#arkhamverse riddler

Your restful sleep was interrupted, once again, by Eddie's selfish streak. It was impossible to tell sometimes whether he truly didn't realise how much of a disruption he could be and therefor made no efforts to change this, or whether he was so self-important that he chose to ignore your peace instead of ever altering the way he interacted with your world. Either way, you would forgive him. You always did, given that the purpose of your existence was to please him. And despite your dangerous levels of sleep deprivation, something that came with the job, with the relationship, you were awake and giddy the moment he stepped into the bedroom.

"Eddie! It's so late… I can't believe you're only coming to bed now."

He offered no response but an indeterminable grunt, focusing mainly on shrugging off his shirt to reveal his filthy, stained vest underneath. His arms, now visible, had a distinct line where the short sleeves of his top layer protected his skin from the grime of his work. Like tan lines, but where dirt ceased to mark him. Then his belts were unbuckled, kept within the loops of the cargo pants that he wriggled free of before letting them fall to the floor in an easy to access pile that he would reach for in a few hours when he got up again. No shower, no changing of underwear or his top, just straight into the bed. Exactly as you liked him.

Watching Eddie as he worked on his various projects was the highlight of your day, usually. Seeing him exert the kind of competency that came with his skill and intelligence, the strong sense of masculinity in the work he did that he tended not to exude at any other time of the day or in any other situation. The scents of the motor oil, metallic heat, dust, and his sweat. They were the notes of your arousal. And when he entered the bedroom straight from his workshop without any intentions of showering or changing, it meant you could spend the whole night revelling in his scent. It called to you, pulled you like a magnet. So much so that by the time he had shuffled himself onto the mattress and under the sheets, you were curling around his side. One leg against his, another over the top to pin him there on his back. Your hands moved to him immediately, one playing gently with the dark strands atop his head, careful to avoid the point at the rear where it had begun to thin much the same as the pattern baldness at his temples and the receding hairline on his forehead, the other stroking the lighter, greying hair on his torso that protruded above the low neck line of his vest.

"I missed you so much."

As you stroked his chest, you began to nuzzle yourself into his side, breathing deeply to take in his scent. You leaned across him, trying to hug him tighter, but he let out a gentle groan of protest and shifted himself up a little, his spine at an angle that better suited the aches that plagued him. His age was far more obvious these days, something you were pleased by, but despite being well past the starting point of middle-age, you suspected a lot of what caused him to appear older could be attributed to his horrendous lifestyle choices rather than anything naturally biological. His mind was still sharp, his body still capable and surprisingly strong. But his hair greyed, his face wrinkled deeply with well-worn scorn and frustration, and his tolerance levels made him seem far grumpier than someone with the optimism of youth might have been. All of that, of course, only meant that you found yourself loving him more. You appreciated every little bit of him, all of the things that changed and all of the things that stayed the same.

You were entirely unable to keep yourself from of him, particularly when he was so tired and lacking the will to wave you off. Normally he would pretend to loathe the attention and the affection that you so desperately desired to impart on him, but when he was laying comfortably under the sheets it was another story. Then, and often only then, did he actually want you to touch him. More than accepted it, he craved it. And with no shame he told you as much when you questioned what kind of mood he was in, trying to gauge how receptive he might be to your advances.

"Is this OK, Eddie? I know sometimes I can be a little bit… overbearing, maybe, but-"

"This is more than acceptable. You can soothe me. Even a mind like mine can benefit from being quietened every so often. Any chance at relaxation assists in new synapses forming, cells refreshing, cognitive processing. It's a task I'm happy for you to assist with."

You were perfectly aware of what the underlying message was in his statement. He'd remarked before about how relieving the tension he collected so easily was a certified way to assure that his efforts the next day would be of a higher quality. Laying with him, on top or below, and letting him pummel his stresses into your body with clumsy ruts and guttural moaning seemed to lighten his load, for want of a better analogy. So you got to work, your hands moving less in a gentle comforting manner and far more lasciviously now, intentions unmistakable as you traced his chest hair down past his sternum, over his navel, and down under the band of his underwear.

His cock was flaccid, twitching only slightly to life as you wrapped your fingers around it and began to squeeze firmly. Stroking it up and down brought sighs to Eddie's lips, and he moved his arms behind his head, getting comfortable. It was a sight to see, Edward Nigma finally at rest, allowing someone else to take control. But as the minutes passed you could tell there was something not quite right. He squirmed uncomfortably, adjusting his position, breathing in and out softly at first, then in deep, exaggerated motions, grumbling under his breath the whole time. He wasn't hard. He wasn't getting hard. You were working his length the way you knew he liked, but it wasn't having the same effect it usually did.

In a bid to try and change things up, to see if something new might make a difference, you tried twisting your wrist as you moved your palm up and down. A long strand of drool dropped from your lips and you slicked his cock by spreading it with your palm. Your heart sank as he interrupted you.

"No… No, that isn't working. I think I might need a minute longer to…"

Eddie let his words trail off, unable to find the words for this particularly embarrassing situation. Over-explaining himself would seem like admitting there was an issue, and he couldn't be to blame. Nothing was ever his fault, of course. He hated that he wanted to blame you, despite the fact you were the only positive sensation he'd experienced the whole day, but it was just his nature. He couldn't lash out at himself, and you were the only one there.

"Oh for f- This is ridiculous! Could you stop for a second, you're not making this better! Or easier. Give me a minute to just- I just…"

He'd grown frustrated with himself, at his inability to rise to the occasion. Was he really that old? That stressed? That useless? This was a first, but it was a difficult situation to navigate, new or otherwise. But in his frustration, he had lashed out at you, the one person who was not to blame at all. In his mind, he could catch himself, adjust his attitude, and recognise that you were not at fault. It might never reach his lips, but the sentiments of regret were there, and he realigned himself, taking a breath and placing his hand atop yours in a gesture of affection that he could tolerate. Another deep and steady inhale, and he put all of his brainpower towards being a human being, one capable of being perhaps not nice but at the very least, not cruel.

"I… I apologise. I shouldn't- I'm just- Stressed, or- Not stressed, it's just… This isn't-"

"It's OK. Honestly. It happens."

Normally, you would be on the receiving end of a ferocious lecture on manners when interrupting him, but he let this one slide. You were helping him out of a hole he was digging for himself, and he was grateful. Your delicate approach to the source of his ire was precisely what he needed, and he hated to feel like he was punishing you for it. He couldn't exactly change his tone, that wasn't in his nature, but he could opt for silence. No words were better than cruel ones.

"Eddie, it's fine. I'm here for you. All I ever want is to make you happy, or make your life a little bit easier. Whatever you want from me, you'll get it."

He paused for a moment, his eyes closed, relaxing into his thoughts.

"I want you to keep going. It might not… End… With anything. But I feel the journey may be more important in this particular situation."

"It always is to me, Eddie."

With his permission to keep going, you moved your palms to his testicles, cupping them with a firm grip, enjoying the weight of them in your hand. You had no intention of trying to coax an erection from him, now. This was about adoration, about worship. Those came so easily to you where Eddie was concerned. And so did the urge to taste. It wasn't enough to see, to touch, to smell him. You wanted the tang of his body on your tongue. So you move your head towards his soft cock, placing your lips along the length in whispering kisses before attempting, rather clumsily, to get it between your lips. Once you had it there, limp but filling, you started sucking it, slow but with enthusiasm. It was nice, soothing almost. You could easily find yourself comforted to the point of total relaxation just from the sensation of his easy to manage cock against your tongue.

Normally, when you serviced Eddie like that, he could be a little bit aggressive. Forceful. Demanding a lot from your mouth and your lungs. And as much as you appreciated knowing how desperate he was, how badly he wanted to feel your tongue and your throat, it was nice to be in control of it for a change.

He was muttering, incomprehensibly immediately, and you wondered at first if you were unable to make it out because of the sound of your drool and slurping, but you realised quickly he was mumbling as he fell asleep. Eddie had been so stressed, so exhausted, that the minute you allowed him the space to just sit back and stop overthinking or worrying about his ability to perform for you, his body had given in to his human needs, the ones he ignored so often.

"Are you just about ready yet? I know that your intelligence is far inferior to mine, but I do expect you to be able to get dressed without some assistance."

You could hear Edward's insults loud and clear from the adjacent room and you wanted to respond with something just as sharp and cutting, but unfortunately he was right. Or at least, somewhat correct. You were perfectly capable of getting dressed on your own, of course, but the outfit he had provided you was proving to be a little difficult to wriggle into.

Edward Nygma changed his aesthetics as often as he changed his underwear, it seemed. A frequent update of his wardrobe was the least challenging aspect of his idiosyncratic nature for the most part, but sometimes it came with it's own significant problems. Like now.

"What was wrong with the three piece suit?" You muttered under your breath as you pulled your foot through the last limb of the tight but stretching fabric. Once you had it on, or rather, once you were covered in the purple material patterned with question marks, you took a look in the mirror and tried to make the best of the situation you found yourself in, but there were few positives to find. "At least the suits left it all to the imagination. This is… This is a choice, I can say that much."

"If you are not out in 15 seconds I will have to terminate your contract. And your existence. Please don't make me do that. I just bought this suit to your measurements, I'd hate to have to wait for another one to arrive for your replacement."

Edward's threats had lost their potency, since he'd threatened to kill you so often without reaching that point. They were empty and harmless, but the tone with which he uttered this one suggested he was reaching a point of irritation that would at least make the rest of your working day a nightmare if you let him cross that line.

"Coming, coming. There. How's it look?"

As you stepped into his view, he had to keep his jaw from falling open and fought to relax his eyes which bulged out, straining to get a closer look at the form fitting spandex suit you wore for him, at his request. The longer he stared, the more he realised it would be hard to come back from, harder to explain, so he pushed down his barely concealed lust with immediacy and furrowed his brows into their usual stern expression.

"No, no, no. This won't do at all."

"Ah, I see. Staring at the many imperfections. I noticed a few myself, so why don't we-"

"It's sitting in all the wrong places! Are you doing this on purpose?"

"What? Am I purposefully… being… shaped the way that I am?"

Eddie grumbled and frowned at you, pushing aside the urge to offer a retort to your sardonic comment, instead opting to continue his charade by further insulting your outfit. It ran the risk of sounding like he was overcompensating, but it was better than admitting that you looked good and, god forbid, paying you a compliment.

"It has nothing to do with how you are, but what you are doing!"

"As usual, your wit and intelligence are far beyond me. Maybe you could give me a better explanation in simpler terms."

This time he stared at you with an unimpressed grimace and half-lidded eyes that told you he was tired of your attitude already.

"Well, for starters, look at your posture. You should be carrying yourself with pride while you bear my insignia! You are a brand ambassador, an extension of me. So please, stand up straight."

You adjusted your stance to your best approximation of what he deemed to be a respectable posture.

"Like this?"

In response, Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, the exhale turning quickly into a groan which turned into his exasperated words.

"Oh good lord! Must I do everything for you?"

Before you could say anything to your defence, he was behind you, one hand firmly on your shoulder, the other at your lower back, finger outstretched and pressing once, hard, into the base of your spine. It made you jolt upright, and once you were in that position, he grabbed your other shoulder and pulled them both back until you were standing straight and pressed against his chest. You could feel the heat of him, his heart beat thumping against you, your own heart skipping a beat as his hand traced down the curve of your spine and stopped short of anything untoward at your lower back.

"You're pushing your rear out."

"Oh!"

You hadn't quite noticed it, but you were curving yourself to fit against the shape of him, and now he had pointed it out you jerked away in shame.

"You must tuck your hips in. I don't want you trying to sell my name or get my work done like that. I don't have to utilise those played out methods to garner attention, thank you."

He had to admit though, it might work on him. The old adage, sex sells, could prove to be truer than he'd like it to be. After all, his gaze still lingered on your rear, even though you were now trying to awkwardly tilt your hips forward in an attempt to hide any curvature that would send out the wrong message.

Aware that he had been staring silently for a little too long, Eddie tutted and moved around to your front, and you fell in line immediately. Straightening up, squaring your shoulders, lifting your head and your gaze from him while he mused over your body, one hand under his chin as he pondered which part of you to scrutinise next.

"It looks awful baggy at the top. I need to… If I could just…"

He was stuttering over the words as he placed his hands on your waist. Too much physical touch shorted out his brain, he often found, and this particular situation had the additional pleasure of being wholly awkward to boot. But he had to keep going. To pull back now would mean that you might sense something was wrong. Or worse, you might see the beet red colour he knew his cheeks had turned, given the heat he could feel from them. So he brought his mind back to focus and tried to grab at the fabric without grabbing your body, teasing it down a little to stretch the accumulated fabric at your shoulders.

But then, as he stood back to check on what needed to be done next, he noticed that he'd stretched it down over your chest too, a little too tight, noticing the way it was clinging to the curves of the more plentiful flesh there. Trying to divert his attention away from the lure of your form, he cast his eyes downwards, noting the collected fabric at your knees.

"Now look! It's all wrinkled. Just one thing after another."

"Y'know, this isn't any more pleasant for me…"

Although that was a lie. You did quite like standing there, completely still, just for him. Letting him adjust you, model you, like you were a doll for him to play with. It was a thought that had just crossed Eddie's mind too as you mentioned your discomfort. He liked it when you were a little grumpy, a little resilient in tone but submissive in body. A sweet dichotomy that fed into his ego. And now he was on his hands and knees in front of you, tidying you up, making sure you looked good enough for him. There was something so inadvertently complimentary about that fact that he at least thought he could gussy you up to his standards. It was promising, if nothing else. Though if you'd known how he felt in that moment it would have been more of a certainty.

Eddie took the loose fabric at your knees between his fingers and began to pull it down and then up, trying to get it to even out across your legs. In an attempt to make sure the lines of the suit were sitting perfectly, he let his fingers trail over it to smooth it down, only realising far too late that he had been caressing your legs, the tips of his digits skating over your inner thighs where they now stopped, pressing in to steady you as he pulled firmly at the fabric with his other hand. The fabric finally sat as he wanted it to, a task he was grateful to complete, but as he inspected it one final time his eyes caught sight of the way it sat at your crotch. Tight, too tight. He could see the outline of your lips, the fabric pushing between them just a little, stretching over the rounding of your mound. He reached without thinking, but pulled his fingers back with wide eyes and a renewed blush.

"Uh, perhaps you would be better suited to do the last of the adjustments… Uh… There… Yourself…"

You followed his gaze and the sort of ineffective gesture he made towards your lower half, heart skipping a little at the idea of him suggesting your sex. Though as he stood up, you could tell he had been thinking about more than just the suggestion. He'd clearly found something to be pleased with in the outfit after all, the tenting at the front of his own pants a telling indication of that much.

"You might need to do a little adjusting of your own, Eddie."

He wasn't stealing your things. Technically, he paid your salary, so anything you bought was something he paid for. So they were his things. And if you wanted to be really pedantic about it, he'd been kind enough to let you rent out a dingy little room in his underground lair, so you were under his roof. And you used his appliances, his energy, his water to-

"I'm not going to argue this. Even with myself. I have a right. I have the right. I can do what I want, and I defy anyone to out-logic me and- …That's not a word." He scrunched his face up in exasperation, letting out a little grunt of frustration at his own baser instincts surging ahead of his usually impeccable self-control. "You're not thinking straight, Nigma. Get this out of the way and everything will be fine. Until the next time the insatiable urge comes crawling to you."

He held his hands out in front of his face, taking a long hard look at the cause of his current frustrations. Greasy, calloused fingertips clung to the waistband of your underwear. Not clean, but collected from the laundry basket outside of the room he had been kind enough to let you sleep in while you assisted him with his work. He called it a benefit of the job, and he supposed that this was potentially the benefit of him having to suffer your distracting presence.

For the shortest of seconds, he considered tossing the underwear into the trash can at the side of his desk, not even bothering to give them back to you. He wanted to be rid of them. Of the feelings associated with them, with you. But he was smart enough to know that was never going to happen. There was no satisfactory conclusion, no answer to this particular riddle, that could be found without some effort on his part.

So, clutching them in fingers that were growing pink at the tips from the pressure of his grip, Eddie slowly but surely let his hand deliver the fabric to the tip of his nose. And then, out of desperation just from getting the faintest whiff of your scent from them, he buried his face against the soft fabric of the crotch. He could feel you there, the fabric slightly damp from your sweat or your slick or whatever, given you'd only abandoned them a short while before he'd procured them. So the smell of your body was strong. A familiar musk to the one he could pick up on as you sweated in the heat of the work room alongside him, a hint of your perfume, your natural scent, the tang of-

"Oh my- Oh…"

The front of his pants strained as they tented with his growing erection, cock firm and throbbing as he inhaled you, imagining how it would be to seek this sensation straight from the source. Of course he'd never ask you for that, and he wasn't cruel enough to just take it, either. For now, all he had was the memory of you, left on your underwear. It felt good to be bad. That was, after all, why he'd chosen to take the path he walked. Taboo was tantalising, scandalous behaviour that shocked others was how he found himself, how he knew who he was. Their reaction to his acts of criminality secured the way he thought that others viewed him, too.

He wondered how you might react, then, if you caught him. His face buried into your underwear, tongue tentatively pushing out to taste them, but unsure of whether to commit to that new level of depravity. It would be unfair for you to be too upset about it. After all, you were the temptress, here. You smelled divine at the best of times. A surface level of sweet that he now knew was covering something much deeper and darker and delicious. Perhaps if you weren't constantly playing on his mind, doing your best to make sure you were lodged there, he wouldn't feel the need to correct the feelings you gave him, to relieve himself of them for a moment of reprieve where he could focus on his work.