The words hit him harder than he expects.

Friends?

Edward Nigma doesn’t need friends - doesn’t want them. And yet, the way you say it, the cool ease in your voice, unsettles him. He freezes, eyes narrowing as he turns to face you fully, disbelief and scorn twisting his features.

“Pffft, in what world would I consider you a friend? I don’t need any friends.” The words are sharp, designed to push you away, to maintain the distance he always keeps. But as soon as he says them, he notices something else—something that makes his mind stumble and sputter.

Your eyes keep drifting to his lips.

Every time your gaze flickers there, he feels an odd jolt, a sensation that makes his loins contract. It is not just your words that are throwing him off—it is the way you are looking at him like you are seeing something he is not ready to show. It makes his thoughts scatter, his usual sharp wit dulled by the confusion you are stirring inside him.

“Everyone needs a friend, Mr. Nigma.”

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters, turning away abruptly. His gloved hands flat against the table, the hard surface grounding him in the chaos of his own thoughts. The insult lacks its usual venom, and he hates how weak it sounds.

He expects you to flinch, to back off, but you don’t. Instead, you saddle closer, that damn smile still on your face. “Maybe I am. But I’m your idiot.”

Edward stiffens, his mind reeling. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You’re supposed to leave, go out with your friends, and give him the space he needs to get his head on straight. But here you are, standing right next to him, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from your hot body. He eyes you from the side.

Fuck…

You’re not wearing a bra.

His eyes flicker down to your chest, and his breath catches in his throat. The thin material of your tank top clings to your curves, leaving little to the imagination. He can clearly see the outline of your dusky nipples, erect and round, pressing against the fabric. The sight sends a jolt of desire to his lower body, causing his loins to contract once and relax, an involuntary reaction that he cannot control. Saliva pools in his mouth, and he swallows hard, forcing himself to maintain composure.

But it’s a losing battle.

Every instinct is screaming at him to look away, to regain control, but his eyes are glued to the way your top hugs your form, the way your breasts rise and fall with each breath. The warmth radiating from your body is intoxicating, drawing him in despite his better judgment.

He forces himself to meet your gaze, turning to face you, but even that is a mistake. The look in your eyes—knowing, teasing, aware of the effect you’re having on him—only makes things worse. It is as if you can see right through his defenses, past the veneer of confidence and into the turmoil beneath.

You shift slightly, and the movement draws his eyes back to your chest, to the way your nipples brush against the fabric with each tiny motion and how the dense tissue jiggles. It’s almost unbearable, the way every little detail seems to amplify his need, his frustration, his inability to control his own reaction.

This is ridiculous.

He is the Riddler, for God’s sake. He is supposed to be in control, always three steps ahead, always the one pulling the strings. But right now, all he can think about is the fact that you are standing there, so close, so warm, so soft looking, so enticingly vulnerable, and it’s taking every ounce of willpower he has not to reach out and squeeze you, to feel the supple flesh of your body dimpling beneath his fingertips.

He clears his throat, trying to steady himself, but his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "You… you should really go," he says, though the words lack conviction. His eyes betray him, drifting back to your chest, to the subtle movements that continue to draw his attention.

You tilt your head, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Do you really want me to?" you ask, your voice soft and teasing, as if you know exactly how conflicted he is.

Edward clenches his fists, trying to summon the resolve to push you away, to reassert control over the situation. But the heat in his body is relentless, the pull of desire growing stronger with each passing second.

“You should be out enjoying yourself,” he finally says, his voice quieter now, almost as if he’s speaking more to himself than to you.

“I told you, I wanted to be here with you.” Your answer is simple, and it only makes things worse. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

He doesn’t know how to respond. The idea of someone choosing him, wanting to be around him, is foreign, almost laughable. Well, he pays you… But, for all intents and purposes, you are not ‘on the clock’ right now.

The sincerity in your voice, in your eyes, makes it hard to dismiss. And then there’s the way your gaze keeps flicking to his lips, that subtle but unmistakable sign of desire. It is making his mind short-circuit, his usual sharpness dulled by the chaos you are stirring within him. It is both frustrating and terrifying, this loss of control, this unfamiliar territory where his usual defenses seem to crumble. His mind is glitching, a constant loop of conflicting thoughts and emotions. He’s supposed to be in control here, supposed to be the one calling the shots. But instead, all he can think about is how close you are, how your presence is making him feel things he doesn’t want to feel, things that complicate everything.

“Of course, I can believe you’d want to be around me. I’m amazing, the greatest,” he says the last part as he clenches his fist in front of him – and it is unclear if he is making the point to you or himself.

You giggle.

Edward watches as you laugh, the sound light, like tinkling bells, musical in the industrial backdrop. The tension between you seems to ease just a little, the weight of the moment softened by your laughter. His eyes, sharp and calculating, flicker down to your mouth, catching the way your dainty fingertips—with those hot pink nails—draw attention to the soft flush of your lips. Goddamn, he would like to see how far those plump lips can stretch, how far you can drop your jaw, and how much of him you can take.

“What, why are you laughing?” He grumbles, though he loves the feminine sound. “Stop that. Stop it right now.” He is nearly squawking, which makes you laugh even more, your cheeks flushing pink from the effort.

“Nothing,” you pause and give him a pointed look, fingers still poise near your perfect mouth, “you’re just so cute.”

What?

“What?” He is glitching out.  

“Yeah-“ your hand drops, revealing those supple lips curling up at one side as you flash your flawless, white teeth – “cute.”

It is infuriating how easily you disarm him, how you seem to know exactly how to push his buttons.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, though his voice lacks its usual bite. His eyes dart nervously, as if searching for something to latch onto, something to ground him in this moment where he suddenly feels so exposed. “I am not - not cute. I’m—I'm the Riddler! I am—”

You cut him off with a light touch on his arm, your fingers grazing just under the sleeve of his shirt to stroke the tense muscle of his bicep, and he nearly jumps at the sensation. "Oh, I know exactly who you are," you purr, your voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "The Riddler, the greatest mind Gotham has ever seen... but right now, you’re just a man with desires – very human desires."

Edward clenches his fists at his sides, trying to regain some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through his fingers like sand.

"You’re trying to antagonize me," he accuses, though his words lack conviction. His eyes dart around your face, enjoying how the darkness of your smokey makeup highlights your big orbs.

"Is it working?" you ask, leaning in slightly, your voice dripping with flirtation. You’re so close now that he can feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, see the mischief dancing in your gaze.

“Yes, no, wait. St-stop, stop,” he says, his voice shaky as he struggles to maintain control. He takes a step back away from your bubble. “Stop… I need to think rationally.”

You raise an eyebrow, a touch of amusement and curiosity in your gaze. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’re a distraction, apparently,” he snaps, the frustration in his voice barely masking the vulnerability he’s trying so hard to hide. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady his thoughts, but his words come out in a strained murmur. “Sometimes, I just want to wrap my hands around your throat and throttle you because you are so cumbersome.”

Your lips curve into a wry smile. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

Fuckfuckfuck – fuuuuck.

Now, he is imagining the moment vividly, his fingers tightening around your throat, feeling the fragile bones beneath, the softness of your skin against his calloused palms. He envisions the way your eyes would widen in shock, that glimmer of defiance and allure flickering in your gaze. That gleam he’s both fascinated and infuriated by, slowly dimming as the pressure builds. It’s a power trip, a surge of control over you, the very thing you seem to strip from him so effortlessly with just a look, a laugh, a touch.

The idea of watching your confidence wane, of seeing you reduced to something fragile, something breakable beneath his grip, stirs something dark inside him. It’s not just about the control, though that’s part of it. It’s about seeing the effect he has on you, of knowing that he could, in that moment, hold your life in his hands, deciding whether to take it or spare it. He pictures your lips, parted in a silent gasp, your body tense beneath his, your every breath a struggle against his strength. And then, in his mind, he grants you mercy, loosening his grip just enough to let you breathe again. The flicker of life returns to your eyes, and he imagines the way you’d look at him then—fearful, submissive, and yet still burning with that maddening allure that keeps drawing him in.

It’s a sick fantasy, one he knows he shouldn’t entertain, but it’s there nonetheless, simmering just below the surface. Because in that imagined moment, he has all the power. You, who have managed to twist his thoughts, to make him feel things he doesn’t want to feel, would be completely at his mercy.

FUCK.

Edward swallows hard, feeling his resolve crumble under your gaze. "I don’t have time for this," he mutters, though even he can hear how unconvincing he sounds. His eyes betray him, flicking down to your lips once more, his mind racing with thoughts he can’t quite suppress.

You chuckle, the sound sending a shiver down his spine as you step closer once more. "Make time for it," you tease, your fingers sliding to play with the collar of his open shirt. "You’re not fooling anyone, Mr. Nigma. You like this... you like me."

His breath hitches, and for a moment, he is completely at a loss for words. Your confidence and your playfulness are all too much, and they leave him feeling more vulnerable than he has ever been. He is the one who is supposed to be in control, the one who dictates the terms of every interaction, and yet here you are, turning the tables on him with nothing more than your feminine wiles.

"Stop it," he finally manages to croak out, though there’s no force behind the command. His hands twitch at his sides, aching to reach out and pull you closer, to give in to the pull you have on him. But he can’t—he won’t.

"Make me," you challenge, your voice daring and playful.

Edward’s jaw clenches, torn between the desire to assert his dominance and assert his dominance.

When you touch his neck, grazing the most recent bandage you placed on him, he tenses, every nerve on high alert. Your hand curves around the back of his neck. He should pull away, should snap at you, but he doesn’t. He can’t. There’s something disarming about the simple gesture, something that makes him feel vulnerable in a way he’s not used to.

"I-“ He’s slipping, and deep down, part of him doesn’t want to stop it. He doesn't know what to say. “Wait-“ The fingers of your free hand touch his lips. He goes crossed-eyed for a moment when he focuses on that bright color of your manicure. He gulps, his lips bob against your fingertip, and his worried eyes flick back to yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you say softly, your voice a strange tone of understanding and patience.

Silence stretches between you, the only sound the faint hum of machinery. He can’t bring himself to move, to break the moment. Your hand on the nape of his neck, those manicured fingers on his lips, touch light and feathery, is grounding him, keeping him from spiraling into the chaos of his own mind. And for the first time in a long while, he doesn’t hate the feeling of someone else being close. He stares at you, feeling anger and something else—something deeper and more unsettling. The warmth of your touch on his skin, the genuine look in your eyes, it’s all too much for him to process.

Edward’s mind races, trying to grasp why he’s so thrown off by you being here, why your touch and your words make him feel so vulnerable. He is used to being in control, used to pushing people away, but with you, everything is different. Your casual attractiveness, your easy confidence, it undermines his defenses in ways he can’t ignore.

He is caught between the impulse to pull away and the desire to stay close, to hold on to this strange connection you’ve sparked. For once, he is not sure how to handle the emotions swirling inside him. The tension in his shoulders is a physical manifestation of his internal struggle, and he cannot help but feel a pang of frustration as he realizes just how much you are affecting him.

His gaze holds yours, the silence stretching between you as if time itself has slowed. The tension is almost tangible, a crackling energy that makes his heart race and his breath hitch. For the first time, he is aware of how much he is struggling to maintain control. The confidence he usually wields with such ease feels like it’s slipping through his fingers, and he’s left grappling with a raw vulnerability that he’s not accustomed to.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing to me?” he snaps as he pants, his voice wavering despite his attempt to sound commanding. “You turn everything upside down. It’s infuriating.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.” Those gleaming eyes of yours are half-lidded as you gaze up at him. Your lips look so fucking good...

Edward’s face tightens, a scowl forming as he tries to push back against the surge of feelings you’ve stirred. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Like you can just waltz in here and fix everything with your cheerful nonsense. I’d be a lot better off without you getting in my way and breaking shit.”

“You know, it’s funny,” you say, pressing your body against his, your hand sliding down his jaw to his neck, your eyes following when your nails rake down his collarbone to pet the chest hair peeking out over his dirty tank top. He stiffens, your contact electrifying and repulsive at once. “You’re so determined to push me away, but it’s clear that you don’t really want me to go.” You roll your hips into his, letting him know you can feel his erection.

Edward feels the heat rise to his face, an uncomfortable warmth that starts at his chest and works its way up to his cheeks. The flush is undeniable, betraying the turmoil churning inside him as you press your body against his, rolling your hips in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation. He knows you can feel his arousal, knows you’re doing this on purpose. The realization makes his breath hitch, and he hates how easily you’re affecting him.

He looks at you, the words catching in his throat. The way you’re so close, the heat radiating from your body, and the softness of your touch make it almost impossible for him to think straight.

The scent of your shampoo, perfume, or whatever feminine flowery bullshit choice of the day is swirls and invades his nostrils. Everything about you is soft and clean and healthy and everything he is not.

Suddenly, he is aware of how different you two are. He is aware of how unkempt he is right now. Everything about you is maintained with care. Meanwhile, he has been trapped in his lair for days, maybe weeks, without a single thought of hygiene. His hair is matted, his skin greasy, and the clothes he’s wearing? He’s been in them for longer than he’d care to admit, stained with sweat, dirt, paint, and who knows what else.

Your presence only amplifies his awareness of his own filth. The realization makes him shift uncomfortably, a creeping sense of self-loathing threading through the arousal you’ve sparked in him. He is disgusted with himself, with how he looks, smells, and feels. He’s the Riddler—he’s supposed to be above all this, above you. And yet here he is, caught in your web, feeling like the very thing he despises—vulnerable, exposed, and all too human.

Edward swallows thickly, trying to push past the wave of revulsion that threatens to drown him. It’s gross. He feels gross. His skin crawls at the thought of how you must see him right now, at how he must smell to you. And yet, despite all of that, you are still here. You are still touching him, pressing yourself against him, whispering those soft, sultry words that make his brain faulter and stutter.

The way you are looking at him, like none of that matters, like you are genuinely interested in him despite how utterly repulsive he feels, makes his chest tighten. It is a strange, almost alien sensation—like something inside him is cracking open, raw and ugly, exposing something he is not ready to face.

But he can’t deny the way his body is responding to yours. Even as his mind screams at him to push you away, to reclaim the distance he desperately needs to think clearly, he finds himself frozen, unable to move or speak. The words that usually come so easily to him—barbs, taunts, riddles—are caught in his throat, tangled in the conflicting mess of emotions that are overwhelming him.

His eyes dart to your lips, then back to your eyes, searching for something, anything, that might explain why you are still here, why you are doing this. He wants to believe it is a trick, but the sincerity in your gaze makes that hard to accept. And that scares him more than he is willing to admit.

You are seeing him as he is—a broken, filthy mess of a man who’s been too caught up in his own brilliance to care about anything else. And yet, you’re still here, still touching him, still wanting him. It’s enough to make his mind short-circuit, to make him wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more to this, something more to you.

“What are you trying to do, huh?” he growls, his voice low and tight with frustration. “Make me admit that I need you? That I can’t handle you not being here?”

“Can you?” You tilt your head, a hint of a smile playing at your lips.

The challenge in your eyes, the way you’re looking at him—it’s too much for him to ignore. His resolve falters, and before he can think better of it, he’s closing what little distance there is between you.

Edward leans in, his breath mingling with yours, his eyes flicking to your lips before meeting your gaze again. His gloved hands move instinctively to your face, cupping it roughly as he draws you closer. He is so close that he can see the way your skin gives under the pressure of his touch, the soft dip and slope of your flesh fascinating. He suddenly wants to feel you. Only a beat passes when he removes his hands from your face, flicks his gloves to the floor, and then resumes his grip on your cheeks. Yes, you are just as soft as you look – so plush, so supple, so vulnerable, so breakable. The intensity in his eyes speaks volumes: anger, confusion, and a fierce, unspoken desire as his chest heaves with each labored breath.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you lean into his touch, your eyes close, and you tilt your head, inviting him to bridge the gap between you.

When Edward’s lips finally crash into yours, it’s not a gentle meeting of mouths; it is a collision of chaos and need. The kiss is raw, a tempest of pent-up emotions and everything unspoken between you. The moment his mouth presses against yours, it’s like a dam breaking—everything he is kept bottled up, the frustration, the longing, the confusion—it all floods out in that desperate, fervent kiss. Your lips are soft, pliant, yet insistent, moving against his with a heat that catches him off guard. He is unprepared for the intensity of it, the way you respond with such passion, your hands clutching at his neck and shoulders, pulling him closer, demanding more. It is like you’re drawing something out of him that he didn’t even know he had to give. When your tongue delves past his chapped lips, teasing and exploring, Edward feels like the ground beneath him is slipping away. His knees threaten to buckle as the wet, confident glide of your tongue against his sends shockwaves of sensation through his entire body. He groans into your mouth, a sound that’s more of surprise and surrender than anything else.

You taste like strawberries—artificial, yes, but the sweetness mixed with the natural taste of your mouth makes him feel drunk, like he is drinking in something forbidden and dangerously addictive. The slick, tender roughness of your wet muscle against his makes his head spin, and all he can do is hold on, let you take what you want from him because he is helpless to resist.

And then, when you start to suckle on his tongue, Edward loses whatever semblance of control he had left. His entire body reacts, a shudder running through him as a pitiful whine escapes his lips and slips into your mouth, only for you to swallow it up, taking him deeper into this maelstrom of sensation. He melts against you, his resolve crumbling as he gives in to the need that’s been gnawing at him from the moment you first walked in. The taste, the feel, the way you are kissing him like you are claiming him, it is too much, and yet not nearly enough. All he can think about is how your tongue feels against his and how much more of you he wants—needs—to feel. Every flick of your tongue, every soft hum of pleasure you make as you kiss him, pushes him further into a haze of want. His hands move from your face to grip your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, needing to feel every inch of you against him, desperate to lose himself in the heat and the taste of you.

When you finally pull away, his breathing is uneven, and his eyes search yours. The berry-colored lip oil is smeared and nearly gone from your mouth, leaving remnants of silver micro-glitter, and he knows that same shimmer is likely on his lips, too. There is a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. He wants to speak, but words fail him. Instead, he simply stands there, his hands still resting on your waist, his forehead gently touching yours..

As he looks at you, the softness in his eyes wrestles with the fury and desperation building within him. The kiss has stripped away his usual veneer of control, leaving him raw and exposed, and he struggles to grapple with the intensity of his feelings.

“What is this?” he mutters, his voice rough and uncertain. “What did you do to me?”

“Maybe you’re just finally letting yourself feel.” You smile softly, brushing your thumb along his lips, seeming to wipe something away – likely the lip oil. “Or maybe I’m a witch.”

“You’re impossible is what you are.” He scowls, but there’s a playful glint.

You tilt your head, a teasing smile playing on your lips. “And you’re not exactly a walk in the park yourself,” you respond, your voice sultry as your fingers brush against his chest. “But you like it. You like how I get under your skin.”

He snorts, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, but I do,” you whisper, leaning in so close that your lips almost touch his ear. “I know exactly what buttons to push. I know how to make you lose control.”

Edward’s breath catches as you press yourself against him, your body heat radiating through the thin fabric of his shirt. “You think you can just—” His words break off as your hand slips down, teasing just above his waistband, your fingers grazing the edge of his belt.

“You want me to stop?” you murmur, your voice a seductive purr. “Or do you want to see what happens when I push you just a little further?”

“You’re playing with fire,” he warns, but there’s no conviction in his tone, just raw, smoldering need.

“Maybe I want to get burned,” you taunt, your fingers slipping lower, applying a gentle pressure that makes him moan involuntarily. “Maybe I want to see what happens when you finally let go.”

His frustration boils over. Without warning, he grips your neck and pulls you closer, his lips crashing against yours in a desperate, feverish kiss one more. He is acutely aware of your moan as he grips the delicate column of your throat, and it makes him grin against your mouth. He feels your breath puff into his mouth when he squeezes you, much like a broken squeaker-toy. If he weren’t so desperate to be inside you, he would explore this more.

The kiss is fierce, filled with a raw need that he can no longer contain. His hands move to your chest, and he descends further to your abdomen where he finds the hem of your top, digging underneath it with impatient movements. The sound of fabric rustling and shoes scuffling fills the room, mingling with your breathless gasps as he strips you ferociously.

Edward shoves your tank up over your head, his palms caressing your breasts as he goes. He is barely aware of the tinkling sound of you undoing his belt buckle, followed by the secondary belt latch. His movements are frantic and uncoordinated while he yanks your sweatpants and panties down your legs. Simultaneously, you kick your sneakers off, everything happening all at once. He kicks your articles away, boots scraping against the floor as you work on his pants.

Those delicate fingers of yours, usually clumsy and scatterbrained, suddenly display a level of precision and confidence that Edward finds both thrilling and unsettling. It is a difference to how you normally are—fumbling, unsure, easily distracted—and it makes the air in his chest burn with an intensity he’s not prepared for. He huffs, a mixture of surprise and need, as you deftly undo the button of his cargo pants, the sound of the zipper sliding down far too loud in the quiet room. His breath catches when you yank the fabric past his hips, leaving him feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way he’s never been.

You guide him back, step by step, until his lower back bumps painfully into the edge of the workbench. The impact sends a jolt of discomfort up his spine, but he barely registers it, too consumed by the heat of your body pressing against his and the overwhelming sensation of your mouth on his neck. Your lips latch onto his skin with a hunger that makes his heart stutter, suckling and marking him with a possessiveness that leaves him dizzy. It is as if you’re claiming him, branding him as yours, and the thought sends a shiver down his spine.

And then your hand is in his boxers, fingers curling around his hot, hard length, and his mind goes blank. The sudden, intimate touch makes him gnash his teeth, a whimper escaping before he can stop it. The sound is undignified, pathetic—nothing like the composed, calculating man he is supposed to be. It is as though you’ve flipped a switch inside him, turning him into a quivering, desperate mess, and he hates it. He hates how easily you can reduce him to this state, how you make him feel like he’s not in control of his own thoughts, his own desires.

His brain glitches, thoughts scattering in a chaotic mess as you stroke him, your touch both torturous and divine. He can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the fire you’ve ignited within him, a blaze that’s quickly consuming him from the inside out. He has always prided himself on his intellect, his ability to stay one step ahead of everyone else, but right now, you have stripped all of that away, leaving him raw and exposed.

It is infuriating, this loss of control, but it is also intoxicating. The way you handle him, with such assuredness, makes him feel like he is teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something that could destroy him if he lets it. Yet he cannot help but lean into it, into you, because, even though he hates the power you have over him in this moment, he craves it too.

Your fingers tighten around him and slip around the head of his cock, and he cannot suppress the needy sound that tears from his throat. His hands grasp at the edge of the workbench, knuckles turning white as he struggles to hold onto something, anything that will keep him grounded. But it is no use; you have unraveled him completely, and all he can do is stand there, trembling under your touch, lost in the overwhelming sensation of being at your mercy.

“Fuuuuuck~!”

Your hands are so soft. So gentle. So. Fucking. Good. His hips rock forward, pushing himself deeper in your hand, enjoying how you stroke him from base to tip, starting out by cupping his balls and then switching angles to wrap your fingers around him to finish the job. He near collapses but tenses his hold on the workbench to hold himself up. The jarring motion knocks the rest of his pants loose, and they fall to the floor with a jangling clatter.

As your fingers glide up and down his length, your grip firm and teasing, you lean in close, your breath hot against his ear. “I can feel how badly you want this,” you whisper, your voice dripping with seduction. “You’ve been hard since I walked in.” You cups his balls, which tighten in your palm. “You’re about ready to bust.” You kiss his ear. “Do you want me to wrap these lips around you, Mr. Nigma? I bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Watching me take you in, inch by inch, until you can’t think straight.”

Edward’s breath hitches, his entire body going rigid at your words. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block out the images you’re planting in his mind, but it’s no use. The way you talk, the way you move, everything about you is driving him insane. He is about to cum already.

His hand finds your wrist, gripping it as if to steady himself, but it only makes the fire in his veins burn hotter.

“You’re just fucking with my head,” he hisses through gritted teeth, his voice shaky and tinged with desperation. He opens his eyes, locking onto yours with a blur of frustration and longing, knowing full well that you are winning this game, and hating how much he loves it.

“Which head?” You stroke the end of his cock and he lets out a desperate, feral roar.

In a frenzied blur, Edward lifts you off your feet, his hands behind your thighs, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and your hand scrambling to release his cock to find purchase on his shoulders. The sudden movement makes you gasp, and he takes advantage of your open mouth by shoving his tongue inside. He takes a few steps, a little unsteady, but he pauses to adjust his grip and walks again, heading towards the nearest soft object – the couch or the bed, whichever comes first. He doesn’t fucking care. He has no idea where he’s going, but he wants you to go with him.

You sigh into his mouth and cling to him before loosening your grip to roll your hips. Your hot, wet cunt glides over his cock as it is pinned between you. The movement makes him stop, his legs trembling, threatening to go weak when your arousal smears across his flesh. You make the motion again and nibble on his lip.

He breaks the kiss with a hiss, his thin lips drawing tight over his teeth before his blue eyes flick to the left. When he sees what he is looking for, he takes a few steps to the side and pins you back against a wall, his hands gripping your thighs with a bruising intensity. His pants are left around his booted feet, his exposed skin pressed against you as he struggles to hold your nude body in place.

As his lips crush against yours again with a fierce, almost brutal urgency, he growls between kisses, his voice rough and strained with desire and frustration. You meet his desperation with equal fervor, your hands tangling in his hair, inadvertently knocking his goggles off, and pulling him closer. He feels the smooth skin of your mouth and cheeks against his stubbled, rough flesh. With each movement of his mouth, so do his hips rock into yours, smoothing his erection along your juicy folds.

Edward’s movements become more urgent, more erratic. “I can’t believe I’m letting you control me like this,” he hisses. “You’re making me pathetic, losing it like a damned fool.”

Every touch, every gasp, every shudder is amplified by the desperate need that has taken over both of you. His usual composure shatters, giving way to a frantic, almost furious need.

“You must think you’re so clever,” he sneers between kisses, his voice tainted with both desire and irritation. “Playing games with me. What’s wrong with you?”

“Says the game master- ah!” A pitiful yelp tumbles from your lips when he shoves his pelvis tighter against yours, the tip of his erection breaching your wet hole.

Edward’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he pulls you tighter against him, his grip on your legs becoming almost bruising. “So fucking smart, aren’t you?” he snarls, his face contorted with lust and disdain. “Acting like you’ve got me completely wrapped around your finger.” He plunges himself inside you, making you throw your head back against the wall with a concerning thud and a pleasured yelp. “Why do I even like you? Why do I put up with this?” He is near breathless as he buries himself to the hilt.

The intensity of the moment makes his words more biting, more raw, as if he is trying to push you away even as he grips you closer. His nails dig into your skin, and the roughness of his touch so stark to the softness of your body against his. Every thrust is filled with frustration, the tension between you almost palpable, but despite the venom in his words, his actions tell a different story.

And fuck, he does not want to let go. You feel too good, too tight, too warm, too juicy. The way your body clings to him, the way you fit him so perfectly, it's driving him to the brink. He hates how much he needs this, how much he needs you. Each movement, each gasp, each shiver that runs through you only pulls him deeper into this spiral of want and loathing, the pleasure blurring the line between the two.

His mind is a mess, caught between wanting to dominate you, to remind you of your place, and the unbearable desire to keep you right here, to feel you wrapped around him for as long as possible. The rawness of the moment, the intensity of your connection, is more than he can handle, and it is making him lose control in ways he never thought possible.

“You’re just a stupid distraction,” he growls, his voice filled with contempt and need. “I hate how you get under my skin, how you make me lose control. Do you have any idea how frustrating you are? How fucking annoying you are? How much of a nuisance you are?”

The thrusts of his hips and rolling of yours are desperate. Your gorgeous nails dig into his neck and shoulders as you cling to him under his shirt which is askew on his form. Your whimpers kiss his ears, your warm breath puffing and caressing his already hot flesh. He switches the angle, choosing to drive into, pressing you up the wall.

You moan, the sound barely intelligible as it escapes your lips, a mix of desperate pleas and broken cries. The overwhelming pleasure coursing through your body makes it difficult to form coherent words. “Please…Edw- Ah! Ah,” you manage to gasp out, your voice faltering as you’re swept up in the sensation. “Oh fuck…I- fuck!”

Edward’s breath hitches as he feels the telltale flutter of your walls tightening around him, your body trembling as the wave of your orgasm crashes over you. The sudden wetness on his balls and thighs is undeniable proof of your release, and it nearly pushes him over the edge.

You are unraveling around him, completely at his mercy, and yet he feels like he’s the one losing control. Your pleasure, your moans, your unintelligible whimpers interspersed with the way you call out his name—it’s too much, and it’s everything he never thought he’d crave so intensely.

He pauses, pulling back just enough to look at you with a twisted, mocking grin. “What was that?” he demands, his voice sharp and cruel as his hips snap into yours. “I can’t understand.” He dips his head forward to nibble at your neck before biting suddenly, causing you to yelp and tense. He groans, breath huffing against your neck when you contract around him. “Have I fucked you dumb, or are you really just that stupid?”

You can only whine in response.

“Both, I’m sure,” he chuckles.

The sensation of your release, the way your body clings to him, it is intoxicating. He tightens his grip behind your knees again, wanting to leave bruises, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate as he chases his own release. The sight of you lost in pleasure, the sound of your voice cracking under the intensity, it’s all driving him to the brink.

You feel too good, too perfect, and the fact that he is the one making you fall apart like this—it is maddening. As your orgasm subsides, he finds himself teetering on the edge, caught between the need to give in and the stubborn desire to maintain some semblance of control. But with you like this, tangled with him, surrounding him, he knows he’s already lost.

Edward’s thrusts become more erratic, his movements driven by an intense tumult of raw desire and frustration. “You’ve got me fucked if you think you deserve this,” he hisses, his voice cracking with the strain of his own pleasure and frustration. “Here I am, giving you everything, my attention, my time, my sanity. And for what? Some wanton hussy?”

Each thrust is a rough, desperate expression of his conflicting emotions. His body betrays the anger and contempt in his voice, showing how he's been caught between wanting to push you away and pulling you closer. The tension in the room is palpable, filled with the sounds of both your ragged breaths and the urgent, feverish rhythm of your connection.

“You’re not even worth it!”

Finally, with a strained cry, he shudders and spills into you, his body trembling with the intensity of his release. His grip on your thighs tightens until he hears you whimper as he presses you into the wall. While the waves of climax pass, he collapses against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your sweaty neck. The aftermath is a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft hum of the machinery, electronics, and the residual echoes of your breaths. The intensity of the moment fades. His grip loosens with each exhale and soon your feet are on the ground once more. Both of you gasp when he slips from inside you, the cum slipping out behind him. Your hands untangle themselves from his neck and shoulders, him hissing when your nails finally detach from the reddened, irritated indentions in his skin.

There is a moment when you look at him and there is not as much warmth like he is used to. It looks like you are biting the inside of your lip as you find your footing. You wrap your arms around your chest and squeeze your thighs together. Your hair is a mess, cheeks flushed, lips kiss swollen, neck mottled, and skin glistening with sweat. You look like a goddess.

But you look flat. The gleam in your eye is gone and the way you look at him makes his skin burn. You seem to regard him for a moment before nodding and walking by him to find your clothing from where you started across the room.

With a sudden shift, Edward’s demeanor changes. He looks at you in wonder. “What are you doing?” he questions softly.

The scene unfolds with an emotional intensity that he finds both disorienting and uncomfortable.

You begin to gather your discarded clothing with a resigned air, your movements methodical and detached. Edward notices the way your fingers work almost automatically, pulling on your tank top, then reaching for your panties, sweatpants, socks, and shoes. Your actions, though practical, carry a vacuum that seems to draw the warmth from the room.

“Going home since you probably don’t want me extending my stay,” you say, the words spoken with a resignation that Edward struggles to process. It is clear to him that your decision is driven by more than just practicality; there is a deeper issue underlying your calm exterior.

The sting of your tone strikes Edward deeply, making him flinch inward. He furrows his brow, frowns, and then scrambles to pull his pants from the floor, hastily hiking them back over his hips but leaving them unfastened. His movements are quick and almost frantic, with an obvious difference from the slow, deliberate way you are dressing. You don’t look at him as you pull your sweatpants on, the dark grey fabric sliding and squeezing up over your ass and hips, clining to you almost desperately.

“Have I really given you the impression that I want that?” His voice is low, filled with a hesitant softness that betrays his internal struggle. He is trying to understand how everything got to this point.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice quiet. “Yes, you have, and it hurts more than I’d like to admit. But it’s okay. I’m a big girl and not a complete idiot as you’d believe.” You begin hopping on one foot as you pull one of your sneakers on the hovering one.

Edward opens his mouth to argue, but the weight of your words and the truth in them stops him short. He feels a surge of panic, a desperate need to fix what he is very quickly broken. His mind races, grasping for the right thing to say, but all he can remember are the biting things he uttered earlier, words that now feel like poison on his tongue.

“Stop,” he blurts out, almost in a plea. His eyes search for yours, desperate for some sign of understanding, for a chance to take back the damage. You refuse to look at him, intensely focused on getting your foot in your other shoe. “I was just…. I mean- I’m not…Godammit, will you just stop fussing about and look at me!”  His hands find your arms to grip you firmly and pull you up to an erect position in front of him.

He frowns even more deeply, mirroring your expression without fully understanding why. The sight of you, standing there with your eyes blazing, cheeks almost puffing out in frustration, and lips pursed in a way that would almost be cute under different circumstances, throws him off balance. It's like you're trying to be angry and determined, but the way your features arrange themselves seems a little too endearing for the seriousness of the situation at hand.

It isdisarming, this juxtaposition of your fury and that inadvertent cuteness. It makes his chest tighten, the conflicting emotions battling within him. He wants to take this seriously, to address the hurt he is caused, but the way you look right now—like an indignant kitten—stirs something softer in him, something that makes him want to reach out and smooth away the tension in your face.

“Remember, I’m not worth it,” you say simply.

Oh.

The weight of your words hits Edward with a jolt. The realization of your pain is like a punch to the gut, leaving him breathless and scrambling for a response. Without thinking, he steps towards you, arms reaching out to gather you up. His embrace is firm but filled with a trembling gentleness, his hands resting on your waist as he pulls you back into him. His scruffy cheek presses against your shoulder, the rough texture complementary to the softness of your skin. “Don’t go?” he murmurs.

Edward’s touch is gentle now, as if he is afraid of breaking you. He remains still for a moment, absorbing the unexpected shift in your demeanor. The weight of his arms around you, the softness of his voice—everything feels surreal. He takes a deep breath, letting the intensity of what just happened settle.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask softly, your voice trembling slightly as you pull back a little to face him, your eyes searching his.

One of his hands raises to stroke along your jaw before he tips your face up more to ensure your focus. His brows are furrowed. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he coos. “I do enjoy your company.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” you pout, your lips forming a small, frustrated curve as you try to reconcile the mixed signals he’s been sending you.

Edward sighs heavily, his frustration with himself bubbling to the surface. “Well, I’m – I… Ugh, fuck…” His hand momentarily tightens its hold on your jaw before he loosens his grip, closing his eyes briefly as if trying to organize the mess of thoughts swirling in his head. “I’m not good at this,” he mutters, the admission more for his own ears than yours.

“At what, not being a dick?” you retort, a hint of humor tinging your words, though the hurt behind them is undeniable.

He cocks a brow at your response, a flash of his usual arrogance threatening to surface before it’s quickly smothered by something more vulnerable.

“Well, I wouldn’t have said it that way… But yeah.” He lets his face relax, the tension in his features ebbing away. “I don’t want you to leave. Not really.”

The sincerity in his voice catches even himself off guard so he wonders if you can hear it too. He hopes you can see the struggle in his eyes, the way he is trying—really trying—to bridge the emotional gap he has unintentionally created.

Edward moves closer, his forehead gently resting against yours, physically closing the distance. “I don’t want you to leave,” he repeats, the words almost a whisper now, his voice raw with honesty. “I just… I don’t know how to do this.”

His grip on you tightens slightly, as if he’s afraid you might slip away if he loosens his hold, and there’s a desperation in his voice that he can’t quite hide.

“Stay,” he whispers, the plea almost inaudible, as if he’s afraid of the power those words hold. “Please… I think I need this?”

The silence that follows is filled with a new kind of intimacy, tender and fragile. The walls that had been so carefully constructed between you now feel more porous, allowing for a different kind of closeness. You agree quietly with a nod. He watches as you settle back into his embrace, your movements slow, deliberate. His hands remain on your waist and his chin nestling on your crown, holding you there as if afraid you might slip away if he lets go. The earlier intensity, the raw heat of your encounter, has faded, replaced by a calm that feels almost foreign in this place.

You’re both standing in the middle of his lair, surrounded by the chaotic evidence of his obsessions—blueprints, scribbled notes, half-finished gadgets, robots, and flickering screens. But right now, none of it matters. What matters is the feeling of your body against his, the way your breathing matches his own, the rise and fall of your chest, the warmth of your skin seeping into his. He is still holding you, clinging to this moment because he doesn’t want it to end.

For the first time in a long while, he feels something other than anger, frustration, or the sick satisfaction of being right. He feels…peace. A sense of calm that he is not used to, that he is not sure he deserves. The room around you is still dank, still cold, but with you standing there in his arms, it feels different—less oppressive, less lonely. You are here with him, and that makes all the difference.

“By the way…” you start, your voice softer now, almost teasing.

“Hmm?” Edward pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, searching your eyes for whatever’s coming next. The gleam he sees there—mischievous, playful—makes him mirror you.

“I don’t mind a bit of degradation,” you continue, a small smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. “Just clear it with me beforehand.”

For a moment, Edward just stares, processing your words. Then, a laugh bubbles up from his chest, loud and unrestrained. It is the kind of laugh that leaves his cheeks hurting, the muscles unused to such a genuine, prolonged expression of joy.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief, the smile refusing to fade. “You’re really something else, you know that?”

Arkham Knight

cw: female body, light touching, fluff, feelings

word count: 2.1k

The nights when you are able to draw him to bed are few and far between. No matter your guile, no matter your charms, no matter your crying, your begging, nothing can seem to sway the manic genius of Edward Nigma.

Edward only does what Edward wants to do when Edward wants to do it.

It makes for a trying relationship, to say the least.

But you are always there. Always loyal. Always caring. Always fiending for the next hit of him when he offers a taste. You wait, patient and understanding, for him to be ready for your touch.

It is nights like this one that reinforce and justify your deference for him - the nights where you can’t sleep, when you lay in bed just waiting for him to crawl in. And he does so with a heavy sigh. Eddie strips languidly as he makes his way to the bed, shrugs his only favorite green shirt off and lets it fall to the floor in his wake. Those deft, sore fingers of his pick at the latches of his belts, pulling the straps loose. He sits on the edge of your lumpy mattress and pulls his boots off before shuffling down to his boxers.

In the quiet of the darkness, you lean up, crawling forward on your hands and knees, the mattress creaking softly beneath you. Your nightgown hangs from your body, the material slipping and forming against your spine and waist with gravity. Each movement of your limbs is deliberate, careful, as if you're approaching a wounded animal that might startle at the slightest disturbance. Your arms loop under his shoulders, fingers splaying wide over his chest to feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. His tank top is cool to the touch, slightly damp from his sweat and the lingering chill of Gotham's air that seeps through the poorly insulated orphanage. You exhale a soft sigh, a sound that is almost inaudible. It is a sound of intense longing, of unwavering devotion that transcends the challenges of your relationship.

Rising to your knees, you press your chest against his back, soft breasts caressing his shoulder blades. The sensation is grounding, the way his warmth seeps into you, tethering you to this fragile reality. Your lips find his neck, a place you've come to know intimately. You let them ghost over the delicate skin there, so lightly that it almost feels like a whisper against his flesh. The contact sends a palpable shiver down his spine, and you relish the way his body reacts to your reverent touches. You close your eyes, face nestled into the nape of his neck, breathing in his scent. It’s intoxicating, rooting you in this moment with him. You nuzzle closer, pressing your lips repeatedly to his skin, each kiss a silent promise of tenderness and acceptance.

Always, every time, no matter how long you've been together, he tenses at your initial touch. It's like a reflex, a defensive posture ingrained from years of abuse, isolation, and distrust. You feel the way his muscles tighten, the rigidity of his shoulders betraying his lingering apprehension. It never fails to surprise you, to remind you of how foreign love is to him, how unused he is to the softness of your touch. Yet, you never waver. You wait, patient and unyielding, knowing that he will recognize it's you, not the hands of someone to be cautious of. And slowly, ever so slowly, he relaxes. The tension drains from his body, his breath evening out as he surrenders to the reality that you are a safe place.

Edward leans back, allowing his tired frame to rest against you. His head tilts slightly, almost instinctively, seeking the warmth of your embrace. It’s a small, near imperceptible gesture, but it means everything to you. It is his way of admitting that he needs you, that he craves the comfort only you can provide. After a moment, you feel his hand move, the pads of his fingers rough and calloused from years of tinkering with gadgets and dangerous inventions. His hand finds one of your wrists, circling it with a tenderness that belies his usual demeanor. He clasps it, his grip firm yet gentle, drawing your touch closer to his chest as if he fears you might pull away. The heat of his palm against your skin sends a jolt of warmth through you, anchoring you in the intimacy of this embrace.

He is in an unusual mood tonight. Usually, when he seeks out this kind of contact, it's after a particularly rough day, when the weight of his failures or the bitterness of some unsolvable problem has driven him to the brink. In those moments, he is skittish, like a cat with its back arched, wary of being too vulnerable. But tonight, there is something different in the way he holds you, in the way he lets himself melt into your touch. You can sense it—his need, his quiet plea for tenderness that he can’t quite bring himself to voice.

It's a bittersweet feeling for you. You feel terrible. On one hand, you hate seeing him like this, the shadows of his past and his obsessions etched so deeply into his psyche. Yet, on the other hand, you savor these rare moments when he submits to your affection and lets himself be cradled in your arms like something precious. You love when he lets you coddle him. You know that he is fragile in these instances, a delicate balance of pride and loathing, and you handle him with the utmost care. Your cooing, your kisses, they become the balm to his singed, raw nerves.

“Eddie,” you breathe, letting your voice barely whisper against his skin. Your lips brush over the curve of his ear, a featherlight touch, and you feel him shiver. He doesn’t respond, but you don’t expect him to. Still, you press on, feeling the flutter of your hummingbird heart, and you wonder if he can feel it, too. You hope he can.

You don’t know if it is the tense silence, how comfortable you feel with comforting him, or if it just feels like the right time. Honestly, you don’t know if there will ever be a good time. But you say it anyway.

“I love you.”

The confession slips out quietly, almost too soft to be real, but the weight of it crashes down like a tidal wave. It’s the first time you’ve ever said it, and the words hang between you, thick and charged, altering the very air in the room. Silence swells in the wake of your admission, so heavy it feels like you might drown in it. You can feel your heart hammering in your chest, every beat echoing with the panic that’s starting to rise like acid in your throat. You hadn’t planned on saying it. Not like this. Not now. Maybe you shouldn’t have said it.

Beneath your hands, you feel Edward tense. It is as though your words have struck him like a physical blow. His breath catches, sharp and sudden, and for a moment you think you’ve gone too far. Crossed the line he’s so carefully and deliberately drawn. For an agonizing heartbeat, you brace yourself, lithe fingers threading into his chest hair and tightening against his skin, preparing for the scornful retort he’s indeed crafting in his mind. A part of you is ready to hear it—that scathing remark that will cut you to ribbons, the words that will remind you how foolish you’ve been to think this man could ever feel anything close to what you do. You can already see it in your mind's eye: the sneer curling his lips, the acrid mockery in his gaze. You imagine him standing tall, ridiculing you for your weakness. You were used to it, really. You wouldn’t have stayed as long as you have if you did not tolerate his caustic demeanor.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, something in him shifts, like a delicate, invisible wire snapping. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his rigid posture softens. He sags, just a little, the sharpness of his frame dulling under the dim light of the room. His head dips forward, and you watch as the pale skin of his nape is exposed to you, a vulnerable sliver illuminated by the faint light spilling in from the hallway.

“Stupid girl,” he mutters, his voice gravelly and thick with fatigue. The words lack their usual bite; they’re dull, resigned, almost as though he can’t muster the energy to make the insult sting. There’s no spirit in it—no real conviction behind his words.

It is disarming, and it makes you pause, processing the moment. You’ve just confessed your love to a man notorious for his arrogance and self-aggrandizing nature, a man who thrives on the validation, worship, and admiration of others. You expected, at the very least, for him to revel in it, to smirk that smug, self-satisfied grin and remind you of his greatness. You thought he’d take your confession and mold it into another pillar of his ego, because that’s what he always does. That’s how he’s always survived.

But right now? The way he calls you “stupid,” with a voice so devoid of its usual venom, makes you think he actually pities you. His tone carries a weight that unsettles you, a kind of sadness he’d never admit to, not even to himself.

Maybe he does not know what to do with your love. Not because he doesn’t want it—you suspect he’s wanted it for longer than he will ever admit—but because it exposes something in him he’s spent a lifetime trying to bury. Vulnerability. Fragility. The very things that threaten the persona he’s crafted so meticulously, the unflinching mask of confidence and control he wears like armor. Your love, unlike the admiration he expects from others, isn’t something he can manipulate or bend to his will. It’s raw, unfiltered, unpredictable—a force that doesn’t follow the rules of his carefully laid-out plans.

For a man like Edward, that kind of unpredictability could be terrifying. It is the one puzzle he cannot solve, the one challenge he can’t simply outthink. Your emotions are a language he’s never learned to speak. And that is where you hold the advantage. You understand what you feel, you can name it, unravel its complexities, and navigate the terrain he refuses to even acknowledge. To him, feelings are a liability. But to you, they’re a strength.

And so, he sits there, head bowed, silent. His breathing is slow but deep, as though he’s bracing himself, letting the weight of your confession settle around him. You don’t need to see his face to know that he’s battling an internal storm. Discomfort, vulnerability, a deep, gnawing unease that he doesn’t have the words or the courage to voice.

Then, something shifts. Slowly, deliberately, his hand moves from your wrist, fingers sliding up to your hand that rests on his chest. His touch is warm, almost searing against your skin, and he grips your hand, a hold that is somehow both firm and hesitant at the same time. His fingers interlace with yours, clumsy in their desperation, as though he’s afraid of what it means, but even more afraid of letting go.

The gesture is small, tentative, yet monumental in its meaning. You feel his heartbeat beneath your palm, the rhythm steady, but there’s a subtle undercurrent—a quickening, a pulse that betrays the calm facade he’s trying so hard to maintain. For all his brilliance, for all his arrogance, he is just a man, unsure and unsteady, reaching for something he can’t quite define.

His grip on your hand tightens, an unspoken plea that he doesn’t know how to verbalize. He holds you there, as if grounding himself in your presence, as if the warmth of your skin against his is the only thing tethering him to the moment. The vulnerability in the act sends a jolt through you—because this, more than any words, is Edward’s way of letting you in. Not with flowery declarations or dramatic gestures, but with a simple touch, a silent confession that he is not as invincible as he pretends to be.

You close your eyes, letting your forehead rest against his shoulder. The familiar scent of him surrounds you—earth, bergamot, grease, and the faint tang of sweat from a long, exhausting day. The scent is grounding, a reminder of the reality of this moment, of the man beneath the persona. Your heart pounds, each beat wild and erratic in your chest, echoing in your ears.

Edward's fingers squeeze yours, just once—a brief, fleeting pressure, almost like an afterthought. But it’s enough. That small gesture carries the weight of everything unsaid, a crack in the fortress he’s spent his life building. It’s not a grand declaration, not the reciprocation of your words, but it’s something. A signal, a fragile olive branch, a step toward a truth he can’t yet fully face.

Bruce Wayne / Batman

He rarely says “I love you” outright, but when he does, it’s in quiet, exhausted moments where he finally lets the mask slip and trusts you with the man underneath.

He memorizes your routines—not to control you, but to subtly ensure you’re safe. He’ll wordlessly appear after late shifts, pretending it’s coincidence.

When you touch him, even casually, he leans into it imperceptibly, like he’s starved for warmth but doesn’t want to take too much.

He gives you small pieces of his world: access to the Cave, a comm channel, or being the first to read case notes. These are his versions of love letters.

On nights he can’t be home, he leaves a message on your phone: low voice, simple words “I’m safe. Thinking of you.”

He listens. Completely. Even when exhausted, he gives you undivided attention in a way he rarely gives anyone else.

He lets you patch him up not because he needs it, but because he needs you close.

Joker

His “I love you” comes out as: “You’re the only one who gets the joke,” said with manic devotion as he circles you like you’re his favorite toy.

He gives you gifts that are… questionable. Personalized bombs that don’t explode, knives with pink ribbons on them, playing cards drawn with your face.

He watches your reactions intensely—your smile, your gasp, even your annoyance. Your emotions are entertainment, but you’re the only person he actually cares to impress.

His version of affection is pulling you into his chaos, wanting you beside him in his antics because everything’s “no fun without you, doll.”

He becomes visibly calmer when you touch him. Just a hand on his cheek makes his grin soften for half a second before he snaps back into theatrics.

He gets jealous in loud, dramatic ways, but you’re the only person he’d never actually harm. Anyone else? No promises.

When he does say “I love you,” it’s spontaneous, explosive, and usually followed by a laugh that sounds like he’s terrified he means it.

Jason Todd / Arkham Knight

He shows love through protection he refuses to admit is protection. “I’m just in the area” he claims, when he clearly followed you home on rooftops.

He's scared of hurting you, so his affection is gentle—hands on your hips that hover first, slow embraces, kisses that linger like he’s learning softness from you.

He apologizes more to you than anyone else. Even small things. He wants to be better because you look at him like he’s worth saving.

He trains you not to make you fight for him—but so you’ll never feel powerless like he once did.

When you’re upset, he drops the tough exterior instantly. His voice gets soft, almost boyish, and he’ll sit beside you until you’re ready to talk.

He gives you one of his jackets. He absolutely melts seeing you wear it, though he pretends not to.

“I love you” comes out gruff, almost annoyed, like the emotion is too big for him to hold without it overflowing.

Dick Grayson / Nightwing

He says “I love you” easily and often, but each time it’s sincere—playful in daylight, whispered and steady in the dark.

His love language is touch: hands on your waist, swinging you around mid-laugh, forehead kisses he sneaks in whenever you’re distracted.

He brings you snacks after patrols, smiling like a proud dog bringing a gift, even if it’s just an energy bar.

He makes you laugh on purpose, using every dumb pun and acrobatic stunt because your laughter is his favorite soundtrack.

He brags about you to literally everyone. Even villains get a “yeah, my girlfriend is amazing, anyway back to kicking your ass.”

He’s the type to fall asleep on your shoulder mid-conversation because you’re the one place he feels safe enough to stop moving.

He checks in with a quick text before every mission. It’s short, always: “Love you. Back soon.”

Tim Drake / Robin

He's awkward with verbal affection, so “I love you” comes through in rambling tech explanations he wrote just for you.

He builds you gadgets, tiny quality-of-life devices you didn’t know you needed, personalized with your initials.

He stays up all night working but will physically shut his laptop when you tug his hand and remind him to rest. For you, he’ll pause the world.

He makes you coffee exactly how you like it and places it next to you without saying anything, hoping you’ll notice the gesture.

You catch him staring at you during quiet moments, soft and adoring, like he can’t quite believe you chose him.

His hugs are initially stiff, but he melts into them slowly, resting his chin on your shoulder as if charging emotionally.

Bruce Wayne / Batman

The moment you flinch, his anger dies instantly. It’s like someone cut the power.

He goes very still, jaw tightening—not at you, but at himself.

In his mind, he’s already replaying every second of the argument, searching for where he failed you.

He takes a step back on purpose, lowering his voice to something almost painfully calm.

“I would never hurt you,” he says, but it sounds like a vow he’s reminding himself of.

Guilt settles heavy in his chest; he knows what fear looks like, and he hates that he caused it.

If you don’t pull away, he gently reaches out slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to refuse.

Later, alone, he won’t sleep. He’ll brood over it in the Batcave, determined it never happens again.

Joker

Oh, he notices. Immediately.

The flinch makes his grin widen, eyes lighting up like you just told him the funniest joke.

“Oooh—what was that?” he taunts, leaning in closer instead of backing off.

He loves knowing he got under your skin without even touching you.

If you look scared, he finds it delicious, proof that he still has control.

He might mock you for it later, exaggerating the flinch just to see you react again.

There’s no remorse, no pause—only curiosity about how far he can push you.

If you snap back at him, he laughs harder, delighted that you’re still playing his game.

Jason Todd / Arkham Knight

He freezes when you flinch, eyes widening for just a second before his expression hardens.

“Hey... no. No,” he mutters, stepping back like he burned you by accident.

Anger immediately redirects inward; his hands clench like he’s holding himself together.

He hates that he reminds you of anyone who ever hurt you.

His voice drops, rough and strained. “I’m not him. I’d never—”

If you look away, he turns from you first, needing a second before he says something he can’t take back.

Later, he apologizes awkwardly. Too blunt and a little too honest but it means everything.

He becomes hyper-aware of his tone after that, even when he’s furious.

Dick Grayson / Nightwing

The flinch breaks his heart on the spot.

He immediately softens, hands raised slightly like he’s showing you he’s not a threat.

“Hey, hey… I’m sorry,” he says, voice gentle, eyes full of concern.

He moves closer only if you don’t pull away, making sure you know you’re safe.

Guilt hits him hard—he prides himself on being the good one.

He’ll crack a quiet, self-deprecating joke later to ease the tension, but only if you’re receptive.

If you tell him why you flinched, he listens—really listens—and never forgets it.

Afterward, he checks in on you more often, subtle but sincere.

Tim Drake / Robin

He notices immediately, even if it’s small—Tim always notices.

His brain races, connecting dots you didn’t even know were there.

“Did I scare you?” he asks softly, already hating the answer.

He takes a step back, creating space without being told.

The argument loses importance; your comfort becomes the priority.

He apologizes quickly, maybe too quickly, but it’s genuine.

Later, he overanalyzes the moment, researching trauma responses and communication without telling you.

The Joker

Kidnaps you purely for theatrics — you’re a prop, a punchline, something to make Bats snarl.

At first, he mocks your fear relentlessly… until he realizes you talk back instead of begging.

Finds your reactions fascinating, not screaming on cue annoys him, but also hooks his attention.

Starts hanging around your cell longer than necessary, rambling, testing jokes just to hear you respond.

Gets visibly irritated when henchmen scare or hurt you without his permission.

When he realizes Batman is taking too long, Joker panics — not for the plan, but for you.

Frames it as a joke “Aw, don’t croak on me now, cupcake!”, but his grip on your chin trembles.

Lets you go at the last second, telling himself it’s funnier if Batman never knows why the trap failed.

Scarecrow / Jonathan Crane

Kidnaps you as a psychological lure, someone Batman will fear losing.

Exposes you to fear toxin carefully, methodically… then stops when your reactions disturb him.

Your resilience becomes a subject of obsession, why doesn’t your fear break the way it should?

Begins visiting you without the mask, speaking softly, almost academically.

Notices he adjusts dosages subconsciously — not to test fear, but to protect you.

You become the only person he doesn’t want to see afraid.

When Batman approaches, Crane hesitates, torn between proving his philosophy and keeping you safe.

If you escape, he tells himself it was “necessary”… but your absence haunts his experiments.

The Riddler / Edward Nigma

Kidnaps you because you’re “statistically optimal bait.”

Talks at you constantly, expecting confusion but instead, you occasionally understand him.

Becomes offended if Batman solves puzzles faster than you do.

Starts designing riddles meant for you, not Batman.

Grows flustered when you compliment his intelligence or notice small details.

Gets irrationally angry when Batman risks your safety to advance faster.

Realizes he doesn’t want you rescued, he wants you to stay and appreciate his brilliance.

If Batman saves you, Edward insists it was “part of the design”… while watching you leave in silence.

Arkham Knight / Jason Todd

Kidnaps you strategically, you’re leverage, nothing personal.

Keeps his distance at first, treating you like a liability.

Starts checking security feeds “just to make sure you haven’t escaped.”

Brings you food himself instead of sending soldiers.

You see cracks in his armor — exhaustion, anger, guilt.

Gets furious when you show concern for him instead of fear.

The plan begins to unravel because he can’t decide whether Batman deserves to lose you.

When Batman arrives, Jason makes sure you’re out of harm’s way, even if it costs him the upper hand.

Two-Face / Harvey Dent

Kidnaps you because the coin says so, “chance” makes the decision.

Initially leaves your fate entirely to the flip.

Slowly starts re-flipping when the outcome endangers you.

Harvey side talks to you quietly, apologetically, when Two-Face isn’t “listening.”

You become the one thing he refuses to gamble on.

Snaps at henchmen who frighten you, claiming it’s “bad odds.”

When Batman comes, the coin trembles in his hand.

No matter the flip, he ensures you survive — and hates himself for choosing you over fate.

Black Mask / Roman Sionis

Kidnaps you loudly and violently, pure power move to bait Batman.

Treats you like a possession at first, something to prove control.

Gets annoyed when you don’t break the way he expects.

Starts respecting your composure, even admiring it.

Becomes dangerously territorial, no one touches you but him.

Gives you protection under the excuse of “keeping the asset intact.”

Loses his temper when someone insults or dismisses you.

BTAS scrow: the kissing woud have to start out rather chaste.. bcus he is a twinge nervous. but when u let your hands wander he might get a little horny and get more into it... he is not used to kissing with tongue so u will have to ease him into it a bit... he might whimper a little while u french kiss... and he will put his hands over yours as u guide them over his body.. when u pull away to catch some air he will look at u with embarrassing pathetic need. u will have to initiate the next action, prob kissing his neck... which will make him even hornier. Paw at his cock while u kiss him....

TNBA scrow: he is not at all used to receiving kisses or any affection at all really. he also would not expect to receive such affection due to his appearance. one would most likely initiate the makeout sesh by giving him a little kiss on his exposed teeth which might startle him, prompting u to kiss other areas like his neck and face to perhaps get him to warm up to the concept of a sloppy makeout sesh. eventually he will understand what u want to do and it will make his stomach bubble with butterflies... when u kiss his teeth next he will part them and slip his tongue thru and before u know it u will both be slobbering all over each other and pawing at each other. i think he would like to have his hair played with and tugged on during it and he might utter some husky moans

Salecrow: i feel like he loves using his mouth a lot. and he isnt quite as shy as the other scrows, so it wont take too long for gentle kissing to devolve into a sloppy makeout sesh with lots of tongue. he is fairly quiet during it but hisses out sharp breaths and tiny whines every now and then. he also likes to run his long spidery fingers all over u and scratch at u with his sharp nails. he loves kissing u with his tongue and will probably not want to stop even if the sesh turns into something crazy like sex or something. if u touch between his legs at any point during the french kissing he will grind into your hand and hold u Very tight to him so he can keep slurping your face away

MOF scrow: he knows the ins and outs of a sloppy makeout sesh by heart... for he has read many an adult book containing information on the matter. but he has never partaken in such an endeavor himself... so at first hes a little messy with it. im afraid u will have to teach him how to kiss... and it will be awkward while he very nervously tries to do all the sexy things hes read about, but really his horniness overwhelms his nervousness. so while he gets the hang of french kissing, u have to also teach him how to be patient and go thru the motions of foreplay a little.. bcus hes so horny and impatient hes practically dry humping u! hes a little embarrassed bcus this isnt how hed thought it would go, especially after all his research on how to be a suave and sexy gentleman... but he hardly cares anymore kissing gets him so horny!!!

In a hushed tone, the one you had carried throughout the entire meeting as you sat towards the back of the room with Harvey, you leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Do you think the reason you’re not at the front is because he knows all you’re going to do is ride around in your silly trucks and break into the banks?”

Harvey shifted against the table he was leaning by, making an effort to move out of your reach, but not wanting to admit that your mockery was bothering him.

“I mean, I’m at the back because I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel too lonely. But you’re here because you’re just a hyped up thief who was just pretty enough and just crazy enough to be branded a villain.”

“Sh!”

He hissed at you, shooting a furious scowl in your direction. For over an hour, Scarecrow had been detailing his plans for the Cloudburst, for anarchy in Gotham, the soon to ‘City of Fear’. And for the entirety of that hour, any crucial parts of the plan had been punctuated by your ever-present teasing. And as a result of that, Harvey was now irritated beyond belief, and aroused to boot.

“So, when everything goes down, do you wanna meet up? Or are you going to be too busy…”

You stifled a giggle as you struggled through the end of your insult.

“… causing corruption and mayhem through the innovative method of gasp stealing money. So original, Harv. Really.”

You patted his back, and he wished he had never said anything. For him, this was an excuse to bag money for grander schemes. He accepted that it sounded a lot less chaotic and creative than what everyone else had planned, but he was quietly confident and reserved in his methods. He knew what he wanted, he knew what he needed, and he wasn’t going to concoct some difficult and ludicrous scheme just to fit in with the rest of the insanity within the four walls he sat in.

It had been a while since he had seen you. He had almost forgotten what it was about you that drove him so mad, and so wild. Your constant pestering, the way you gnawed and chipped at every insecurity he had without even knowing that you were targeting them so directly, the playful, schoolyard teasing. It enraged him, but combined with how irritatingly attractive you were, it only served to leave him wanting more. Anything to have your attention. Although, while Harvey would only admit to the physical attraction playing a part in his deep arousal at the words you  viciously tossed to him with a smile, Two Face was entirely open about how much he liked being degraded a little bit. It left him plenty of excuses to be just as cruel back. A torrid, violent little affair. But what fun was sex and attraction without a little violence added to the mix?

As Harvey remembered what he was there for, he shook his head free of the thoughts and refocused in time to hear Jonathan’s conclusions, watching everyone breaking off into their separate little groups and leaving alone or with a ‘colleague’ to further discuss the events of the evening. And he had hoped to escape himself, without having to converse with anyone. But you were there to ensure that even this small request was unfulfilled.

“Hey, Harv! You’re not going to wait for me?”

“Of course not.”

“Aw, did I hurt your feelings? You know I was just kidding.”

You playfully punched his arm, but before you could pull away, he gripped your wrist and pushed you against the wall. He held you there, your wrist under the tight grip of his right palm, and leaned in close, nose to nose.

“Why are you like this?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

With a coy smile, you let your other hand trail up the front of Harvey’s shirt, settling on the top button and toying with it, fingers trying to unbutton it as his chest shifted with deep, heavy breaths.

“Treat them mean, keep them keen.”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes before settling his gaze on you again, briefly flitting down to take in your body. Even though it had been a while since he had even seen you, let alone had spent any time with you, he could still remember how you felt. The weight of you against him as he thrust up into you. How your fingers felt running through his hair, down his chest, stroking the up the length of his cock. The tingling sensation of your fingertips tracing the curve of his cock, before your sweet lips took him in.

Swallowing the saliva that had collected, he refocused his attention on you, praying that the blush on his cheek wasn’t visible, along with the steadily growing tent at the front of his white pants.

“You look good, Harvey. It’s been so long, I’d almost forgotten why I ever dated you in the first place.”

“Dated is an interesting word for what it is that we do.”

“What is it that we do then?”

“It’s… hard to explain.”

He was stuttering, neck growing tighter, his palm in a cold sweat against your skin.

“Why don’t you show me then?”

Your free hand moved from Harvey’s chest, reaching for his now entirely stiff cock, but he grabbed it with his left hand, pinning it to the wall with the other and growling, sneering at you.

“Watch it, missy. Guy could get the wrong idea.”

As you watched him winking, you felt yourself lose a bit of your composure. Harvey was fine, he was easy, and fun, to rile up. And of course, it didn’t hurt that he was a pretty face and a good lover to boot. But you had to admit, you had been waiting for this moment. The moment when Two Face showed up.

Dipping into where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth closed around a section of skin, sucking it into his mouth, tongue lapping along it as he increased the pressure, hearing your hiss of pain before you erupted into a breathy laugh.

“Mister Dent, you’re going to leave a mark. And I’m not going to be shy about telling people where I got it.”

He bit harder as he growled, your breath catching in her throat.

“Good, I would bite my name into you if I thought I had enough space.”

Harvey rolled his eyes, interrupting the lustful flirtations of you and Two Face.

“Listen, if we’re going to do this, can we cut the crap and get on with it? I’m far more likely to enthusiastically participate if we can stop pretending we’re all friends.”

“Think you can play a little rough, Harv?”

You smirked, another playful wink shot in his direction as he grinned, Two Face taking over again.

“Aren’t you worried about someone catching us here?”

“Oh, Harvey. Don’t you know me better than that? I would have had you in the middle of that meeting if you had asked. Besides, it’s not worth if there aren’t risks?”

“And the consequences?”

You leaned in, your nose touching his, lips grazing over his lightly as you spoke.

“The icing on the cake.”

It was impossible for Two Face to hide how much he wanted you, and Harvey himself would have struggled. With a sneer he lunged into you again, his hands around your waist, large and strong, holding you to the wall as he pushed his hips forward, grinding into you, his obvious, and impressive, erection pressed perfectly to where your thighs met.

With a soft moan, you jutted your own hips forward, meeting Harvey’s, your kiss deepening, becoming sloppier and messy as you strengthened the friction between you both, grinding and thrusting, until Harvey had had enough and needed more.

With two fingers stroking up your thigh and under your skirt, he smirked with a loud, pleasured groan as he met your lips, wet with slick and uncovered completely.

“Oh, god, no panties?”

“It’s quicker this way.”

“You were expecting something like this from me?”

“It would have been stupid not to…”

Your words trailed off into a mumble as he spread you open a little, teasing at the sensitive skin before pushing one finger, and then two, inside of you.

“Really, is that all I’m getting?”

“What, you can’t wait while we have a little foreplay, huh? A little tease too much for you?”

“Listen, I could go all night, big fella, but Aleksander is waiting outside for me. And I really, really want to get all of you, if you catch my drift.”

His hands slid behind your back, holding you, lifting you lightly, as he brought you close and dipped you slightly.

“Baby, I can give you exactly what you’re looking for.”

With his free hand, he scooped your leg up around him, lifting the other leg too as he walked back to the table he had been leaning on, kissing you fervently the whole walk over before he dropped you with a careless thud. Standing before you, as you watched him intensely, he unbuttoned his shirt, untucking it when he reached the last one, throwing it open to expose his chest, the hairs on one side lightly greying with age, his physique still as impressive as ever.

Spurred on by the look in your eyes, his hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it and unzipping his fly, shifting his pants down just enough to let his cock spring out, all six incredibly thick inches bobbing gently before he gripped it at the base and teased the head against your lips. You moaned, fingers clutching the edge of the table, hips jutting forward to try and take more of him in, but he pulled back with a cruel smile.

“If you’d needed me that bad, all you had to do was call.”

“I’d never admit to that, Harv. Besides, I don’t need you, I just want you. And only for the next ten minutes, so you better be quick.”

“God, I really don’t like you.”

He smirked at you, knowing that you were both very well aware of the barefaced lie he had just told.

“And I don’t like you either.”

The smile was knocked from both of your lips as they were pressed together, a violent kiss filled with tongue and teeth, as Harvey thrust himself in past your lips, up to the hilt, drawing a sweet, lewd groan from you as you braced herself, arms behind you on the table. With a grunt, he bucked harder, knocking you off balance and sending your arms up and around his neck as you held him close, cherishing these brief moments where you could be vulnerable together, when you could be close without the other one trying to play it to their advantage.

With his cock wet within you, Harvey was struggling to keep control over the situation, fighting to last as long as he could. But the time spent apart from you, and the sudden flood of sensations as he felt your body around him, clinging to him, fingernails clawing at him as your fingers settled on his warm and flushing skin, he knew he wasn’t going to last much longer.

He could always blame you for putting a time limit on it. Wouldn’t want to outstay his welcome, and all the usual things he would say to cover up the true, but admittedly limited, feelings you both had for one another.

Letting his more aggressive side take over for the last few pumps, he rolled his hips forward brutally, your scream and sultry laughter ringing in his ears as he felt himself giving in to pleasure, clutching at your waist and holding you close as he filled you with his cum, warm, copious, spilling back out of you and over the table.

Harvey balanced his head on your shoulder as you stroked his cheek, before you lightly tapped it a couple of times and hopped off the table, kissing his cheek, and Harv’s, before walking off.

“Till next, time, Dent.”

“Why on Earth would you want to do such a thing?”

“I think you might like it.”

“And why would I like it?”

“Because it’s…nice. It’s tender, it’s soft, it’s sweet. It’s a show of your affection.”

“Yes, I’m aware of all of that. I mean why would I specifically like it?”

You thought for a moment, considering the question he posed to you. In truth, you had hoped that your original request would have stunned him enough that he might have just nodded and said yes. But you should have known better. His inquisitive mind of course was sparked up, ignited in curiosity by the very notion. For all the time you had now known Jonathan, you should have known on instinct alone that you couldn’t just ask him something like that.

“I know you’re not impervious to human emotion, despite how well you hide it. I know that you can be gentle.”

He scoffed, interrupting your flow.

“Profess-…Jonathan.” You took a step closer to him, watching his throat move gently as he swallowed the nervous saliva building in his mouth. The effect on him was surprising, and there was little effort made on his part to conceal it. He maintained eye contact, a show of confidence, but as you closed the gap between you, he broke it off, eyes flitting to the side.

“Maybe it would help to think of it as an experiment?”

“Perhaps…in terms of the increase in heart rate that it triggers, the standard physical responses that come with potential arousal and love…and how these fare in comparison to the same adrenaline and tension and rapid heart-beat that fear instils in a victim.”

“I maybe wouldn’t describe anyone you have the intentions of kissing as a victim though.”

“Wouldn’t they be? Shouldn’t they consider themselves such? To be kissed by…”

“You?”

Jonathan paused for a moment, ruminating on his words, on the thoughts behind them. He carefully planned his next move, very aware of the tension, the palpable fear he could taste as his tongue jutted out and licked at his dry lips, catching the sweat caught in his cupid’s bow. He tried to find the same response in you, desperate for the familiar feeling of nerves to linger in the air. While you were normally calm around him, there was always the tension associated with the fact that at any moment he could have you, destroy you.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He hated to admit it, but he was scared of you. Not many people faced him with this level of confidence. Your admiration of him, potential adoration if he was to believe his perceptions of your previous actions to be indicative of your deeper feelings. And while it was something he was aware of, it was never a notion he had entertained. Yet here you were, speaking your truths. Asking him, respectfully, if you could kiss him. Admitting that despite everything he was, you weren’t afraid.

You waited patiently for his response, but it was slow coming. The knot in your stomach flailed and wrapped around itself, growing in size and complexity as you fought the flight instinct that told you to back out of the room and never return to the scene of your embarrassment. Where you had confessed the most innocent of your desires for Jonathan Crane, and where he had rejected them, possibly sensing the deeper, more sordid wants that lurked just under the surface.

“I accept your proposal.”

You were taken back by his words, unsure if you had heard him right. He was obviously aware of the confusion crossing your features, as he quickly spoke again.

“If the offer still stands, that is.”

“Of course.”

He stood up, facing you, only a few inches from your own body.

“How should we proceed?”

“Honestly? I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

“This is your study, but I can take over the role of lead researcher if you would rather then.”

You nodded slowly, in awe at his dedication to the almost cold and clinical front he often put on, which quickly evaporated as he placed both hands on your cheeks and pulled you into him, lips firm against yours, yet you could still melt into the softness of them, the surprising warmth behind them. Your mouth parted slightly, a small gasp escaping between you, and he copied you, lips above and below each other’s as he let one of his hands trail down your face and neck, placed flat on your shoulder, fingers curling in to grasp at your slightly.

He pulled away finally, letting you inhale sharply as you realised you hadn’t really breathed since your bodies first pressed together. With a wry smile he spoke.

You dipped your hand, cloth gripped tight, back into the murky brown water, tinged with remnants of grease, slivers of blood, and various bits of grime and dirt. At one point you’d seen him pick a shard of something bright and shining from one of the wounds on his side and flick it into the horrid soup he was stewing in with a half-amused sentiment.

“Everything comes to the surface.”

“Shall I run a magnet over you, instead of a cloth?”

Jonathan had seen his fair share of violence, not just that orchestrated by his own hand. Constant beatings from Gotham’s praised vigilante, an assault by a reptilian monster, poor living conditions, a childhood of abuse. The number of injuries that marred his body was too much to count, and he couldn’t even remember them all anymore. Every so often, a shrapnel of history would dislodge itself from within his skin. This one likely finding it’s way to the surface as a new gash on his arm was opened over older scar tissue.

“How interesting that the edge of his ridiculous weapons would open an old wound and let loose the point of an old one. At the very least, the new models seem less brittle.”

There wasn’t much that Jonathan couldn’t take in his stride, and while normally you might panic at the first sigh of injury, of blood dappled on his long coat, staining the metal of his leg brace as it trickled down from his arm and side to his feet, his calm and collected mannerisms always served to keep you from a panic. But it was often a source of irritation, how flippant he could be about his own safety. As dry as his wit was, it still felt puerile to make light of the situation.

“Jonathan. Please take this seriously.”

He let his fingers skim over the top of the water, through the thing froth of soap bubbles that survived the already lengthy cleansing he had gone through. His eyes looked to you where you knelt beside him, arms resting on the edge of the tub, chin resting on your arms. With what he could muster of a smile, he apologised silently, the intent behind his clouded eyes obvious, maybe not to everyone, but to you at least. With your hand on his shoulder, you rubbed in gentle circles with your fingers until he let out a groan that vibrated through the chest infection that had embedded itself within him a few weeks ago.

“You need medicine.”

You reached to press your hand to his sternum, trying to feel for any signs of a more serious infection, not really knowing what you were looking for beyond rattling wheezes and perhaps an irregular heartbeat. But, sending what you were trying to do, he placed his fingers slowly and softly around your wrist, holding you there, steady, as he chastised you with the kind of gentle care you’d come to know well.

“I just need time to recover. To gather myself. I’ll heal when I have time, physically anyway. And I’ll have time once I’ve begun to heal emotionally. That, unfortunately, requires a great deal of risk.”

Approaching from behind, your warm breath was the first thing that alerted him to your presence.

“You are very light on your feet. Why would you feel the need to approach with such caution?”

Without him even turning to face you, you could sense his disappointment. See it etched out on the lines of his face, his ragged lips contorted in a grimace at the way you still cowered in his presence, shrinking yourself, being smaller, quieter, less of a nuisance. Turning, he let his fingers find your cheek, softly grazing, chipped and cracked fingernails scratching at the skin. You leaned your head into his touch.

“When you let me touch with no caution? But you won’t speak up?”

He leaned in, cool breath tingling at your ear as he whispered.

“What is it that you are so afraid of?”

“Would you really like to know?”

Jonathan chuckled lightly into your ear, gravelly and amiable.

“More than anything.”

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, breath hitching as he pulled away swiftly, hand covering the spot where your warmth lingered.

“What are you scared of, Jonathan?”

Considering his options, he stared coldly, monitoring you for any signs that your confidence in asking would waver, but you stood stoic in your resolve. Eventually, he resigned himself to answering.

“Warmth.”

While you were prepared to fight it out longer, unsure entirely of what the answer might be, you were taken back by his honesty, his willingness to open to you. In a moment of careless abandon, no thoughts leading to it, you stepped forward, placed your hand over his, and held him to your lips as you allowed the warmth he was afraid of to coarse into him. And to your surprise, he didn’t back away. He allowed himself the pleasure of staying with you in the embrace. Leaving him only once you were both breathless, he spoke up.

“Exposure therapy is one method. I am unfamiliar with it personally, but I appreciate it’s value in the treatment and understanding of phobias.”

Smiling at his insistence to staying on brand, you teased at the fabric covering his chest, looking up at him through your eyelashes, batting them playfully, coyly, knowing how silly this was but appreciating that he was yet to put a stop to it.

“Are you willing to continue with the treatment then, Jonathan?”

“Though I am inexperienced in all the areas of warmth and physical intimacy, I am willing to face my fears head on.”

“Very brave of you, Crane.”

Taking his face in hand once again, you leaned into what was only the third kiss you had ever given him, the first being a shock to you both, and there having been no further contact bar gentle brushes and awkward lingering touches since then. But with the ease of two people who knew each other inside and out, your hands found every intriguing crevice of the others’ body, fingers lacing and entwining for a brief second any time the hands met on their travels, yours soft and warm, Jonathan’s cool, hard and dry, but strong and genuine in their grip.

Pausing for a breath, Jonathan removed his body from yours, the distance between you hurtful but understandable. It was never your intention to push him beyond his limits, though truly you had expected that there were no limits for him. You’d tapped into a deeper part of the Scarecrow though. One unseen, unknown, but nevertheless integral to his being.

“How am I to know this is pleasurable for you? My skin against yours. It feels as though I’m perhaps defiling you?”

“Or that I’m…warming you up?”

Tilting your head with an inquisitive smile, you took his hand in yours, holding it between them both, staring deep into his clouded eyes, demanding his attention, his trust.

“Either way it goes, I’d rather be a lukewarm, or equitable temperature together than both of us at the extremes, alone.”

“I’m willing to submit to your expertise in that case.”

With very little further submission to your will required, you lightly prodded at him until he was seated in his chair once again, staring up at your commanding position, uncertain of his status now, but he wore an expression of intrigue and genuine excitement on his usually stoic face. Leaning over him, you unzipped his pants, his semi-erect cock freed as you tugged the fabric down as far as it would go, folding it over the top of his leg brace. Loosening your own clothes, you began to strip yourself for him as he let his gaze fall over you. His breath, lightly shallowed by the way his chest heaved in appreciation of your body, sent shivers over you, your skin covered in small bumps, hairs standing on edge in anticipation.

And despite the shivers, when you positioned yourself on his thighs, taking care to graze over his now entirely stiff cock in an attempt to tease him, your body felt immensely hot against his cold skin. While you briefly wondered if the sensation was too jarring for him, you were immediately reassured when his arms were flung around you, nails clawing at your back in a desperate bid to hold you closer to him, into his chest, against his body, his hips flexing upwards, bucking clumsily into you as he tried to find his way around, inside of you.

With a free hand, you pulled the small bottle of lube from your pocket, ever prepared, and spread it along his shaft, languidly drawing your palm over his head, letting your fingers circle it before pulling your warm touch away again. He continued his struggle, endearingly inexperienced and unsure of himself, before he begged for mercy.

“Please…could you…h-help…tsssss…”

He hissed as you gripped the base of his cock, guiding it inside of you, moaning as he stretched you apart, the sound sweeter than any he believed he had heard before. There was kindness behind it, appreciation, devotion, lust. Things very rarely expressed towards or about him, and he leaned into them, hungrily, desperate to chase the high it provided.

Nails digging into your hips, he thrust himself upwards, trying to balance you, to keep you from falling from him lest he be deprived of any minute seconds of bliss at being deep inside of you, warmth covering him, seeping from you and onto him as you came, screaming out his name and pulling at his hair and letting go of your final throes as you pressed kiss after kiss across his face.

He wasn’t far behind you, his own seed flowing into you, pulling himself out before he had quite finished, making a mess of his lap and your thighs as you crashed back down onto him, breathing heavily into his ear as you pressed your strikingly hot cheek against his, tinged with a bit of heat as he was flushed from his orgasm.

It didn't matter why, the allure was unavoidable. The pull, the threat, far too enticing for you, a thrill seeker, an adrenaline chaser. You wanted to feel the fear, to take risks. To request the company, the attention, of Jonathan Crane would require proving your worth.

And as you crept silently up the alley, the end of which was the location of your proposed date, you sensed that this was in itself a test. Of your bravery, of your willingness, your devotion to the very notion of him.

So stuck in thought were you, breaths heavy in anticipation, anxiety coursing through your veins, that you didn't hear him approach you from behind, emerging from the shadows like a bad dream, his hands on your shoulders, quick to move to your face, over your mouth, stifling your scream.

"You reap what you sow. Isn't this exactly what you expected, what you wanted?"

It was. To be afraid. To feel the lingering threat of danger as you were swept off your feet. Completely. But to achieve it effectively would mean you had to feel scared. And you did.

Jonathan's surprisingly warm hands were clamped tighly to you, the skin dry, coarse, but the touch oddly gentle in direct contrast to the force he exerted upon you.

"You look exquisite, even more so than usual, when your features are tainted with the unique pain of terror."

In your throat, your breath was caught, thudding against the lump that closed you off. Jonathan removed his hands, offering you respite from his grip, letting your breath come freely. And as it hitched, ragged as it was pulled with desperation over your lips, you managed to release a sharp, echoing, gasping yelp. With one finger, he silenced you.

"Try to remain quiet, this is a public space. We can't afford to be happened upon, we'd need to set the scene again, and my time is valuable, as I'm sure you know."

You nodded feebly

"May I kiss you?"

Shocked that he would feel it necessary to ask, you nodded silently once again, eyes wide, caught in his stare, only freed from it when he closed his lids and began closing in on you, ragged lips pressed to your cheek, to your neck, finding your own mouth, trembling at the touch. Through his loosely tangled threads, he pressed his tongue forth, lapping at you, running across your teeth as he chuckled, a growl that rumbled in his throat and sent shivers through you.

Leaving you stumbling after him, Jonathan pulled away. Wiping at his mouth, the drool spilling from his sharply cut skin.

"Kneel."

After a moment's hesitation, you followed his instructions, your breath stuck further down this time, in your chest, swelling, a feeling as though you might explode before he placed two of his slender, calloused fingers under your chin, tilting you up to look at him.

"Open your mouth for me."

Dutifully, more than willingly, you let your jaw drop, mouth hanging open loosely, the taste of the thick air on your tongue, the stinging scent of the alley, of Gotham, more noticeable now. The unpleasant odour, the bitter flavour, was quickly replaced as Jonathan placed his fingers on your tongue, holding it flat, teasing it out.

He spread his fingers apart, hitting the corners of your mouth, pushing them wider, further spread until you let out a soft, strained mewl.

"Tell me how it feels. Does it hurt? Is the pain good?"

With your mouth stretched to the limits, tongue unable to move much, you garbled a response, opting to nod while doing so. Your saliva coated his fingers, dribbling over your lip and down your chin. Jonathan removed his fingers, letting his hands fall to the buttons of his pants, working slowly to undo them, enjoying the act, almost ritualistic it felt. You closed your lips, tongue flitting out to catch the drool. Your reprieve was brief, however, and you were still aware of a small trail of drool travelling to your neck as Jonathan commanded you once more.

"Open up."

When you looked back up to him, he was standing straight, one hand still teasing down his pants and underwear, the other holding his length, stiff and impressive, just in front of your face. The tip, reddened slightly, was slick, coated in either his spit or in precum. As you opened your mouth to take it in, you let your tongue drag over it, eliciting a hiss from Jonathan, able to taste the not unpleasant tang of salt against your eager tastebuds.

Enraptured, completely in the moment, your eyes closed over as you moaned. Your audibly erotic notes of pleasure were cut short though, as he brought his fingers to your cheek, gently stroking, the sharp nails lightly scraping along your warm, blushing skin.

"Keep your eyes open. On me. Please."

There was a sliver of desperation to his plead, almsot imperceptible, but definitely there. And you were more than happy to oblige, doing exactly as you were told as he brought his hands to the back fo your head, ragged, claw-like nails pressing into your scalp, forcing you down onto him hard. You gagged as his head hit the back of your throat, coughing, choking, spluttering. It was audible even over the guttural groan the motion had pulled from him, and he looked down at you, concern visible on his face.

"Breathe through your nose. Practice now."

You took slow, calming breaths through your nose as you hollowed your cheeks, mouth full of him, struggling with the girth, the length, but still somehow hungry, starving, for more of him. In a bid to fulfil your growing arousal, you reached a hand to yourself, a cruel taunt, because what you wanted was Jonathan, not your own clumsy, familiar strokes.

“Did I tell you that you could do that? Put your hands behind your back and lower your head down further.”

As though caught doing something extremely inappropriate, which given the circumstances you hadn’t though it was, you took the scolding with blushed cheeks, maintaining eye contact with Jonathan the whole time, so as not to disappoint him further. With your hands clasped behind your back you bobbed your head, mouth watering, tongue desperately slurping at his length as he stretched back, growling like an animal as you sucked the entirety of his long, thick cock.

Restrained by your own willpower to do nothing but good for him, you arched your back into your movements, allowing him to cram himself into you, deeper, his head resting at the back of your throat. And with an almost violent twitch within you, a deep screech that could easily be passed as the wails of a wounded animal, his seed hit your throat. Instinctively, and instantaneously, you swallowed his load completely, grateful for it, eyes still open, never blinking until you had to, only briefly pressed shut at the shock of his orgasm deposited inside of you. He held you around him, gagging, mouth empty, until he was sure he was finished. Smiling lightly, vaguely, as he allowed you to ease yourself off of him.

“Tell me, how do I taste?”

“Exquisite.”

He shook his head.

“Sharp. Tart. Sour.”

He smiled, a dry laugh coming out in a short burst.

“And how do you feel?”

You thought for a moment. Knowing that lying would be found out, but feeling the truth in your core would be enough to satiate him.

“Good. Nervous. Desperate.”